Teddy is mine!

As soon as Harry finished tidying up, he noticed that the person who had volunteered to help him had disappeared. Not that it was a real surprise. He didn't mind much either, since he had managed to drink most of a half-empty bottle on his own. The alcohol was terrible, but also strangely fascinating.

He didn't have to think too hard to know where Draco was. Potter quickly climbed the stairs, switched off the lights downstairs, and headed to Teddy’s room. As expected, Draco was there, crouched beside the little boy, gently stroking his soft blue hair.

It was always strange to see him like this. He was undeniably more vulnerable and affectionate with Teddy, but still cautious. Yet, in that moment, he seemed peaceful—like an eerily calm ocean in the middle of a storm. It felt… wrong. His hair was slightly damp from a recent bath, and he wasn’t wearing his usual expensive silk pajamas. Instead, he had on a long, oversized shirt that looked a little worn and a pair of gray trousers. It was probably the most casual Harry had ever seen him.

"You spoil him too much. Let him learn to sleep on his own," Harry said, drawing Draco’s attention. The blond’s gaze sharpened as he walked toward him, closing Teddy’s bedroom door behind them.

"He’s too young. It’s perfectly fine for a child to want to sleep with their parents." Draco stopped for a moment, realizing what he just said. “I meant, not that we are his parents but…”

“I get it. When I was a child I wanted to have someone comfort me.”

Draco remembered his childhood. He had always slept with his mother when he had nightmares or on stormy nights, it was the best part about his parents sleeping in separate bedrooms because he knew that Lucius would never approve of Narcisa spoiling him. Besides, sleeping next to Teddy calmed him. When nightmares woke him, he would shift closer to the little boy, focusing on the sound of his even breathing, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Knowing Teddy was safe and right there with him was the best way to steady himself.

"But he’s all right now, and you should sleep," Harry tried. Normally, Draco didn’t take well to any kind of concern directed at him, even if it was simple and logical. This time was no different.

Draco took a step behind, creating distance between them, his whole body tense, as if caught on an unfamiliar path.

"I’m fine," he stated. A fact. Without another word, he turned his back on Harry.

For some reason, Harry didn’t want the conversation to end there. So he held the blond’s wrist lightly, just to catch his attention. Made the blond turn again facing him.

"You said you’d behave," Harry reminded him with an awkward smile, attempting to steer the conversation elsewhere.

"And I did. But now that the guests are gone, I’ve simply returned to my natural state of arrogance," Draco said, freeing himself from Harry’s grasp and instantly his shoulders relaxed slightly as a faint smirk graced his lips. 

Malfoy tried to run away again, this time Harry didn’t stop him, but he was not giving up. He knew it was late, knew they were both exhausted, and yet, like an idiot, he followed Draco to his room.

"You slipped up plenty of times, and yet none of them ended up fighting over you."

Draco raised an eyebrow, feigning disappointment. "Are you joking? I was starting to think Granger would kick Weasley’s arse and throw herself at me."

The blond entered his room, which was miraculously clean, probably because now he had his wand back and just needed to wave it to make the room shine. Harry didn’t dare to enter fully, so he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching as Draco tossed a towel onto his bed and began drying his hair in a casual, effortless way that somehow kept Harry’s attention. The soft, rhythmic motions of Draco’s hands running through his damp hair, the way the light caught the strands, making them gleam like silver. It was all strangely captivating.

Harry rolled his eyes, trying to break the spell. "Don’t be so full of yourself."

Draco, ever unbothered, smirked. "With a face like mine, it’s impossible not to be. Not that you’d understand."

"That’s exactly why you won’t be invited to the Weasleys’ Christmas dinner," Harry shot back, a sharp edge to his tone. It was easier to be annoyed than to acknowledge how infuriatingly good Draco looked even when tired.

"They don’t allow good-looking people? That explains a lot." Draco paused for a moment, genuinely considering the thought, which was as irritating as it was amusing.

Ok, Harry had kind of forgotten that Draco was a brat.

"I’m serious, Malfoy. It could be a great opportunity."

"Of what?" He tossed a towel onto his bed and began to brush his hair, now dry, paying no attention to his unwelcome admirer. “Let’s be honest, Potter. They don’t like me, why would I go?”

"Because…" Harry struggled to find a good reason. In the end, he sighed and settled for the truth. "Because Christmas was always awful for me. It was about getting secondhand socks and cooking for the Dursleys. But the Weasleys made it something incredible. I want you to know what that feels like. I want Teddy to have Christmas with you, to decorate a tree, to make good memories together."

Draco paused the brush in his hand, “You can’t just use the orphan card forever.”

“I can if it works. Is it working?”

The blond scoffed. "Sounds like a terrible holiday. And I have no desire to be surrounded by that many redheads in one place… But, I suppose I can make an effort."

“That’s great! Just try not to offend Muggle inventions in front of Mr. Weasley,” Harry said, a small smile playing on his lips as he glanced at Draco.

He couldn’t hold himself anymore so he went to catch the wet towel Draco had tossed on his bed and put it properly hanging on the wall. The blond looked at how Harry was entering his room and tidying up but said nothing.

Instead, Draco answered him bored, though his expression had a flicker of amusement. “That’s hard. Muggle creations are as stupid as they are.”

Harry tilted his head, studying Draco with a curious intensity. “Why do you hate Muggles?” he asked. His voice wasn’t angry or accusatory. It was just soft, genuine as if he truly wanted to understand.

“It’s not hate” Draco sighed heavily, his gaze drifting away from Harry’s. Any other day he would evade the question, but he saw Harry trying, so he tried too. “Muggles outnumber us. Millions to one. Do you have any idea how easily they could overpower us if they knew we existed? Their numbers and machines can be more dangerous than any wand.”

Harry frowned, “But they don’t even know we exist. That’s the point of the Statute of Secrecy. To protect us, not to breed fear.”

Draco’s gaze snapped back to Harry’s, his silver eyes sharp. “Fear is what keeps us alive. Or have you forgotten history? Do you think the Statute of Secrecy was put in place because we wanted to be hidden? It was survival, Potter. You said it yourself, they used to burn us.”

“I get it. Fear of being hurt, of being overpowered. But think about it, Draco. If they knew the truth, what do you think they’d do? You’re giving Muggles too much credit and too little at the same time. Most of them don’t care about magic. They care about their phones and football matches.”

Draco’s lip curled slightly, but there was a vulnerability in his eyes that he couldn’t quite hide. “You’re simplifying it. One day, their technology could outmatch our magic. Wands are powerful, but they’re nothing against an army of Muggles armed with weapons we can’t even understand. My father said that too.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, his tone teasing. “You mean the father who trusted Voldemort? Because, let’s face it, he was all about this fear, and he got it wrong. You know what’s funny? Voldemort hated Muggles, but he was a half-blood. He was more ‘Muggle’ than most people in the world he tried to destroy. All that hate, all that bloodshed—for what? To hide that he hated himself?”

“That’s not the point. Yeah, I hate Voldemort too. He was wrong. My father was wrong about a lot of things too. But can you say he was wrong about this? Can you blame me for believing what I was raised to believe?”

Harry stepped closer, his voice low and earnest. “I’m not blaming you. I want to understand.”

Draco exhaled sharply, his shoulders tense. “I don’t think you can. You weren’t raised hearing how they’re inferior while also being told to fear them. That sharing the magical world with them is dangerous. That our existence is fragile. We don’t know what might happen. Maybe it weakens us—mixing our bloodlines until one day, wizards won’t even exist anymore. Or maybe, even if we still have magic, our traditions will disappear beneath theirs.”

Harry’s gaze didn’t waver. “You can’t possibly believe this bullshit. Hermione doesn’t weaken our world. I don’t weaken wizards.”  

Draco’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. “Hermione is brilliant and you’re the most powerful wizard of our time. I can admit that. But that doesn’t make it the rule. The truth is, we don’t know. Opening our world to Muggles means opening it to the unknown.”

Harry took another step forward, closing the distance between them. “That’s fear. Not logic.” 

Draco remained sitting in his bed, and at this point, Harry was so close that the blond would have to look up to see him, but he didn’t. So the dark-haired wizard searched Draco’s pale hands as he held them gently, as if this act would make Draco understand everything. Draco let him do it, unsure why, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull his hand away, so he kept looking at their hands.

“You’re missing the point. Muggles aren’t some monolithic enemy. They’re just like us. Some are good, some are bad, and most are just trying to live their lives. Yeah, they’ve done terrible things, but so have we. Wizards aren’t exactly innocent, are we? The Ministry’s done its fair share of shady stuff, and don’t even get me started on the Death Eaters.”

Draco let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. My father, for one, is a prime example.”

“I wasn’t even talking about him,” Harry said, offering a small, knowing smile. “But... yeah. He is not the best person I ever met.”

Draco huffed, finally retracting his hand from Harry’s touch. “He’s a good father,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “But he is not a good man.”

“I could argue about the ‘good father’ part, but I’ll let it slide. I see progress here, and that’s something.”

Draco gave a half-hearted smirk, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. “Progress, Potter? You’re not going to start clapping, are you?”

Harry grinned. “Don’t tempt me.”

They paused for a moment, still looking at each other, Harry didn’t move and stood in front of Draco, who was sitting in his bed. Potter thought the conversation had finally come to an end. But Draco sighed aloud, and Harry braced himself for more. It wasn’t a bad thing, though a little tiring to refute everything. He was grateful that Draco was finally talking.

“I’m just saying… What if we start blending with theirs, we lose control. We lose what makes us wizards.”

“And what does make us wizards, Draco?” Harry’s voice was calm but insistent. “Is it just the magic? Or is it something more? Because if it’s just the magic, then you’re right—maybe we are fragile. But if it’s about who we are, and what we stand for, then it doesn’t matter how many Muggles there are or what they invent. We’ll still be us.”

Draco scoffed, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his expression. “You make it sound so simple. You don’t just… unlearn everything you’ve been taught. You don’t just stop being afraid.”

“I know it’s not simple,” Harry said honestly. “But it’s worth it.”

Draco looked at him, his gray eyes raw and unguarded, as if all his emotions were ready to spill onto the floor. Harry couldn’t control the pull he felt, the way his hand instinctively reached out to cradle Draco’s chin, his thumb brushing lightly over the other man’s jaw. His gaze dropped to Draco’s lips, and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them.

“You’re drunk,” Draco accused, though his voice lacked its usual bite.

“No, no,” Harry murmured, not moving. “Maybe… a little. Just enough to get some courage.”

Draco’s lips twitched, though his expression remained guarded. “Didn’t expect a Gryffindor to have issues with courage,” he said, his tone teasing but his eyes searching Harry’s face, as if trying to unravel the thoughts behind those green eyes.

“It’s been two years since we left Hogwarts. We’re not the same people anymore,” Harry said, his voice steady but carrying a weight that made Draco’s chest tighten. Then, with a small smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he added, “Though I’m still brave, and you’re still a narcissist.”

“You still think the whole world should agree with you, and I’m the narcissist?” Draco shot back, though his usual sharpness was softened by the way his breath hitched as Harry leaned in closer.

Harry couldn’t think of a retort. Not a single rational thought could form when Draco’s lips were so close, looking so impossibly kissable. He could feel the warmth of Draco’s breath, the faint tremor in the hand that still rested against his chest, as if Draco couldn’t decide whether to push him away or pull him closer.

Draco pulled back just enough to smirk at the dissatisfaction written all over Harry’s face. “What do you want from me, Potter?”

Harry’s answer took a second too long. “Whatever you want and can give me.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Draco said, his voice low and strained. He covered Harry’s eyes with his hand and pushed him back. “We will never be something.”

“We already are,” Harry said without hesitation. “We live together and raise a child. That already sounds like a relationship.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.” Draco laughed, but there was something strained in his smile. “We’re not teenagers. Just because we kiss sometimes doesn’t mean we have a relationship. This doesn’t change anything.”

Harry saw the desire, the necessity, invite in his eyes that words couldn’t grasp. So he leaned forward, expecting Draco to stop him, to push. But he didn’t and then they kissed.

It was nothing like their first kiss, which had been desperate and furious. This was patient, calm, deep. It was the kind of kiss that spoke of unspoken words and shared vulnerabilities. Draco’s lips were soft against his, hesitant at first, but then yielding, as if he’d been holding back for far too long. Harry’s hand slid from Draco’s jaw to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the soft strands of blond hair as he pulled him closer.

Draco’s hand, which had been resting against Harry’s chest, curled into the fabric of his shirt, gripping tightly as if he were afraid Harry might pull away. The kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, each movement speaking volumes—of longing, of fear, of something neither of them was ready to name. Harry could feel Draco’s heartbeat, rapid and unsteady, matching his own.

When they finally pulled apart, Draco’s hand lingered on Harry’s cheek, his expression unreadable but his eyes betraying the storm of emotions beneath the surface. His thumb brushed lightly over Harry’s cheekbone, a gesture so tender it made Harry’s breath catch.

“This changes everything,” Harry whispered, his voice barely audible, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile moment between them.

Draco didn’t respond, because he didn’t trust his voice to not waver.

…

The next morning was, as expected, awkward. Strangely enough, everyone had lost track of time and slept in far later than usual. By the time they stumbled into the kitchen, it was already eleven, and brunch was the only logical option. The table was set haphazardly—Harry had thrown together some toast, eggs, and fruit, while Draco brewed tea with his usual precision, though his movements were slower, more deliberate, as if he were trying to buy himself time.

Draco was quiet, which wasn’t entirely unusual for him in the mornings. He was never a morning person, often grumpy and monosyllabic for the first few hours after waking up. But this silence felt different. It was heavy, charged with something unspoken. Harry could feel it in the air—the way their glances lingered a little too long before darting away, the way Draco’s shoulders were tense even as he buttered his toast with meticulous care.

Teddy, oblivious to the tension, was chattering away in his high chair, his hair a bright, mismatched blue today, as if he couldn’t decide between two shades. He happily smeared jam on his toast, occasionally looking up at Harry and Draco with wide, curious eyes. Harry tried to smile and keep the conversation light, not wanting Draco to think he was pretending the kiss hadn’t happened, but also respecting that Draco wasn’t ready to talk about it. He could wait.

He would wait.

If anything, Harry felt a sense of relief after the kiss, as if a weight had been lifted. He’d been holding back his feelings for Draco for a while, and finally acting on them had left him both exhilarated and vulnerable. He wasn’t sure where this left them, but he was hopeful. Still, he was mentally preparing himself for the possibility that Draco might pretend nothing had happened. Harry let out a quiet sigh, his gaze drifting to Draco across the table. He imagined what it would be like if they were more than just co-parents—if they could be partners, a real family. He was willing to take things slow, but he was also ready to fight for this if Draco was.

On the other side of the table, Draco was lost in his own thoughts. He was afraid of what this meant for their lives. He’d spent so long building walls to protect himself, and now Harry was breaking them down, brick by brick. He was scared of losing control, of becoming too attached, and of what others might think. He knew he wasn’t accepted by Harry’s family, his friends, or the wizarding world.

How could he ever fit into Harry’s life when so many people still saw him as the boy who’d made all the wrong choices?

Draco caught himself questioning whether he deserved this, whether he deserved Harry’s affection and the chance to be part of a real family. He’d spent so long believing he was unworthy of love, and it was hard to let go of that belief. Optimism felt foreign, dangerous even. It was easier to retreat into the familiar comfort of pessimism, to remind himself that this fragile new dynamic they’d built as co-parents could shatter at any moment. Changing that dynamic into something more—something insatiable and unknown—felt like a risk he wasn’t sure he could take.

As they finished eating, Draco cleared his throat. "I have to go out for a bit today," he said, voice carefully neutral. He didn't meet Harry's eyes, but he knew Harry was watching him closely.

"To St. Mungo’s?" Harry asked, already knowing the answer.

Draco exhaled through his nose, annoyed but unsurprised by how easily Harry could read him. "Yes. And before you say anything, my mother is getting better, thanks for asking." He spared both from the exchange, it was still a hard topic so he was determined to make it as short as he could.

Harry didn’t say anything for a moment, only nodded. "That’s good."

Draco finally glanced up at him, searching for any sign of judgment or pity, but found none. Just quiet understanding. He didn’t know what to do with that, so he simply looked away again.

Harry stretched and stood up, grabbing his plate. "I’ve got some work to wrap up. Shouldn’t take long. Then I was thinking of going Christmas shopping."

"Christmas shopping?" Draco repeated, wrinkling his nose.

As expected, the rich bastard would have elves or whatever doing it for him. Harry was not surprised, but teased him anyway.

"Yes, Draco. It’s a thing normal people do."

"It sounds dreadful."

Teddy, who had been mostly focused on getting jam on every available surface, suddenly perked up. "I want Spider-Man!"

Both men turned to look at him.

"You want... what?" Draco asked, perplexed.

"Spider-Man!" Teddy repeated, eyes bright. "He's so cool!"

Potter blinked at Draco, who was staring at Teddy as if he’d just spoken in Parseltongue. "Is that a toy? A book? A... a spider?"

Teddy giggled. "I see ‘he’ on TV! He climbs walls and fights and— and— I want ‘he’ for Xmas!"

He ran a hand through his dark hair, utterly lost. "Right. Well. I’ll... figure that out."

The blond sighed, rubbing his temple. "I should’ve burned that damn TV."

"Too late, Malfoy. Welcome to parenthood."

Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

"Since we’re both busy today, Teddy should stay with Morgana," Draco said casually, as if it wasn’t a big deal. But Harry caught the way his fingers tapped against the table.

"Morgana?"

"Yes."

Harry leaned back, studying Draco. "You trust her."

Draco met his gaze now, chin lifting slightly. "I do."

Potter was surprised. He knew how few people Draco trusted. And if he was willing to leave Teddy with her, that meant something.

"Alright," Harry said, nodding. "If you trust her, that’s good enough for me."

Draco’s expression flickered, something soft and unreadable passing through his eyes. He didn't reply, just stood and gathered the plates, as if the conversation was already over.

But Harry knew better. This was another brick falling from the walls Draco had spent years fortifying. And Harry was patient.

He would wait.

…

Draco pushed open the door to Morgana's restaurant, the familiar scent of roasted herbs and warm spices wrapping around him like a well-worn cloak. The lunchtime rush had passed, leaving behind only the soft clatter of dishes being stacked and the occasional murmur of conversation from the few lingering customers.

Teddy, undeterred by the quiet atmosphere, bounded inside with the energy of someone who had never known the meaning of exhaustion. His hair, a brilliant shade of golden yellow, seemed to glow under the dim lighting. He spotted Morgana immediately and let out a delighted squeal.

"Auntie!" he chirped, throwing his arms up as if expecting to be scooped into the air.

Morgana, ever indulgent, bent down and ruffled his hair with a smirk. "Hi, little chef. Been causing trouble?"

Teddy giggled. "Not yet!"

Following at a more dignified pace, Draco leaned against the counter, arms crossed. He watched Teddy climb onto one of the chairs, his small legs swinging wildly under the table. It was impossible for him to sit still for more than a second. He tapped his fingers against the wood, then drummed them against his thighs, his gaze darting around the restaurant as if cataloging every small change since their last visit.

Morgana crossed her arms, smiling as she leaned against the counter beside Draco. "So, what about the casserole?"

Draco sighed, already regretting not leaving earlier. "Potter said it was edible," he muttered.

Teddy groaned dramatically, slumping over the table. "Hawwy isn't nice."

"You should consider that a win. Don’t be sad."

Draco rolled his eyes. "I don’t care what he thinks."

The woman didn’t respond immediately, just gave him a look—one of those looks Draco found unbearable, laden with an understanding that irritated him. He shifted uncomfortably.

Teddy, oblivious to any tension, grinned. "Hawwy eats everything."

Morgana drummed her fingers against her chin, her expression far too satisfied. "Hmm."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "What?"

She shrugged, overly innocent. "People aren’t always honest with words. But actions… those tell the real story, don’t you think?"

"You sound like bloody Trelawney."

"That’s offensive," Morgana paused. "To her."

Teddy, already disinterested in the conversation, hopped off the chair. "Can I get my coloring book?"

Draco glanced at Morgana before nodding. "Go ahead, mon chaton."

As soon as Teddy disappeared down the hallway, the atmosphere seemed to grow heavier, as if the absence of his childish energy left room for something more weighty.

Morgana turned her gaze back to Draco, her expression shifting to something more serious. "So, I suppose you came for a different reason than just to update me on the casserole."

Draco exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "I need a free babysitter. Potter and I are busy for a few hours, but I’ll be right back. I’m just visiting my mother."

"Oh." That was too much information—Draco never talked about his mother unless Morgana pried. He had left Teddy with her before, but never for long, never completely. And then, the most surprising part—"But I don’t even know Potter. How could he trust me?"

"He doesn’t. He trusts me." Draco said like he also couldn't believe himself. 

Silence. Morgana’s eyes analyzed him until her expression softened again.

Draco leaned back against the counter. "Stop acting like you know me."

"But I do."

"You don’t," Draco shot back, but it sounded weak, even to him. "We’ve known each other for less than two months."

She pulled out a chair and sat down, watching him as if unraveling something invisible to the naked eye. "Maybe it’s because you remind me of someone. You feel familiar. Easy to read."

"And what exactly do you read in me?"

She exhaled through her nose. "That you’re afraid of feeling something you can’t control."

Draco stiffened. His fingers curled against his arms, nails pressing into his skin just enough to ground himself.

Morgana didn’t push. She just looked away, fixing her gaze on the teacup in front of her. For a moment, she seemed on the verge of saying something she shouldn’t.

"I used to be like that too," she said finally. "Afraid of what it meant to care. Afraid of the cost."

There was something in the way she spoke—a weight, an untold story.

"I never told you about my family."

Draco tensed. He didn’t like where this was going.

"You didn’t have to," he said. "I know who you are."

Morgana gave him a small, melancholic smile. "No, you don’t."

They stared at each other. Something heavy lingered in the silence between them.

She tapped a single finger against the wooden table. "My family was like yours, they believed in pureblood supremacy."

He felt his stomach twist. Morgana never said her last name, and Draco figured it was for the best, but given how her arms had no Dark Mark, it was not that bad. There were a lot of pureblood ideologists. Not everybody followed Voldermort or went to war. Draco had already noticed, among the many photos and paintings on the restaurant walls, a framed document—an official acknowledgment for the donated food that helped those affected by the Second Wizarding War. So how bad could Morgana be? How bad could her story be? 

A lot, judging from the pain in her eyes. 

"I was young when the war started, the first one," she continued, her voice steady. "Too young to fight. Too old to pretend I didn’t know what was happening."

Draco swallowed dryly but said nothing.

"I was raised with certain truths. And for a long time, I didn’t question them. I just... lived as expected."

There was a subtle bitterness in her words as she said, looking down at the cup in her hands. 

"But the war came for everyone. And one day, I had to choose."

Draco didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t need to.

"You hesitated."

She let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Yes. And being neutral in times like this is almost as bad. Both sides hate you."

"Did someone get hurt?"

She held his gaze for a moment before answering, and Draco knew—he knew without her having to say it.

"Yes. They died."

Draco blinked. "They?"

“I had important people on both sides and lost them, but my biggest regret is,” Morgana looked away, the shadow of a sad smile on her lips. "... My lover. I should have told him how much I loved him. I should have lived that love. But I hesitated and paid the price."

Draco felt something tighten in his chest. "That wouldn’t have changed anything."

Morgana looked at him. "Not for him. But it would have for me. I would have been brave. I wouldn’t live in regret."

Draco looked away, uncomfortable. He knew she wasn’t just talking about herself.

"Why are you telling me this?" 

"Because I’ve seen what hesitation can cost." She watched him with a gaze that seemed to pierce through him. "And because I don’t want that to happen to you."

Draco clenched his jaw. "It’s not the same.”

"Just think about it, Draco. Time moves fast. And I know healing spells, but no magic can fix a heart broken by regret."

Teddy came running back at that moment, clutching his coloring book. "Found it!"

And as if a spell had been broken, the tension dissipated. Teddy climbed back onto the chair, immersed in his joy, oblivious to what had transpired between the two adults.

Draco watched him and, for a brief moment, wondered if Morgana was right.

…

Blaise Zabini lay on the hospital bed, his posture defiant even in the face of pain. His dark eyes flickered with irritation as he turned an apple between his long, elegant fingers. The fruit’s skin gleamed under the dim light of the room, its redness almost mocking in its vibrancy. He watched it for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before finally speaking.

“An apple a day keeps the doctor away,” he said, his voice low and sardonic.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, he hurled the apple across the room. It spun lazily through the air, lacking the strength or speed he’d intended. Unfortunately for him, dealing with plants seemed to require decent reflexes, because Neville Longbottom cautch it easily. 

"You’re supposed to eat it, Zabini," he said, bending down to retrieve it. He placed it back on the untouched meal tray, his movements calm, and patient. "That’s how the saying works."

Blaise smirked, reclining against the pillows. "Throwing it is funnier." The smirk didn’t reach his eyes. 

Neville didn’t know what had landed Blaise in this situation, but he could guess. Dark Magic clung to him like a stain, its remnants still visible in the raw, jagged edges of his injuries. Death Eaters was the obvious answer.

Blaise’s hands were steady, but there was a tension in his shoulders, the kind that spoke of someone waiting for the world to press too close. Neville had seen it before—mostly in creatures that had been handled too roughly, in plants that recoiled from too much sun. But Blaise was struggling—his posture rigid, his arm shifting awkwardly as if trying to adjust himself without jarring his injuries. Neville could see the discomfort in the way he held himself, the silent frustration in the set of his jaw.

So he asked.

“Is it alright if I—?” He let the question hang, fingers hovering just shy of Blaise’s wrist, making sure there was space between them. No hesitation. Just room to breathe.

Blaise’s dark eyes flicked to his hand, then back up. The pause wasn’t long, but Neville caught it.

“No,” Blaise said, voice even.

Neville nodded, lowering his hand without comment. He didn’t push, didn’t linger. Instead, he turned back to his task—the favor Harry had asked of him. 

It was easy, brewing a few restorative potions, not that potions were his strength, but this was more reliant on the quality of ingredients than brewing skill. And he had grown almost everything himself back at Hogwarts, so he trusted his plants more than most people.

And judging by the fact that Blaise had no visitors, it seemed they also did not trust many people.

But Zabini needed friends in a situation like this, and despite spending years in the same castle, Neville could barely recall speaking to Blaise before. They weren’t the type to seek each other out. Neville had never been particularly social, and Blaise—well, Blaise had never needed to be. He was the kind of person who was always seen, even in silence. Tall, immaculately dressed, moving through the halls of Hogwarts like the world owed him space. He had always been surrounded by people, yet somehow, he had always seemed alone.

Now, more than ever.

Back to the present, he noted the way Blaise’s fingers twitched nervously against the blanket, trying to pull them closer, the subtle tension in his shoulders. He wasn’t just injured—he was uncomfortable. His torso was bare, the left side wrapped in fresh bandages, and though the healers had likely left him shirtless for practicality, Neville could tell Blaise hated it. Hated being exposed, unable to dress himself without assistance.

Neville hesitated, then quietly reached for the folded shirt resting nearby. He had already noticed Blaise’s struggle—his limited movements, the barely concealed tension in his shoulders as he tried to adjust himself without worsening his injuries. He didn’t comment, didn’t ask if Blaise wanted help—that would have just forced him to refuse out of pride. Instead, he simply moved with careful, practiced ease, holding the fabric in a way that made it clear he wasn’t going to rush, wasn’t going to touch where he wasn’t welcome.

He unfolded the shirt and held it open, offering Blaise the first move. Blaise hesitated, his fingers twitching before finally reaching for the sleeve. His arm trembled slightly as he lifted it, and Neville saw the way his jaw tightened, the breath he took through his nose as if bracing for pain. He didn’t comment on it. Instead, he shifted subtly, angling the fabric so Blaise didn’t have to struggle as much.

Neville made sure not to touch him. But when Blaise faltered, his arm straining just slightly, Neville’s fingers brushed against his wrist, steadying without holding. A silent reassurance, light enough that Blaise could pull away if he wanted to. But he didn’t. He let Neville help, even if his expression didn’t soften.

He was always on the defensive, always waiting for a fight, for some kind of retaliation. The more gentle Neville was, the more Blaise bristled, as if expecting the softness to be a trick. It was as if Blaise didn’t know what to do with kindness when it wasn’t transactional. And when Neville didn’t meet his sharpness with sarcasm or hostility, Blaise seemed almost... lost. So Neville adjusted.

He wasn’t naturally one for banter, and he wasn’t the type to seek out arguments, but maybe this was the only way Blaise knew how to talk to someone. Maybe, deep down, he just wanted someone to talk to.

"You’re making my job harder on purpose," Neville muttered, crossing his arms. 

Blaise gave him a slow, considering look before tilting his head slightly. "I don’t care." 

Neville sighed. 

He hadn’t expected much from Blaise—not friendliness, certainly—but he had expected worse. He had expected cruelty, barbed remarks, the kind of scorn Slytherins had once used so easily against him. But Blaise wasn’t cruel. Just difficult. A little reckless. A little irritating. But not unbearable. 

“My job is to help you get better,” he said gently, “so maybe you should care.”

He gestured toward the tray again, the potion still waiting. Blaise didn’t move to take it, his fingers curling and uncurling against the sheets. That slight tremor wasn’t from the pain in his body—it was from something else. Something deeper. Neville could feel it, like a weight pressing on the room.

"I don't care about getting better," Blaise said, his voice low but edged with a sharpness that cut through the quiet. "I want to get out of here."

“You will,” Neville said simply. “When you get better.”

Blaise’s lips twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Define better, because I feel exactly like I always felt all my life."

"You were not in bandages and with marks from dark magic for all your life."

For a moment, Blaise just stared at him, his dark eyes unreadable. Then he let out a short, humorless laugh. "You got me," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I’m not a fighter."

Neville didn’t have an answer for this so he said, "Just take the potion I made."

Blaise let out a breath, sharp and dismissive, though it was laced with something else—a flicker of frustration. “You’re very bossy for someone who talks to plants all day.”

Neville allowed himself a small, quiet laugh. He wasn’t one for banter, but with Blaise, it almost felt like a challenge he could meet. “And you’re very stubborn for someone who is not a fighter.”

Blaise let out a soft, breathy chuckle, though there was little amusement in it. 

Blaise finally drank the potion and Neville moved to collect the empty vials from the nightstand, his touch careful, deliberate. He had spent years tending to things that resisted care—plants with poisonous thorns, roots that strangled rather than grew, greenery that needed patience rather than force.

"You don’t have to be difficult about it," Neville finally said, not unkindly.

Blaise let out a quiet scoff, shifting against the pillows. "And you don’t have to pretend to care."

Neville met his gaze. "I’m not pretending."

His shoulders relaxed just a fraction, and for the first time since Neville had entered the room, he didn’t look quite so guarded. There was something almost fragile about the way he sat there, his defenses momentarily lowered, as if he didn’t have the energy to keep them up anymore.

Definitely, Neville thought, he just needed someone to talk to. Someone who wouldn’t push, wouldn’t pry, but would just… be there. And maybe, just maybe, Neville could be that person.

Before either of them could say more, the door swung open. Blaise tensed immediately. Neville noticed the shift, the way Blaise’s smirk disappeared, his fingers tightening against the sheets. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but when Harry Potter walked in, expression unreadable, everything clicked into place. 

Harry’s gaze flickered toward Neville first, and for a brief moment, his guarded demeanor softened. He gave Neville a small nod—acknowledgment, familiarity—but the moment passed as quickly as it came. Then his eyes landed on Blaise, and the air in the room turned colder.

"You look better," Harry said, stopping near the foot of the bed. 

"Not thanks to you," Blaise replied smoothly, but there was something sharp beneath the amusement. 

Harry exhaled through his nose, his expression flat. "Are you going to say anything useful today, or can I leave?" 

"You know where the door is." 

Neville resisted the urge to sigh. This, at least, was familiar—Blaise’s sharp edges, his obvious distrust, the way he pushed people away the moment they got too close. Harry clenched his jaw, visibly losing patience. 

He hadn’t seen Harry and Blaise interact much before, but this—this was different. Harry wasn’t just irritated; he was distant, cold in a way that made Neville uneasy. Weren’t they supposed to be working together? It felt wrong.

“Harry,” Neville started, glancing at him with slight confusion. “Is everything—”

Before he could finish, the door slammed open—hard—crashing into Harry’s shoulder.

"What the hell, Ron?" Harry hissed. 

Blaise laughed, genuine this time, as Ron Weasley stumbled inside, quickly shutting the door behind him. His face was flushed, eyes darting toward the hallway. 

"Sorry, mate," Ron whispered. "I was in a rush." 

"Why?" 

Ron shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting toward Blaise before lowering his voice. "Malfoy almost saw me. I don’t know how to lie, and if he asked me anything, it would’ve been awkward."

Neville raised an eyebrow, frowning slightly. Why would Malfoy even talk to Ron? But before he could question it further, he caught the subtle shift in Blaise’s demeanor. At the mention of Draco’s name, Blaise’s entire body seemed to go rigid. His jaw clenched, and his fingers curled involuntarily against the sheets, his gaze locked on Harry with newfound intensity.

"Can I see him?" Blaise asked, his voice quieter now, the playfulness completely gone. There was a rawness there, a need that he didn’t even try to hide.

"No." 

Blaise’s fingers curled slightly against the sheets. "Then can I talk to Pansy? A Floo call?" 

"You can," Ron admitted. "But you’ll have to use a spell to hide your injuries and don’t say anything about the attack." 

Blaise barely acknowledged him, keeping his gaze locked on Harry. 

"Then why can’t I do the same to talk to Draco?" 

Harry’s expression darkened. "Because he’s a suspect." 

Blaise sat up too fast, his injuries forgotten in his frustration. Pain shot through his shoulder, and he winced, but he didn’t stop. His face twisted, first in disbelief—then in fury. 

"Are you fucking stupid? Draco would never do this to me!" His voice rose. "I already told you—I saw Nott! Use your damn brains for once—" 

"Shouting at me won’t change anything," Harry interrupted, his voice low but firm. Blaise clenched his jaw, his knuckles whitening against the sheets. “But maybe I deserve it. You were attacked a day before I met with Draco. If I’d gotten there earlier, he’d have an alibi. But because I was late, he’s a suspect." 

The realization hit hard. Blaise’s frustration, his anger—all of it shifted into something colder. 

"You know," Blaise said, his voice suddenly quiet but laced with something lethal.  "It’s not that I hate you, Potter. But moments like this make me fucking sick of your self-righteous bullshit." Neville saw the way Blaise’s fingers twitched, the tension in his jaw. “Fucking Griffindor pretending to be a saint, you killed people. You are a real murderer, not Draco.”

Harry flinched and Blaise smirked, vicious and satisfied. That was how deep he could cut. This wasn’t just a sharp retort—this was hate, fire, and something dangerously close to revenge. He wanted to get under Harry’s skin. To make him feel just a fraction of the helplessness he was feeling.

"Draco’s the one at risk of going to Azkaban because of your investigation, and you still dare to act like you care about him?" Blaise scoffed. "We all know you hate him and he hates you."

Harry exhaled sharply, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "I don’t hate him. Not anymore."

Blaise let out a humorless laugh. "Since when? Hogwarts?"

Before Harry could respond, Neville spoke, his voice calm but deliberate. 

"Did you know that Slytherin won the House Cup last year?" 

Blaise blinked, thrown off balance for just a second, and Neville saw it—that brief moment where the defensive mask cracked. Blaise had been expecting a fight. He never believed Neville would treat him as kind if he knew how cunning and cutting he could be. Yet, against all odds, Neville’s smile didn’t wave.  

"Oh, that’s very reassuring," Blaise drawled, still sarcastic, but something in his expression softened. 

Neville smiled growing seeing that he got an answer. "Yeah. The students were really happy. I thought I’d be upset about Gryffindor losing, but honestly, I was just happy for them." 

For a heartbeat, Blaise just looked at him, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. For the first time since Neville had entered the room, Blaise didn’t look so guarded. He didn’t look quite so lost. Maybe, just maybe, Neville’s kindness was starting to get through.

And for that brief moment, Blaise didn’t fight it.

Ron, watching this strange shift unfold, furrowed his brows. “Since when are you two friends?”

“Since now,” Blaise said flatly, shooting him a glare.

Neville didn’t bother hiding his grin.

….

Snow crunched beneath Harry’s boots as he made his way up to the Burrow’s front door, the glow of Christmas lights casting warm hues against the snow-covered garden. He hesitated for a moment before knocking, adjusting his scarf as he tried to ignore the nervous tension in his chest. He hadn’t seen Ginny since the fight between the Weasleys and Draco, and though things had since settled, an air of uncertainty still lingered.

Not that they were still at odds—Ron had told him how sorry his parents were and that they were even willing to invite Draco for Christmas. But Harry had no idea where Ginny stood on the matter. She had been so certain that day, so firm in her belief that Draco was not a good influence on Teddy. She didn’t trust him, and to be fair, Harry understood why. Sometimes he questioned himself as well, wondering why he trusted Draco despite everything. But there was no logical answer—he just saw something in him, something honest, something real.

He barely had time to process his thoughts before the door opened. Instead of Arthur, whom he had expected, it was Ginny standing there, framed by the warm glow of the Burrow’s interior. Behind her, Harry caught glimpses of twinkling decorations and familiar redheaded figures peeking curiously to see who had arrived.

“Working hours?” Harry asked, surprised by Ginny’s answer.

Arthur never worked during Christmas week, and even Harry, who considered himself a workaholic, had decided to take a break. He had been certain he’d find Arthur at home, his biggest concern being the color of the gift wrapping.

Ginny quickly stepped outside and closed the door behind her, sparing him the scrutiny of the others. Harry silently thanked her for the gesture, though he wasn’t sure if it was for his sake or hers.

“Well, you know how crazy things are right now,” Ginny said with an awkward smile, gesturing vaguely.

“The situation really is tough… It’s been so long, and yet it feels like every year it gets harder to shake off these problems—Death Eaters, rebels, corruption. It’s like the war never really ended.”

Ginny and Harry exchanged a glance, the weight of unspoken thoughts pressing between them. They both knew it wasn’t a good topic, so Ginny lightened the mood with a joke.

“You should quit that boring job. The Savior deserves a break.”

“I’m fine, and I’m working less now. Teddy needs me, and it’s not like I’m doing it for the money. Although… I haven’t touched the fortune."

He didn’t plan to tell Ginny that, but it just slipped out. Maybe it’s been weighing on him more than realized.

Ginny listened attentively, her expression gentle and understanding. “Why are you leaving the fortune untouched?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t feel right using their money. I mean, it’s mine now, but… it feels strange.”

“I think I get it. Not that I have a fortune or anything,” she joked, “but I know what it’s like to feel like something isn’t really yours.”

Harry nodded. He knew Ginny had struggled with that when she became Quidditch captain at Hogwarts—some had treated it as a prize for dating him rather than something she had earned. And worse, they’d already broken up by then.

“It’s not a bad thing. I like the work.”

“I know you do. But you should rest." Ginny tilted her head, watching him closely before smirking. “So… how is it, living with Malfoy?”

Harry blinked at her in surprise, caught off guard by the teasing lilt in her voice. He had expected tension, maybe even another argument, but not this. “You don’t trust him, do you?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, Harry. I don’t think he’s the best person to have around Teddy. But… Ron told me you two have things under control. And you obviously trust him.”

“I do,” Harry admitted, the words coming easily. He didn’t know when he had stopped questioning it, when trusting Draco had become second nature. “Teddy likes him. And Draco’s trying. He’s been through a lot too.”

Ginny hummed, as if still deciding how she felt about that answer. But she didn’t press. Instead, she grinned. “Well, if you start dressing better and acting posh, I’ll know Malfoy finally got to you.”

As their laughter faded, they stood looking at each other. Snow fell slowly around them, yet Harry still refused to come inside when Ginny asked again.

“I saw the Quidditch match. Great goals,” he said proudly. He could have ended the conversation there, but he felt like there was more to say, even if he wasn’t sure what.

“It's hard to stand out. Everyone on the team is so incredible.”

“All the team members have names that start with ‘G.’ Is that how you got into such a big team?” Harry teased, knowing full well Ginny had earned her spot.

“You’re late. George already made that joke.”

George making jokes was a good sign of progress, but Harry was sure it wasn’t a great topic, so he stayed quiet.

“Ah, I know it’s your favorite team, but isn’t it hard to date when you’re always surrounded by women?” He brought up the subject, but instantly regretted it. Even though it had been two years since their breakup, they’d never talked about other relationships.

He knew Ginny had dated someone after him, but it had ended quickly. And Harry had had a few flings, but nothing serious—he didn’t have the time or headspace for it.

“About that… I’m dating someone.”

“That’s great! Congratulations,” Harry said surprised by the news. 

“Don’t tell anyone yet. Actually, you’re the first person I’ve told. I feel relieved to finally say it out loud.”

“That’s good. I’m happy for you. Uh, what’s their name?”

“Oh, I’m not sure if I should say. You know her too.”

“Her?”

“Yes?” Ginny frowned, thinking she’d made it clear. In fact, she’d only confessed because she thought Harry had figured it out and was hinting at it.

“B-but you dated guys. I mean, you even dated me! Was I such a bad boyfriend that you’ve given up on men entirely?” Harry was in total shock, and Ginny burst out laughing.

“I think I like both. Or maybe I just like women and never realized it. Who knows?” She shrugged, as if she were talking about the weather.

Harry stood frozen, his mind racing to process what she had just said. He had always known that some people were attracted to both genders, of course, but he’d never considered that it might apply to him. Now, though, the idea didn’t seem so far-fetched. It felt like a door had been cracked open, revealing a possibility he hadn’t dared to explore before.

Ginny’s red hair ruffled in the strong wind, and Harry reached out to smooth the unruly strands. If only he liked Ginny, and she liked him… everything would be so much easier.

But he didn’t and suddenly was ready to face it so he said, “I also like both.” 

The woman frowned in confusion. So he tried again, already retracting his hand from her cheeks, but she put her hand on them holding them in place. 

“I like guys, well, a specific guy… You also know him.” That was harder than he imagined. “I’m not dating him, is complicated. I also didn’t them anyone, well, Hermione probably knew before me but… You are the first I actually choose to tell.”

Ginny’s expression softened, her eyes filled with a mix of surprise and understanding. “You should tell him,” she said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Harry let out a nervous laugh. “I kissed him. He must know.”

“That’s not the same, idiot,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “Just tell him. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“He could kill me,” Harry muttered, half-joking, though the fear in his voice was real. “Or worse. He could hate me.”

“He won’t,” Ginny said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Harry hesitated, his gaze dropping to the ground. “It’s Malfoy,” he admitted, the name slipping out before he could stop himself.

“I know, Harry,” Ginny said quietly, her voice steady.

Harry didn’t question, at this point, he just accepted that everybody knew before him. 

Harry glanced to the side, suddenly feeling the strange, prickling sensation of being watched. He scanned the area, but there was no one there—just the rustling of leaves in the wind. Shaking off the feeling, he turned back to Ginny, his heart lighter than it had been in weeks. For the first time, he felt a glimmer of hope, fragile but undeniable.