Hope
When they finally went home, it was well past midnight. The scent of cinnamon from Molly’s baking clung to their scarves, a sweet, nostalgic trace of the evening. The low crackle of the dying fire filled the quiet. Teddy had been humming for the past ten minutes, twirling in the middle of the sitting room, his new skirt flaring around his knees with each spin.
“Look, Draco! It moves when I spin!” Teddy beamed, his hair flickering between electric blue and soft pink, mirroring his excitement.
Leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, Draco arched an eyebrow. “So it does. A most… dynamic garment.”
Harry shot him a look. “He means that you look brilliant, Teddy.”
Teddy grinned wider. “I know.” He spun once more, giggling at the way the fabric flared around him, before darting off, presumably to find a mirror and admire himself further.
Draco huffed but didn’t argue. His lips twitched, betraying the smirk he was fighting off. Instead, he pushed off the doorway and sank onto the couch beside Harry with a sigh, letting his head tip back against the cushions.
“Merlin, I’m exhausted. Who knew spending an evening with your family could be so draining?”
Harry just smiled. Because that was what Draco had called them. Your family. He said it so easily, so casually.
For a while, they sat in silence, the weight of the day settling between them, warm and heavy. The fire cast flickering shadows across the room, and Harry could feel the heat of Draco’s body beside him, the way their knees almost—almost—brushed.
It was maddening. The awareness. The way his mind kept circling back to that moment before Christmas—the kiss neither of them had spoken about since. The way George’s voice echoed in his head: It only works if both people like each other.
The mistletoe had worked. It had worked with Hermione and Ron. Hadn’t worked when George and Fleur stood beneath it. The spell wasn’t faulty. Draco liked him.
And, maybe more importantly, Harry liked Draco.
Harry knew, at this point, he felt something, and could say that it was a mix of attraction and friendship, in good days could admit that it was like. But that didn’t mean he fully believed. Sometimes, he wondered if he was just going crazy.
“You’re staring,” Draco said, cutting through his thoughts.
Harry startled. “I’m not staring.” He tore his gaze away, fixing it on the fire instead. “Just… thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.”
There was no real bite to it, though, and Harry exhaled a quiet laugh, dragging a hand over his face. “Mrs. Weasley liked you, you know.”
Draco glanced at him, brow arching in clear skepticism. “She was being polite.”
“Yes. She isn’t polite when she doesn’t like someone.”
Draco let out a low chuckle, the sound deep and warm, curling around Harry’s spine in a thoroughly irritating way. “Well, that’s something, I suppose. Though I’m fairly certain Mr. Weasley still wants to hex me.”
“Arthur is… coming around.” Harry hesitated. “Give him some time.”
Draco hummed again, unconvinced, but leaned back against the couch, stretching his legs out. His fingers drummed absently against his thigh—long, elegant fingers that had held a wand, a potion, and a child’s hand with equal care.
Harry found himself staring before he caught himself, forcing his gaze away.
Draco smirked, catching it anyway. “Potter, if you’re going to continue looking at me like that, at least pretend it’s my stunning wit that’s captivated you.”
Harry rolled his eyes, but his face felt warmer. “Trust me, it’s not that.”
Draco laughed, and Merlin help him, the sound did something strange to Harry’s chest.
They had to talk. Eventually. About it. About what happened before Christmas—the kiss neither of them had spoken about. The ones that happened before. But Harry knew Draco; if he pushed too hard, Draco would retreat, claws out. So, instead, he reached into the drawer on the coffee table and pulled out a neatly wrapped package.
“I got you something,” Harry said, turning to Draco with the package in his hands. “It’s not much,” he said casually. It was not the first present he gave Draco just out of impulse.
Draco, who had been in the process of removing his outer robes, froze. “You already gave me a Christmas present, Potter.”
Harry shrugged. “So? This isn’t for Christmas.” He extended the present towards the blond.
Draco’s fingers twitched, but he didn’t move to take it. “Then what’s it for?”
“Just because.” Harry smiled.
Damn, that smile would kill Draco, ‘cause without anything else, it convinced him to accept. Even though he should know better.
Draco slowly reached out, plucking the package from Harry’s hands. He turned it over once before carefully peeling back the wrapping, revealing an elegant box of Swiss chocolate—the kind that cost an absurd amount of Galleons. It was Draco’s favorite when he was at Hogwarts; his mother always sent him some. He wondered if Harry knew that or if it was just a coincidence.
For a moment, he just stared. Then, with a quiet scoff, he muttered, “You can stop trying to buy your way out of feeling guilty.”
“What?”
Draco tapped the box against his palm. “Being nice to make up for hiding Blaise.” His voice was light, almost amused. Almost.
Harry exhaled sharply. “It’s not about Zabini.”
Draco didn’t look convinced.
“Okay,” Harry admitted. “It might have started that way. But it’s not anymore.” He held Draco’s gaze, steady. “I’m doing this because I want to. That’s it.”
Draco hesitated, fingers resting on the lid of the chocolate box. Then, lips twitching, he scoffed. “Tragic,” he muttered. “Now you’re earnest.”
“Harry! Draco! Come see my dance!” Teddy’s voice echoed down the stairs, high-pitched and brimming with energy.
Draco let out an exaggerated sigh, tucking the box of chocolates under his arm as he rose. “Merlin, help us. I was hoping to sleep before sunrise.”
Harry rubbed his eyes, his hair even messier than usual. “Let’s try again. He has to be tired by now.”
Though Teddy’s earlier laughter and playful shrieks had subsided, his energy remained uncontainable. From the hallway, Harry called softly, “Teddy, it’s late. Time for bed.”
From behind his bedroom door, a small voice protested, “Okay, but I don’t wanna bathe!”
Harry shrugged. He didn’t mind if Teddy skipped a bath—one night without one wasn’t the end of the world. But Draco, ever the perfectionist, had other ideas.
“Why don’t you want to take a bath, you little imp?” Draco demanded, stooping to catch up with the darting boy. He rubbed his temple, already feeling the beginnings of a headache.
Teddy skidded to a stop just long enough to throw his hands up dramatically. “Because the water is wet! Ewwww!”
Draco blinked, his expression a blend of exasperation and amusement. “The water is wet?” he repeated slowly, as if pondering the revelation. “Oh, I never realized! Are we raising the next Merlin?”
Unbothered, Teddy took off running again, his giggles trailing behind him like tinkling bells.
From the doorway, Harry groaned, surveying the chaos with tired amusement. His patience was wearing thin, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Draco, please. It’s three in the morning,” he chided, glancing at his new pocket watch—a gift that had already proven its worth in these moments.
Draco didn’t even glance at him. “No, Harry. I’m taking a moment to admire his genius.”
Sensing another opportunity to display his wit, Teddy twisted in Draco’s grasp. “The water is soooo wet,” he insisted, his tone dripping with mock seriousness.
Draco nodded solemnly, his lips twitching as he fought back a laugh. “Incredible observation. Should we submit this to the Department of Mysteries?”
Harry sighed, unable to hide his smile. “Alright, that’s enough,” he said, stepping forward and scooping Teddy into his arms. The little rebel huffed in defeat but quickly snuggled into Harry’s chest as his energy finally began to wane.
“That reminds me… no chocolate cake for you, Ted,” Harry chided lightly.
Teddy’s eyes widened in mock betrayal. “What? Why?”
“We had a deal,” Harry replied, raising an eyebrow. “I promised you chocolate cake if you didn’t tell anyone what you saw. But you told everyone.”
At the mention of the promise, Draco stiffened. The memory of Teddy bursting into them, wide-eyed and shouting about what he’d seen, made his stomach twist. He forced a calm expression.
“I didn’t tell!” Teddy insisted, his face the very picture of innocence.
“You absolutely did.”
“No, I didn’t tell. I showed,” the boy countered, his voice brimming with earnest defiance.
A beat of silence passed before Draco groaned and dropped his head into his hands. Finally, he looked up at Harry with a slow, narrow-eyed smirk. “Touché. Perhaps I really am raising the next Merlin.”
Caught between exasperation and laughter, Harry chuckled as the frustration of the late hour melted away, replaced by a warmth that spread through his chest. In that small, chaotic family moment—despite the exhaustion, the disheveled hair, and the fact that it was nearly four in the morning—Harry realized something:
This was perfect.
He wished, more than anything, that moments like this could last forever.
….
Christmas morning should have been peaceful—warm, filled with quiet joy. The soft glow of the fireplace, Teddy snuggled close, and Draco’s steady, unreadable gaze should have been enough to quiet the world. Yet Harry’s chest felt weighted with a lingering grief he could neither fully acknowledge nor simply banish.
He had woken from a nightmare he couldn’t quite shake—a dream that wasn’t the worst, but one that set the day’s tone with its bitter residue. The war, with all its horror and loss, had no place on Christmas morning. Still, its echo gnawed at him relentlessly. He couldn’t be sad about it; that vulnerability was a luxury he felt he couldn’t afford. Instead, his sorrow turned inward, manifesting as hot, directionless anger—a simmering fury aimed squarely at himself. His body ached, his head pounded, and his mood was already ruined by the weight of memories he couldn’t escape.
Last night, everyone had ended up in the living room almost by accident. Draco had stretched out on the worn couch with Teddy casually sprawled over him, the little boy’s tiny hand tucked in Draco’s sweater. Harry, exhausted and detached, had collapsed onto the floor. He was always the first to wake, but today was an exception.
Draco was awake, though his eyes were fixed on Teddy—carefully combing through the boy’s sunny yellow curls with absent-minded fingers. In that moment, Harry couldn’t help but envy the innocence in Teddy’s sleep, a dream he suspected was sweet and undisturbed. At least one of them deserved a good dream.
Slowly, Harry sat up and ran a hand through his perpetually disheveled hair. Teddy still clutched his new toy—a stuffed ferret gifted by Ron—an item that, clearly had an intention to provoke Draco, had become the child’s favorite. Just the night before, Teddy had declared it “the bestest gift ever,” even as he eyed the mountain of presents waiting to be opened.
Harry remembered the faint smile that had tugged at his lips, a fleeting moment of happiness he now despised for its impermanence. He hated that he couldn’t simply be happy, that the war still haunted him like a persistent ghost. But, above all, he hated himself.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Draco murmured from somewhere nearby, careful not to disturb Teddy’s sleep.
Harry couldn’t bring himself to answer. Instead, he curled up on the rug, clutching a pillow as if it could absorb some of his inner turmoil. He resented how easily Draco seemed to read him now—how much he needed that understanding, even if it stung.
Harry couldn’t answer. Instead, he curled up on the rug, clutching a pillow as if it might absorb some of his inner turmoil. He hated how easily Draco seemed to read him now—how much he needed that unspoken understanding, even if it only deepened his self-loathing.
A memory surfaced in the quiet moments that followed—a conversation from the night before. Harry recalled how he and Draco had agreed, with Teddy, to visit Lily and James’s grave later that day and also to pay respects at Tonks and Remus’s resting places. The prospect of confronting these sacred sites, of facing the tangible remnants of their loss, only deepened Harry’s inner heaviness. It was a reminder that even amidst the fragile comfort of family and celebration, the pain was still very real.
Draco’s voice was soft, yet edged with concern. “Bad day?”
Harry offered a dismissive shrug, picking at a loose thread in the worn fabric beneath him. “I’m fine,” he lied.
“You’re not,” Draco replied simply, crossing the room in two strides. Before Harry could muster a retort, Draco pressed the back of his hand against Harry’s forehead—clinical, almost routine. The cool touch was both familiar and jarring.
“No fever. Just your usual martyr complex, I suppose,” the blond teased.
“Piss off,” Harry muttered, his voice hollow. There was no real venom there, just resignation.
Draco had lived with Harry long enough to realize that even the mighty Harry Potter wasn’t immune to bad days. He began to think that Potter, in particular, should be allowed to have bad days. If PTSD were a person, Draco mused bitterly, it would have green eyes and messy black hair. So he confronted Harry when it occurred, not with a rude attack, but by acknowledging it out loud, much more than Harry ever did; he usually just ignored it and pretended nothing was happening until it passed.
Harry finally gathered his forces to get up. “Should we wake Ted? It’s almost noon.”
“You know how he gets cranky if we disturb him,” Draco replied, his tone more matter-of-fact than mocking.
Draco rose with a measured effort, gently leaving Teddy asleep on the couch before heading upstairs to his morning rituals. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could come before a proper brush and a minty-fresh start. Meanwhile, Harry wandered to the kitchen, driven by an unrelenting hunger and a desperate need for normalcy.
The kitchen was a haven of rich, comforting aromas—golden toast piled haphazardly on a plate, scrambled eggs glistening from the pan, bacon curled at the edges, and plump sausages browned to perfection. A pot of tea steamed serenely in the center, and a towering stack of golden pancakes drizzled with syrup stood proudly among the clutter. It was the classic British breakfast, and though Harry knew it wouldn’t erase his demons, for a moment, it felt like a promise of peace.
Draco returned later than usual. When he reappeared, his damp hair framed a face that was both tired and unexpectedly elegant in fresh clothes—a simple sweatshirt and black trousers that spoke of effortless style. Harry couldn’t help but notice the contrast: Draco’s appearance was meticulously composed, even as Harry’s own was disheveled—a T-shirt with a hole near the hem and worn, baggy pants that once belonged to Ron.
Great, now Harry was starting to get self-aware of his appearance. As if his day couldn’t get worse. He had come to terms with his low self-esteem years ago, just ignored it like any other problem he had.
Draco settled a folded newspaper down beside Harry’s plate as he took his seat. He didn’t say anything; didn’t have to. A second later, Harry slid a mug of tea across the table toward him, just as wordlessly. Draco picked it up without looking, taking a slow sip while scanning the breakfast spread. A silent exchange they did every day.
“Daddy?” Teddy's soft, unexpected voice was heard.
The room fell silent. Draco froze, his teacup suspended halfway to his lips, his eyes widening in tender surprise. Harry’s breath caught as he watched Draco’s features soften with a mix of tenderness and astonishment. It had only been yesterday that Teddy had called Draco “Daddy” for the first time—a memory as delicate and precious as the first snowfall.
Draco set his teacup down carefully, his hands trembling just a touch. He looked down at Teddy, whose wide, expectant eyes shone with innocent delight, completely unaware of the moment’s weight.
“Happy Christmas,” Teddy mumbled, his voice drowsy and sweet.
Draco’s reply came softly, uncharacteristically gentle. “Good morning, little monster. And Merry Christmas.”
Harry’s heart tightened as he watched them. Teddy reached out with a small hand, tugging at Harry’s sleeve. “Hawwy! It’s Christmas!” he insisted, his pronunciation adorably off.
“Merry Christmas, Ted,” Harry replied, his smile tinged with melancholy. He leaned back, trying to lose himself in the mundane details—a crumpled page of The Quibbler, the familiar clink of cutlery—anything to distract him from the memories that clawed at his mind.
Teddy sat down and began to eat, while Draco hummed a wizard song and sipped his tea. That was life. Harry loved the present. And told himself this could surface all the pain. He tried to focus on the newspaper, scanning it disinterestedly, until—
“Are you and Luna cousins?” he asked, eyes still fixed on the paper.
“Merlin,” the blond muttered, irritation thick in his tone. “What bullshit are they writing now?”
“Language,” Harry replied automatically, nodding toward Teddy.
Draco exhaled sharply, glaring at him before glancing down at Teddy, who was too lost in his sleepy breakfast trance to notice. With a heavy sigh, Draco leaned back in his chair, arms folded.
“Who said it?”
Harry hummed, glancing back at the article. “Luna wrote you are cousins.”
“Of course she did,” Draco muttered. “And what exactly did she say?”
Harry skimmed a few more lines before reading aloud, “‘Draco reminds me of a Thestral. Thestrals are feared by many because they can only be seen by those who have witnessed death, and their skeletal forms seem haunting. But they are loyal, gentle, and misunderstood creatures. They carry us through the darkness, even when we cannot see their beauty at first.’”
“Great. So now I’m a misunderstood Thestral—as if I didn’t have enough to worry about.”
Harry snorted. “Could be worse.”
“Could it?”
“If it were up to me, I’d write you as a Crup. All bark and no bite.”
Draco shot him a flat look. “Remind me again why I tolerate you?”
Harry smirked, stealing a slice of toast from Draco’s plate. “Because I make excellent tea.”
Draco rolled his eyes but made no further protest.
Harry returned to the article and continued, “‘Draco is a survivor marked by the weight of what he’s seen, yet capable of carrying far more than anyone realizes. The boy who did the wrong choices for the right reasons.’”
A long silence settled between them. Teddy, oblivious, mumbled something incoherent and nuzzled closer into Draco’s side.
Draco swallowed. “She’s always had a flair for dramatics.”
Harry looked at him—really looked—before replying, “She’s not wrong.”
Teddy suddenly sat up, blinking blearily. “I ate breakfast,” he announced as if that were the final hurdle. Last night, the adults promised that he could open presents after breakfast. Glancing between them expectantly, he added, “Pwesents?”
Draco sighed, dramatically. “I told you we shouldn’t have let him open one last night. Now he thinks Christmas morning is purely transactional.”
The dark-haired one grinned. “Oh, like you’re any better?”
“Unlike you, I appreciate a well-thought-out gift.”
“I appreciate them just fine,” Harry countered, sipping his tea. “Especially the ones that don’t come with snarky inscriptions.”
Draco smirked, recalling the note he put on Harry’s watch that read, ‘Try not to be late or insufferable.’ “It was more of an advice, really.”
Teddy, unimpressed with their banter, flopped onto his back with an exaggerated sigh. “Pwesents,” he whined dramatically.
Harry laughed and set him down, watching as Teddy sprinted toward the Christmas tree, his tiny socks sliding on the floor. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got.”
Teddy dug through the pile of gifts with an excitement so pure it made something in Harry’s chest ache. The little boy giggled as he tore into the wrapping paper. When sleek wizarding robes were revealed, he held them up, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. “It’s so soft!”
Draco scoffed. “Only the best for my Teddy.”
Teddy uncovered the rest—a child-sized Nimbus broomstick. For a split second, he froze; then his hair flashed to a brilliant electric blue.
A delighted squeal burst from him. “A bwoom! A bwoom! Hawwy, look!”
“You’ll have to be careful. And always with an adult,” Harry explained, though he hadn’t agreed on the broom.
Teddy barely registered the warning before diving back into his presents. He reached for a bright red package adorned with hand-drawn spiders and gasped, “Spideyman!”
Harry grinned as Teddy ripped into the package like it owed him money, revealing a Spider-Man action figure, a T-shirt with the web-slinger’s emblem, and a tiny web-shooter.
Without delay, Teddy put the shirt on over his pajamas. “I’m Spider-Man!” he declared proudly.
Draco groaned. “Fantastic. Encouraging reckless behavior. Just what we need.”
“Come on, you saw this coming—” Harry began, but Teddy had already strapped the web-shooter onto his wrist and pressed its button. A string of fake webbing shot out, directly at Draco, clinging stubbornly to his sleeve.
A long silence followed.
Draco slowly turned his head toward Harry. “You bought him a weapon.”
Harry, entirely unbothered, grinned. “You gave him a broom. I’d say we’re even.”
Teddy was already back on the couch, jumping up and down, his hair flashing between blue and red like a miniature superhero's.
Draco buried his face in his hands. “I regret everything.”
“There is MORE?!” Teddy exclaimed, his excitement contagious.
Draco smiled, a mix of exasperation and amusement. Most of the rest of the gifts were his, and honestly, he didn’t regret it one bit.
Yet, beneath the playful chaos, Harry’s inner struggle was palpable. The war still haunted his dreams, its guilt gnawing at his chest, its anger keeping him from vulnerability. It was a burden he carried alone, a secret he wasn’t sure he could ever share.
As Teddy darted around the room, his laughter echoing with pure, unfiltered joy, Harry allowed himself a quiet, internal admission. For the first time in a long while, Harry realized that while the war might never be entirely banished from his dreams, it didn’t have to define every moment of his waking life. He had Teddy’s innocent laughter, Draco’s steady, if complicated, presence, and a fragile hope that tomorrow might bring a little more peace.
It wasn’t perfect. Not even close. Yet, in that morning, as he sat among familiar faces and clinking teacups, Harry felt—just for a moment—that maybe, just maybe, he could breathe again. And for now, that was enough.
…
St. Mungo’s was nearly silent on Christmas morning. The usual bustle of healers and visitors was dulled to a hush, as though even the walls understood that today of all days should be softer.
Draco walked down the corridor, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, his usual sharp stride weighted by something heavier. Either way, his thoughts were tangled enough that he almost missed the figure standing by one of the doors.
Neville Longbottom.
Draco stopped. He wasn’t sure why it surprised him. He knew the story. Everyone did. Frank and Alice Longbottom, tortured beyond repair, left as mere fragments of who they once were. He had read about it in textbooks, heard it murmured in hallways, and yet seeing Longbottom standing there—shoulders slightly hunched, a small potted plant in his hands, staring at the door like he wasn’t sure whether to knock—was different.
Neville looked up at the movement and straightened slightly. “Malfoy.” His voice was polite, but cautious. He glanced past Draco, as if expecting someone else, then back. “Didn’t think I’d run into you here.”
Draco could have ignored him. Could have brushed past with a sharp obviously and left it at that.
Instead, to his own surprise, he stopped. “Merry Christmas,” he said, his voice even.
Neville blinked, caught off guard, then nodded, fingers fidgeting slightly against the ceramic rim of the pot. “Yeah, uh—Merry Christmas.” He smiled, hesitated, then, because he was too inherently kind to let a conversation die just because it was uncomfortable, added, “I heard your mother is improving.”
“She is… better.”
Draco wasn’t sure why he said what he did next. Maybe it was the season. Maybe it was the rare, shared understanding of waiting for someone who might never fully return.
“Have you ever tried Muggle medicine?”
Neville blinked, thrown by the question. “What?”
“It’s not the same,” he admitted, voice measured. “And I’m not saying it’ll work.” He exhaled sharply, as if forcing himself not to care whether Longbottom dismissed him outright. “I’m just saying you could try.”
Neville stared at him, expression unreadable, then looked away, nodding slightly. “I—I wouldn’t even know where to start,” he admitted, voice quiet. “She’s been like this my whole life. It’s not—” He stopped himself, shaking his head, before forcing a small smile. “But… thanks, I guess. I mean, really.”
Draco hummed in acknowledgment, glancing down the hall. He hadn’t meant to say anything at all, but there it was. “Omar Abasi. He’s a healer and also a Muggle healer.”
“A doctor?” Neville frowned, almost offended that Draco thought he didn’t know the word.
“Yes, whatever, he’s been helping my mother.” A pause, then, as if the words were being forced out against his better judgment: “I could introduce you.”
Neville stared at him. This was unexpected. His grip on the plant shifted, fingers curling slightly around the rim of the pot. “I—yeah.” He hesitated, searching Draco’s expression. “Why do you care?” Not accusatory, just genuine curiosity.
Draco’s expression shuttered instantly, his voice turning defensive. “I don’t—” He cut himself off, startled to realize it was a lie. His lips pressed together, then quirked into something wry and self-deprecating. “Maybe even I have a slightest bit of humanity in me.”
Neville’s fingers tapped absently against the pot as he considered that. Draco was being honest. So Neville decided to return the favor.
“Blaise told me you visited him.”
Draco stiffened, though only slightly. Just enough that someone observant might notice. Neville did.
“I wasn’t sure if you knew that I knew,” Neville added, watching him carefully.
Draco didn’t answer, but his silence was confirmation enough.
Neville nodded to himself. Then, as if he were discussing something as mundane as the weather, he said, “If you let me know beforehand, I can arrange for you to get past the Aurors unnoticed.”
Draco turned sharply, eyes narrowing. “Why would you do that?”
Neville shrugged. “It’d be good for Blaise to have someone who cares about him around.”
Draco’s response came quietly, but without hesitation. “It seems he already has.”
The weight of the conversation settled between them, unspoken but understood. You.
Neville stilled, his lips parting slightly in surprise, like the thought hadn’t fully occurred to him before. He looked down, as if considering it, and when he looked back up, his smile was small—uncertain, but real.
…
The sky stretched dull and gray over Godric’s Hollow, a quiet sort of stillness settling over the graveyard. A thin veil of frost clinging to the grass that crunched softly beneath their steps. The crisp air carried the scent of damp earth and weathered stone as Harry, Draco, and Teddy passed the worn tombstones, a hush settling over the place that made every breath feel heavier.
Harry led the way, Teddy’s small mittened hand wrapped in his, while Draco followed a step behind, his gaze flicking between them with quiet concern. The child’s bright blue hair, a vivid contrast against the muted backdrop, hinted at emotions he couldn’t yet name. He wasn’t sad—at least, not in a way he understood—but his silence was unusual.
They paused before a familiar pair of gravestones. Harry’s grip tightened instinctively as his eyes fell on the inscription he had read countless times:
The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.
“Teddy,” Harry murmured, swallowing hard as he fixed his gaze on the stone. “These are my mum and dad. They… they went away a long time ago.”
Teddy’s brow furrowed, his bright hair seeming to lose some of its luster as he processed the words. “Why’d they go away?” he asked, his voice filled with the innocent confusion of a child who couldn’t fully grasp the concept of loss.
Harry knelt, his knees sinking into the soft layer of snow, and placed a gentle hand on Teddy’s shoulder. “They didn’t want to go, Ted. They loved me very much—just as your mum and dad loved you. Sometimes… people have to go away, even when they don’t want to.”
Teddy frowned, clearly still confused, shifting from one foot to the other. “Oh. Can we go now?”
Those simple words struck Harry like a curse. He stiffened, heat flaring behind his eyes, his stomach twisting in protest. He knew Teddy was only two, unable to carry the weight of these truths, yet something inside him shattered—raw and aching.
“Teddy,” Harry said, his tone harsher than he intended, “this isn’t just some errand! They matter. You should—” He stopped, biting back the rest of his words, but the damage was done.
Teddy shrank back, his small face contorting in surprise.
Without missing a beat, Draco crouched beside the boy, his touch firm yet tender as he smoothed a hand over Teddy’s unruly curls. “Mon chaton,” he murmured evenly, “Harry’s not angry with you.”
Guilt crashed over Harry like a tidal wave, his breath catching as shame twisted in his gut. What was wrong with him?
He knelt again, reaching for Teddy but hesitated before touching him. His hands trembled and his chest felt unbearably tight.
I’m no better than them.
The thought cut through him, cold and bitter—the Dursleys, snapping at him for things he couldn’t understand, punishing him simply for existing. And now he was standing over Teddy as if he had the right to wield such harsh words.
“I’m sorry, Teddy,” he rasped, his voice hoarse with regret. “That wasn’t fair. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Teddy, still wide-eyed, studied Harry for a long moment before, as if by instinct, reaching up and patting his cheek with a mittened hand. “It’s okay, Daddy.”
Harry stopped breathing.
In that heartbeat, the world tilted. Teddy had called him “Daddy” for the first time—a word he should have corrected, a word that meant so much. But his mouth failed him; instead, he clung to the sound, desperate to savor it, if only for a moment.
Draco’s gaze was steady, sharp, and knowing. But he didn’t tease. Didn’t smirk. Instead, he reached out, gripping Harry’s wrist, grounding him. “It’s alright,” he said, low and sure, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re allowed to have a bad day, Potter.”
Harry let out a shaky breath. He was having one.
He exhaled and forced out a weak, “You’re going to get confused if you call both of us that.”
Teddy blinked up at him, utterly unbothered. “Why?”
Draco added. “Because then we won’t know which one of us you’re yelling for when you’re being a menace.”
Teddy giggled, and just like that, the tension broke. But Draco didn’t look away as they stood and made their way toward the next cemetery—toward Remus, Tonks, and Andromeda Black.
They traveled by Floo, the journey stretching on even as Harry’s mind remained a jumble of regret and unresolved anguish. His hands still trembled, but Draco, ever watchful, made sure Teddy remained unaware of Harry’s inner turmoil, entertaining him with quiet stories and gentle laughter.
At the new graveyard, the markers were simpler, yet no less significant. Draco laid fresh flowers at the graves of Remus, Tonks, and, beside them, Andromeda.
Harry read the inscriptions softly as Teddy listened, his small brows knitting together in concentration. When Teddy pointed at Andromeda’s name, he whispered, “Grandma?”
“Yes,” Harry replied, his voice barely audible.
For the first time, Teddy’s little face crumpled in a way that spoke of true loss—the disappearance of someone he once knew, someone who had held him close. Harry longed to reach out, to comfort him, but the sting of his earlier outburst held him back, shame and self-loathing too raw to overcome.
“I miss her too, mon chaton,” Draco murmured, pulling Teddy into a warm embrace.
Teddy clung to Draco, his face pressed against the familiar fabric of his coat. After a moment, in a small, trembling voice, he asked, “Why aren’t they here? Are you gonna go away too?”
The question stole the air from Harry’s lungs. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, helpless.
Draco didn’t hesitate. He crouched beside Teddy, his voice firm yet tender. “No, Ted. We’re right here. And we’re not going anywhere.”
Teddy looked up at Harry, then asked, “You promise, Hawwy?”
Harry’s voice emerged rough but resolute. “I promise.”
Draco’s fingers ghosted over Harry’s wrist—a silent reassurance. Harry let himself lean into it.
After a long, thoughtful hum, Teddy shuffled closer and wedged himself between them. They sat together in silence, the chill forgotten in the warmth of their shared sorrow and unspoken understanding.
As they turned to leave, Draco reached for Harry’s hand, a brief, grounding touch. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. Just squeezed once, firm and reassuring. It was a reminder, the same one he’d been giving all week, spoken or not.
You’re allowed to have bad days, too.
Harry exhaled, long and slow, and squeezed back.
…
There were bad days. But there were good days, too. And they were coming. Better days were coming.
Harry told himself this like an incantation, a quiet spell meant to will it into existence.
Maybe it worked because when he woke the next morning, he felt lighter. No nightmares. No lingering weight in his chest. Just the soft hush of the house around him.
It was the first moment of peace he’d had all day, and even that felt delicate, like a soap bubble waiting to pop. The quiet stretched around him, settling in the dim glow of the setting sun, its golden light casting long, shifting shadows across the wooden floor.
Teddy, for once, was content, stacking blocks with quiet concentration. Harry had just started to breathe, to let himself sink into the fragile calm, when a knock at the door shattered it.
Ron and Hermione had arrived.
He tried to act casual as he led them to the kitchen table, seating them as far as possible from Teddy, who was too engrossed in his stacking game to notice.
“You sounded urgent in your letter,” Hermione said, giving him a curious look as she sat down, smoothing the folds of her skirt. “Is everything alright?”
Harry exhaled sharply, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Draco just left.”
Hermione leaned forward slightly, waiting. “And?”
Harry swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “I need to tell you something. Well… you already know. I just—I need to say it out loud.”
“Go on, then.” Ron folded his arms, bracing himself.
“I like him.” The words felt heavy and terrifying, even as he forced them out. He squeezed his eyes shut. “I really like him. And I have no idea what to do about it.”
Silence. Then—
“Finally.”
“Oh, no.”
Hermione and Ron spoke at the same time, with entirely different reactions.
Harry’s eyes snapped open. “You knew?”
Hermione grinned. “Harry, Teddy kissed Victoire yesterday to show what you and Draco did.”
Harry groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Don’t remind me.”
“Oh, I will remind you,” Ron said. “You made me lose 10 galleons to Ginny.”
“Always happy to entertain bets,” Harry said dryly.
Hermione added, “And, if that weren’t enough, Teddy also implied you both sleep together.”
Harry dragged his hands down his face. “I already explained this. We literally just fell asleep in the same bed.”
“You know, most people don’t feel the need to clarify that.”
Harry groaned again, flopping back against the couch. “This is a disaster.”
“No, what’s a disaster is that you haven’t done anything about it yet.” Hermione patted his knee, amused.
Harry sat up, looking almost frantic. “Hermione, it’s Draco.”
Hermione blinked. “Yes, I’m aware.”
“You don’t get it. What if I tell him and he laughs? Or hexes me? Or worse—what if he doesn’t believe me?” His voice dropped, almost pained. “What if he thinks I’m just messing with him?”
Hermione’s teasing expression softened. “Harry…”
“I could die!”
“He does have a point, Mione,” Ron agreed.
Teddy, who had been happily stacking his blocks, turned his head and scrunched his nose. “Dye?” His hair flashed an alarming shade of green.
“Not that kind of die, Teddy.”
Hermione sighed. “For Merlin’s sake, Harry, just ask him out already!”
“This is a nightmare.” Harry groaned again.
“You survived Voldemort, but Draco Malfoy is where you draw the line?”
“Voldemort didn’t make me feel like this.”
Hermione raised a brow. “And how exactly does Draco make you feel?”
Harry opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then groaned for what felt like the hundredth time.
Teddy, clearly done with being ignored, picked up a block and chucked it at Harry’s foot.
“I’m going to regret this.” Harry sighed.
Hermione patted his shoulder. “No, you’re going to thank me.”
“Probably will. In my wedding or something,” Harry muttered, knowing exactly how delusional he sounded.
Ron, who had been half-listening until now, suddenly froze. The mug wobbled in his grip, dangerously close to spilling. His eyes widened in absolute horror. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
Harry, deadpan, took a slow sip of his own drink. “I'm not saying I'll marry him now. Just saying that we kissed and—”
Ron slammed his mug down with a thud. “That is too much information, mate.” He shook his head as if trying to physically dispel the mental image. “And I still think this is a very big and very elaborate joke.”
Hermione sighed. “Ronald, why would Harry dedicate months to an elaborate joke? He can barely keep a secret for a week.”
“Hey!” Harry protested, offended.
“It’s true,” said Hermione with a knowing smirk.
Ron ignored them both, still deep in his own personal crisis. “But—you never—” He waved his hand vaguely between himself and Harry, his brows furrowed.
"What?”
Ron hesitated. “You never looked at me that way?”
“You’re like my brother. That would be weird.” Harry said, now confused about what his friend wanted to get from this.
“Not even once?”
“Nope.”
“But you’ve thought about Malfoy?” Ron leaned back in his seat, exhaling loudly.
Harry shifted, suddenly very aware of how warm the fireplace felt. “Recently, yeah.”
“I’m gonna need an essay on what Malfoy has that I don’t.” Ron scoffed, crossing his arms.
Harry groaned, rubbing his temples. “It’s not like that.” He turned to Hermione, desperate for backup. “Hermione, help me out here.”
Hermione looked too amused for Harry’s liking. “Well, it’s clearly not about hair, since you used to like Ginny.”
Ron made an indignant noise. “My hair is nice.”
“Maybe it’s about posture? Malfoy does have a certain way of carrying himself—”
“Like a git?” Ron suggested.
“Like someone who knows his angles,” Hermione corrected. “He’s poised.”
Ron scoffed. “I’m taller than he is, Harry, and let’s be honest, he’s a bit skinny. I have more bulk, you know? More—what’s the word? Presence.”
Across the table, Harry let out a long groan, forehead pressed against the wood. “I’m done with you lot.” With that, he pushed himself up and stood.
Ron turned to Hermione. “Wait, where’s he going? I’m a bloody catch, come back!”
Hermione, barely holding back laughter, patted Ron’s arm. “There, there, Ronald. I’m sure you are.”
Still, Ron shook his head, frowning. “Honestly, I don’t get what you see in him.”
“I don’t know how to explain it,” Harry said, embarrassed. He could think of plenty of reasons but didn’t wanna say them.
“He is not even nice to you.”
“I sort of like it when he’s mean to me.” That was probably the type of thing he shouldn’t be saying.
“Sounds like a psychological disturbance.” Hermione raised a skeptical brow.
“Hopefully. It’s better than a weird fetish,” Ron shot back.