Chapter Text
"Not all of us can do great things. But we can do small things with great love."
— St. Teresa of Calcutta
(I couldn't resist. The woman basically wrote the thesis statement of this chapter. Fred cradling Lyra's head. Draco letting tiny fingers tug her hair. A hand tucked behind an ear. Small things. Great love. That's the whole fic, darlings.)
The Burrow's kitchen smelled like burnt toast and something vaguely floral—probably one of Molly's air-freshening charms gone rogue again. Fred stood in the doorway, shoulder against the frame, and watched his daughter wage war against her own hand.
She was losing.
Her fingers kept uncurling at the wrong moment, splaying wide, and she'd stare at them with an expression of profound betrayal before trying again. A thin string of drool connected her chin to her onesie—the one that said Daddy's Little Menace in letters Ginny had charmed to cycle through colours. Currently: violent orange.
"You'll figure it out," Fred said. His voice came out rougher than he'd intended. "Took your mum six months to stop trying to eat her own hand. Or maybe that was me. Can't remember."
Lyra looked up at him—or rather, in his general direction. Her eyes were still that hazy, unfocused blue, the kind that made her look like she was staring at something slightly to the left of reality. Draco insisted they'd settle into grey. Fred was holding out for something more interesting. Purple, maybe. Or something that glowed.
He crossed the kitchen—three strides, past the table still scattered with the remnants of lunch—and scooped her up. One hand supported her head, the other cradled her against his chest, and she immediately ceased her assault on her own hand in favour of grabbing a fistful of his shirt.
"Oi," he said. "That's a new shirt."
She babbled at him. A sound somewhere between a coo and a gargle, entirely nonsensical.
"Really," he said. "And what did the cat do then?"
More babbling. More enthusiastic. Her free hand waved and caught him in the chin.
"A travesty," Fred agreed. "Absolutely unacceptable. I'll have words with her."
He carried her through to the sitting room. The fire was crackling despite it being June—Hermione's doing, probably, because she'd never quite shaken the habit of making sure everyone was comfortable at all times. Ron was sprawled across the sofa, feet on the coffee table, Rose asleep on his chest. Her tiny face was smooshed against his shirt, her breathing slow and even.
"Don't wake her," Ron said, voice pitched low. "Took an hour to get her down. I had to sing."
"Sing?" Fred raised an eyebrow, settling Lyra more securely against his shoulder. She grabbed a handful of his collar and tugged. He ignored it. "You?"
"Panicked." Ron's ears went pink. "Only thing I could think of. Hermione's going to kill me when she finds out I used Weasley Is Our King as a lullaby."
"It's got a good beat."
"It's about me catching a Quaffle."
"And you caught it." Fred shifted his weight, glancing toward the fireplace. The bag Hermione had packed sat next to a stuffed dragon—the one Draco had bought before Lyra was born and refused to admit was sentimental. "That's more than half the team managed that year."
Ron snorted, then winced as Rose stirred. He rubbed her back in slow circles until she settled. Fred watched the motion—the gentleness of it, the ease—and felt something twist in his chest.
"You alright?" Ron asked.
"Never better."
Ron studied him for a moment. The same assessing look Molly wore when she suspected one of her children was hiding something. But he didn't push. That was the thing about Ron. He knew when to let things lie.
"Draco floo-called earlier," Ron said, and there was something careful in his voice. "Said she'd be late. Minister wanted to discuss the new regulations."
Fred's grip on Lyra tightened. Just slightly. Just enough that she squirmed in protest.
"Right," he said. "She mentioned that."
She hadn't. She'd said she had meetings, plural, and hadn't met his eyes when she said it. He'd let it go. That was what they did—gave each other space, didn't pry, didn't demand explanations for every little thing.
But he'd noticed. He always noticed.
"I should get going." He crossed to the fireplace, bent carefully—one hand still supporting Lyra's head—and scooped up the bag. The stuffed dragon went in after it. "Before this one decides she's hungry again."
"She gets that from you," Ron said.
Fred laughed—a real laugh, startled out of him. "She gets it from Draco. Have you seen her at Ministry dinners? She inhales the hors d'oeuvres."
"Hermione says it's because she's always stressed. Says she eats her feelings."
"She doesn't have feelings. She has opinions." Fred hitched Lyra higher against his chest. "And they're all about how everyone else is doing it wrong."
Ron laughed, then clapped a hand over his mouth as Rose stirred. "Go," he whispered. "Before you wake my daughter and I have to sing again."
The evening air was cool against Fred's face as he stepped outside. Lyra made a small sound of protest at the temperature change, burrowing closer. The sun was setting—orange and pink bleeding into purple—and the garden was full of summer sounds. Crickets. The distant hum of the village. Leaves rustling in the breeze.
Fred stood on the doorstep for a moment, breathing it in. The smell of grass. The smell of home.
Lyra's hand found his cheek.
It wasn't a slap, exactly. More of an exploration—her palm patting against his stubble, her fingers curling and uncurling against his skin. She did this sometimes. Mapping out the shape of him.
It was such a small thing. Barely enough to sting.
"Oh, you're a little troublemaker, aren't you?" he said, voice thick.
He pressed his nose against her chubby cheek. She smelled like baby powder and milk and something else—something indefinably her. He breathed it in.
She was warm. Solid. Real.
He adjusted his hold on her—one hand supporting her head, the other tucked under her bottom—and turned toward the car.
"Come on, little cloud," he said softly. "Let's go home to Mama."
The car was an old Muggle sedan Arthur had picked up at a junkyard sale a few years back. He'd restored it in the shed, tinkering with the engine on weekends, and Fred had learned to drive it during the war—when Apparition was too risky and Floo was monitored. He'd kept up the habit even after. There was something calming about it. The steady hum of the engine. The feel of the road.
He strapped Lyra into her car seat—a Muggle contraption Draco had researched extensively before declaring it "acceptable"—and she fussed for a moment before settling. Her eyes drifted toward the window.
The drive home was quiet. Ottery St Catchpole was small enough that it barely counted as a drive at all, but Fred took the long way. Past the church. Past the pub. Past the field where he and George had once set off an entire crate of Filibuster Fireworks and blamed it on a rogue hippogriff.
Lyra watched the world go by with wide eyes. Her tiny brow was furrowed, like she was trying to catalogue every tree, every house, every star just beginning to appear in the darkening sky.
"We'll be home soon," Fred said. "And Mama will be there, and she'll pretend she wasn't worried, but she'll hold you for an hour and not let go. She does that. Thinks I don't notice."
Lyra made a sound. Not quite a word, but close.
"She's not as tough as she pretends to be," Fred continued. The words felt dangerous, like a secret he shouldn't be telling. "But don't tell her I said that. She'll hex me."
More babbling. Agreement, probably.
Fred smiled. It felt fragile on his face.
The house was dark when they arrived.
Fred parked the car and sat for a moment, staring at the windows. At the empty space where a light should have been. Draco wasn't home yet. He'd known she wouldn't be—she'd said she'd be late—but some small, stubborn part of him had hoped.
He carried Lyra inside, one hand cradling her head, the other fumbling for his wand. The lights flickered on. Their sitting room materialised around them—mismatched furniture, bookshelves overflowing, the framed photo on the mantel of the three of them the day they'd brought Lyra home from St Mungo's.
Draco looked exhausted in that photo. Hair a mess, robes wrinkled, staring at the camera with the kind of murderous expression that suggested she'd rather be anywhere else. But she was holding Lyra, and her grip was careful—so careful—and her eyes, when they flickered down to the baby in her arms, were soft in a way Fred had never seen before.
He looked at that photo every day. Sometimes more than once.
"Alright, little cloud," he said, settling onto the sofa with Lyra in his lap. "Just you and me for a bit. What should we do?"
Lyra grabbed a fistful of his shirt and tried to put it in her mouth.
"Not that." He gently extracted the fabric. "How about a story? I know a good one. It's about a very handsome wizard who—"
The Floo flared green.
Fred looked up.
Draco stepped out of the fireplace.
She was still in her Ministry robes—dark green, tailored, the kind of thing that made her look like she belonged in a boardroom rather than a cottage in the countryside. Her hair was pulled back in a twist that was coming loose at the edges. There were shadows under her eyes.
She looked beautiful. She always looked beautiful.
"You're late," Fred said.
Draco's eyes found Lyra first. They always did. Something in her face shifted—softened, the sharp edges melting into something warmer. She crossed the room in three quick strides and sank onto the sofa beside him. Her hand reached out to brush against Lyra's cheek.
"Hello, little one," she murmured. Her voice was different when she spoke to Lyra. Gentler. Less guarded. "Did you have a good day with your father?"
Lyra babbled at her, reaching for her hair. Draco let her grab it. Let her tug. Didn't even flinch.
"That good, hm?" Her lips curved into something that was almost a smile. "I missed you too."
Fred watched them. Watched the way Draco's shoulders relaxed. The way her whole body seemed to exhale.
"How was the Ministry?" he asked.
Draco's expression flickered. Just for a moment.
"Fine," she said. "Long. The Minister spent forty minutes debating the appropriate thickness of official parchment. Forty minutes, Fred. I counted."
"He's always been an idiot."
"Yes, well." She lifted Lyra from Fred's lap, cradling her against her chest. Lyra went willingly, happily, her small hand finding Draco's collarbone and resting there. "Some things never change."
Fred wanted to ask. Wanted to know what was wrong, what had been wrong for weeks now, what she wasn't telling him. But he'd learned—slowly, painfully—that pushing Draco only made her retreat further. She'd tell him when she was ready. She always did.
Instead, he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
She went still. Just for a moment.
"I missed you," he said quietly.
Draco's eyes met his. Grey. Guarded. But not cold. Never cold, not with him.
"I know," she said. "I missed you too."
She leaned into him—just slightly, just enough that her shoulder pressed against his. Fred rested his chin against her shoulder, letting his eyes close. Lyra babbled nonsense between them, a soft, rhythmic sound that filled the quiet room.
Draco's hand found his. Her fingers laced through his, cold and familiar, and she didn't say anything else.
Neither did he.