Old couple
The dishes in the sink had already been cleaned, gleaming as if by magic—which, in fact, they had been.
Draco had taken it upon himself to handle the chore, even though it wasn’t his turn, a quiet demonstration of how useful he could be now that he had his wand back. He hadn’t mentioned it, but Harry suspected it was Draco’s way of showing gratitude, even if his pride wouldn’t let him say it outright.
Harry descended the stairs, his hair as messy as ever and his shirt slightly wrinkled. He looked tired, though there was a lightness in his step. The truth was that he’d spent most of the night tossing and turning. The good news was that he knew exactly why he hadn’t been able to sleep. The bad news was that the reason stood right in front of him: irritatingly blond, perfectly poised, and as arrogant as ever.
The weekend lingered in Harry’s mind like an unshakable spell, even when it was already Wednesday. He couldn’t understand why Draco’s smile was so captivating, so thoroughly impossible to forget.
It reminded Harry, vaguely, of the Veela from Beauxbatons. Though, in truth, he’d never quite understood the hype surrounding them. Back during the Triwizard Tournament, everyone had seemed bewitched by Fleur Delacour. Even Ron had barely been able to string a coherent sentence together when she was near.
Harry, on the other hand, had never been particularly enchanted. Sure, he wore glasses, but he wasn’t blind. He knew Fleur was strikingly beautiful, as were the other Veela he’d seen, but their allure had never hit him the way it seemed to affect everyone else.
Draco’s smile, though…
“Good morning,” Harry greeted, flashing a lazy smile as he headed toward the kitchen counter.
“I was starving,” Draco said flatly, though his eyes briefly flicked over Harry with a quick assessment. “Teddy will be up soon, you know.”
“It’s not that late,” Harry replied with a shrug, rolling up his sleeves. “Relax.” He started rummaging through the cabinets, gathering utensils and ingredients with an ease that spoke of habit.
Draco sighed, leaning back in his chair. Offering to help would be pointless; Harry wouldn’t accept it. Besides, Draco’s culinary attempts often ended in disaster, and he knew better than to risk turning the kitchen into a hazard zone.
Although Morgana said that Draco was better the last time. She even ate, but Teddy didn't, apparently, Harry’s food was still unreachable.
“Your hair looks nice today,” Harry said suddenly, his back turned as he began slicing fruit for Teddy.
“It always looks nice,” Draco replied without missing a beat, his tone clipped but vaguely amused.
“Not when you first wake up. Then, it’s like a rat—”
“Don’t,” Draco cut in with a sharp exhale, his irritation slicing through Harry’s teasing.
Before they could spiral further into bickering, a childish, sleepy voice called.
“Teddy’s awake,” Draco announced, his expression softening almost imperceptibly as he stood. Without another word, he headed upstairs, leaving Harry alone with his breakfast preparations.
By the time Draco returned, Teddy was cradled in his arms, his small frame wrapped snugly in pajamas. The boy’s hair was delightfully messy, and his eyes were still half-lidded with sleep. Draco’s entire demeanor had shifted; his usual sharpness gave way to something warmer, gentler. A soft smile tugged at his lips as he whispered something to Teddy, who yawned in response and buried his face against Draco’s shoulder.
“Harry, what’s that smell?” Draco asked as he stepped back into the kitchen, his nose wrinkling slightly.
Harry froze. He’d been so distracted by thoughts of Draco—how his smile seemed brighter when Teddy was around, how his laugh had an unguarded quality lately, that he hadn’t noticed the smell.
“Uh… my overwhelming desire for you?” Harry blurted, though his voice wavered with a hint of panic.
“The toast is on fire!” Draco exclaimed, his eyes widening as he instinctively shifted Teddy behind him, shielding the boy from the potential chaos.
Potter took a second to realize that it wasn’t a metaphor. The toast was indeed on fire.
Harry snapped into action. Grabbing the pan, he flung the burning toast into the sink and turned on the tap. Which only made the water the flames flare higher.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Draco muttered, his free hand already reaching for his wand. Before he could act, Harry cast a quick extinguishing spell, dousing the fire entirely. He turned back to face them with a sheepish grin, smoke still curling faintly in the air.
“Oops,” Harry said sheepishly, lowering his wand.
“Oops?” Draco repeated, his voice dangerously low. “ Oops ?”
Before Harry could respond, a sleepy voice interrupted them.
“What’s that smell?”, Teddy said rubbing his eyes.
“Your godfather’s culinary incompetence,” Draco replied coolly, as he gently set Teddy in his high chair, with a warm smile that seemed to melt away his previous frustration.
Harry served up a plate of toast and slices of pear, placing it in front of Teddy, who clapped his hands with glee.
“Toast! Toast! Toast!” Teddy chanted, his small feet swinging beneath the table.
“Where’s the newspaper?”
“You’re not going to want to see it, Draco,” Harry said, adjusting his glasses as he met the blonde’s confused gaze. “The three of us are on the front page.”
Potter had no intention of handing over the paper, but the cold, expectant glare Draco shot him left no room for argument. With a resigned sigh, Harry extended the newspaper. Draco snatched it from his hand, his movements sharp and devoid of patience.
Draco’s eyes darted across the article, his expression shifting rapidly from annoyance to anger. His grip on the paper tightened as his pale fingers crinkled its edges. Each word stoked the fire building in his chest, but it wasn’t until his gaze fell on Teddy’s face that his breath hitched. Now the little boy was exposed to the wizard community.
“That idiotic rag thinks it knows something,” Draco muttered, his voice cold and sharp. The headline alone was preposterous: “Harry Potter Protects a Death Eater and His Child?”
Draco’s face hardened. The journalist’s words were insidious, painting a picture of scandal rather than truth. They tried to suggest that Harry, the so-called savior of the Wizarding World, was playing some dangerous game by housing Draco and raising “his kid”. The article claimed the writer had spoken with Harry and his supposed “girlfriend,” Ginny, the previous week, where they allegedly confirmed their engagement.
Draco’s jaw clenched. It was as if the mention of Harry’s supposed engagement was a calculated move, a desperate attempt to disassociate Harry from a former Death Eater by tying him to a more palatable narrative. He opened his mouth to ask if that was true but then closed it. That was a dumb question, it didn't matter if they were dating or not, Draco could never stand a chance with Harry Potter
He set these ugly feelings aside, there was a great evil. What infuriated him most was the implication that Teddy—his Teddy—was just a pawn in the narrative, a “child of a Death Eater.”
“They’re after him,” Draco murmured, his voice quieter now, edged with fear. He set the paper down on the table, his hand trembling slightly. “They’ll start hounding Teddy, won’t they? Digging into his life, twisting everything for the sake of a headline.”
Harry’s hand found Draco’s wrist, his touch steady and reassuring. “They won’t get near him,” Harry said, his voice firm. “I won’t let them.”
Draco didn’t look at him, his gaze fixed on the paper as if willing it to burn up in flames. “You can’t control the press, Potter,” he muttered. “They’ll write whatever they want, and people will believe it.”
Harry’s grip tightened just a little. “Let them write. If they cross the line, we’ll handle it. Together.”
There was something in the way Harry looked at him—those green eyes, bright with an intensity that made Draco uneasy. It wasn’t just the weight of Harry’s gaze, but the way it felt as though it pierced straight through him. In truth, when Harry Potter was in the room, Draco could never look away. But to be on the receiving end of that gaze now… It unsettled him in a way he hadn’t expected.
That trust. That confidence. Draco had never imagined Harry would give it to him. Honestly, sometimes he thought Harry must be mad to even look at him, to give him a second chance after everything that had happened. Yet here Harry was, unwavering, seeing him for who he was—no pretense, no judgment.
For a long moment, Draco said nothing. His silver eyes darkened with worry, but there was a flicker of something else there—a kind of silent gratitude—that quickly disappeared behind the walls of his usual stoic expression.
“I’ll make sure they stay away from Teddy,” Harry added, his tone sharpening with resolve. “And if Rita Skeeter decides to stir things up, I’ll send Hermione to have a word with her.”
Draco arched an eyebrow, a brief smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I wouldn’t want to be Rita Skeeter right now.”
Harry’s lips twitched, the smallest of grins appearing. “Neither would I. But she’ll get the message. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
Draco’s smile faded, and he carefully folded the paper, setting it aside. “Let’s hope you’re right,” he muttered, though the concern still lingered in his eyes. “For Teddy’s sake.”
…
Draco stood in the kitchen, stirring the contents of a bubbling pot with an intensity that bordered on obsession. The kitchen, once filled with chaos and frustration, was now oddly peaceful. Morgana was beside him, calmly chopping vegetables with a rhythm that was both graceful and steady.
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, surprised at how easy it felt. For someone who had always kept people at arm’s length, he never expected to feel this… open, this relaxed, in her presence. There was something about Morgana—gentle but unflinchingly honest, like Luna had been in a different time. It was disarming, and for once, it didn’t feel like a weakness to trust her.
“Do you think the potatoes will need longer?” Draco asked, his voice softer than usual, looking to her for guidance.
Morgana glanced up from her chopping, her pale blue eyes meeting his with that familiar, reassuring calm. “They’ll need another few minutes. But don’t rush it. Let the flavors settle in.” Her tone was unhurried, as if time slowed in her presence.
Draco nodded, a small flicker of relief settling in his chest. He didn’t have to explain himself, didn’t have to hide behind walls he had carefully built for years. With Morgana, it just… made sense.
The sound of Teddy’s laughter floated from the living room, and Draco’s lips curled into a smile. Morgana had this effect on everyone—her presence had a way of putting people at ease. And Teddy… well, Teddy adored her.
He glanced over at Morgana again, this time his smile lingering. “You know, I never thought I’d trust someone like this. But…” He trailed off, unsure of how to express what he was feeling. “I left you alone with Teddy today. Didn’t even second-guess it.”
Morgana’s smile softened, but for the briefest moment, something unreadable flashed behind her eyes. The flicker was so subtle that Draco almost thought he’d imagined it. “I know we haven’t known each other long—hell, it’s only been weeks. But I hold you and Teddy in a special place in my heart. You can trust that.”
The words hung in the air, quiet but absolute. There was a sincerity in her voice that made Draco’s chest tighten, the warmth of the sentiment settling deeply in him. He hadn’t expected to hear those words from anyone, especially not from someone who’d come into his life so unexpectedly. Her tone was so sure, so certain, with no hint of hesitation.
It was a kindness that he didn’t quite know how to handle. He had always feared trust, feared being let down. But with Morgana, in that moment, it felt different. It felt... real.
He swallowed hard, the weight of unspoken things shifting inside of him. For the first time in a long while, the walls he’d built around himself seemed unnecessary. He wanted to believe her. Wanted to believe this was the truth.
“It’s kinda scary,” Draco murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, “trusting someone.”
Morgana’s smile softened further. She continued chopping, the blade rhythmically cutting through the vegetables. “It’s okay to trust, Draco,” she said gently, though her voice held an odd calmness, almost detached. “People like us—people who’ve been hurt, betrayed—we build walls, yes. But that doesn’t mean we have to live behind them forever.”
When she spoke like this, it was as if he could see the pain in her eyes, a shared understanding. It made him trust her even more, recognizing in her something he had never seen in anyone else. Maybe that was why he believed her so completely—the quiet, unspoken suffering they shared.
Morgana guided him through the rest of the process, showing him how to chop the vegetables, how to brown the meat just right, and even how to season the stew without overdoing it.
Teddy, with his uncontainable enthusiasm, eagerly took on the role of taste tester, offering exaggerated nods and enthusiastic murmurs of approval with each sample. “It’s good, Dwaco! Hawwy ‘ like it.”
Draco, despite his earlier reservations, found himself easing into the rhythm of the kitchen. Morgana’s gentle instructions and Teddy’s infectious excitement made the experience almost... enjoyable.
When the stew was finally done, Morgana ladled a portion into a bowl and handed it to Draco. “Here. Try it.”
Draco hesitated, then took a spoonful. The rich, savory flavors hit him unexpectedly. He blinked in surprise. “It’s... edible.”
Morgana’s lips twitched upward in a small smile. “High praise,” she said dryly, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. “You did well, Draco.”
Teddy clapped his hands together. “Dwaco’s a chef now!”
Draco chuckled softly, the rare smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “Perhaps,” he said quietly, looking at Teddy, “but let’s not get carried away.”
Morgana patted his shoulder. “You’re on the right track. Now, take this home and serve it up. I want a full report on Harry’s reaction.”
As Draco left the kitchen with the warm bowl of stew in his hands, he couldn’t shake the feeling that, despite everything, he was on the verge of something he had long given up on. Maybe it was trust. Or maybe it was the sense that, for once, things weren’t going to fall apart. He just hoped he wasn’t fooling himself.
Draco straightened, his pride restored. “If he doesn’t faint from shock, I’ll consider it a success.”
As he left The Copper Kettle with Teddy at his side and a pot of stew in hand, Draco couldn’t shake the strange warmth spreading in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, he was starting to understand what it meant to care for someone in ways that didn’t involve grand gestures or clever words.
And maybe, just maybe, he liked it.
…
Draco stood in the kitchen, arms crossed and feet tapping restlessly against the tile floor. The remnants of dinner hung in the air—roasted vegetables, a casserole that had only vaguely resembled something edible, and an undeniable hint of frustration. Morgana did most of the cooking, but Draco had insisted on helping. The result was… less than perfect.
The front door creaked open, and Harry stepped in, still fumbling with the buttons of his coat.
I made dinner, was the announcement he wanted to make, but Draco couldn’t just say it like a kid expecting a gold star. But he was anxious to know how Harry would react. Not that he did it for him, cooking was an essential skill that anyone should have.
“What time do you call this, Potter?” Draco’s voice sliced through the quiet, a cutting edge to his words. “Dinner was ready an hour ago!”
“Bloody hell, Malfoy,” Harry groaned, kicking his boots off haphazardly near the door. “I literally just walked through the door. Give me a chance to take my coat off before you start moaning at me.”
“Moaning?” Draco arched an eyebrow, the sharpness of his words softened by the amusement dancing in his eyes. “I’d hardly call holding you accountable for your tardiness ‘moaning.’ Teddy’s already eaten, and frankly, I don’t see why I should be late to work because you can’t manage to be punctual.”
Harry rolled his eyes as he shrugged off his coat and tossed it onto the nearest chair. He might have felt guilty about Draco being late for work as he had to wait until Harry was home with Teddy to leave, but the constant nagging quickly erased any trace of remorse.
“Teddy didn’t seem to mind,” Harry said with a grin, clearly enjoying himself.
“He’s a child, Harry,” Draco snapped, but there was a softness in his voice that betrayed the sharpness of his words. “He’d eat chocolate pudding for every meal if you let him. He has no concept of proper mealtime etiquette.”
“And neither do I, apparently,” Harry laughed, sinking into a chair and crossing his arms behind his head as if completely at ease.
Draco rolled his eyes, but there was no hiding the slight curve of his lips. “You’re lucky I’m here to civilize you, Potter.”
Harry leaned back further in his chair, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You’re lucky I tolerate you, Malfoy,” he teased, pushing his luck.
“You call this tolerance?” Draco huffed, turning back to the oven to retrieve the reheated plate. “I must be a saint.”
As Draco was about to leave the kitchen, Harry took a bite of the casserole. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment before looking up at Draco, offering a slightly strained smile. “It’s… not bad. Definitely edible.”
Draco paused his hand on the doorframe, then turned back to give Harry a sharp look. “Not bad?” His voice held a note of disbelief. “That’s all I get? You’re not going to lie and say it’s ‘delicious,’ are you?”
Harry raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “If you want me to lie, I could say it’s perfect, but I’m not that cruel, Malfoy.”
Draco smirked, but there was a hint of frustration in his eyes. “Good. Because if you did, I might’ve had to hex you.”
Harry chuckled. “You wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t I?” Draco replied, turning to grab his coat. “Well, one day, I’ll make a meal so perfect that it’ll leave you speechless. No sarcasm. Just pure perfection. And you’ll be begging for seconds.”
Harry leaned back, clearly skeptical. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Draco shot him a sly look over his shoulder as he opened the door. “Just wait, Potter. One day, I’ll make a meal so good, it’ll shut you up for good. You’ll finally understand what a real Malfoy meal tastes like.”
As Draco stepped out, the soft sound of Harry’s laughter echoed through the house. But inside, something stirred in Draco, a quiet determination. It wasn’t about the praise. It was about proving himself. One day, he promised, he’d make the perfect meal. No more jokes, no more sarcasm. Just pure, flawless food.
…
Draco stood by the counter in the quiet healer's wing, his fingers mechanically tracing through paperwork that had accumulated over his shift. The night was always slower—less urgency, fewer patients—but the weight of responsibility never left him. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his neck, and ran a hand through his platinum hair, savoring the brief moment of calm.
The door creaked open, and Luna Lovegood stepped inside, her usual serene demeanor interrupted only by the faint burn on her sleeve, the edges blackened.
"Luna?" Draco said, rising in surprise. "What happened?"
"Oh, just a little incident with a fire-breathing flower," she replied casually, her voice as light as ever. She waved a hand as if the burn were nothing more than an inconvenience.
Draco frowned, moving to retrieve the necessary salve. "A fire-breathing flower? Why would you mess with those things?"
Luna’s smile remained unfazed. "It’s for my column. I thought it’d make an interesting story next week."
Draco raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. "Can’t you write about something that doesn’t try to set you on fire?"
"Well, they’re not as interesting," she replied lightly.
"I think I’m more interesting, and I don’t burn." Draco joked, then immediately regretted it as Luna turned to consider him, her gaze piercing in a way he wasn’t prepared for.
She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she just studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. "It’s not that bad," she said eventually, the calm in her voice never wavering. "I came here to see you, actually."
Draco blinked, feeling a flicker of surprise. I’m flattered, but no need to burn yourself to see me"
Luna’s smile softened. She tilted her head slightly, as though she could see something more in him than he was willing to show. "You’re worried about your mother."
Draco’s jaw tightened. He didn’t have to say anything, Luna had an uncanny ability to read him. "It’s hard not to be," he finally said, his voice low. "She’s not getting better. It’s like she’s stuck in this place where nothing can reach her anymore." He swallowed, his hand clenching into a fist. "I can’t even protect her from the world anymore."
Luna’s gaze softened, her eyes filled with understanding. "She is lucky to have such a good son," she said quietly, her voice as gentle as ever.
Draco let himself believe, even if a part of him could never. His thoughts drifted to Teddy then, and the ever-present worry for the child. "And there’s the press, Skeeter’s been using him for her headlines. He’s just a child."
Her voice was heavy with empathy. "People will do anything for attention. But you’re protecting him.”
"I don’t know if I’m doing a good job."
Luna’s response was soft, almost like a mantra. "You’re doing what you can. And sometimes, that’s enough."
Draco nodded, but his mind was still racing. There was a brief silence before something else slipped out of him, almost absentmindedly. "Do you happen to have a relative named Morgana?" he asked, his voice casual but with a subtle edge of curiosity. "I met someone recently with that name, and... well, I thought I’d ask. Maybe a long-lost aunt or something."
The woman blinked, her expression thoughtful. "Morgana, you say? That’s an interesting name. I don’t think anyone in my family has that name, but... it’s possible. The Lovegood family tree is rather... sprawling."
Draco nodded slowly, though a knot tightened in his stomach. He hadn’t expected this conversation to bring up doubts about Morgana. But now that it had, his mind couldn’t let go of the question. What if she had ties to the Ministry? What if she wasn’t who she seemed? Worse, what if she was a Death Eater?
Luna seemed to sense the shift in his thoughts, her gaze softening further. "I’ll keep an eye out, just in case," she added, her voice a gentle reassurance.
"Thanks," Draco said quietly, unsure if he was hoping for answers or just trying to settle the unease that had taken root.
Then Luna added, almost as an afterthought, “By the way, you mentioned some muggle treatments before for your mother.”
“Yes, I’ve been reading some. But it’s a little confusing as I don't have knowledge about muggle medicine.” Malfoy said frustrated, he didn't even want to think about this.
“Well, I found a healer who’s also a muggle-born doctor. He’s not specialized in mental health, but he might be able to help. Maybe he can shed light on some of the things.”
Draco’s interest piqued immediately, and he leaned forward, his attention suddenly sharp. A strange flutter of hope stirred in his chest, an agitation that almost made him feel like a child eagerly opening a present. “Do you know where I can find him?”
Luna nodded, pulling out a small piece of parchment and handing it to him. "Here’s his clinic address."
Draco took the parchment, feeling a sense of hope creeping through him. Maybe, just maybe, this healer could offer a solution, something to help his mother, something that made sense of the chaos.
But as he read the name on the parchment, his heart sank. The healer’s name was Omar Abasi.
Draco froze. Omar Abasi, the very healer who had once openly despised him, who had made no secret of his hatred for Draco’s existence. The man who viewed Draco as nothing more than a legacy of pain and shame.
It felt like a cruel twist of fate. Here was a potential lifeline, one he had been hoping for, and yet the very person offering it was someone who would never treat him with anything other than disdain.
Draco’s fingers tightened around the parchment as his thoughts churned. He could hardly believe it. It was as if the universe was mocking him, offering help in the form of someone who would never let him forget who he was.
A healer he might have to rely on if only his own past didn’t stand between them.