Morgana
Draco arrived at St. Mungo’s with measured steps, his hands clenched in his pockets, unwilling to hope too much. The familiar weight of dread coiled in his stomach, twisting tighter with every step toward his mother’s room. Omar had assured him there were improvements, but progress with Narcissa was fragile, and unpredictable. Some days she was present, aware. On other days, she drifted somewhere he couldn’t reach.
He hesitated at the door, inhaling deeply before stepping inside.
The room smelled of medicinal herbs and parchment—faint traces of the past clinging to the present. Narcissa sat by the small table, her posture impeccable, fingers curled delicately around a teacup as if she were entertaining guests in Malfoy Manor, not wasting away in a hospital ward. The sight of her sitting upright, engaged with the world, sent a flicker of cautious hope through Draco’s chest.
Then she looked at him. Really looked at him.
Her sharp blue eyes narrowed slightly, studying his face with unnerving intensity. A chill ran down his spine before she spoke.
“Lucius.”
Draco stiffened. He had known this moment would come again. Each time, it cut a little deeper.
It wasn’t just that she saw Lucius in him—he had long since come to terms with their shared features, the way age sculpted his face into something eerily familiar. It was how certain she sounded. As if time had warped and dragged her backward, anchoring her in a world where he was someone else entirely.
His lips parted to correct her, but she spoke again, her brows furrowing as she examined him closer.
“No… no, that’s not right.” A flicker of doubt crossed her face. “You’re not Lucius.”
Narcissa looked at him momentarily, her eyes blue, glazing his soul. Draco exhaled, grasping this moment of clarity. These little moments made it all worth it, so he smiled, reassuring her.
"I have a son…” she murmured, her voice thoughtful. “His name is Draco.”
“Yes, I’m Draco, Mom.”
But then she frowned, tilting her head slightly as if trying to recall something just beyond her reach. “I have another son.”
“Not that I know of,” he said lightly, hoping to guide the conversation back to reality. At least she recognized him—at least she remembered Draco. That was something.
“Blaise.” Mrs. Malfoy whispered.
“Blaise?” That was unexpected.
She nodded. “Yes… Blaise Zabini.” Her voice was clearer now, her fingers tightening slightly around the teacup. “He’s here, your brother. In this hospital.”
Draco stared at her, struggling to process what he had just heard. Blaise—strong, sharp-witted Blaise—was in St. Mungo’s? How? Why hadn’t he heard?
More importantly, how did she remember him?
Almost no one knew and Draco didn’t talk about Blaise, so that was proof that it was her memory returning. The treatment was working.
It was an old family secret, one buried so deep that even among the Sacred Twenty-Eight, few would dare to speak of it. Narcissa had taken Blaise under her wing when he was ten, an unofficial adoption. It had been her way of shielding him from his family problems. The Ministry never recognized it, and neither did the public, not even Lucius did that much, although he was not against it.
Never said that Blaise was not family, so within the walls of Malfoy Manor, Blaise had been family.
Only those closest to them had known. Not even Pansy knew the full extent.
And yet, here she was, remembering it clearly—so clearly it sent a shiver down Draco’s spine.
“What do you mean he’s here?” Draco asked, his voice quieter now, steadier.
Narcissa’s fingers flexed against the porcelain. “He’s in the Janus Thickey Ward, room 14. Long-term spell damage.” Her lips pressed together in that same composed way she had always carried bad news. “They won’t tell me what happened, but he’s there.”
Draco swallowed, forcing himself to focus.
“Are you sure?” he asked carefully, wary of believing too quickly. “Maybe it was a dream you had.”
“I saw him,” she said with certainty. “I was walking, and the door opened quickly. I only caught a glimpse, but I would always recognize my sons.”
That wasn’t entirely true, but she made it sound so convincing and certain that for a moment, Draco almost believed her. Until logic reminded him that she had just called him Lucius and was not a reliable source.
At the same time, Draco could shake away a gut feeling, inside him like an instinct and sense telling him to believe, to investigate this.
What if?
Maybe she was right.
Draco exhaled slowly, steadying himself. His fingers drummed anxiously against his thigh before he ran a hand through his hair—a nervous habit he hadn’t shaken since childhood. His mother was improving, but she wasn’t completely back. He wanted to trust these moments of clarity, to believe they meant something lasting, but uncertainty gnawed at him.
Still, she was here, and that meant something.
…
Draco hadn’t been sure whether to believe his mother. Even in her clearer moments, she drifted between past and present, reality and illusion. But when she whispered the ward number—Janus Thickey, Room 14—with such precision, something in him told him she was right.
And now, here he was.
He hadn’t gone in immediately. Instead, he lingered outside, watching.
First, he saw Potter and Weasley leaving the room. Harry’s head was bowed slightly, hands stuffed into his pockets as he spoke in hushed tones to Ron. Ron, in turn, responded with a fierce intensity, his expression serious, his movements tense.
This caught Draco off guard. Harry didn’t lie—he was terrible at it, painfully so. Draco, on the other hand, had grown up in an environment where lying was a basic survival skill. He wasn’t particularly talented at it, nor was he the best at hiding his emotions by Slytherin standards, but compared to Potter? He might as well have been a master.
And yet, here he was, blindsided.
The realization stung more than he cared to admit. Harry’s honesty had always been one of his most infuriating traits, but also one Draco had come to rely on. It was a constant, something he could trust even when everything else between them felt uncertain. But now, that trust felt fractured, and Draco hated how much it unsettled him.
He felt exposed, as if the ground beneath him had shifted without warning. For someone who prided himself on reading people, on staying one step ahead, this was a blow to his pride as much as his heart.
And beneath it all, there was a quiet, gnawing fear. If Harry could keep this from him, what else was he hiding? What else had Draco missed?
Then, minutes later, he saw Longbottom.
Fucking Longbottom.
Draco’s breath came unevenly. Everybody knew. But not him. Despite all the claims of trust, Harry didn’t trust a former Death Eater. Good for him.
A dry laugh almost escaped his lips. He pressed a hand to his face, fingers digging into his temple as he tried to push down the sharp sting in his chest. Draco had trusted him. Let his guard down around him. He had let Harry see him in ways no one else had, and in return, Harry had kept this from him.
He couldn’t keep thinking about this, or he’d be consumed by rage. He forced himself to focus, he needed to see how bad Blaise’s condition was. So Draco pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Blaise was lying in the bed, eyes closed, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips despite the bandages covering his face.
“Forgot something, Longbottom?” he drawled, not bothering to look up as the door clicked shut. When silence met his remark, he sighed, shifting slightly against the pillows. “I’m in the middle of my beauty sleep, so whatever you want, come back later.”
“That’s a bold way to greet me.”
“Unless you’re Merlin—” Blaise started, only to freeze mid-sentence, recognition slamming into him like a curse.
Draco leaned against the now-closed door, arms crossed, amusement dancing in his eyes as he watched Blaise crack one eye open. The blond saw the exact moment it hit. Blaise jolted upright, moving too fast. Pain flashed across his face, but he barely seemed to register it, dark eyes wide in disbelief before a slow, disbelieving smile began to form.
And then, just as quickly, it was gone.
Blaise’s shoulders tensed, his mouth pressing into a thin line. His dark, elegant features trembled, and Draco barely had time to register the way his eyes shone before his voice—thick, rough, but unmistakably Blaise—broke the silence.
“Dray…”
Draco smiled softly. The same smile he gave to Teddy.
Before he could say anything, Blaise was already moving, clearly struggling. Bandages covered his face and legs, and although a large shirt hid his torso, Draco knew it was bad.
Draco moved quickly, intercepting Blaise before he could get out of bed. “You look like shit.”
Blaise laughed, though it was strained. “I’ll be hot with scars.”
Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.
“But I’ll kill whoever did this. Was it the Aurors? Public reprisal? Death Eaters?”
“I don’t know,” Blaise admitted, his voice weary. “I thought I saw Nott, but the Aurors said he had an alibi. They’re trying to verify, but the magical traces left at the scene don’t match his. It was probably someone on Polyjuice.”
Draco thought about Astoria, pregnant, having Aurors in her house accusing Nott, how she couldn’t believe him and left. He also didn't want to believe it was Nott's doing, but he couldn't discard the possibility.
“And who’s the other suspect? They don’t have any?”
“You.”
Draco froze. “What?”
Blaise sighed. “Yeah. I told them it was bullshit, but—”
“Harry thinks it was me?”
The words came out quieter than Draco intended, but the rawness in them was unmistakable.
Blaise tilted his head slightly, studying him. Harry? Since when was Potter just Harry? And why did Draco look so… broken? Potter had always assumed the worst of him. That wasn’t news.
“Probably,” Blaise admitted.
Not that Harry had said it outright… but he hadn’t denied it either. He had muttered things like, “It’s my fault. I should’ve come earlier, given him an alibi,” but he hadn’t. And if it was his fault, maybe he deserved Draco’s rage.
Draco let out a dry laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Of course. Should’ve fucking known.”
Blaise frowned, his expression darkening with something sharper than concern. “You know I don’t believe it. But that doesn’t mean you can go off and do something reckless to prove a point.” His voice was firm, but there was an edge of frustration now.
Draco exhaled sharply. “I don’t even fucking know what I want, Blaise.” He ran a hand through his hair, fingers clenching at the strands for a brief moment. “I thought—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “Never mind.”
Blaise didn’t look away, watching him carefully before shaking his head. “You should go.”
Draco’s eyes snapped up. “Excuse me?”
“Not forever,” Blaise said, voice level. “But you need to clear your head. And you shouldn’t be here. What if the Aurors caught you?”
“Fuck them.”
“Don’t be stupid.” Blaise’s voice was sharper now, a rare glimpse of frustration slipping through. “Go. We can talk more when you’re not standing there like you’re about to hex someone.”
Draco hesitated, searching Blaise’s face for something he couldn’t quite name. Finally, he gave a stiff nod. “Fine.”
He turned toward the door, but Blaise’s voice stopped him one last time.
“Draco.”
He turned his head slightly.
“Just don’t forget who he is,” Blaise said quietly. “You could hand him your heart on a silver platter, and he’d still choose his side in the end. You think he sees you differently, but you’re fooling yourself. He’s still Harry Potter. You still Draco Malfoy.”
Draco didn’t answer. He wanted to say that Blaise didn’t know Harry, but apparently, Draco also didn’t. So what could he say?
He just left.
…
Things were strange between Harry and Draco—not because they were fighting. In fact, that was the problem. They weren’t fighting at all. That would have been easier. At least a fight would have given Harry something to hold onto, a reason for the growing distance between them. But Draco wasn’t angry—at least, not in a way that showed. He was distant, almost too polite and that was worse.
For two people accustomed to dissecting even the slightest remark in a conversation, spending an entire week without a single acid comment or even the tiniest bit of bickering was unusual.
Their conversations had been filled with witty jabs and lingering tension, every interaction balancing on a knife’s edge of familiarity and rivalry. But now? Now, their interactions had been reduced to surface-level politeness, and it was driving Harry insane.
Part of it, Harry supposed, was that they were barely seeing each other. Draco was always working at night shift, spending weekends with his mother. He was home when Harry was gone, gone when Harry was home.
When they did cross paths, their conversations were brief. He was still taking care of Teddy, still holding up his responsibilities, doing his house chores, but something was off.
The first time Harry truly noticed was during lunch, one of the rare moments their schedules aligned.
Draco had set the table. The food smelled incredible, the presentation was immaculate—because of course it was—but something felt off. The room was too quiet, the usual undercurrent of tension missing. For a brief moment, Harry almost let himself believe this was paranoia. Almost.
He picked up his fork, prodding at the plate with exaggerated suspicion. Might as well test the waters. “All right, what’s the catch?”
“It’s just a meal.”
Harry put his fork down, staring at him. “And you’ll be making that perfect meal any day now?”
Draco barely reacted, just giving the smallest of nods. “Perhaps.”
Harry clenched his jaw.
A few days ago, Draco would’ve smirked. Would’ve thrown back a challenge, sharp and smug.
"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."
And Harry had laughed—actually laughed. The sound had echoed through the house, lingering even after Draco had left, like warmth that refused to fade.
But now? Now there was nothing but silence.
Teddy, oblivious to the tension, swung his little legs under the table, poking at his food with a spoon. "Dwaco cooks good," he declared proudly.
Harry seized the opportunity. "Yeah? Better than me?"
"Uh-huh! You make yucky." Teddy said that’s what he called the vegetables or things he didn’t like in general.
Draco let out a quiet snort, but it lacked his usual smugness, “I’ve been improving.”
No teasing. No obviously, I’m good at everything remark. No insult to Harry, incentivizing Teddy against him as he would always do.
Harry pushed forward, leaning back with a smirk. “Who knew Malfoys could be domestic? What’s next? Knitting?”
Draco simply cut into his food with a quiet clink of silverware. “I suppose I could learn. Teddy would like that.”
Harry blinked. Seriously?
Teddy, missing the tension, gasped. “Knit Spider-Man!”
Harry shook his head. "Not everything has to be Spider-Man, Ted."
Teddy pouted. “But Aunt 'Mione says knitting makes socks!" He looked at Draco, hopeful. "Can you make Spider-Man socks?”
Draco barely looked up. "I'll see what I can do."
Harry exhaled slowly. This was getting ridiculous.
“So, what, you’ve finally decided to be civil? Am I supposed to be honored?” He waved his fork in Draco’s direction, waiting for the usual eye roll, the usual Potter, you’re insufferable.
But Draco just looked at him, impassive. “Would you rather I waste energy arguing? There is no point.”
Harry set his fork down. “Merlin, you really have lost it.”
Draco took a slow sip of his drink. “If you say so.”
Teddy looked between them, clearly sensing something was wrong, but not quite understanding it. He reached for his juice, brows furrowed. "You two are being weird."
Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, kid. I know."
The usual sarcastic remarks? Gone.
The playful bickering? Absent.
Draco smiled, but it wasn’t real.
They didn’t talk about the kiss.
And suddenly, a week had passed.
Harry wasn’t sure what was worse—the fact that Draco was avoiding him or the fact that he wasn’t technically doing anything wrong. He wasn’t slamming doors or refusing to speak to Harry. He wasn’t openly hostile.
He wasn’t shutting Harry out.
He wasn’t ignoring him outright.
But he was slipping away.
And Harry didn’t know how to pull him back.
…
The tension in the Auror Department was already high that morning—files stacked in precarious towers, memos zooming overhead like restless birds, the low murmur of voices debating the latest surge in post-war criminal activity. The air carried the faint scent of ink and burnt coffee, a sign that people had been working for too many hours with too little rest.
Harry had barely settled at his desk when a thick folder landed in front of him with a dull thud.
“About the Zabini case,” Robards said, standing over him with his usual clipped tone. “Since Nott’s alibi checks out, we’re moving to our next suspect.”
Harry barely glanced at it before his eyes caught the name printed across the top in bold lettering.
Draco Malfoy.
His stomach twisted. His jaw clenched.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and firm. “I won’t do it.”
The room fell silent. Every Auror in the department knew that tone—unyielding, heavy with something that dared defiance.
Robards looked up slowly, his sharp eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”
Harry didn’t flinch. “I said it before, Draco Malfoy shouldn't even be a suspect.”
Robards exhaled sharply. “That’s not your decision.”
Harry opened his mouth to argue, but then something clicked.
Why now?
They had been dragging their feet with Blaise’s case for weeks. It had barely been on the department’s radar. No press coverage. No Ministry-wide briefings. They’d been deliberately keeping it quiet—not to protect Blaise, but to keep the public from panicking. If people knew that a well-connected, wealthy Slytherin had been attacked under suspicious circumstances, rumors of Death Eater retaliation would spread like Fiendfyre. The last thing the Ministry wanted was paranoia about old threats resurfacing.
So why was Robards suddenly eager to play detective?
And then Harry spotted him.
A man Harry didn’t recognize stood just beyond the glass window of Robards’ office, deep in conversation with another official. Expensive robes. Carefully groomed. The sharp, calculating air of someone who didn’t waste time with people he considered beneath him.
Harry’s stomach sank. Right. So that was it.
He didn’t know the man’s name, but he knew the type. Another high-ranking Ministry official, most likely with connections.
“Who’s him?” The other man didn’t need to look aside to know who Harry was talking about.
“Viviana Zabini’s latest lover,” Robard said mockingly, almost disgusted.
It was all so predictable. Blaise’s case hadn’t been important until it was. Until this man had stepped in, probably demanding to know why the investigation was going nowhere. And now Robards needed to put on a show of efficiency.
And, of course, Malfoy was the perfect suspect.
Harry’s hands curled into fists.
“You’re going after Malfoy because it’s easy,” he said, his voice low, controlled. “Because people still want a scapegoat. But you don’t know a damn thing about him. And now you want to throw him to the wolves?”
Robards exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly losing patience. “We’re investigating all possibilities. And let’s not pretend your personal life isn’t clouding your judgment. You live with him. You—” His lip curled slightly. “—share responsibilities with him. I asked you before if you were friends. You said you weren’t.”
Harry’s fists tightened.
"We still aren’t." He inhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to keep his voice level. “If I were biased, Draco would already know about Blaise’s case. And trust me, he’d be in this very office, tearing you apart for not having someone locked up yet.” His voice hardened. “Blaise Zabini is his best friend.”
What Harry didn’t add—what he wouldn’t add—was how he’d seen Draco writing letter after letter to Blaise, even knowing there wouldn’t be a reply. How he’d watched him wait, hope, and pretend he wasn’t hurting. He wouldn’t give Robards that. Draco’s weakness wasn’t for the Ministry to pick apart.
“What, just because you two are playing house, you think you know him? Wake up, Potter. He’s an ex-criminal living under your roof. And frankly, I don’t know why you let him near a kid.”
Something inside Harry was boiling.
“I am not going to be the Ministry’s attack dog in this investigation,” he bit out, voice dangerously low. He pushed the file across the desk, his knuckles white. “In fact, the investigation won’t happen at all.”
Robards’ tone turned cold. “You don’t get to make that call.” He leaned forward, voice tight with authority. “I don’t care if you’re Harry Potter or—”
"I am Harry Potter."
The name hung heavy in the air between them, weighted with everything it meant. And for the first time in a long time, Harry let himself be arrogant about it.
“That means something, whether you like it or not.”
Robards’ nostrils flared. “You’re still under my orders.”
“Then find someone else.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
What was Robards going to do? Fire him? Yeah, right. He’d like to see him try.
“I promise you, this investigation will not happen if I’m alive.”
Without waiting for permission, Harry turned on his heel and walked out, his pulse hammering, his emotions coiling tight in his chest—rage and something else, something raw and aching.
Draco was already slipping away from him.
And Harry refused to be the one to push him over the edge.
He hadn’t wanted Draco to know about Blaise—not yet. Maybe not ever. A part of him was almost relieved that the case was classified, another secret he had no choice but to keep. Because he knew exactly how it would hit Draco, and that was a blow he couldn’t afford right now.
Draco was barely holding himself together as it was.
And then to find out—while being accused of trying to murder his best friend?
No. Harry wouldn’t let that happen. Not if he could help it.
…
Harry wasn’t mad. At least, he shouldn’t be mad.
It was only logical. He and Draco weren’t anything, so why should it bother him that Draco had spent the last two weeks treating him like a polite acquaintance rather than—well, whatever they were before?
Unfortunately, Harry was never good at being logical.
He was, in fact, mad.
The thing was, not having Draco made him realize how much he had gotten used to him. The real him. Not this polite, censored version, not the distant civility. But Draco Malfoy, the bastard, the annoying git who would pick a fight just for the sake of it, who would argue over the proper way to brew tea and how to pronounce ‘croissant’. The person who made life feel less like an endless responsibility and more like something real.
It was driving him insane. He told himself it was for Teddy.
That was the excuse, wasn’t it? It had always been for Teddy.
He and Draco had to get along because they were raising Teddy together. That was why Harry had tried so hard to make things easy between them. That was why he had worried when Draco was upset. That was why he noticed every little shift in his mood, every small sign of distress, every moment Draco pulled away. Because a tense household wasn’t good for Teddy.
It had always been about Teddy.
Hadn’t it?
But as he sat at the breakfast table the next morning, watching Draco and Teddy interact, the truth finally hit him—hard, like a Bludger straight to the chest.
Draco was fine with Teddy.
Whatever had shifted between them, whatever was wrong, it had never been about Teddy.
Draco still smiled when Teddy asked him a question. He still charmed tiny dragons toys and made the little boy giggle uncontrollably. He still tucked Teddy’s hair behind his ear when it flopped into his cereal and hummed absentmindedly as he prepared his tea.
Draco was distant, but only with him .
And that was the real problem, wasn’t it?
Harry had been so worried about their relationship for the sake of Teddy. Because of Teddy. That was what he had told himself. Over and over again. But if Teddy was fine, if Teddy was still getting that version of Draco—the one who teased and played and cared—then the only person suffering from Draco’s coldness was Harry himself.
Which meant it was never about Teddy at all.
And when it hits him, it really hits him.
Attraction was easy to explain away, Draco was objectively good-looking, and Harry could admit that. But this? The ache in his chest when Draco was distant, the frustration when he smiled but didn’t mean it, the way Harry wanted to fix things even if he didn’t know how—that wasn’t just a crush. That was something deeper.
But Draco wasn’t exactly receptive right now. So what was Harry supposed to do?
He’d never been good at relationships. Hell, he’d barely been good at friendships before Ron and Hermione forced their way into his life. He didn’t know how to date someone. How to be someone’s… whatever Draco could be.
But he knew how to be stubborn.
And if Draco wanted to be nice, then Harry would be nicer. If Draco was going to keep his distance, Harry would close the gap. If Draco wanted to act like Harry was nothing more than a polite acquaintance, then Harry would remind him exactly who he was. Harry would be thoughtful. Too thoughtful.
So, fine. If Draco wanted to build walls, Harry would climb them—brick by brick. And he’d do it with kindness.
And if that kindness happened to come with a side of flirting? Well, that was just Harry being… friendly. Right?
At first, it was subtle, bringing Draco tea before he even had to ask. Ensuring his favorite biscuits were stocked in the cupboard, as if that wasn’t completely deranged behavior. Harry didn’t know what he was doing. But if Draco thought he could just quietly pull away and pretend like nothing was wrong—he had another thing coming .
Harry came home with a bag from Flourish and Blotts, feeling particularly pleased with himself.
Draco was in the sitting room, stretched out on the couch with a book, while Teddy played on the rug, zooming his toy broom through imaginary Quidditch hoops.
Without a word, Harry dropped the bag on the table in front of Draco with an exaggerated flourish.
Draco barely looked up. “What now?”
Harry smirked. “Open it and find out.”
With an air of long-suffering patience, Draco set his book down and pulled the package toward him. He lifted the book from the bag—Explaining Muggle Medicine: Mental Diseases.
Draco froze.
His fingers hovered over the embossed title, his expression carefully blank. “Where did you find this?”
Harry shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Little shop in Knockturn Alley.”
That was a lie. He had sent a letter to Bill, who sent a letter to Charles, and went on through another, until they got the book. But Malfoy didn’t need to know that.
Draco’s head snapped up. “You went to Knockturn Alley?”
Harry grinned. “Thought you might like it.”
Draco’s gaze flickered between the book and Harry, something uncertain beneath his usual cool exterior. He didn’t say anything right away, and for a moment, Harry thought maybe he’d pushed too far.
Draco ran his thumb over the engraving, eyes flickering with something unreadable before his mask was back in place. He shut the lid with a decisive snap. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Potter.”
Harry grinned. “Who said I’m flattering you? Maybe I’m just the best housemate ever.”
Draco hummed, unimpressed. “Or you’re being insufferable.”
Harry grinned, triumphant. “You’re welcome.”
Teddy, who had been mostly ignoring them, suddenly perked up. “Dwaco, are you gonna say thank you?”
Draco stared at the small boy, clearly betrayed. “Excuse me?”
Teddy nodded solemnly. “You always tell me to say thank you.”
Draco turned to him, scowling. “Did you bribe the child?”
Harry shrugged innocently. “I would never.”
Draco let out a long-suffering sigh and turned back to Teddy. “Fine. Thank you, Potter .” Then, under his breath, he added, “Brat.”
Teddy giggled.
Harry leaned back against the couch, grinning. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
Draco scowled but said nothing, turning back to the book with an air of forced indifference.
But Harry noticed the way Draco’s fingers lingered on the spine, the way he traced the embossed title absentmindedly.
It wasn’t much, but it was something.
And Harry was nothing if not persistent.
…
Harry didn’t give up. If Draco insisted on keeping his distance, Harry would close the gap in ways too small to refuse.
He sent him absurd owl deliveries, over-the-top stationery sets labeled For Your Very Important Letters , and once, an entire case of rare ink “just in case you run out.” Draco returned it with a note that simply said die . Harry kept the note.
At home, he made sure there was left-out food when Draco worked late because the blond would never admit he was hungry. When he noticed Draco’s favorite blend of tea running low, he replaced it before he could complain—adding an extra tin of a ridiculously expensive imported one, just to see if Draco would pretend not to like it.
Helping without asking became second nature. Sometimes, when Draco fell asleep on the sofa, Harry would quietly drape a blanket over him. When Draco was reading, Harry left a cup of tea by his side, just warm enough to drink.
The thing was, Harry thought it would be a challenge, that keeping up this level of effort would be exhausting. But it wasn’t.
Always trying to stay one step ahead could be a little tiring, sure—but it was also rewarding. It felt good, knowing he was making Draco’s life a little easier, even in ways Draco would never acknowledge out loud. It was the same feeling he got when making breakfast for Teddy or baking with Molly, the quiet satisfaction of taking care of someone without needing anything in return.
Harry had never put much thought into it before, but maybe this was just how he showed love—through actions, through doing. And the best part? It was working.
So he kept going.
He started playing Glenda Chittock’s Wizarding Wireless show in the background while cooking, acting as if it was a random choice, feigning surprise when Draco hummed along. Draco never commented on it—but Harry noticed how he lingered in the kitchen a little longer each morning.
And then there were the subtle touches. The ones Harry barely thought about. Fixing Draco’s collar absentmindedly, brushing snow from his hair as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The blond never reacted but never said no. Although Harry’d take care to not force himself.
But sometimes, he made sure Draco had no choice but to acknowledge him. Just to see how far he could push, he sat ridiculously close on the couch, invaded Draco’s space at the breakfast table and leaned over him while he was reading. All with an infuriating grin that made Draco glare but never quite push him away.
Nothing made Harry’s heart do ridiculous things like catching Draco trying not to smile at something he said. So, he made it his mission.
Every act was small, insignificant. But together, they wove into something undeniable: I see you. I care, even if you won’t let me say it out loud.
With that, Christmas was just around the corner. Tomorrow. And Harry still wasn’t sure if Draco would go. They had agreed weeks ago. But things had been strange for some time now, better than before, but still awkward.
Harry was just planning his next move when, as soon as he stepped into the manor, he heard it.
"That useless idiot! If he shows up in front of me, he’s getting a Stupefy at the very least!"
Draco’s sharp voice rang out, filled with frustration, echoing through the high ceilings of the house.
Harry froze in the hallway, the door still half open behind him.
For weeks, Draco had been distant—calculated, careful, polite to the point of being unbearable. But here, now, when he thought Harry wasn’t listening, his words were sharp-edged and unfiltered, full of irritation and impatience.
Full of familiarity.
Harry had almost forgotten what it was like to have Draco care enough to be annoyed at him.
He should be focused on Teddy’s disappointment, on the fact that he was late. He was supposed to be here for lunch, but now it was already dinner. He had promised Teddy they’d eat together.
Instead, all he could think about was this —Draco pacing the kitchen, grumbling under his breath, cursing Harry’s very existence while waiting for him to walk through the door.
Something in Harry’s chest twisted in a way that had nothing to do with guilt.
It was stupid, really. But after two weeks of that fake, too-polite version of Draco, this—this petty, dramatic, very annoyed Draco—felt like a relief.
He had half a mind to walk in right now and say something obnoxious just to see if Draco would roll his eyes and sneer at him properly. Snowflakes clung to his hair and shoulders, melting in the warmth of the house.
"Harry Potter, the useless savior."
Harry clenched his jaw.
Brilliant. He’s in a mood.
Teddy hummed thoughtfully. "Hawwy is like Spider-Man?"
There was a pause, as if Draco was deciding whether or not to dignify that with a response. Harry could practically see the confusion on his face.
"Sure. Something like that," Draco said even if he had no idea what that meant.
"Spider-Man fights bad guys and saves people," Teddy continued enthusiastically.
"Oh, so they’re pretty similar," Draco said distractedly. His gaze flicked toward the kitchen, clearly more interested in his current nemesis—dinner. “Why doesn’t that idiot get here already and do this himself?"
Yeah, he clearly didn’t pretend to be ok when Harry wasn’t around.
"Hawwy idiot!" Teddy chirped happily, latching onto the new phrase with delight.
Harry nearly choked on air.
Draco did not correct him. Instead, he just smiled—smug, sharp, and entirely unapologetic. He had been blaming the television for Teddy’s language, but clearly, it was him all along. So what?
And Harry should be annoyed—should march in there and tell Draco to stop corrupting his godson.
But instead, he lingered just a moment longer in the hall, letting himself enjoy this. The proof that Draco was still there, beneath all the walls and distance.
Waiting for him.
Potter made sure the door creaked loudly as he opened it, letting his footsteps echo deliberately. Halfway up, though, he froze at a sudden shout. Draco’s voice yelling a spell.
The words sent a bolt of panic through Harry’s spine, and before he could think, he ran. His coat dropped to the floor as he bolted toward the kitchen, wand in hand, instincts screaming at him. He burst into the room, heart hammering, mind racing through every possible scenario—an intruder, an attack—something.
Instead, he found Draco and Teddy huddled in the corner.
Teddy was clinging to Draco’s robes, startled but oddly amused. His little face was scrunched up in what looked suspiciously like a grin. Draco, on the other hand, looked pale, his wand still raised—pointed at nothing.
Harry’s breath came hard and fast. His brain struggled to keep up. "What the fuck is going on?"
Draco, still tense, slowly turned his head toward him. "...The pot."
Harry followed his gaze. The pressure cooker hissed loudly, steam releasing in sharp bursts.
His hands dropped to his sides. "You hexed the pot?"
Draco didn’t so much as blink. "It was threatening me."
"It was—” Harry cut himself off, exhaling sharply through his nose. "What’s in it?"
Draco narrowed his eyes. "I hope nothing alive."
"You—” Harry pressed his fingers to his temple, fighting the migraine forming. "I heard you yell a spell."
"Yes. At the pot."
"You panicked and tried to disarm a kitchen appliance?"
Draco scowled. "It sounded angry! It was going to explode, I felt it!"
Harry stepped closer, reaching out to check Draco over, but Draco batted his hands away with a glare.
"Merlin, I’m fine. Worry about the cursed object on the stove, Potter."
Harry shook his head, walking over to the pressure cooker. He casually flipped the release valve, The pressure cooker let out a long, angry hiss of steam.
Draco jumped.
Teddy giggled. "Scary!"
Harry turned, arms crossed, unimpressed. "It’s a pressure cooker, Malfoy. It makes that noise when it builds up steam. It’s normal."
Draco, still looking at the pot as if it had personally offended him, sneered. "That noise was not normal. That was aggressive."
Harry let out a long-suffering sigh, lifting Teddy into his arms. He checked him over, smoothing his hair down. "You scared the hell out of me. I thought someone was dying!"
Teddy, still in Harry’s arms, gasped dramatically. "Bad Dwaco!" he scolded, wagging his little finger at Draco.
Draco stared at him. "Excuse me?"
Teddy pouted. "No bad spells ‘ pot!"
Harry grinned. "See? Even Teddy knows."
Draco crossed his arms, sulking. "Damn. Is the Ministry going to confiscate my wand for attempted kitchen murder?"
"Honestly? They should," Harry deadpanned. "You’re going to blow up the bloody house one of these days."
Draco sniffed. "Well, if you were home on time, we wouldn’t be having this problem, now would we?"
“So now is it my fault?” Harry groaned, pressing a hand over his face. "Unbelievable."
Draco smirked, regaining some of his usual bravado. "Welcome home, Spider-Man."
Harry felt something at ease in his chest. It was the first time in weeks that Draco had felt close again. Maybe things were getting better. Maybe whatever this distance was, it was starting to fade.
…
Harry took his time in the shower, letting the heat work away the tension in his shoulders. He was still mildly irritated at Draco for nearly cursing the kitchen, but he allowed himself to entertain the thought—just for a moment—of peace. Maybe they’d have dinner, maybe Draco would smile more, maybe when Teddy went to sleep, they’d finally talk.
Maybe about the kiss.
Maybe they wouldn’t talk at all.
Maybe they’d just kiss again.
Then he remembered—dinner wouldn’t be just them.
They had invited Morgana in—a significant gesture. It wasn’t just about hospitality; it was trust. The house was still under Fidelius, though now it served more as a safeguard for privacy from media than protection from some guy trying to murder them.
For Harry, it was a long-overdue meeting. Draco had spoken about her often, but now, seeing her step inside, the reality of it settled. Draco, who rarely vouched for anyone, had vouched for her. That alone was enough to make Harry pay attention.
Still, before Morgana arrived, there was another conversation that needed to be had.
“Did you see the newspaper?” Harry’s tone was casual, but his expression betrayed his apprehension.
Draco didn’t bother looking up, too focused on drying Teddy’s damp hair with a yellow towel.
The Prophet had splashed an all-too-familiar image across its front page that morning—Harry, smiling at Ginny, their hands brushing as they spoke. The kind of picture that told a story even when there wasn’t one. Of course, Draco had seen it—him and the rest of the wizarding world—but he merely waved it off in disdain, his pride still lodged too deep in his chest to let him show he cared.
“The Prophet is always exaggerating and full of nonsense. Ginny is like a sister to me.”
“Didn’t know you were into incest, Potter,” Draco drawled over his shoulder, voice smooth, indifferent.
"Draco!" Harry snapped, exasperated.
Before he could continue, a small voice cut in.
"What’s incest?"
Harry and Draco both turned to Teddy, who was frowning in concentration, having clearly picked up a new and exciting word he didn’t understand.
Harry groaned. “See what you did? As if teaching him to say ‘shut up’ wasn’t enough.”
“I didn’t teach him that! Must be that stupid television you bought,” Draco huffed, tossing the towel aside.
Harry scoffed. “Oh, really? Because I’m pretty sure you’re the one always telling me to shut up—right in front of him. But Merlin forbids I even say ‘damn’ around him.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “Ugh, you sound like a broken record—you said the same thing earlier. Just shut the—” He stopped himself just in time, catching Harry’s triumphant expression. He scowled. “I only say it for your own good. Every time you talk too much, I have the urge to bash your head against a wall.”
“Well, just looking at you makes me want to do the same.”
“I’m calling Auntie.”
Both men turned to Teddy, who stood on Draco’s bed, arms crossed, exuding the unimpressed authority of a child who had just discovered he had leverage.
“Hmm?” Draco frowned.
“She said that if you two start fighting, I can call her.”
Harry blinked. “She who?”
Draco sighed. “Mrs. Morgana.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “And she said that?”
Draco shifted, suddenly looking guilty. “Well, I might have… mentioned that we argued in front of Teddy. She was probably concerned.”
Harry turned back to Teddy, who was still standing tall, chin lifted, an expression so serious it was almost comical.
“You think that’s fear?” Harry muttered, nudging Draco. “He doesn’t look scared. He just wishes he were big enough to hit us both.”
Draco took one look at Teddy’s determined scowl—and then, to Harry’s surprise, burst into laughter.
It was rare. Not the smirks or the sarcastic little huffs, but real, unguarded laughter.
And maybe it was some Veela thing—though Harry would never admit it—but Draco’s laugh was contagious. Within seconds, Teddy was giggling, Harry was grinning, and the tension that had hung in the room just moments ago dissolved like it had never existed.
Then the doorbell rang.
It was an unusual sound in the manor. Their few visitors usually arrived through the Floo without much ceremony.
The adults exchanged glances in a silent battle to determine who would answer it. Harry lost.
With a sigh, he made his way through the house, quickening his pace until he reached the grand double doors. He pulled them open, expecting anything but what he saw.
“Hello, I have pumpkin tarts.”
Harry blinked. “Oh, Mrs. Bones?”
Morgana Bones. She ran a small restaurant nearby, one that Draco frequented. She took care of Teddy whenever Draco needed and, from what Harry had heard, had never treated Draco with anything less than kindness. Despite living in the manor for months now, Harry had never met her. He hadn’t exactly made an effort to explore the area.
Before Morgana could respond, a familiar voice interrupted them.
“Oh, Merlin help us.”
Draco appeared, a dramatic smile on his face, his voice laced with exaggerated dread.
Harry had never seen him greet anyone like that. The casual familiarity, the ease of it—it made something twist in his chest.
Morgana smirked. “Merlin trembles in my presence.”
They both laughed, and Draco pulled her into a quick but firm hug.
Harry watched, curious. Up close, Morgana wasn’t as old as he had imagined when Draco first referred to her as a Mrs. There were a few silver strands in her dark blond hair, faint lines around her eyes, but she didn’t look old.
Harry cleared his throat, a pointed reminder that he was still standing there.
Draco finally acknowledged him. “Ah. This is Harry Potter—who needs no introduction.” Then, with a smirk, he turned to Morgana. “And Harry, this is the all-powerful Morgana.”
Morgana huffed, shaking her head as she lightly smacked Draco’s arm where it rested comfortably on her shoulder. “I already said I’m not powerful.”
Harry raised a brow. “Why powerful ?”
Draco scoffed, looking at Harry as if he had just declared something absurd. “Are you joking? You’ve never heard of Morgana?”
Harry frowned. “Uh… I guess so.”
Draco sighed, exasperated. “Of course. You probably took years just to remember the four Hogwarts founders.”
Morgana adjusted her glasses with a knowing smile before explaining, “Morgana— the Morgana—was one of the most powerful witches to ever exist. She mastered Dark Magic, was an Animagus who could transform into a bird, and was known as Merlin’s greatest rival.” She tilted her chin slightly, her finger tapping the edge of her glasses, an unconscious gesture of confidence. “Naturally, she’s been dead for centuries. My parents named me after her, but Draco here found it fascinating and decided I must be her reincarnation.”
Draco grinned. “One can never be too sure.”
Harry’s brow furrowed.
Draco smiled a lot. Smirked a lot. But this —this was something different. Something lighter.
Harry tried to recall the last time he had seen Draco smile this easily, this freely.
He couldn’t.
Harry had always liked people. Even if he wasn’t the most extroverted, he had a way of getting along with most. But if this woman had somehow managed to convince Draco Malfoy to be her friend? Well, Harry figured he might just love her.
Except—he didn’t.
Not that there was anything wrong with Morgana. She was smart, quick-witted, and effortlessly charming. But something about her made him feel… awkward.
It wasn’t jealousy, not really. But Draco and Morgana had an ease between them that left Harry feeling like an outsider. They talked like people who had already learned each other’s rhythms, who didn’t need to fight for space in a conversation. And for the first time in weeks, Draco wasn’t distant—he was engaged, present, even comfortable.
Harry wasn’t used to seeing Draco like this. And he definitely wasn’t used to being the one left on the outside.
Teddy, of course, adored Morgana. The moment she sat down, he climbed into her lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Morgana, can you tell the dragon story again?” Teddy asked, resting his chin on her shoulder.
“You’ve heard that one a hundred times,” she teased, smoothing down his wild blue curls.
“But you tell it best,” he said matter-of-factly, as if that settled it.
Draco smirked. “The kid has taste.”
Morgana sighed dramatically, though a fond smile tugged at her lips. “Fine, but only because I can’t say no to this face.” She tapped Teddy’s nose, making him giggle.
Harry watched as she launched into an animated retelling, Teddy hanging onto every word. Draco, too, seemed entirely at ease, interrupting every now and then to add a sarcastic remark that only made Teddy more invested.
It was… nice.
Too nice.
Harry shifted in his chair, clearing his throat. “So, Morgana, you own a restaurant?”
She nodded, still half-focused on Teddy. “Small place, nothing fancy.”
“Draco talks about it a lot.”
“Oh?” She arched an eyebrow at Draco, amused. “Didn’t realize I was such a hot topic.”
Draco scoffed. “Potter’s exaggerating.”
“So, you live alone?” Harry asked, more bluntly than he intended.
Draco shot him a glare.
Morgana, however, only gave a small smile. “Yes, but I like it. It’s quiet. Though I always imagined having children.”
Harry hesitated. “Why didn’t you?”
“Harry, that’s—” Draco started, but Morgana waved him off.
“My husband died early in the war,” she said simply. “I never remarried. Having a child without him felt… wrong.”
“Oh.” Harry swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
And then, suddenly, the name clicked. Bones.
One of the families Voldemort had wiped out. Edgar Bones had been in the Order of the Phoenix—that alone had signed his family’s death sentence. It was a familiar kind of pain, one Harry knew all too well.
The problem was, Morgana had too many layers, too much hidden beneath the surface. There was something about her that made Harry wary.
Morgana watched him carefully, something sharp in her gaze.
“So,” she said lightly, “why don’t you like me?”
Harry blinked. “What? That’s not—” He faltered. “I don’t even know you.”
She tilted her head, considering him. “No, but you’ve already decided how you feel about me.”
Harry opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, Teddy tugged at Morgana’s sleeve, drawing her attention back. She turned to him with an easy smile, continuing the story as if nothing had happened.
But Harry could still feel Draco watching him.
And when he met his gaze, Draco wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t even annoyed.
He just looked like he understood exactly what was going on in Harry’s head.
And Harry had no idea what to do with that.
…
Dinner stretched on, slower than usual. Harry did his best to endure it.
"What are you doing tomorrow on Christmas Eve?" Draco asked Morgana, his curiosity evident.
"Oh, the restaurant is always packed this time of year," she said lightly. "A lot of people who don’t have family to go to—or just don’t want to cook." She took a sip of her wine, then added with amusement, "It’s always interesting, seeing people who fought on different sides of the war sitting at the same table, completely unaware."
Harry blinked. "You let them in ? "
She arched an eyebrow. "Who?"
He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. Earlier, she had mentioned her husband had died in the war, and Harry knew the Bones family had been wiped out by Voldemort. How could she knowingly serve former Death Eaters? How could she spend Christmas with them?
Something inside him twisted. " How could she?"
He would never forgive them. He couldn’t imagine choosing to break bread with the kind of people who had destroyed her life.
Then, a more unsettling thought crept in— I live with one.
It hit him like a slap to the face. Somewhere along the way, the weight of that truth had dulled, softened into something normal.
Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater.
Except—that wasn’t how Harry thought of him anymore.
When had that stopped being a fact that defined him?
Draco was just Draco. And had somehow become… his person.
The man who argued with him over breakfast, who stole his tea, who nagged him about his paperwork, who read Teddy bedtime stories with a perfectly curated air of disinterest that fooled no one.
He wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t like the others.
Harry opened his mouth, about to say something—maybe to challenge Morgana, maybe to defend Draco, maybe to demand an explanation for how she could be so indifferent—when she spoke first.
"Draco isn’t the only one who changed," she said, watching him.
Something in her gaze told him she understood exactly what had just happened inside his head.
Harry didn’t like that.
Before he could respond, she smiled and continued, as if the moment hadn’t happened. "I’d invite you both, but Draco mentioned you’re going to the Burrow."
Harry hesitated.
Draco didn’t correct her.
That threw him more than anything else. He had expected some noncommittal response, an easy excuse to back out. He wasn’t even sure Draco was still planning to go, not after weeks of stiff politeness, not after everything that had shifted between them. But Draco let it stand, like it was already decided.
Harry wasn’t sure if that made him relieved or uneasy.
"You know the Weasleys?" he asked, forcing himself to focus.
Morgana nodded. "The wizarding world is small. I was in Hogwarts with Molly, went to her wedding and all. But we were never that close."
Draco smirked. "You’re not missing much. It’s chaos."
Morgana chuckled. "Sounds exactly like what I am missing."
Harry watched as they exchanged a look of easy familiarity as if they were speaking in a language he didn’t understand.
And for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t sure how to feel about any of it.