New year
Tonight was meant to be a fresh start—a new beginning. Earlier that day, his mother had actually spoken to him, looked him in the eye as if the fog that had long kept her distant was finally lifting. It wasn’t everything, and it wasn’t a miracle, but it was more than he’d ever dared to hope for. For the first time in ages, he felt lighter. Not unburdened—he doubted that would ever be—but lighter, even if just for a fleeting moment.
Yet now, as he entered his home in silence, the warmth and soft hum of New Year’s Day celebrations felt painfully ironic against the storm raging inside him.
Draco didn’t stop to announce his arrival. He headed straight for his room. In the dining area, Teddy and Harry exchanged a glance. Teddy’s little brow furrowed, his instincts telling him something was off, while Harry simply sighed, his eyes conveying both concern and understanding. Harry had learned long ago not to force Draco to speak. Tonight, he would offer space instead.
They’d planned an early dinner—Teddy’s sleep schedule had finally steadied after the chaos of Christmas, and with work waiting for Harry the next morning, a late night wasn’t an option. Yet an hour passed, and Draco still hadn’t come down.
At first, Harry told himself Draco must need time. He recalled the stiff, silent way Draco had passed by earlier, as if barely keeping himself together. Respecting that, Harry continued finishing dinner with Teddy, though his mind lingered on the uneasy absence.
Finally, unable to shake the concern, Harry stood and softly said to Teddy, “I’ll be right back,” and headed upstairs.
He knocked gently on Draco’s door. “Draco, dinner’s ready,” he called, waiting patiently. When there was no response, Harry tried the handle—unlocked. Slowly, he pushed the door open.
Draco was seated on the edge of his bed, his back to the door. He had changed into his loungewear, but his styled hair and the rigid set of his shoulders betrayed that he hadn’t managed to wash away the day’s turmoil. His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, and as Harry looked closer, he saw the faint puffiness around his eyes, the deliberate blinking—clear signs that Draco had been crying.
A pang tightened in Harry’s chest, but he didn’t press for answers. Instead, he spoke quietly, “You alright?”
Draco exhaled sharply, as if irritated by the question, and stood, moving toward his dresser as though searching for something to anchor him. “I’m fine,” he muttered. “I just lost track of time.”
Harry folded his arms, though his tone remained gentle. “You went to see your mother today, didn’t you?” he ventured, more as an observation than an accusation. It had to be about Narcissa—what else could have unsettled Draco so?
Draco finally glanced over his shoulder, something dark flickering in his expression. But he said nothing, simply pressed his lips together and turned back to the dresser.
Harry studied him, debating. Pushing wasn’t the answer, not with Draco. So, instead, he tried something else. “You want me to bring you something up here?”
That got Draco’s attention. He hesitated, his fingers tightening against the wood of the dresser. Finally, he shook his head. “No. I’ll come down.”
Harry nodded and stepped aside, letting Draco decide when to follow.
By the time Draco reached the dining table, Teddy was already in his seat, swinging his legs under his chair, his plate half-finished. He brightened instantly. “You took forever! I'm hungry.”
Draco managed a small, forced smile. “Oh no, we can't afford to have a hungry monster!"
Teddy giggled, but Harry’s gaze lingered on Draco, reading the tension in his still form. Draco sat too still, hands folded neatly in his lap, his gaze drifting beyond the table as Teddy launched into his latest cheerful story about books, dreams, and pet shop adventures. Draco nodded and hummed at appropriate moments, but his plate remained untouched.
Finally, Harry set his fork down. “Not hungry?” he asked softly, careful not to sound accusatory.
Draco blinked, as if just realizing he hadn’t eaten. He glanced at his untouched plate and gave a dismissive shrug. “I had something earlier,” he replied, but his tone was flat.
Harry didn’t believe it. But knew better than to press Malfoy.
Teddy’s uncertain eyes flicked between them. “Don’t like it?” he asked.
Instantly, Draco’s expression shifted. With a sweet smile he reserved only for the kid, he ruffled Teddy’s hair. “Don’t be ridiculous. Harry's food is always great,” he said, his voice attempting lightness.
Teddy’s smile returned, and he went back to his meal. Harry, however, quietly observed Draco—the rigidity in his posture, the distant look in his eyes—and silently vowed that when Teddy was asleep, he’d gently try to help Draco unload whatever he was carrying. But for now, on this New Year’s Day, Harry respected Draco’s space. He had learned that sometimes, silence was the kindest comfort one could offer.
The dinner went on with Teddy chattering cheerfully, the soft clink of cutlery and murmurs of conversation filling the room. Outside, the day was new and hopeful, yet inside, the quiet tension between them spoke of secrets and shattered trust. And while Harry’s gentle presence hinted at care and understanding, Draco’s storm of emotions remained hidden behind carefully constructed composure—a New Year’s promise unfulfilled, waiting for the moment when words might finally break the silence.
It was almost 11:00 PM, and the house had finally quieted down. After dinner, Draco took charge of putting Teddy to bed while Harry cleaned up the kitchen with a steady rhythm that belied his inner concern and made some early preparations for the next day's meals. Outside, the cold of New Year’s Day deepened into the night, and inside, the soft glow of lamps and the fading hum of the day created a fragile cocoon of warmth.
Harry, not wanting Draco to be alone with his turbulent thoughts, gathered Draco’s favorite tea and a small plate of biscuits—Morgana had bought them when Draco was visiting his mother. He moved upstairs with quiet determination, each step measured and careful, until he reached Draco’s closed bedroom door.
He knocked softly. “Draco?” His voice was gentle, tentative.
A pause, then a faint rustle from within. The door opened just a crack, and Harry caught a glimpse of Draco’s profile in the soft light—a face that was still guarded, still marred by unshed tears, yet not entirely impervious. Harry offered a small, reassuring smile as he held out the tea and biscuits.
“Come have a bite with me,” Harry said softly. “It’s New Year’s. Let’s try to welcome the new day together.”
Draco stood in the doorway. His eyes flickered with conflicting emotions—pain, anger, and something fragile that hinted at longing. Finally, with a slow exhale, he stepped aside, and the door opened wider. In the ensuing silence, the teacup's gentle clink and the city's distant echo mingled with the quiet rustle of their breaths.
They sat together on the edge of the bed. Harry left enough space so as not to intrude, but remained close, offering a silent presence. For a while, they simply sat, the tea growing cool in its cup, the biscuits untouched as the weight of unspoken words filled the space.
At length, Draco broke the silence. His voice was low, careful—each word measured as if it had to pass through a filter of both anger and sorrow. “You knew about Morgana, didn’t you?” he asked, his tone not immediately raised, but laced with a simmering tension.
Harry’s eyes softened with quiet concern. “What do you mean?” he replied gently.
Draco’s gaze dropped, and his fingers unconsciously tightened against the fabric of the bedspread. “She was a spy for the Ministry.” His voice was initially quiet, but each syllable carried a growing edge of betrayal.
A heavy pause followed before Harry asked, “Why would they—?”
The blond ignored the question. If anyone should answer that, it was Harry himself. He was part of the mess they called a government. “You knew?” he asked impaciantly.
Harry’s tone suddenly shifted, his eyes flashing with fierce anger as he said, “I didn’t,” he said fiercely. “But if I had, I would’ve burned the Ministry down before letting them hurt you.”
For a heartbeat, Draco froze. A part of him recoiled at the raw fury in Harry’s words—a fury so intense that it terrified him, even as he tried desperately to convince himself that Harry was merely putting on a show.
What else were you supposed to do when Harry Potter says this?
Unable to contain it any longer, Draco abruptly pushed himself to his feet. His movements were jerky and raw, his voice cracking as he spat, “Yet, you’re just standing there. It’s easy to talk.” His words trembled with bitterness, as if he were daring Harry to reveal some anger—to hate him as fiercely as he hated himself.
He felt pathetic to have trusted Morgana, and look where that got him. He should know better. He did know better.
Draco’s anger surged, his mind a maelstrom of hurt and betrayal. He felt a wave of bitter paranoia: What if trusting someone meant opening the door to more betrayal?
He couldn’t bear that risk again. Torn by conflicting impulses, he felt compelled to push Harry away, to force a reaction—a sign of anger, perhaps hatred—that might justify his own rage.
So he did the only thing he could, the only thing he knew—he tried to make Harry leave.
Hatred for himself, for letting this happen.
Hatred for Morgana, for making him believe, for proving him right.
And hatred for Harry, for not leaving.
Draco’s fingers twitched at his sides. “You think you can fix this? You think you can fix me?”
Draco hated it. Hated him for it.
His fists curled. “Fucking say something.”
And then, as if drawn by some unspoken compulsion, Harry stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him. It wasn’t tentative or hesitant—it was an unreserved, firm embrace that spoke of unconditional care.
Draco froze. His body locked up, every muscle coiled in painful tension. He felt Harry’s warm hands in the fabric of his shirt, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against his shoulder. In that moment, tears threatened to spill, a sharp, splintering sound clawing up his throat—a blend of a gasp and a quiet sob. His hands trembled, hovering for a heartbeat before instinctively clinging to the back of Harry’s shirt, as if anchoring himself to that gentle certainty.
He didn’t want this. He couldn’t bear the vulnerability. And yet, he needed it. In that fragile instant, Draco allowed himself to be held, even as his mind screamed that trusting again was a mistake.
Harry shifted, his fingers twitching at his sides, before softly asking, “Can I sleep here?”
Draco didn’t respond immediately; he only flicked his guarded gaze toward Harry before giving a short, hesitant nod.
For a long while, they sat there in wordless vigil, studying each other. Each searched for discomfort or hesitation, for any sign that this fragile intimacy was not okay. It never came.
Then, as if the implications of his request finally settled in, Harry cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean—I mean, just sleep. I just… want to be here. Nothing more.”
Draco turned his head slowly, his eyes half-lidded and unreadable. Then, barely above a whisper, he asked, “What if I want more?”
Harry’s breath caught in his throat; his lips parted slightly as he searched Draco’s face for any sign of jest, but found only raw vulnerability. “You’re having a breakdown,” Harry finally managed.
Draco hummed in amusement, or maybe sheer exhaustion. “What if I wasn’t?”
“But you are.”
Draco let his head fall back against the pillow, closing his eyes as if to shut out the painful storm inside him. “It’s strange,” he admitted quietly.
“What is?”
“I feel like I shouldn’t trust anyone. Not after this.” His voice faded into a murmur. “But I have this idiotic desire to trust you.”
Harry’s breath hitched again. He didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on Draco’s profile as the moonlight streamed through the window, casting soft shadows across his face and highlighting the faint sheen of dried tears. Finally, in a quiet, resolute tone, Harry said, “You can. Trust me, I mean.”
They fell silent, the weight of every unspoken word filling the space between them. In the quiet, Harry’s eyes drifted to the small plate of biscuits he’d brought—a spare that Morgana, in an ironic twist of fate, had once baked. He almost smiled at the absurdity, but the smile faded quickly, replaced by a solemn resignation as he set the biscuit aside, letting the silence speak its language.
Outside, the night erupted in the sound of fireworks—explosions of crimson, gold, and silver scattering across the sky. Their boisterous celebration echoed off distant buildings and filled the street with the clamor of Muggles reveling in the New Year. The contrast was stark: while the world outside celebrated loudly, inside the room, every sound was hushed, every breath measured, as if the universe was holding its breath.
Draco’s gaze remained fixed on the shifting patterns of light dancing across the window. Slowly, his eyelids grew heavy; the soft glows and fleeting bursts of color reflected off his troubled features. Gradually, he leaned forward until his hand found Harry’s. Their fingers entwined in a silent plea for comfort, a desperate connection in the midst of inner torment. Draco’s head drooped against the pillow within moments, his breath evening out as sleep claimed him—a fragile surrender after hours of battling the tempest within.
Harry stayed awake a while longer, his own heart burdened with unsaid thoughts. In the quiet, he allowed the raw anger to simmer within him—anger at Morgana for her betrayal, anger at himself for ever having trusted, anger at a system that forced deceit and shattered hope. Thoughts of confronting Kingsley flared briefly in his mind—visions of righteous fury—but then he paused, questioning what difference it would truly make. After all, if the Ministry could send another spy, what did it matter if he vented his anger? At the same time, how could he carry on as if nothing in his home—his family—had been tainted by such treachery?
For a brief, fragile moment, they shared a silent acknowledgment of how strange it was that Draco had slipped from enemy to stranger, and somehow, to family—and somewhere in between, Harry had found himself falling in love.
But for now, all that mattered was this quiet intimacy, the bittersweet hope of healing amidst betrayal. They sat in that fragile silence as the fireworks continued to burst outside, each explosion a reminder that even the darkest nights can give way to the light of a new day.
…
Harry woke slowly, the remnants of sleep fading as he became aware of the quiet intimacy around him. As his eyes adjusted to the soft light, he found himself appreciating the vulnerable, fragile curve of Draco’s sleeping face—a face that had been hardened by anger and betrayal just hours before, and yet now lay relaxed and almost peaceful in sleep. Harry’s heart softened as he remembered the tumultuous night: the raw fury, the desperate need to trust despite the sting of Morgana’s betrayal, and the overwhelming comfort he had found in holding Draco, even as his own anger threatened to boil over.
In that silent moment, Harry let the bitterness of the previous night dissolve into something gentler. It was a stark contrast to the raucous, chaotic New Year celebrations he remembered from the Weasleys’ home—a clamor of laughter, shouting, and exuberant noise. Here, in this quiet sanctuary, the only sound was the soft tick of the clock and the steady, even breathing of the man he was beginning to love. The peace that had taken hold was fragile yet profound, filling Harry with a cautious hope.
Before long, the silence was broken by the excited thump of little feet and the creak of a door swinging open. Teddy burst into the room, his eyes alight with energy despite a night of restless sleep. “Dwaco, I want pancake!” he exclaimed, his voice a burst of joyful urgency.
Draco let out a half-choked noise as Teddy scrambled between them, grinning down at them both with wild, bed-tousled hair.
"You’re both still sleeping?" Teddy gasped in exaggerated disbelief. His hair flickered from blue to a bright, golden yellow—his default color for happiness. "It’s morning! Dwaco promised pancakes!"
Harry rubbed his eyes, barely processing what was happening before Teddy pressed his tiny hands against Draco’s shoulder and started shaking him insistently.
"Draco! Pancakes!"
Draco groaned, burying his face into the pillow as if he could will himself back to sleep. "Go bother Harry, imp," he muttered, voice still hoarse with sleep.
Harry opened his mouth to protest but decided against it when Draco gave a smug, half-awake smirk.
That was when Teddy seemed to fully take in how they were both lying in the same bed. His eyes widened with sudden realization. "Wait—why are you here? Hawwy have a nightmare?"
Draco’s cheeks flushed pink. Harry coughed, scrambling upright. “Er—no. Just… talking. Late.”
The moment hung heavy until Teddy’s enthusiasm broke through once more. “So, pancakes? You promised pancakes!” Teddy demanded, his earlier confusion forgotten in his excitement.
Draco sighed, exasperation mingling with reluctant amusement as he swung his legs off the bed and slowly stood. “Fine,” he said curtly. “I suppose I can make some pancakes.”
“And I suppose I have to go too, and make sure you don’t hex a pan. Again,” Harry added with a teasing glint.
Outside, the distant sounds of morning traffic and voices of passersby underscored the promise of a new day—a day that was calm and full of tentative hope. As Draco reluctantly rolled up his sleeves and set about making the promised pancakes, Teddy’s excited chatter filled the room, and Harry worked quietly by his side, both Draco and Harry found themselves caught between the bitter residue of the past and the fragile possibility of healing—a strange, painful, and unexpectedly tender new beginning.
The Weasley family’s New Year mornings were a symphony of chaos—firewhisky toasts, George’s leftover pranks, and Molly’s boisterous voice cutting through the noise. But here, in this kitchen, the quiet felt almost sacred. Draco mixed the batter with a small frown, a sign of someone who wasn't sure about what they were doing, while Harry leaned against the counter, nursing a cup of black coffee as if it were a lifeline. Teddy sat atop the table, legs swinging, happily recounting Draco’s “epic” bedtime story from the night before.
“And then the dragon—” Teddy declared, waving a syrup-coated spoon, “—breathed sparkles instead of fire, and the knight hiccuped rainbows!”
“Sparkles?” Harry raised an eyebrow at Draco, who only muttered, “I was tired. Sparkles are… festive.”
“Festive. Right,” Harry snorted.
Teddy giggled and kicked his heels. “Draco does voices! The knight sounded just like Uncle Ron—‘Blimey, that’s a lot of glitter!’”
Draco’s retort was lost to the moment, as he was locked in combat with a rebellious pancake. With great determination and poor technique, he attempted to flip it—each move more clumsy than the last. Harry leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, sipping his coffee and watching the spectacle with amusement and detachment.
For all his efforts, Draco still sucked at cooking. He’d been improving, but breakfast food clearly wasn’t his forte.
“I don’t understand,” Draco muttered, frowning at the pan. “I followed the instructions.”
“You burned it.”
Draco sighed dramatically. “Yes, thank you, Potter. I never would have noticed.”
Teddy peered over, wide-eyed. “It looks like a monster!”
Draco shot him a glare. “Only the taste matters.”
Harry smirked. “Last time, you hexed a pan; today, only the pancake is sacrificed. That’s progress.”
Draco tossed his hair dramatically. “I don’t need to know how to cook if I’m this stunning.”
“Of course, you’ll survive on beauty alone,” Harry snorted.
“Well, at least you didn’t deny I’m stunning.”
“You are good-looking,” Harry shrugged.
Draco paused. “Oh. Well. Obviously, but I wasn’t expecting you to admit it so easily.”
Teddy, completely oblivious to their flirting, poked Draco’s arm. “Burning!”
“Merlin!” Draco scrambled to flip the pancake, but it was too late—the pan smoked and the pancake, if it could even be called that, looked like a mummified relic.
Harry sighed, setting his tea down and nudging Draco aside. “Alright, move.”
Draco, ever the dramatist, took a seat and crossed his legs, adopting the air of an esteemed food critic—certainly not someone who needed step-by-step instructions to boil pasta. He sipped his tea and sighed. “That’s why being attractive is so inconvenient. How am I supposed to learn anything when I’m constantly surrounded by admirers?”
Harry flipped a perfectly formed pancake onto a plate. “Open your mouth. Your personality will drive them away.”
Teddy cackled.
Draco gaped. “Excuse me?”
“Mean!” Teddy gasped through giggles.
“It’s not mean, it’s true,” Harry said innocently.
Draco swatted Harry with a tea towel, and Teddy laughed. Still giggling, he reached for the mixing bowl and, in his enthusiasm, knocked a bag of flour off the counter. The bag hit the floor with a soft ‘poof’ before exploding into a cloud of white dust.
The room went silent.
Teddy’s hair turned bright pink in his panic. “Uh-oh.”
Draco hissed as flour rained down on his perfectly tailored robe. “Potter!”
Harry sighed and shook his head, surveying the kitchen disaster. “Yep. Should’ve seen that coming. Totally my fault.”
Draco never blamed Teddy, no matter what happened. It was always Harry’s fault.
…
The faint scent of flowers Neville had brought that afternoon filled St. Mungo’s hospital room. He explained that flowers shift color based on the feelings of people around them, like when Blaise glared at them for being “obnoxiously cheerful.” Now, in the dim evening light, they glowed soft indigo, casting shadows over Blaise’s bandaged torso as he leaned back against the pillows, teacup in hand.
Neville leaned against the wall near the foot of the bed, arms crossed, listening as Blaise recounted another Slytherin common room debacle.
“—and Pansy changed the password and only the girls knew. We stood there for an hour, Draco hexing the wall like a madman, while the first-years cried about missing curfew. Brilliant, but god, she was insufferable about it.”
Neville chuckled, stirring a spoonful of honey into his tea. “Gryffindor tried something like that once. Seamus charmed the portrait hole to sing insults if you didn’t know the password. Lasted a day before McGonagall made him undo it.”
“Typical Gryffindor. No subtlety.” Blaise’s eyes flickered to Neville’s hands—calloused, dirt still under the nails from hours in the greenhouse. “Pansy’s pranks were art. She’d convince first-years the Giant Squid was allergic to pumpkin juice, then watch them dump the entire Halloween feast into the lake.”
“Sounds like you were the only sane one.”
“Sane?” Blaise snorted. “I was cleaning up their messes. Pansy’s advice was trouble. ‘Just Confundus this prefect, Blaise, it’ll be fun!’ Next thing I know, Draco’s in Dumbledore’s office explaining why a first-year is dancing to Celestina Warbeck.”
A genuine laugh from Neville softened Blaise’s smirk into something dangerously close to a smile. The flowers on the sill brightened to gold. As Neville moved to adjust the herbs, he almost brushed Blaise’s ankle—but caught himself before his touch lingered. Instead, a quiet pause fell between them.
“The Healers said you can leave soon.” He tried again. Last time, the conversation hadn't gone well, but Blaise seemed more receptive now.
“I heard.”
“I’m not offering out of obligation,” Neville interrupted, gentle but firm. “The cottage has space. No stairs. No Aurors. And it’s… quiet.”
Blaise’s jaw tensed, pride warring with pragmatism. Before he could retort, the ivy framing the door shivered—a silent alarm. Neville straightened, wand slipping into his palm. Draco slipped inside, soundless as a shadow.
“You’re late,” Blaise said, but the bite in his voice faltered.
“I had to detour through the whole hospital,” Draco snapped, though his eyes betrayed relief. He nodded to Neville. “The Doxy nest in the east wing worked. Aurors are occupied.”
Neville smirked. “Told you they’d swarm for honeywater.”
Without preamble, Draco strode into the room, tossed his cloak over a chair, and hooked an arm around Blaise’s shoulders, pulling him into a brief but firm embrace. It was barely three seconds, but the way his fingers curled slightly, gripping the fabric of Blaise’s shirt before letting go, said more than words could.
Blaise stiffened at first, fingers tightening on the bedsheet, but then exhaled, just slightly.
“Still alive, then?” Draco said, his voice steady, but his gaze flickered over Blaise’s face, searching for something.
“Unfortunately,” Blaise muttered with a small smile.
Neville stared. This was the same man who’d turned bone-white when a Healer grazed his wrist days prior.
Blaise stiffened as Draco’s fingers brushed the edge of his bandages, peeling them back with precision. Neville lingered near the door, watching silently as Draco tutted at the half-healed gashes, his touch firm, unapologetic. Years of shared dormitories, patching each other up after curses went wrong or midnight duels, had carved a familiarity that bypassed Blaise’s usual recoil. Draco’s touch was matter-of-fact, transactional, and safe.
“Still using that awful cologne, I see,” Blaise muttered, his voice tighter than he’d like.
“Still criticizing it, I see,” Draco replied, unwinding the gauze. His fingers brushed Blaise’s ribs, and Blaise’s breath hitched—a split-second fracture in his composure. Draco paused. “Breathe, Zabini. Or I’ll hex you into a coma and do this properly.”
Blaise smirked, sharp and hollow. “You’d miss my commentary.”
Draco ignored him, continuing to change the bandages. The wounds, laced with dark magic, resisted full healing, so they had to rely on basic spells and Muggle treatments—something Draco had become frustratingly adept at.
“The scarring’s minimal,” Draco said finally, smoothing the bandage. “You’ll live.”
“Disappointed?”
“Ecstatic. Now I don’t have to endure Pansy’s eulogy.” Draco straightened, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. “She’s drafting it in French, by the way. To ‘honor your pretentiousness.’”
Blaise snorted, some of the tension leaving his frame. “Tell her I want peacocks at the funeral. And old whiskey.”
“She’ll hex me if I suggest anything less.”
Draco stayed a little longer, the conversation shifting into murmured updates about Pansy’s latest tantrum, his failed pancakes in the morning, and how Teddy was doing. Gave him some snacks. Nothing too personal, as both were aware of Neville in the room — who offered to step outside.
But the minutes slipped by too quickly, and Draco’s gaze kept flickering toward the door, wary.
Eventually, he exhaled, frustration lining his features. “I should go. If the Aurors track me here, they’ll make this a spectacle.”
Blaise’s smirk turned wry. “Coward.”
Draco huffed. “See if I bring you contraband again.” He nudged a small, wrapped parcel onto the nightstand—something unmistakably expensive and undoubtedly smuggled.
Then, with a final squeeze to Blaise’s shoulder, brief but grounding, Draco was gone.
Later, when Draco had gone, Blaise picked at his bandages, his voice deceptively casual. “Say what you want, Longbottom.”
“You let him touch you.” Not an accusation, more like observation and curiosity.
Blaise’s laugh was a blade. “He’s Draco. He doesn’t touch people. He… announces himself. Like a portkey with bad manners.”
“But you allow it.”
Silence. The enchanted chrysanthemums on the sill bled from gold to stormy gray.
“He doesn’t care,” Blaise said at last, quiet, venomous. “He never tiptoe or whisper. Never treat me like glass.” His nails gouged half-moons into his palm. “So I let him.”
Neville understood then. Draco’s hugs weren’t comfort—they were defiance. A middle finger to the past that demanded Blaise flinch.
…
Back at Grimmauld Place, Harry kept a careful eye on his enchanted pocket watch—a little device that now ticked down the minutes until Draco’s expected return. Normally, Harry never knew exactly what he was fighting about, but today, he knew. He would start this fight on purpose.
At 5 pm, the watch showed 3:00:00.
Draco had lingered in the doorway, his silver cufflink catching the light as he mumbled, “Visiting Mother.”
Harry, ever casual despite the tension, had replied, “Right. Tell her Teddy drew her a peacock. Or something.”
Draco’s smirk had been distant. “She’ll frame it beside the family tapestry. Touching.”
At 6 pm, it showed 2:00:00.
Harry had stood in St. Mungo’s sterile lobby, the receptionist’s smile sharpening as she repeated, “No one by that name visited today.”
The lie curdled in his gut. He’d nearly stormed off to Blaise’s room—almost—but with Teddy happily clinging to him, he couldn’t bear for the little one to see such anger. So, he waited a little longer, then returned home to make dinner.
Now:
The watch burned “0:00” into Harry’s palm just as the front door groaned open. There, silhouetted against the pouring rain, stood Draco—his collar damp, his presence unmistakably heavy.
“How was your mother?” Harry asked.
Draco froze for a heartbeat; one glove lay half-off, and with a twitch of his fingers, any trace of a hidden wrapper vanished. “Alive. Thrilled by Teddy’s art. And you?”
For a moment, Harry feigned absorption in his plate while Teddy munched happily. Then, with measured intent, Harry prodded, “So I’m just asking—you went to see Zabini?”
Draco’s cool reply came swiftly: "I don’t know what you mean. Blaise and I are estranged, per Ministry.”
Harry’s gaze hardened as Teddy repeated the word ‘stranged’ giggling as he said it sounded funny—neither of the adults stopped the kid. Leaning forward, Potter cut in, “They’re reopening Zabini’s case.”
“How thrilling. Send my regards to Blaise.” The blond didn’t look up from his plate.
Harry’s jaw tightened. “I closed it once. I can do it again.”
Draco’s hand stilled. He finally met Harry’s gaze, eyes turning icy. In a low, venomous tone, he added, “The Savior’s generosity.”
Before the argument could escalate further, Harry cleared his throat. “Teddy, if you’re finished, go to your room. The adults need to talk.”
Teddy’s small face twisted in a mix of uncertainty and stubborn defiance. He hesitated, eyes flitting between Harry and Draco. Draco gently signaled him to stay. “We have nothing to talk about. You can stay, Ted,” he murmured, his tone softening as he ruffled the boy’s hair.
“Go, Teddy,” Harry insisted firmly.
“Stay,” Draco countered, his tone equally insistent.
Teddy, caught in the middle of their conflicting commands, looked around in bewilderment. His bright eyes were wide with confusion as he struggled to decide what to do. “I wanna be estranged too!” the little one declared with delighted mischief.
“Ask your dad,” Harry muttered dryly. “He’s an expert.”
Draco flicked his wand, transfiguring the spilled sugar cubes into a procession of miniature peacocks that paraded across the table. “Estranged means… avoiding someone very boring, Imp.”
“Like broccoli?” Teddy asked, his earnest tone drawing a brief, amused pause.
“Exactly,” Draco replied with a brittle smirk.
The discussion could have finished there, but Harry didn’t let it. His voice rose, edged with mounting exasperation. “You look too proud of this reckless act, Draco.”
Draco tilted his head, his smirk deepening into a cold laugh. “Ah, yes. Harry Potter—the boy whose brilliant ideas include ‘Let’s ride a dragon to invade Gringotts’ and ‘Sure, let’s duel the Dark Lord at seventeen’—is calling me reckless.”
“This isn’t a joke,” Harry hissed, leaning forward. “If the Aurors had caught you—”
"They didn't," Draco cut in, his tone dismissive.
“Uncle Ron says Hawwy is ‘reck-less’ too!” Teddy announced, his small voice full of innocent mirth.
“Teddy,” they snapped in unison, the admonition more amused than severe.
Harry exhaled slowly. “We’re not 17 anymore. We have a child.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed.” Draco stood abruptly, his eyes flashing with a mix of exasperation and dry humor. “Next time I plan a felony, I’ll owl you.”
“I would be grateful!” Harry shot back.
And he meant it. He knew why Draco had gone—because he cared. Because he couldn’t sit by while Blaise suffered. Harry would have done the same if it were Ron. But Harry had expected more. Not permission, not approval, just trust. He had thought Draco would at least let him know, let him cover for him, let him help.
Harry’s voice dropped, quieter now, steadier. “I wouldn’t have stopped you, Draco. I just—hell, I probably would’ve helped. But you didn’t even let me try.”
Draco stilled. Just for a moment.
“I don’t need your help, Potter.” His voice was clipped, but Harry caught the hesitation beneath it.
“I thought we were in this together, Draco. We are family.”
“‘Amily” Teddy said, sounding like he understood everything about this.
Something flickered across Draco’s face—something too raw to name. “I don’t need you betraying your precious duty as an Auror to cover for me.”
Because this wasn’t just about avoiding Aurors or sneaking past Ministry regulations.
Draco hadn’t told him because he hadn’t wanted to put Harry in the position of choosing—his duty or Draco. And worse, because Draco hadn’t wanted to see what Harry would choose.
Harry leaned back, fingers tapping once against the table before he said, calm and deliberate, “So I’m going to quit.”
Draco blinked. “What?” He had heard him. He just needed to be sure.
“If your problem with trusting me comes from my job, I can quit.”
Draco’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not.”
Draco exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair. “You—you can’t just say things like that, Potter.”
“Why not? You think I wouldn’t choose you?” Harry’s voice softened. “Draco…”
But Draco was already heading for the stairs.
Harry sighed and sat back down. Teddy, syrup smeared across his cheek, tugged at his sleeve.
“Dwaco’s sad,” he said solemnly.
Harry ruffled his hair, letting out a tired chuckle. “He’s stubborn.”
Teddy grinned. “Hawwy too.”
Harry glanced at his watch, still frozen at 00:00. A silent reminder that this wasn’t over. Not really.
But at least Draco knew now—he would have chosen him.
…
Harry barely slept. His mind had been a whirlwind all night, thoughts spinning in endless loops until he finally gave in—quill in hand, parchment spread before him, determined to put his turmoil into words. The candle on his desk had long since burned down to a stub, a small pool of wax hardened at its base. His notes from the night lay scattered across the table—half-finished sentences, scratched-out lines, all circling the same idea.
Quitting.
He dropped into the chair, picked up his quill, and frowned at the parchment in front of him. He had spent the night trying to map out what leaving would look like—how long it would take to clear his cases, what he'd say to Kingsley, to Robards, to everyone .
He wasn’t even sure if the words would hold weight once spoken aloud. He had spent his whole life stepping into roles others expected of him, and the Auror Corps had been no different. Becoming an Auror had been the natural next step, the path laid out for him. But it wasn't his passion, quitting it wouldn't be a sacrifice, and now that he was truly considering it, he realized he should have done it before.
Effective immediately—
No. Too abrupt.
Due to personal reasons—
Too vague. They’d ask questions.
Harry sighed, tapping the quill against his knuckles. The truth was simple: I don’t want to do this anymore.
And yet, putting it into words felt impossible.
He was still staring at the parchment, lost in thought, when the sharp tap of an owl at the window shattered the quiet. His stomach clenched before he even turned.
Rising quickly, he crossed the room and unlatched the window. A crisp letter, the Ministry’s seal glinting in the low light, was tied to the owl’s leg. His fingers moved automatically, breaking the wax, and unfolding the paper.
His eyes skimmed over the words, and just like that, everything fell apart.
Hastings. Attack ongoing. Casualties unclear. Aurors needed immediately.
The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a faint golden glow over the room. Harry folded the letter and shoved it into his pocket. It wasn’t the first time an attack had interrupted his life—it wouldn’t be the last. But after last night, after telling Draco he was ready to leave, the timing felt cruel.
Still, there was no hesitation. He moved swiftly up the stairs and pushed open Draco’s door without ceremony.
Draco groaned, rolling onto his side. "Potter, if you're waking me up for tea, I will hex you."
"I have to go," Harry said simply.
That got Draco’s attention. He sat up, blinking, then frowned. "What? Why?"
"There was an attack. I don’t know much."
Draco scoffed. “How wonderfully transparent of you.”
There was something unreadable in his tone. Not disbelief, not quite disappointment—just a resigned understanding. Last night, Harry had said he was serious about quitting. Draco hadn't doubted his honesty, but he also hadn't expected it to be easy for him. And now, here was proof.
Draco’s expression was a mask, but Harry saw the flicker beneath it: the ghost of I told you so.
Harry hesitated in the doorway. "I’ll be back as soon as I can."
Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
"You wound me. I’m known for my decision-making."
Draco gave him a flat look.
For a second, neither of them moved. The morning air felt thick, like something unsaid was pressing against it. Draco glanced toward the doorway, then back at Harry, lips parting slightly—like he might say something else. But he didn’t.
“Take care of Teddy,” Harry said, turning to leave. “And no felonies while I’m gone.”
“I’ll save the next one for you,” Draco drawled, but the edge had softened. A promise, not a joke. Next time, I’ll trust you.
A thread of trust, barely there but tangible in the space between them.
Neither of them said anything else. They didn’t need to.
Harry turned and left.
Outside, the world was waking up. And somewhere, someone was already burning it down.