The truth
After admitting his feelings to Ron and Hermione, Harry felt a profound sense of relief. It hadn’t been easy—there had been a lot of internal wrestling, a lot of words left unspoken—but now that the confession was out in the open, it felt like a weight had been lifted from his chest. The air felt a little lighter, the world a little less suffocating, even if he wasn’t planning on acting on those feelings just yet. It was enough to have them acknowledged, at least in the safe circle of his friends.
The sound of the door creaking interrupted his thoughts. Draco had returned, and his presence was undeniable, sharp, and unmistakable. As soon as Draco’s eyes landed on Ron and Hermione, his posture stiffened. His movements became careful, almost instinctual, as he took a step back, his gaze darting briefly toward the stairs. Flour dusted his clothes, streaking across his shirt and smudging the edges of his hair, which made Harry smile because he already knew the source.
Without a word, he started to retreat, not intending to stay or engage, as if it were an automatic response to the presence of others.
“Draco, wait!” Hermione’s voice called after him, a combination of warmth and firmness in her tone. “We just wanted to say hi.”
Draco paused halfway up the stairs, his back still turned, but his stance slightly relaxed. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes flicking over each of them briefly.
“Hi,” Draco said, his voice almost neutral, but there was a subtle edge to it, as if he were still measuring the situation.
Hermione smiled softly, her eyes betraying a warmth that Draco wasn’t quite ready to embrace. Ron nodded curtly, his posture relaxed but watchful. Harry, determined to ease the tension, leaned casually against the doorframe, his voice light and teasing, hoping to break the ice.
“The kitchen survive you?”
Draco glanced at him, and for the briefest moment, Harry saw the softening in his eyes. A fleeting look—like a crack in the armor—before Draco quickly masked it, slipping back into his usual guarded demeanor.
“Yeah, it doesn't annoy me like some people,” Draco replied, giving him a sidelong glance. “Is Teddy asleep?”
“Yeah,” Harry replied, his voice warm. “Probably will sleep all afternoon. New sweater?”
Draco glanced down at the dark sweater, then back at Harry, his lips curling in a ghost of a smile. “Yes. Morgana gave it to me for Christmas.” He paused, his gaze flicking back to Harry for a moment longer than necessary. “You always notice things.”
A playful glint danced in Harry’s eyes as he shrugged. “Well, it’s my job. I’m an Auror.”
“Funny. You’ve been missing the fact that the roof needs fixing for ages.” Draco raised an eyebrow, a quiet challenge in his tone.
Harry looked up, distracted for a moment as his gaze traced the ceiling. But before he could respond, his hand moved instinctively toward Draco. A streak of flour had smeared along the collar of his sweater, and Harry’s fingers brushed against it, smoothing it away. The touch lingered a second longer than necessary. He could feel Draco’s muscles tense, could see the momentary flash of hesitation, but Draco didn’t pull away. It was as if the small, almost intimate gesture went unnoticed in the larger scheme of things, even though they both felt it, tension crackling like static between them. In that charged moment, it was as if both had forgotten the watchful eyes of their friends.
“I’ll fix it this weekend,” Harry murmured, his thumb grazing along the line of Draco’s jaw, the contact gentle and lingering.
Draco’s voice dropped to almost a whisper, the words barely audible over the distance between them. “You’ll fall.”
Harry’s lips curled up at the corners, a mischievous smile playing on his face. “You’ll patch me up.”
For a split second, Draco’s gaze flickered down to Harry’s lips. It was subtle—a moment so brief it could’ve been mistaken for a trick of the light—but it was enough to send a surge of heat to Harry’s chest. The silent exchange, unspoken but understood, seemed to hang in the air between them, thick and heavy with everything they hadn’t said.
Then, with a soft sigh and a hint of reluctance, Draco stepped back and turned toward the stairs. “Don’t expect sympathy when you crack your skull open,” he said, teasing, but there was something deeper, something that lingered in his words—a thread of warmth, of care, hidden beneath the surface of his sarcasm.
Ron and Hermione exchanged a knowing look from across the room, their eyes narrowing slightly in silent understanding. They didn’t need to say anything—everything was already clear to them. Harry and Draco were dancing around something big, something that neither of them was ready to confront, yet it was so painfully obvious to anyone who watched closely enough.
“Do you think they know?” Hermione asked quietly, her voice amused but tinged with disbelief.
Ron raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned against the couch, his eyes still tracking Draco’s retreating form. “It’s like watching two Hippogriffs circling a teacup.”
Hermione shot him a sideways glance, lips curling into a teasing smile. “Says the guy who needed a war to realize I liked him.”
Ron flushed pink, but his grin was unrepentant. “Oi, that’s different!”
Hermione softened, leaning into him, the warmth between them an unspoken bond that felt solid and comforting. “They’ll get there. Even if it takes a decade.”
Ron snorted, his eyes glinting with amusement as he looked toward the stairs, Harry still looking up. “At this rate, Teddy will be giving them ‘the talk.’”
…
The snow crunched beneath their boots as they strolled through the nearly deserted park, their breath curling in the frigid air. Most had sought refuge indoors from the bitter cold, leaving only the stubborn and the unsuspecting to brave the frost. Teddy was one of the latter. Bundled in layers of wool and enchanted warming charms, he remained blissfully unfazed, his laughter ringing through the crisp morning as he dashed across the snow, chasing the two children of a familiar woman.
She was always here—seated on the same worn bench, ever watchful. Draco had noticed her long ago. A few weeks back, her sharp voice had cut through the playground chatter as she warned them when Teddy was cornered by older kids. He hadn’t thanked her then, but he had remembered.
Now, something was wrong.
Draco’s sharp eyes caught the unnatural sway in her movements, the way her grip on the armrest tightened as if the world beneath her had tilted. Her breaths came shallow and rapid, and just as realization struck him, her legs buckled. She collapsed onto the bench, her fingers clutching at her chest in a desperate, trembling grip.
Draco moved before Harry could even register the collapse. His long strides carried him to her side in seconds, the biting wind stinging his face as he crouched beside her. Up close, he could hear it—the faint, wheezing rasp, the awful, gasping struggle for breath.
“Potter, her bag,” he snapped, his voice edged with urgency.
To his surprise, Potter obeyed without protest. Harry dug through the snow until he unearthed a battered leather handbag, which he handed over swiftly. Draco rifled through its contents—past lipstick tubes and crumpled receipts—until his fingers closed on a small plastic inhaler. The woman’s hands trembled too violently to grasp it on their own.
“Breathe out first,” he ordered, guiding her wrist with a brusqueness that belied a deeper memory. In that brief touch, he recalled the countless nights spent at Malfoy Manor after the war, when his mother would succumb to panic attacks. He remembered her trembling hands spilling Calming Draught. “One… two… now.”
With steady hands, Draco pressed the inhaler as she inhaled. A weak cough wracked her frame, followed by a slow, desperate breath. The wheezing didn’t vanish entirely, but it eased—as if the worst of the storm had passed.
He watched her closely. “Better?”
She nodded weakly, eyes watering either from the cold or the fading panic of the moment. “Thank… you…” she rasped.
Draco gave a brief nod. “You warned us about Teddy. Consider it settled.”
He didn’t acknowledge Harry’s questioning stare. He felt its weight—silent, probing—and for a split second, he was transported back to those nights of quiet terror, when every shallow breath of his mother had been a reminder of his helplessness. In the distance, Teddy’s laughter carried through the park, blissfully unaware of the echoes of past battles that stirred within Draco.
Draco’s gloved fingers twitched. He could still smell the antiseptic tang of St. Mungo’s, the Healers’ hushed voices as they debated his mother’s case. “Chronic anxiety… Azkaban’s shadow, perhaps…” As if the Dark Lord’s presence in their home hadn’t been prison enough.
They left the park as the evening settled in, the cold creeping through Draco’s cloak. Teddy, exhausted from his adventures, rested his head against Harry’s shoulder, small fingers curled into his godfather’s sleeve. The warmth of the moment contrasted starkly with the memories still lingering in Draco’s mind.
He could still feel Narcissa’s hands—clammy, shaking, so unlike the mother he once knew. The Healers had spoken in hushed tones, treating her panic like an unfortunate but expected aftermath. ‘She’ll adjust,’ they had said. But Narcissa Malfoy had never been one to adjust; she endured, tolerated, survived. And yet, some part of her had been lost in the process.
At home, Harry flicked his wand to unlock the door, adjusting his hold on Teddy as they stepped inside. The warmth of their living room greeted them, chamomile and parchment lingering in the air.
Teddy stirred sleepily, his hair shifting from blue to an uncertain gray before brightening again. “Draco was a hero today,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
Draco snorted, shedding his cloak. “Don’t sound so surprised, imp. Once a Slytherin, always a Slytherin.”
Harry smirked, settling Teddy onto the couch. “Meaning you only helped because it benefited you?”
Draco arched a brow. “Obviously. My reputation as a decent human being was at stake.”
Harry leaned against the armrest, eyes glinting. “Since when do you know how to work a Muggle inhaler?”
“They’re not complicated, Potter. Even a troll could manage one.” Draco’s tone was crisp, but Harry wasn’t fooled. He knew Draco spent hours poring over medical texts and Muggle treatises.
Harry hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t push. Instead, he ran a hand through Teddy’s hair, watching as the boy dozed off, curled into the cushions.
Draco hesitated before sitting beside them, his gaze lingering on the child. He thought of Narcissa again—how she flinched at sudden sounds, how her voice faded when she thought no one was listening. The weight of responsibility settled over him like a second skin. Would he ever feel prepared? Would there come a day when he didn’t fear failing those who depended on him?
“I think about it too,” Harry murmured, voice low. He wasn’t looking at Draco but at Teddy, fingers tracing absent patterns on the boy’s arm. “How much of what we’ve been through... changes the way we love them.”
Draco swallowed. “You’re afraid you’ll turn into them,” he guessed, watching the way Harry’s jaw tightened. He didn’t need to specify who ‘them’ was.
Harry exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah.”
Draco studied him for a long moment before speaking. “You won’t.”
Harry met his gaze, searching for something. Whatever he found must have been enough, because he nodded slightly, and some of the weight in his posture seemed to lift.
Draco leaned back, stretching his legs out. “You might, however, turn into an unbearable idiot if you keep looking at me like that.”
Harry let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I think I can live with that.”
Sometimes, Harry worried his voice might one day carry the harsh tones of his past—a past too reminiscent of the Dursleys. On sleepless nights, the fear that he’d never do any of this right haunted him.
He’d spent years bracing for disaster—for the shadow of war to claw its way back, for nightmares to outlive Voldemort, for old voices to poison his own. But here, now, the only shadows were those cast by the twinkling Christmas lights, and the only voice that truly mattered was Teddy’s giggling.
Because Teddy would look up with eyes that shone as if he’d hung the moon, and Draco would lean casually against the counter, silently anchoring him in the present. And in those moments, Harry reminded himself: next year. Better days were coming. They had time.
A promise as delicate and resilient as a whispered spell.
Harry was learning to trust this peace, to let it seep into him. And Draco, for once, allowed himself to do the same.
Eventually, he sank into the couch beside Harry, Teddy sprawled across their laps with tiny fingers gripping Harry’s jumper. The fire crackled softly, and for a brief, blissful moment, all that mattered was the quiet—the warmth of Draco’s shoulder pressed against Harry’s, the comforting weight of Teddy, and the unspoken ‘we’ that threaded through every glance.
A home where, no matter how heavy the past, they would always find warmth in each other.
…
Draco stood rigid by the door, his fingers still curled around the cold brass knob. The air hung thick with the scent of aged wood and dust, a stagnant heaviness that made every breath feel laborious. When Ginny’s cheerful voice had pierced the silence moments ago—her red hair a jarring splash of color against the muted tones of the entryway—he’d slammed the door so hard the walls shuddered. The echo lingered, sharp and final, like a gunshot.
Harry’s reproachful glare followed, his green eyes narrowing behind smudged glasses as he reopened the door. “Really, Draco?” he muttered, ushering Ginny inside. She brushed past Draco, her shoulder deliberately bumping his, her smile now a taut line.
Draco watched Ginny perch on the frayed arm of the sofa, her posture relaxed yet purposeful. Harry sat across from her, elbows on knees, his unruly hair catching the amber glow of the fireplace. Then, he retreated silently into the kitchen. The room was a chaotic contrast to the rest of the house: copper pots hung haphazardly, herbs dangled from the ceiling, and the counter was littered with flour-dusted bowls and half-chopped vegetables. He gripped the edge of the marble countertop, its coldness seeping into his palms as muffled voices drifted from the living room.
Draco continued, pretending to be preoccupied with slicing vegetables. He wasn’t eavesdropping—he told himself that much. But the sound of Ginny’s laughter grated on his nerves, sharp and intrusive. It wasn’t just that she was Harry’s ex. It was how easy she made everything seem—how she could waltz into Harry’s life, into their home, and be accepted without question. No sideways glances, no past sins to atone for. Just belonging.
Ginny smirked. "So, should I tell Ron to pay up or not?"
Draco had no idea what that was about, but Harry seemed to get it. He rolled his eyes before answering. "You placed more bets?"
"Of course we did. We’re nosy and shameless."
Draco clenched his jaw as he turned to fetch a plate, focusing on the tap of the knife against the cutting board. Morgana, leaning against the counter, tilted her head slightly. "You know, for someone who claims not to care, you do seem awfully tense."
Draco gave an exaggerated sigh. "I simply don’t appreciate uninvited guests."
"Right." Morgana hummed. "Nothing to do with how close she sits to Harry, then?" Her honey-brown eyes flicked to the lemon tart Harry had made earlier with Ted. Without hesitation, she plunged a spoon into its center.
“Potter will hex you for that,” Draco warned, though a smirk tugged his lips.
“Worth it,” she said, offering him a bite. “The middle’s the best part.”
He accepted, the tart’s sweetness sharp on his tongue, and for a moment, the tension eased. Morgana nudged him, nodding at the mangled tomato. “Let’s try again. Chop, don’t murder it.”
A later moment, when the cooking was almost ready, the kitchen door swung open again, and Harry re-entered with Ginny. Despite his earlier reproach, Harry’s smile was genuine, though Draco noted with irritation Harry’s habitual tardiness.
“Are you making enough dinner? Ginny’s staying with us too,” Harry announced, prompting Ginny to shoot him a look of both surprise and annoyance.
“There isn’t enough food for her,” Draco interjected bluntly. It was half true. His intent was clear: he wasn’t in the mood to mask his petulance, hoping perhaps to force Ginny into reconsidering her invitation.
“Draco—” Harry began, his tone shifting to serious anger, but Ginny interrupted with a scathing retort.
“Do you hate me or something, Malfoy?” she snapped, her eyes flashing.
Draco’s response was a mocking smile and a simple, “No, I'm quite fond of children,” his tone dripping with indifference, earning an exasperated eye-roll from Ginny.
“Ginny, why don’t you go wake up Teddy?” Harry suggested, trying to defuse the tension.
Draco opened his mouth to object, but Morgana’s stern look—one that said “Don’t”—silenced him. Though he wasn’t entirely sure what she expected, he knew better than to argue; Teddy, after all, despised being disturbed from his sleep. Harry knew it too, but he probably didn’t think of anything better to get Ginny out.
As soon as Ginny left the kitchen, Harry exhaled deeply and rubbed his face. “Ginny came to invite us to spend New Year’s at the Burrow, but as I promised, I’m not going to take Teddy or force you to go. I’ve decided to stay too.”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “And?” Morgana nudged him lightly.
“And now we’re being polite and letting her stay for dinner,” Harry said, voice firm but weary.
“Draco’s just sulking. Don’t let it get to you,” Morgana said breezily.
Harry’s gaze hardened. “I think this conversation should just be between the two of us.”
“Don’t be like that,” Morgana countered. “I know you don’t like me, but if you want Draco to put up with someone he doesn’t like, you should do the same.”
Yeah, Harry could see it now—a Ravenclaw.
A heavy silence settled between them, tension thickening the air. It was broken when Ginny reappeared, her expression oddly perplexed.
“Is Teddy a werewolf?” she blurted.
Harry and Draco exchanged a glance, neither looking particularly concerned.
“Not as far as we know,” Harry said easily.
Ginny hesitated. “I went to wake him up, and he growled at me.”
“Oh, he does that sometimes,” Harry replied, clearly unconcerned.
Draco smirked. “You should let him sleep.”
Harry, throwing Draco a knowing look, added, “Draco does the same thing when I wake him up too early.”
“You are a saint, Harry. I’d rather chew glass than watch Draco growl.”
“And yet, here you are,” Draco shot back. “Should I alert the Prophet? ‘Weasley Obsessively Haunts Ex’s Home’—they’d pay handsomely for that headline.”
“I’m here for Teddy,” Ginny said airily, inspecting her nails. “Someone has to make sure he’s not picking up your manners.”
“Teddy’s manners are impeccable,” Draco returned coolly. “He already knows not to barge into houses uninvited.”
Morgana, stirring a pot of soup, kept her back to them, but the tense set of her shoulders betrayed her unease. When Ginny opened her mouth for another retort, Morgana spun suddenly, her voice too bright.
“Ginny, how was your date last night? Luna mentioned she wanted to take you to a—er, florist?” Her cheeks flushed at the stumble. “For… flowers. Romantic, right?”
Draco’s knife stilled. “Luna?” His gaze sharpened. “You never mentioned knowing her.”
More importantly, Luna had told him she didn’t know any Morgana.
Morgana froze, spoon mid-air. “I— Well, everyone knows Luna. She’s… memorable.”
Lies.
A beat of silence. Ginny’s smirk faded as she glanced between them, sensing the shift in atmosphere. Morgana’s knuckles whitened around the spoon.
“And I thought Harry was bad at lying,” Draco murmured.
Morgana avoided his gaze, eyes locked on the soup. “Drop it, Draco.”
“Or what?”
She met his eyes then, something sharp and warning flashing in her own. “Or you’ll ruin the dinner.”
After a long, charged silence, Morgana stepped away from the counter and addressed Ginny with a warm smile. “Guess we’re not quite ready for these interactions. Ginny, you should have dinner at my restaurant. Let’s get going, darling.”
Ginny’s smile widened in reluctant agreement as she gathered her things, leaving Harry and Draco in the quiet aftermath. Teddy, still nestled contentedly on the couch, stirred but remained fast asleep, his soft breathing a steady counterpoint to the lingering tension.
Harry glanced down at his watch. Its digital countdown flickered cheekily—“5:00”— With a wry smile, he added, “Yeah, you should get going. The watch says we’ve got five minutes until the next round.”
Draco merely rolled his eyes, exchanging a look with Harry—a silent acknowledgment that, for now, some space might help soothe their raw edges. In that gentle pause, with Teddy’s peaceful presence anchoring the room, even the echoes of conflict hinted at the possibility of understanding.
…
…
Teddy had been obsessed with the toy broom Draco had given him for Christmas. The second he unwrapped it, he gasped, his hair flashing silver in excitement before turning a deep shade of blue. He had immediately tried to take off—inside the living room—before either of them could react. Since then, he had taken every opportunity to hop on and zip around, though with… mixed results.
"We need a proper space for this," Harry had pointed out after the third time Teddy had almost taken down a lamp.
Which was how they ended up in the now-enchanted living room. They had removed all the furniture, expanded the space slightly, and charmed the floor to be as soft as a bed in case of falls.
Draco, standing with his arms crossed, surveyed their work. "This should do."
Harry huffed, still gripping his wand. "I don’t know. It still feels dangerous."
Draco gave him a look. "Harry. It’s a training broom. It barely hovers a foot off the ground. And Teddy is part Black and part Lupin—this level of recklessness is in his blood."
"He’s two," Harry argued.
"Which is precisely when I started learning," Draco pointed out.
"That explains so much about you," Harry muttered under his breath.
Draco ignored him. He crouched down to Teddy’s level, adjusting the boy’s tiny hands on the broom handle. "Alright, little monster. Back straight, feet on either side, light hands."
Teddy’s face scrunched in concentration.
Draco beamed. "That’s right. Now, just push off the ground—gently."
Teddy nodded. He wiggled in place, then pushed off. The broom lifted him about a foot in the air, wobbling slightly.
Draco smirked, looking at Harry smugly. "See? Natural."
And then Teddy tipped sideways and tumbled straight down.
Harry lunged forward instinctively, but Teddy had barely hit the soft floor before scrambling back up, giggling. "Again!"
Draco blinked.
Harry crossed his arms. "Natural, huh?"
Draco scowled. "He just needs practice." He helped Teddy back on, brushing imaginary dust off his little jumper. "You need to adjust your balance, imp. Keep your weight even."
Teddy nodded eagerly. "‘kay!"
And so the lesson continued.
Teddy did enjoy himself, that much was clear. He wobbled, tipped, and fell—repeatedly. Harry, predictably, flinched every time, resisting the urge to reach out and catch him. Draco, despite his earlier confidence, was starting to hover, his hands twitching slightly every time Teddy lost control.
"You sure you’re not worried?" Harry teased.
Draco scoffed. "Of course not."
At that moment, Teddy tumbled off again, landing with a soft poof against the enchanted floor.
Draco’s hand shot out instinctively. "Merlin, are you alright?"
Teddy sat up, laughing. "Again!"
Draco exhaled, visibly restraining himself. "Alright. Maybe we should—"
Harry snorted. "Now you’re worried."
Draco turned to glare at him. "I am not worried. I am simply being cautious. There’s a difference."
"Sure," Harry smirked. "You want to wrap him in cushioning charms, don’t you?"
Draco hesitated. "...No."
Harry raised an eyebrow.
Draco scowled. "Fine. Maybe a little."
They turned back to Teddy, who was now bouncing impatiently on his feet. "Again! Again!"
Harry exhaled, shaking his head. “Merlin help us.”
Draco, looking down at Teddy’s excited little face, just smirked. “Well. At least he’s got the right spirit.”
Harry chuckled, stepping beside them. “Yeah. He really does.”
And as Teddy soared—well, wobbled— laughing wildly, Harry and Draco stood side by side, watching. Snow fell softly around them, and despite everything, the world felt perfectly at peace.
…
It was the last day of the year, and Draco was in a rare good mood when he stepped through the restaurant's door.
His mother had spoken to him today—not just murmured acknowledgments or the absent-minded responses he had grown used to, but actual conversation. She had looked at him, seen him, as if the fog that had kept her distant for so long was finally beginning to lift. It wasn’t everything. It wasn’t a miracle. But it was more than he had dared to hope for.
For the first time in a long while, he had felt light. Not free of the weight he carried—he doubted he ever truly would be—but lighter. It was unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.
Without thinking too much about it, he found himself walking toward the restaurant. Toward Morgana.
She would understand, wouldn’t she? She had seen him at his worst, had been there through the long, grueling months of his attempt at something like normalcy. She was his—not in any possessive sense, but she belonged to the small, carefully chosen handful of people he allowed into his life. The ones who saw him, not the shadow of his past.
But as soon as he stepped inside, something in the air stopped him.
The restaurant was nearly empty, the last few patrons long gone, chairs stacked atop tables in preparation for closing. The scent of warm spices and charred wood still lingered, but the usual comfort it brought him felt distant, eclipsed by the low murmur of voices.
One was Morgana’s. The other—
Luna?
Draco’s brows knitted together. He hadn’t expected to see Luna here, and his first instinct was to greet her, but something in the cadence of their conversation made him hesitate. He lingered in the doorway, half-hidden in the dim light. Shadows danced across the wooden beams, and the soft crackle of the hearth did little to thaw the chill that was settling over him.
“It wasn’t my choice,” Morgana was saying, her voice tight and clipped in a way he’d never heard before.
There was a pause. Then Luna’s calm, measured reply: “But you agreed to it.”
A heavy silence fell, weighted and oppressive. Finally, Morgana exhaled—a long, resigned breath. “They didn’t exactly give me an alternative.”
Draco’s frown deepened. Who were “they”? His gut twisted with a deep, instinctual warning. Then, as if sensing his inner turmoil, Morgana continued in a rush of forced explanation.
“You know my family’s history,” she began, her tone low, almost pleading. “After the war… after everything, the Ministry granted me a certain freedom—a freedom that came at a price. They made it clear that I had to cooperate, that I had to be on their side, earn that freedom.”
“How long will they hold you accountable for the first war?” Luna asked, her voice thoughtful rather than judgmental.
“As long as they can, I think.”
“You should tell him,” Luna said gently. “Maybe he will understand. He knows how it feels to be pressured by his family’s past.”
Morgana’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m just reporting what he’s doing to the Ministry, making sure they know he’s taking care of the kid. It’s not bad.”
“It is if you’re pretending to be his friend while deceiving him, Rose.” Luna said, stirring her tea, the spoon clinking like a judge’s gavel.
Draco’s world tilted.
His mind latched onto the words, turned them over, examined them, refused to believe them.
His breath caught in his throat; the warmth he had carried with him from earlier now replaced with something cold, something sharp-edged and brutal.
She had been sent to watch him.
At that moment, his world tilted. His mind seized upon her words and turned them over relentlessly. He could scarcely believe them: all this time, she had been sent to watch him. Had she been working with the Ministry from the start? Had she sat with him, listened to him, cared for Teddy—while all along, she was reporting everything back? Had she been nothing more than a spy, a convenient puppet dancing on their strings?
His hands clenched into fists at his sides as a sudden shift—a small movement, a step back—made his foot scrape against the floor. The sound, insignificant as it was, punctuated the heavy silence.
Silence.
A heartbeat.
Then—
“Draco.”
Morgana’s voice was now unreadable, and he forced himself to lift his gaze to meet hers. Luna turned toward him, her head tilting ever so slightly in that familiar, otherworldly manner. For a split second, Draco considered feigning ignorance—pretending he’d only just arrived, that nothing had changed. But then Morgana’s expression shifted: guarded, carefully composed. Not guilty, not regretful—just watching. As if she had always been watching.
Luna turned toward him, her head tilting slightly in that way she did when she was seeing something others didn’t.
For a split second, Draco considered feigning ignorance. He imagined that he had just arrived, that he hadn’t just felt his entire trust in Morgana shatter. But then, Morgana’s expression shifted—guarded, carefully composed. Not guilty, not regretful, just—watching.
Like she had always been watching.
Draco forced himself to relax, smoothing out his expression, schooling his features into something passably neutral as he stepped forward. His voice, when he spoke, was light. Almost amused. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
It wasn’t convincing.
Morgana’s eyes narrowed just slightly, just enough for him to catch the flicker of something behind them.
Draco turned to Luna instead, redirecting, as if the last few moments hadn’t just changed everything.
“You said you didn’t know any Morgana,” he said casually, though his voice lacked its usual smoothness.
Luna blinked, then glanced at Morgana—Rose?—before smiling softly. “Oh, right. Aunt Rose. You changed your name. I always forget it’s Morgana now.”
The words hit him like a second blow, almost more disorienting than the first.
Draco’s gaze snapped back to Morgana, and this time, he didn’t bother hiding the sharpness in his eyes.
Rose.
How much of her had been real?
Had she ever truly cared about him, about Teddy? Or had it all been a carefully constructed illusion, a way to get closer, to gain his trust?
His throat felt tight, his pulse drumming in his ears.
“Right,” he murmured. His voice was different now. Flat. Cool. “Funny, that.”
Morgana didn’t look away, but she didn’t speak either.
And Draco—Draco felt something bitter and hollow settle in his chest.
Because all this time, he had trusted her. Let her in.
“I should get going,” Luna said, her voice soft but firm. She knew when she wasn’t meant to meddle.
Draco barely heard her leave. His attention remained on Morgana, on the way she stood there, fingers drumming against the wooden table in a quiet, absent rhythm. Not surprised. Not scrambling for excuses. Just waiting.
“Tell me it’s not true,” he said finally. His voice was quiet but edged with something dangerous.
Morgana sighed, the sound weary. “Which part?”
Draco clenched his jaw. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend this is nothing. The Ministry sent you. This whole time, you were their failsafe. If I stepped out of line, if I so much as breathed the wrong way, you would’ve been the first to report it. And I—” He exhaled sharply, forcing steadiness into his tone. “I trusted you.”
She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, there was something like regret there. But no denial. “Draco, let me explain.”
Draco stood frozen, his breath shallow as Morgana's words echoed in the space between them. The weight of her betrayal pressed against his ribs, suffocating, unbearable. He had trusted her. He had let her in. And now, the truth twisted like a blade in his gut.
Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Did you take notes while I poured out my soul? ‘Subject shows remorse—recommend probation,’ perhaps?” His laugh was cold and hollow. “It’s hard to pretend that reporting every detail was a choice you made, isn’t it?”
Her eyes showed regret and desperation. “You think this was easy? Every report I wrote felt like...”
“Like what?” Draco interrupted, his voice dripping venom. “Like a knife in my back?”
She whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Draco’s tone was scathing. “Yes, that fixes everything." He exhaled sharply, struggling to keep control. “I trusted you.”
Draco’s voice wavered, each word heavy with betrayal, as Morgana stepped forward. Her hand rose as if to reach him, but she hesitated, then raked a hand through her hair. “I never wanted to lie to you. I never wanted it to be like this.”
A bitter laugh escaped him. “You never wanted it to be like this? You’ve been lying to me since the day we met. How exactly did you expect it to be? Did you think I’d never find out? That I’d remain blissfully ignorant while you played Ministry informant behind my back?”
Her voice trembled. “I didn’t have a choice, Draco. The Ministry—they held my freedom in exchange for my cooperation. My brother’s past, our family’s sins... I was forced to comply. I’m only reporting what they demanded, ensuring they know you’re taking care of Teddy. It wasn’t a decision I made freely.”
Draco’s eyes blazed with scorn. “Oh, spare me. You always had a choice. You could have said no. You could have told me the truth from the start. But you didn’t. You sat with me, listened to me, cared for Teddy—as if you genuinely cared. And all the while, you were feeding them every detail.” His voice dropped to a harsh whisper, laden with bitterness. “I trusted you.”
For a long, agonizing moment, silence reigned. Then, unable to bear it any longer, Draco turned on his heel and strode toward the door. Each step felt like a dagger, the weight of her deception crushing him. Outside, the cold afternoon light hit him like a slap, and as he left the restaurant—and the trust he once placed in her—he was lost in a bitter darkness he could no longer bear.
The door chimed softly behind him, and the winter light was too bright, too cruel. His shadow stretched long and fractured across the pavement.
Luna drifted beside him, holding out a small sprig of dried mint. “Nargles thrive on lies,” she said in a tone almost whimsical. “But mint muddles their senses.”
Draco stared at the herb for a long moment, then at her. For the first time, her odd, gentle quip felt like a lifeline. “Keep it,” she said, disappearing into the stream of shoppers. “The afternoon’s quieter when you’re cross with it.”
Alone, Draco crushed the mint between his fingers—sharp, medicinal—and walked into the unresolved glare of the dying day, every step echoing the betrayal that would haunt him for far too long.