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Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy moved like a shadow through the castle corridors, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his robes to keep them from trembling.

The halls of Hogwarts were different at night.

Gone was the relentless hum of chatter in the Great Hall, the laughter that turned to whispers when he passed, the cold glances that reminded him—you do not belong here.

In the silence, he could almost pretend.

Pretend that Hogwarts was just a school, that he was just another student, that his name wasn’t spoken with disdain. But the illusion never lasted.

Even in the dark, the castle still bore its scars.

The stone walls, once polished and proud, now carried the ghosts of battle—cracks running through them like veins, lingering scorch marks where curses had burned too deep to be scrubbed away. Some of the corridors still smelled faintly of smoke.

It had been months, and yet Hogwarts felt like a ruin trying to pass itself off as whole.

Much like him.

Draco had returned knowing what to expect. He had seen the articles, had heard the murmurs—his family’s disgrace was public knowledge. They had kept their fortune, their titles, but not their power. They had barely escaped Azkaban.

And for what?

So that he could walk these halls again, surrounded by people who wished he wasn’t there?

The first day back had been worse than he’d imagined.

The moment he stepped off the train, the air had thickened with tension, sharp and suffocating. Conversations had halted when he entered a room. He caught the way students stared at his left forearm, the way some reached instinctively for their wands when they saw him.

The only people who didn’t look at him at all were the Slytherins.

His own House had distanced themselves—some out of fear, others out of resentment. Blaise, pragmatic as ever, had informed him that while he bore Draco no ill will, he wouldn’t risk aligning himself with someone as toxic as a Malfoy. Others simply didn’t want to be associated with him, not after everything.

Pansy had transferred to Beauxbatons.
Theo had opted for private tutoring at home.
Daphne and Astoria had been instructed by their parents to avoid him.

Draco wasn’t sure if it hurt more to be feared or ignored.

So, he had learned to keep to himself. He spoke only when necessary. He took his meals at odd hours, when the Great Hall was nearly empty. He left no room for confrontation, no opportunity for old rivalries to be rekindled.

But silence alone wasn’t enough.

It didn’t erase the past. It didn’t fix anything.

So, he tried to make amends.

Small things.

Things that no one would notice. Things that wouldn’t change how they looked at him but might make the castle feel a little less broken.

A broken hinge on a Ravenclaw’s desk? Repaired overnight.
A first-year Slytherin who couldn’t afford books? A second-hand copy slipped into their bag.
A Gryffindor struggling with nightmares? A vial of Dreamless Sleep left outside their door.

The school spoke in murmurs of a benevolent ghost, whispering of small, inexplicable kindnesses.

Draco just called it debt.

Tonight, it was a loose floorboard on the third-floor landing.

He had seen a second-year Hufflepuff trip over it earlier, her bag spilling open as she hit the ground. She had rubbed at her ankle, eyes darting around the empty corridor, as if searching for someone to blame.

Draco had watched from the shadows.

And now, after curfew, he returned to fix it.

Kneeling, he ran his fingers along the edge of the board, feeling where the nails had loosened. It was an easy repair—just a whispered spell, a careful nudge of magic to set the wood back into place. The floor shifted, fusing seamlessly with the rest of the corridor, as if it had never been broken at all.

Draco pressed down, testing it. Secure.

He let out a slow breath, his hand lingering against the stone.

Small things. That was all he could do.

But it was never enough.

He stood, dusting off his robes, and turned to leave—only to freeze as the faint sound of footsteps echoed through the corridor.

Draco went still, pulse jumping.

Shit.

He wasn’t supposed to run into anyone. He had planned this carefully, waited until the prefects had finished their rounds, until even the ghosts had grown bored of floating through the halls.

The footsteps grew louder. Shadows stretched across the wall, and then—

Potter.

Draco’s stomach twisted.

Harry Potter was unmistakable, even in the dim torchlight. His hair was the same mess it had always been, sticking up at odd angles like he had just rolled out of bed. His shoulders were squared, his jaw set with determination—like he was still waiting for a fight, even now.

Draco stepped back, pressing himself into the alcove beside a suit of armor. He held his breath, willing himself to disappear.

But Potter wasn’t just passing through.

He was looking.

Not for Draco specifically, but for something.

Draco watched as Potter scanned the corridor, his brow furrowed, his eyes sweeping over the floors and walls as if expecting to find something out of place. He lingered for a moment near where Draco had just been kneeling, tilting his head slightly as if sensing that something had changed.

Draco’s pulse pounded in his ears.

Had Potter noticed? No, he couldn’t have. He had been careful.

And yet—

“I know you’re up to something, Malfoy.”

Draco stiffened. His breath caught, but he forced himself to step out of the alcove, smoothing his expression into something bored.

“Oh? And what exactly do you think I’m up to, Potter?” he drawled, keeping his voice carefully disinterested.

Potter didn’t reply immediately. His gaze flicked over Draco, searching.

Draco hated that.

Potter had always looked at him like that—like he was a puzzle to be solved, a threat to be figured out.

“Dunno yet,” Potter finally admitted, crossing his arms. “But I will.”

Draco smirked, sharp and hollow. “Good luck with that.”

He turned on his heel, slipping into the darkness before Potter could say anything else.

His pulse didn’t slow until he was safely back in the dungeons.

Potter didn’t know.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

Harry Potter was, unsurprisingly, the first to notice.

At first, it was just curiosity.

It had started small. A flicker of something out of place. The way the Slytherin common room never seemed to run out of firewood, even though it was late autumn and the other Houses had already started rationing their supply. The way the House Elves swore someone had been sneaking into the kitchens at odd hours, leaving plates of food out for the first-years who were too shy—or too proud—to admit they were hungry.

Little things. Small enough that no one questioned them.

Except Harry.

Because Harry knew what it was like to have something fixed in the middle of the night. He had grown up with broken things. A pair of too-small glasses held together by spellotape. A cupboard door that only creaked when it wasn’t locked. A shirt with sleeves too long for his arms, a hand-me-down from a cousin who never meant to share.

He knew what it was like for something to be quietly patched up, repaired without a word, like magic you weren’t supposed to talk about.

And so, he noticed.

At first, he didn’t say anything. Maybe it was just coincidence. Maybe some well-meaning Hufflepuff had taken it upon themselves to be the school’s unseen caretaker. Maybe McGonagall was making subtle adjustments to keep morale from slipping.

But then it kept happening.

Someone was fixing things.

Nothing major—nothing big enough to be noticed all at once. But little details, little adjustments, small acts of quiet repair.

A broken quill mended overnight. A forgotten scarf returned to its owner’s bag. A first-year Hufflepuff’s Potion essay, which had been lost in the corridor, somehow finding its way back onto Professor Sprout’s desk before class.

Even more baffling, the anonymity of it all.

Hogwarts students weren’t exactly known for their subtlety. If someone was going to do something good, they’d want credit for it. Even Hermione—who was by far the least attention-seeking of their trio—would have, at the very least, mentioned the existence of a secret school helper.

But whoever this was? They didn’t want to be known.

And that was what made Harry pay attention.

Because he had met very few people in his life who did good for the sake of it. Who didn’t want a reward, a favor in return, or at least an ounce of recognition.

Then came the Longbottom incident.

It was mid-November, and Neville’s Mimbulus Mimbletonia had been dying.

Apparently, the new greenhouse—repaired after the war—wasn’t quite warm enough to support its magical properties. Neville had been beside himself, poring over textbooks for weeks, searching for a solution.

And then, one morning, he had found a slip of parchment tucked into his Herbology book.

On it was a spell.

An old spell. One not typically used in modern preservation techniques, but one that, according to Neville, had worked perfectly.

It had been a Slytherin spell.

And it had been written in handwriting that Harry recognized immediately.

Draco Malfoy’s handwriting.

Malfoy had always written in sharp, slanted strokes—neat, deliberate, like he cared about each letter as much as his own bloody signature. Harry had seen it enough in sixth-year Potions, his own messy scrawl a stark contrast next to Malfoy’s careful notes.

It was him.

And that was when curiosity turned into obsession.

Because Malfoy was not the kind of person who helped people.

At least—not openly.

This was the boy who had spent six years tormenting half the student body. Who had spent an entire year following Voldemort’s orders, standing on the wrong side of everything. Who had looked Harry in the eye and refused to say his name to save his own skin.

And yet—

He was the one doing this.

Not for credit. Not for recognition. Just… doing it.

And that didn’t make sense.

So Harry started paying attention.

Malfoy never did anything where someone could see him. He never took credit, never even hesitated long enough to be thanked. He was careful. If Harry hadn’t been looking, he wouldn’t have noticed at all.

But he was looking.

And eventually, he caught him.

It was late—nearly midnight—when Harry stepped out from behind a bookshelf in the library, blocking Malfoy’s path.

Malfoy stopped short, eyes flashing with irritation. “Merlin’s arse, Potter. Ever heard of personal space?”

Harry held up the parchment. “You’ve got terrible penmanship.”

Malfoy stopped short.

It lasted only a second, but Harry caught it—the slight tensing of his shoulders, the flicker of something sharp in his eyes before his expression smoothed into careful indifference.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He stepped forward, fully intending to brush past Harry like he hadn’t been caught red-handed.

Harry didn’t let him go.

“I know it’s you,” he said, softer this time.

Malfoy barely flinched, but Harry could feel the tension coil in his frame.

Malfoy exhaled through his nose, looking more annoyed than anything. “Congratulations. Would you like a medal?”

Harry studied him, searching for some kind of tell. Malfoy’s face was impassive, but there was something there—something exhausted.

“You fixed Longbottom’s plant,” Harry said. “And the stone in the courtyard. And the missing essays.”

Malfoy didn’t blink. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Harry held up the parchment again. “This is your handwriting, Malfoy.”

Malfoy’s jaw tightened.

For a second, Harry thought he wasn’t going to say anything. Then, in a low voice, he muttered, “And?”

Harry frowned. “And why are you doing this?”

Malfoy huffed a quiet, humorless laugh. “Oh, that’s what you’re after. You don’t care that I’ve been fixing things, you just want to know why.”

“Yes,” Harry said, because obviously.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “And let me guess, you think it’s suspicious.”

“I think it’s weird,” Harry corrected. “Since when do you go around helping people?”

Malfoy’s expression darkened, and for a moment, Harry thought he had actually pushed too far. But instead of snapping, instead of storming off, Malfoy just sighed.

“Because I have to,” he said.

And it was the way he said it—not angry, not defensive, just quiet—that made Harry hesitate.

There was something in his voice that didn’t match the Malfoy he had known.

Something tired.

Something guilty.

“Why?” Harry asked, softer this time.

Malfoy swallowed, his gaze flicking toward the door like he wanted to bolt.

Then, finally—“Because I don’t know how else to exist here.”

Harry frowned. “What do you mean?”

Malfoy laughed, but it wasn’t real. It was hollow, sharp around the edges. “It means, Potter, that everywhere I go, people either hate me or pretend I don’t exist. I can’t change what I did. I can’t make people forget. So I fix things.” He tilted his head. “And if that’s such a problem for you, then by all means, go ahead and turn me in.”

Harry blinked.

It wasn’t the answer he had expected.

He didn’t know what he had expected, but not this. Not Malfoy standing in the library at midnight, looking like he was waiting for Harry to punish him for something no one else had even noticed.

For a second, Harry considered just… letting it go.

But then he thought about Malfoy moving through the castle, alone, fixing things that no one knew were broken.

And for the first time in his life, Harry didn’t see an enemy when he looked at Malfoy.

Didn’t see a rival, or a Death Eater, or even the snobby, arrogant boy who had tormented him for six years.

He just saw someone who was trying.

So instead of walking away, instead of pushing further, Harry simply said—

“Then let me help.”

Malfoy inhaled sharply, his eyes snapping up to meet Harry’s.

“You—” He shook his head, taking a step back. “You what?”

“Let me help,” Harry repeated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Malfoy stared at him, like Harry had just spoken in Parseltongue. “You can’t be serious.”

Harry shrugged. “Why not?”

Malfoy opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “You—you’re Harry Potter.”

“Well spotted,” Harry said dryly.

Malfoy scowled. “I mean, you don’t owe me anything, Potter.”

“Maybe not,” Harry admitted. “But you don’t have to do this alone.”

Malfoy’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

Harry could see him wrestling with it—could see the part of him that wanted to refuse just out of spite. And then—just like that—his walls slammed back into place.

“I think I liked you better when you weren’t paying attention,” Malfoy muttered.

Harry smirked. “Too bad. I’m very annoying when I’m curious.”

“Fantastic,” Malfoy deadpanned. “Add that to the long list of reasons I regret coming back.”

Harry ignored the jab. He had learned long ago that Malfoy’s insults were more habit than anything.

Instead, he tilted his head. “You’re still going to do it, aren’t you?”

Malfoy arched a brow. “Do what?”

Harry gestured vaguely. “Fixing things. Helping people. Being Hogwarts’ ghostly savior.”

Malfoy snorted. “Sounds dramatic when you say it like that.”

“Well, I am dramatic.” Harry grinned. “Didn’t you know?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Yes, Potter, I am painfully aware of that.”

There was a pause.

A charged sort of silence that neither of them quite knew what to do with.

Malfoy sighed, long and slow, and muttered, “You’re a bloody menace, Potter.”

Harry grinned. “I’ve been told.”

Malfoy shook his head, but something about his posture had changed—his shoulders less tense, the sharpness in his gaze slightly duller.

He wasn’t saying yes.

But he wasn’t saying no either.

And that was good enough for Harry.

Chapter Text

Draco had hoped Potter would drop it.

That he’d poke his nose where it didn’t belong, get bored, and move on. That this was just another of his Gryffindor phases—like forming illegal dueling clubs or obsessing over mysterious Half-Blood Princes.

But Potter was like a bloody thestral—once he saw something, he never let it go.

And worse?

He started helping.

At first, it was just annoying.

Draco would arrive to fix something—one of the trick stairs on the fourth-floor landing that had nearly swallowed a second-year whole the day before—only to find Potter already crouched down, wand in hand, murmuring a soft spell under his breath.

Draco had stood at the edge of the staircase, watching in disbelief as the wood shifted, sealing itself seamlessly, as though it had never been broken at all.

Potter glanced up.

“Morning, Malfoy,” he said, far too cheerful for someone fixing castle infrastructure before dawn.

Draco stared at him. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing?”

Potter wiped his hands on his trousers, as if he’d just done something physically demanding. “Fixing things,” he said, shrugging.

Draco scowled. “That’s my job.”

Potter raised a brow. “Since when?”

“Since always.”

“Well,” Potter said, grinning in a way that made Draco’s skin itch, “now it’s a team effort.”

Draco nearly hexed him on the spot.

But Potter didn’t stop.

It wasn’t just the stair.

Draco had started leaving food in the Great Hall for a Ravenclaw who always skipped breakfast—some fourth-year who spent too much time studying and not enough time remembering that human bodies required sustenance. He had been careful, subtle, making sure no one noticed.

Then, one morning, Draco arrived to leave the usual fruit and toast at her spot—only to find that Potter had already done it.

Draco narrowed his eyes at the plate of neatly arranged food.

Potter, sitting a few seats away, sipped his pumpkin juice and smiled over the rim of his goblet.

“Sleep in, Malfoy?”

Draco slid into the seat across from him, voice low. “Why are you doing this?”

Potter set down his goblet. “Because you are.”

Draco clenched his jaw. “That’s not an answer.”

Potter leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. “Sure it is.”

Draco hated him.

He hated that Potter had inserted himself into this—this thing Draco was doing, this penance that was meant to be his alone.

But the worst part?

Potter never judged him for it.

He never said Draco was being foolish. Never called him a coward, never questioned why he was doing it.

He just… helped.

And Draco didn’t know what to do with that.

One night, Draco slipped into the library after hours, planning to mend a section of shelving that had been damaged by a student duel earlier in the week.

He had barely stepped inside when he caught sight of a familiar mop of unruly hair.

Potter was already there.

He was kneeling on the floor, wand drawn, carefully repairing a deep gouge in the wood.

Draco folded his arms, leaning against the nearest bookcase. “And what, pray tell, do you think you’re doing?”

Potter didn’t look up. “Helping.”

Draco scoffed. “You don’t even know what spell to use.”

Potter muttered something under his breath, and the gouge worsened, deepening into an even larger crack.

Draco smirked. “Brilliant work, Potter. Perhaps next you can set fire to the Restricted Section.”

Potter sighed, sitting back on his heels. “Alright, fine. Maybe I need a little help.”

Draco tilted his head. “So now I’m your tutor?”

Potter’s grin was infuriating. “Apparently.”

Draco sighed, moving toward him. He knelt beside Potter, flicking his wand with ease. “It’s Reparifors for minor damage,” he explained, watching as the wood stitched itself back together. “But if the structure is too compromised, you have to reinforce it first with Fixa Statum before sealing the crack.”

Potter nodded, watching him closely. “Got it.”

Draco didn’t like the way Potter looked at him.

Like he wasn’t a puzzle to be solved, or a reminder of things better left forgotten.

Like he was just… a person.

Draco cleared his throat, standing up quickly. “There. Now you can get back to saving the world or whatever else you Gryffindors do for fun.”

Potter smirked. “You are fun, Malfoy. You just don’t know it.”

Draco turned sharply on his heel and left before Potter could see the heat rising in his face.

He tried to put space between them.

He tried to find times when Potter wouldn’t be around, slipping through the castle when he was sure no one else would notice.

But no matter what he did—no matter how careful he was—Potter kept showing up.

Helping.

Fixing things that no one else would.

And Draco—despite himself—kept letting him.

Letting him, even when it made no sense.

Letting him, even when the little part of him that didn’t want help, that wanted to do this alone, kept fighting.

But it wasn’t enough to make him stop.

Not this time.

Draco didn’t know what to do with that.

One night, Draco stayed late in the Astronomy Tower, mending the telescope lenses that had been scratched beyond use. He knew for a fact that Potter had no reason to be there. He was rubbish at Astronomy. Had never once shown an interest in stargazing.

And yet—

“Bit of a perfectionist, aren’t you?”

Draco didn’t startle. He refused to give Potter that satisfaction.

Instead, he exhaled through his nose, not looking up. “You’re unbearable.”

Potter grinned, stepping closer. “I know.”

Draco huffed, turning to face him. “Are you actually following me?”

Potter shrugged, unbothered. “More like… keeping you company.”

Draco crossed his arms. “I don’t need company.”

Potter tilted his head. “Maybe not.” His voice was quieter now, more thoughtful. “But you never tell me to leave.”

Draco opened his mouth. Shut it.

Because Potter was right.

He should tell him to leave. Should put an end to this ridiculous… whatever this was.

But he didn’t.

He just turned back to the telescope, muttering, “At least try not to break anything while you’re here.”

Potter smiled. “No promises.”

Draco still didn’t understand why Potter was doing this.

Didn’t understand what he got out of it.

But Potter had stopped asking why Draco was doing it.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Harry was making a habit of Malfoy.

It wasn’t intentional.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

He wasn’t obsessed. He wasn’t fixated. He was just—concerned.

Which was reasonable, right?

Except now, his friends were noticing.

“You do realize you have a Malfoy problem, right?”

Harry looked up from his barely-touched plate of eggs to find Ron staring at him suspiciously.

He frowned. “What?”

Ron gestured vaguely with his fork. “You have a Malfoy problem.”

Harry scowled. “That’s not a real thing.”

Hermione, sitting across from them, sighed. “It is, actually.”

Harry turned to her, betrayed. “Oh, come on.”

She gave him a knowing look. “Harry, you’ve barely touched your food because you’re too busy staring at Malfoy fixing a quill.”

Harry stiffened. “I am not—”

He cut himself off, because—damn it—he was.

Across the Great Hall, Malfoy sat at the Slytherin table, wand twirling lazily in his fingers as he mended a snapped quill. His head was tilted slightly, brow furrowed in quiet concentration. It was a small thing, insignificant, but Harry had seen it enough times now to recognize the careful precision in Malfoy’s movements.

And, worse, the fact that he was doing it without thinking.

Like it was second nature. Like fixing things had become an unconscious part of his routine.

Harry forced himself to look away.

He grabbed a piece of toast, shoving it into his mouth. “I don’t have a Malfoy problem.”

Ron and Hermione exchanged a look.

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Mate, you literally follow him around.”

Harry choked on his toast. “I do not—”

“You do,” Hermione said, with the exasperated patience of someone who had already accepted this as fact. “And it’s fine, really. We’re just… concerned.”

Harry swallowed, wiping his mouth. “Concerned about what?”

Hermione leaned forward. “That you don’t seem to know why you’re doing it.”

Harry hesitated.

Because, honestly, he didn’t.

It had started with curiosity, then with fixation, and now…

Now, he wasn’t sure what it was.

Because Malfoy let him.

Malfoy let him watch, let him help, let him slip into his space without snapping at him to leave.

And that—that was strange.

That made Harry want to keep showing up.

Ron crunched on a piece of bacon. “So,” he said casually, “do you like him?”

Harry nearly knocked over his goblet. “WHAT?”

Ron grinned. “Just checking.”

Hermione smirked into her tea.

Harry groaned, dragging his hands over his face.

This was not a problem.

Except that it was.

That night, he found Malfoy in the library.

Which, to be fair, was not his fault.

He had been coming back from detention with McGonagall (he may have set off some Weasley fireworks in Filch’s office), but then he saw movement out of the corner of his eye.

And, well. Habit.

Malfoy was crouched beside a table, wand flicking as he mended a broken chair leg. His lips were pressed into a small, focused frown.

Harry sighed, stepping closer. “You know, most people just leave things broken for Filch to deal with.”

Malfoy startled slightly, but only barely. “Salazar's tits, Potter.” He straightened, dusting off his robes. “Why do you keep appearing out of nowhere?”

Harry smirked. “Maybe you’re just predictable.”

Malfoy scoffed. “Right. Because I’m the one with a predictable routine.”

Harry ignored that.

Instead, he gestured at the chair. “What happened?”

Malfoy didn’t answer at first, instead waving his wand with careful precision, watching as the wood mended itself. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “Some fourth-year snapped the leg off this chair last week. Figured it was easier to fix it than listen to Madam Pince complain.”

Harry tilted his head. “So you care about Madam Pince’s complaints now?”

Malfoy scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I care about my own sanity.”

Harry rolled his eyes but didn’t press.

Instead, he sat down in the chair across from Malfoy, watching as he inspected his work. The repaired leg held firm. Malfoy nodded, satisfied, and moved to stand—only for Harry to casually say:

“So. You’re making a habit of this.”

Malfoy froze.

His wand hovered mid-air before he set it down, slow and deliberate. Then he sat back, exhaling sharply.

“Let me guess,” he drawled, resting his elbows on the table. “This is where you interrogate me about my motives again.”

Harry shrugged. “Not really.”

Malfoy blinked. “No?”

Harry tilted his head. “You ever think about doing something else?”

Malfoy scoffed. “What, like Hogwarts’ first official maintenance worker?”

Harry grinned. “Could be a side hustle.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Right. Because I’d love to spend the rest of my life fixing trick stairs and wobbly tables.”

Harry smirked. “Could be worse. You could be an Auror.”

Malfoy snorted. “And spend my life chasing you around? No, thank you.”

Harry laughed, a little surprised by the ease of it. Malfoy didn’t usually joke like this—not with him.

But lately, things were shifting.

Lately, Malfoy wasn’t just tolerating Harry’s presence.

He was letting him in.

And Harry—despite every rational part of his brain telling him to let it go—kept coming back.

Kept showing up.

Kept noticing.

And the worst part?

Malfoy let him.

Chapter Text

Somewhere along the way, it stopped being just atonement.

It started being them.

Draco didn’t know when it happened.

Maybe it was the late nights in the kitchens, where the warmth of the stoves made the air feel thick and comforting, where Potter would steal biscuits off the counter when he thought no one was looking.

Maybe it was the quiet moments after they fixed something—sitting side by side, drinking tea in companionable silence, neither of them willing to be the first to leave.

Maybe it was the way Potter looked at him now—like he saw him. Like he wasn’t waiting for Draco to snap, to prove himself irredeemable.

Or maybe—worst of all—it was the fact that Draco had started looking back.

Not with anger, not with resentment.

With something terrifyingly close to want.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Draco had spent so long convincing himself that his life was about fixing things. About keeping his head down, making himself useful. He wasn’t meant to be seen.

But Potter—bloody Potter—saw him anyway.

And it was so much worse when Draco found himself letting him.

Because it wasn’t just about fixing things anymore.

It was the in-between moments.

The after.

Like how, after sneaking into the kitchens to leave extra food for the younger students, they always ended up staying.

Potter would sit on the counter, kicking his feet idly against the wood, talking about nothing.

Draco learned Potter hated oranges but loved marmalade. That he couldn’t sleep without hearing the crackling of a fire.

Potter learned that Draco collected old books. That he had memorized poetry—not because he particularly liked it, but because it made things quiet in his head.

And somewhere in those moments, somewhere between the lingering glances and the too-long touches, Draco realized—

He wanted.

And that terrified him.

One evening, Draco found himself in the greenhouse.

He hadn’t meant to be there, but he'd overheard Neville mention that a new shipment of delicate magical plants had arrived, and Draco had found himself itching to see them.

Old habits, he supposed.

The greenhouse was warm, the air thick with the scent of soil and leaves. He moved between the rows of plants, fingers trailing lightly over petals that shimmered faintly in the dim light.

“You shouldn’t touch them unless you ask,” a dreamy voice said from behind him.

Draco turned to find Luna Lovegood watching him, her expression serene but assessing.

He hesitated, then—because it was Luna, and trying to intimidate her was as pointless as arguing with the tide—said, “Consider me asking.”

Luna studied him for a moment, then nodded. “They don’t mind.”

Draco resisted the urge to laugh.

Of course.

He let his fingers brush lightly against the edge of a Lumen Bellis—a flower that pulsed softly in response to touch.

Luna stepped closer, tilting her head. “You’re different.”

Draco stilled. “What?”

“You feel different,” she said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Not like you did before.”

Draco swallowed. “People change.”

Luna hummed. “Yes. But you’re afraid of it.”

Draco’s breath caught.

He hated how easily she did that—how effortlessly she cut straight to the truth of things.

Luna smiled. “Change isn’t bad, you know.”

Draco exhaled slowly, his fingers curling into his palms. “Tell that to everyone else.”

Luna’s eyes softened. “I think you’d be surprised.”

Draco didn’t reply.

Because he didn’t think he’d be surprised. He thought people didn’t change how they looked at him.

He thought that even if he spent the rest of his life fixing things, it wouldn’t be enough.

But Potter—damn him—was making him question that.

And Luna was too perceptive by half.

Later that week, Draco found himself face-to-face with Neville in the library.

Neville was scanning the Herbology section, mumbling under his breath about dehydrated roots and incorrect preservation techniques.

Draco, unable to help himself, reached out and plucked a book off the shelf.

Neville blinked as Draco handed it to him.

“Page 236,” Draco muttered. “You’ll find the right preservation spell there.”

Neville stared. “Uh. Thanks?”

Draco crossed his arms. “Don’t make it weird, Longbottom.”

Neville huffed a quiet laugh, flipping through the pages.

Draco hesitated, then added, “I assume your Mimbulus Mimbletonia is doing better?”

Neville looked up sharply, surprise flickering across his face. “You did leave that spell in my book, didn’t you?”

Draco stiffened. “That’s an absurd accusation.”

Neville smirked.

Draco scowled.

Neville’s smirk widened. “You did.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake—”

Neville shut the book with a soft thump. “You know,” he said, watching Draco carefully, “you are allowed to take credit for good things.”

Draco scoffed. “That’s rich coming from you.”

Neville shrugged. “I’m working on it.”

Draco exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t need credit, Longbottom.”

Neville tilted his head. “Then why do it?”

Draco hesitated. Then, in a voice quieter than he intended, he muttered, “Mother was fond of her plants.”

Neville blinked. His expression softened slightly. “Yeah?”

Draco shrugged, feeling the weight of the words in his chest. “She always kept a garden at the manor. She said it was the only place that didn’t feel cursed.”

Neville didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, carefully, he closed the book and said, “That makes sense.”

Draco exhaled.

Maybe it did. Maybe it didn’t.

But for the first time, explaining himself didn’t feel like losing something.

And Neville—like Luna—just let it be.

Draco had never been good at apologies.

Malfoys weren’t taught to apologize. They were taught to justify, to deflect, to make themselves untouchable. Even when they were wrong, they were never wrong.

But Draco knew he had been wrong.

And he knew there were things he could never truly make amends for.

Still, that didn’t stop him from trying.

So when he saw Luna sitting alone by the Black Lake one evening, bathed in the pale glow of the moon, he knew this was the moment.

It had been a long time coming.

He hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Then, before he could overthink it, he walked toward her.

Luna looked up as he approached. She didn’t seem surprised.

“Hello, Draco.”

Draco swallowed. “Mind if I sit?”

Luna gestured to the grass beside her. “It’s a free lake.”

Draco lowered himself onto the damp earth, resting his arms on his knees. The lake rippled under the breeze, its surface shimmering with reflected starlight.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Luna hummed softly, tilting her head to the sky. “The stars are quiet tonight,” she murmured.

Draco frowned. “Do stars… talk?”

Luna smiled, but there was something knowing in her expression. “Not out loud.”

Draco exhaled slowly, looking down at his hands. He curled his fingers into the grass, grounding himself.

He had run through this in his head a hundred times, but now that he was here, the words felt heavy, awkward.

“I—” He hesitated. “I owe you an apology.”

Luna turned to face him fully, expression calm. “For what?”

Draco let out a short, humorless laugh. “For—everything.”

She didn’t speak, just watched him with those wide, unblinking eyes.

He took a breath. “For the way I treated you at school. For laughing at you when I didn’t even know you. For calling you—” He swallowed, hating the memory. “Loony.”

Luna nodded, but there was no resentment in her expression. “You were just saying what everyone else said.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“No,” she agreed. “But it is the truth.”

Draco let out a slow breath, his hands tightening around his knees. “And for—” His throat closed up. He forced himself to look at her. “For Malfoy Manor.”

That was the hard one.

Luna didn’t flinch, didn’t look away.

She had been there.

Draco hadn’t seen much of her at the time—he had barely allowed himself to look at the prisoners his family kept beneath their home—but he had known. He had felt her presence, even as he tried to ignore it.

The manor had been heavy with fear, suffocating with it. And Luna—pale, delicate, unbreakable Luna—had been one of the many lives caught in the crossfire of the war.

He hadn’t spoken to her. He hadn’t hurt her directly. But he had let it happen.

And that was just as bad.

“I didn’t—I wasn’t—” He swallowed, cursing himself. Why was this so bloody hard?

“I didn’t stop it,” he said finally, voice quiet. “I didn’t do anything.”

Luna studied him for a long time, as if searching for something.

Then, gently, she said, “You couldn’t.”

Draco clenched his jaw. “I should have.”

Luna tilted her head. “Would you have?”

Draco opened his mouth—then closed it.

Because, then? Would he have?

He didn’t know.

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to believe that even as a terrified sixteen-year-old with a Mark burned into his skin, he would have been better.

But the truth was, he hadn’t been.

The truth was, he had been a coward.

Luna reached out then, her fingers brushing over the back of his hand.

“You were scared,” she said simply.

Draco flinched. “That’s not an excuse.”

“No,” she agreed again, her voice soft. “But it is the truth.”

Draco exhaled, staring at their hands. Her touch was light, almost weightless, but it burned all the same.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice raw. “For all of it.”

Luna watched him for a long moment.

Then, to his utter shock, she smiled.

“I forgive you.”

Draco’s breath caught.

It was so easy.

Like it wasn’t a burden, like it wasn’t something she had to consider.

Like she had already let it go, long before he had asked.

His chest ached, and he hated how much he wanted to believe her.

“That’s it?” he asked, voice quieter than he meant.

Luna nodded. “That’s it.”

Draco let out a slow, shuddering breath.

She had no reason to forgive him.

But she had.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Because if Luna could—

Then maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t beyond saving.

Later that night, Draco sat in the kitchens, across from Potter, drinking tea.

They weren’t even fixing anything.

Not tonight.

Tonight, they were just there.

Potter took a sip of his tea, then grimaced. “Okay. This is vile.”

Draco smirked. “You made it. You have no one to blame but yourself.”

Potter set the cup down, rubbing his temples. “I think I just scalded my tongue.”

Draco huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

They sat in silence for a moment, the kitchen warm around them.

Potter leaned back against the counter, looking at Draco with an unreadable expression.

Draco glanced at him. “What?”

Potter hesitated. Then, softly, “Nothing.”

Draco’s chest tightened.

Because it wasn’t nothing.

It was everything.

The way Potter looked at him now—like he wanted to say something but wouldn’t.

Like he was waiting for something Draco wasn’t ready to give.

And Draco hated that he was starting to want it, too.

So he looked away, back at his tea, and tried to ignore the way his hands shook just slightly when he lifted the cup.

Chapter Text

Harry noticed it the moment they got back from Christmas break.

It started on the train.

Draco had arrived late, slipping into the last compartment in the farthest carriage, head down, shoulders drawn tight. He looked pale—not just in his usual winter-washed way, but thin, like something had hollowed him out over the holidays. His robes, always impeccably tailored, hung just slightly looser, and when he sat down, he pressed himself against the window, staring at the passing landscape like he wished he was anywhere else.

Harry had watched, unnoticed, from his own compartment across the corridor.

Something was wrong.

It wasn’t just the physical signs—it was the way Malfoy held himself. The way he didn't bother scowling at passing students. The way he barely touched the tea cart when it came by, only nodding in vague acknowledgment when Luna passed him a wrapped biscuit she had saved.

Harry had almost crossed the hall, almost sat down in the seat across from him.

But then Ron had nudged him, asking about the Cannons’ upcoming match, and by the time Harry looked back, Malfoy had curled further into himself, chin resting on his hand, gaze unfocused.

It wasn’t just the train.

The first week back at Hogwarts, Malfoy started avoiding him.

Not in the way he used to, not with cold sneers and calculated jabs, but by simply disappearing.

He skipped breakfast. He left the library whenever Harry entered.

He stopped showing up for their fixing things routine, which was the biggest sign of all.

At first, Harry told himself it was nothing.

Maybe Malfoy was busy. Maybe he’d gotten sick over break. Maybe Harry was just reading into things.

But by mid-February, when he still hadn’t run into Malfoy once—hadn’t seen so much as a flick of platinum-blond hair in the hallways—Harry realized something was wrong.

And that was how he found himself in the Owlery, searching for answers.

It was late.

The wind howled through the open stone arches, the scent of cold and snow thick in the air. Owls rustled in their perches, some shifting sleepily, others watching him with wide, glinting eyes.

And in the middle of it all, crouched on the floor, was Malfoy.

His head was bent low, his hair falling into his eyes as he carefully wrapped a strip of cloth around an owl’s wing. His hands were steady, but Harry noticed the faint tremor in his fingers as he worked.

Draco Malfoy—bloody Malfoy—looking exhausted and frayed at the edges, sitting in the cold like he belonged there.

Harry’s stomach twisted.

He stepped forward. “You look like hell.”

Malfoy didn’t even flinch.

“Charming as always, Potter,” he muttered, voice tired. He adjusted the bandage, barely sparing Harry a glance. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Harry folded his arms, leaning against the stone wall. “You tell me. You’ve been avoiding me for weeks.”

Malfoy scoffed. “Oh, I have been missing our little late-night escapades.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Malfoy.”

Malfoy huffed, still not looking at him. “What do you want?”

“I want to know what’s wrong with you.”

Malfoy stilled.

Just for a second. Just long enough that Harry knew.

Then, carefully, Malfoy straightened, setting the injured owl onto a low perch. He turned, dusting off his robes, his expression smoothing into something carefully blank.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he said flatly.

Harry clenched his jaw. “Don’t lie.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Merlin, Potter. Not everything is some grand mystery for you to solve.”

“You’re withdrawing,” Harry pressed, stepping closer. “You barely eat, you don’t talk to anyone, you look—” He hesitated. “You look worse than usual.”

Malfoy scoffed, a ghost of a smirk flickering across his lips. “Compliments will get you nowhere.”

Harry exhaled sharply. “Malfoy—”

“I said I’m fine.”

The words came too quickly.

Too sharp.

Harry studied him, chest tight with something he didn’t understand.

Something dangerous.

“You’re lying,” he said, voice quieter now.

Malfoy’s jaw tensed. “And what exactly do you think is wrong, Potter? Please, enlighten me.”

Harry hesitated.

Because he didn’t know.

He didn’t know what had changed, didn’t know what had happened over break to make Malfoy retreat like this.

But he felt it.

In the way Malfoy wouldn’t meet his eyes. In the way his shoulders curled in slightly, like he was bracing for impact.

And Harry hated that.

Hated that something had happened, something big, and Malfoy wouldn’t tell him.

So, in the only way Harry knew how to deal with things—he pushed.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he said, voice steady.

Malfoy’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Do what?”

“Pretend you’re fine.”

Silence.

Then, very softly, Malfoy laughed.

But it wasn’t real.

It was hollow.

Cold.

And when he finally looked up, there was something sharp in his expression.

“Oh, Potter,” he drawled, his voice edged with something dangerous. “You really think you’re some kind of savior, don’t you?”

Harry’s stomach twisted. “That’s not what this is.”

“Isn’t it?” Malfoy tilted his head, his gaze like ice. “Tell me, Potter—what happens when I don’t need fixing anymore? What will you do then?”

Harry felt the words like a slap.

Because Malfoy knew.

Knew exactly what to say to hurt him.

And the worst part?

Harry let him.

Malfoy’s smirk didn’t last.

He exhaled sharply, looking away. “It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

Harry frowned. “What doesn’t?”

Malfoy let out a breathy, humorless chuckle. “Any of it. I could fix a thousand things, I could help every miserable soul in this castle, and it wouldn’t change a damn thing.” He turned back to Harry, and there was something tired in his eyes now. “Because at the end of the day, I’m still a Malfoy. And Malfoys don’t get to be good.”

Harry opened his mouth—to argue, to say anything—but Malfoy wasn’t finished.

He let out a slow breath. “Do you know what my father said to me over Christmas?” He gave a bitter laugh. “That it was embarrassing how much time I spend trying to ‘repair my reputation.’ That no one cares.”

Harry swallowed, his chest tightening.

Malfoy scoffed. “And maybe he’s right. Maybe it doesn’t matter what I do. Maybe I could spend my entire life trying to make up for things, and people will still look at me and see him.”

He exhaled. “Because no matter how much I try, I am still a Malfoy.”

Harry clenched his jaw. “You’re not your father.”

His expression darkened, something raw twisting in his features.

“Aren’t I?” he said quietly.

Then, before Harry could say another word, Malfoy shoved up the left sleeve of his robe, revealing the fading Dark Mark.

Harry felt the air leave his lungs.

The mark was duller than it had been in sixth year, but it was still there—a stain burned into Malfoy’s skin, inescapable, permanent.

Malfoy’s mouth curled into something bitter. “You see this, Potter? This doesn’t just go away.”

Harry swallowed. “Draco—”

But Malfoy was already turning, already yanking his sleeve down, already shutting the conversation down before it could begin.

Harry stood there, fists clenched, heart hammering.

He wanted to argue.

Wanted to tell Malfoy that a scar didn’t define him.

But Malfoy was already pulling away.

And Harry—stupid, reckless, terrified Harry—let him.

Chapter Text

Draco kept fixing things.

Even after everything—after the Owlery, after the words he couldn’t take back, after the look in Harry’s eyes when he had turned away—he kept fixing things.

Because that was the only thing he knew how to do.

Because if he couldn’t fix himself, maybe he could at least fix this.

So he mended torn curtains in the Astronomy Tower. He repaired a broken chessboard in the Gryffindor common room when no one was around. He left fresh quills in the desks of first-years who were using barely-intact ones.

He kept his head down, his hands busy, his mind too occupied to think about the damage he couldn’t undo.

But it didn’t help.

Because Harry was still gone.

He hadn’t spoken to Draco since that night. Hadn’t cornered him in the corridors with that infuriating curiosity, hadn’t hovered over his shoulder with helpful suggestions while Draco worked.

Hadn’t looked at him.

And Draco told himself it didn’t matter.

That this was better.

That he had been right all along—Malfoys didn’t get second chances, didn’t get happy endings.

But for the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure he believed it.

The summons came on a Thursday.

Draco was in the library, repairing a loose shelf in the Restricted Section, when a second-year Hufflepuff found him.

“Professor McGonagall wants to see you,” the girl said hesitantly, like she wasn’t sure she should be delivering messages to him.

Draco blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “What?”

The girl shrugged. “She sent me to find you.” A beat. “I think it’s important.”

Draco exhaled, wiping dust off his hands. “Fine.”

He packed up his things, ignoring the way his stomach clenched. He hadn’t done anything wrong—hadn’t gotten into fights, hadn’t broken any rules. But that didn’t stop the uneasy twist in his chest as he made his way up to the Headmistress’s office.

Draco’s palms were sweating by the time he reached the stone gargoyle guarding McGonagall’s office.

He had told himself there was nothing to be worried about. That he hadn’t done anything wrong. That he had followed every rule, every ridiculous restriction placed upon him like a leash.

But the moment the summons had come, that small, rotting fear in his gut had started gnawing at him.

What if Potter had gone to the Headmistress?

Draco knew what he had said in the Owlery had been cruel—he’d meant for it to be. But what if Potter had taken it personally? What if McGonagall had decided that Draco Malfoy, ungrateful son of a Death Eater, had finally crossed the line?

What if she had gone to the Ministry?

His probation had been very clear.

The Ministry had let him off with the barest of punishments—not a formal trial, not even Azkaban, just close monitoring and an unspoken understanding that if he stepped one toe out of line, they would make an example of him.

Because he had walked away when so many others hadn’t.

And the Ministry hated that.

Hated that the Malfoy heir had slipped through the cracks, that he wasn’t rotting in a cell like the others. They had been waiting for an excuse.

Merlin, what if he had just given them one?

The gargoyle moved aside before he could say a word, and Draco forced himself to breathe as he climbed the spiral staircase, every step feeling heavier than the last.

Professor McGonagall was waiting for him, standing behind her desk, arms crossed.

“Mr. Malfoy,” she said, her voice unreadable.

Draco straightened. “Professor.”

She studied him for a long moment, eyes sharp, assessing. Then, finally, she sighed.

“Have a seat.”

Draco hesitated. Then, carefully, he lowered himself into the chair across from her.

McGonagall sat as well, folding her hands on the desk. “You’ve been keeping yourself quite busy this year.”

Draco stiffened slightly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

McGonagall arched a brow. “Don’t insult my intelligence, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco pressed his lips together.

McGonagall sighed again, but there was no malice in it.

“I know it was you,” she continued. “The staircases, the common room repairs, the supplies left for students. You’ve been fixing Hogwarts the way some might fix themselves.”

Draco’s hands curled into fists.

This wasn’t about the Ministry.

This wasn’t about Potter running to her with complaints of unsavory behavior.

McGonagall wasn’t calling him here to punish him.

She was calling him here to ask why.

And that was so much worse.

McGonagall leaned forward slightly. “Tell me, Mr. Malfoy—who are you trying to atone for?”

Draco’s throat tightened.

He could have laughed. Could have thrown up his usual walls, his usual barbed defenses. But he was so tired.

His mind flashed to his father, to his mother, to the way she had held onto his arm so tightly when the war was ending, like she thought the world was going to take him away from her.

To the Ministry, waiting with their greedy little hands, ready to pounce.

To Harry.

To the look on his face when Draco had thrown it all away.

He exhaled shakily, gripping the arms of his chair. “It doesn’t matter.”

McGonagall studied him, her expression softer now.

“Perhaps not,” she said. “But let me ask you this—when will it be enough?”

Draco blinked, startled.

Because he hadn’t thought about that.

Hadn’t thought about when it ended, when he would finally stop paying for things he couldn’t undo.

Maybe because, deep down, he didn’t think it ever would.

McGonagall tilted her head. “You cannot spend your life seeking redemption from people who have already decided they will not give it to you.”

Draco inhaled sharply. “And what if I don’t deserve it?”

McGonagall’s gaze softened. “Then perhaps you need to decide if you’re willing to forgive yourself.”

Draco didn’t know what to say to that.

He sat there, still as stone, as McGonagall rose from her chair.

“I am not here to punish you, Mr. Malfoy,” she said, voice gentle now. “I only ask that you consider what it is you’re truly searching for.”

Draco swallowed.

Then, after a long moment, he stood.

“…Thank you, Professor.”

McGonagall nodded. “You are dismissed.”

Draco wasn’t used to being cornered.

He had spent the last year learning how to slip away, how to disappear when things got too close, when people started noticing too much. But it seemed Weasley and Granger hadn’t gotten the message.

He had barely stepped out of the library when they appeared—one on either side of him, like a well-rehearsed maneuver.

Draco stopped in his tracks, his hand instinctively twitching toward his wand.

Ron smirked humorlessly. “Relax, Malfoy. Not here to hex you.”

Draco exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes. “Then what? You two planning an intervention?”

Hermione’s gaze was steady, unreadable. “If that’s what it takes.”

Draco scoffed. “This is ridiculous.” He made to move past them, but Ron shifted, blocking his way.

Ron crossed his arms. “You’ve been acting like a kicked dog for weeks, Malfoy.”

Draco bristled. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Ron said, eyes flashing. “Sulking around, dodging Harry like he’s got dragon pox—and for what? Because you’re too much of a coward to deal with your own feelings?”

Draco’s temper flared instantly. “Oh, fuck off, Weasley.”

Ron didn’t so much as blink. “Nah, I think I’ll stay right here.”

Draco clenched his fists, his pulse spiking. “And what, exactly, do you expect me to say?”

Hermione tilted her head. “We want the truth, Malfoy.”

Draco let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “The truth? You don’t want the truth, Granger. You want something neat and tidy, something that makes sense in your perfect little moral framework—”

“Try us,” she challenged.

Draco’s jaw tightened.

He turned away, staring at the wall. “It doesn’t matter.”

Ron let out an aggravated groan. “Bloody hell, Malfoy, do you want to be miserable?”

Draco snapped his head up. “I don’t expect you to understand—”

“Then make us understand,” Hermione cut in sharply, stepping forward.

Draco flinched at the intensity in her voice.

The weight of it all pressed against him—his father’s voice, his mother’s quiet disappointment, the fading burn of the Dark Mark on his arm.

You will always be a Malfoy.

And Malfoys were not meant for happy endings.

“Why do you keep pushing Harry away?” Hermione pressed.

Draco’s breath came out unsteady. He shook his head, forcing a smirk. “Because I’m not a fucking Gryffindor,” he said, voice dripping with mockery. “I don’t get to charge in, blind and hopeful, expecting things to magically work out. I know how this ends.”

Ron scoffed. “Right, because you’re such a bloody seer, yeah?”

Draco ignored him. “You think the world forgets, Granger?” His voice was colder now, sharper. “You think people just let it go? Maybe for you—maybe even for Potter—but not for me.”

Hermione’s expression didn’t waver. “And what do you think, Malfoy?”

Draco’s breath hitched slightly, but he masked it with a sneer.

“What I think,” he said, voice low, “is that no matter what I do, no matter how many things I fix, no matter how many nights I spend trying to make up for the mess I made—none of it will ever be enough.”

The words hung in the air, thick and heavy.

Ron let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Merlin, Malfoy, you are such a stubborn prick.”

Draco’s temper flared again. “You think this is about stubbornness?”

Ron threw his hands up. “Yes! Because Harry—you absolute tosser—wants you around. And you’re standing here acting like some tragic martyr because what? You’re afraid of letting yourself be happy?”

Draco inhaled sharply, heart pounding against his ribs.

“Shut up, Weasley.”

“No, you shut up!” Ron shot back, stepping forward. “I’m sick of watching you act like you’re some cursed soul when all Harry wants is for you to stay.”

Draco’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

Because fuck, he didn’t know what to say to that.

Hermione spoke then, quieter but just as firm. “You deserve to be here, Malfoy.”

Draco laughed at that, an ugly, bitter sound. “No, I don’t.”

“You do,” she said again, unshaken. “And if you can’t believe it yet, then at least let Harry believe it for you.”

Draco swallowed hard, something sharp twisting in his chest.

Because it wasn’t that simple.

Except—

Maybe it was.

Maybe Draco had spent so long convincing himself he wasn’t allowed to want things, to keep things, that he had stopped trying.

And maybe it was time to stop running.

It was snowing when Harry found him again.

Draco had been outside, standing by the Black Lake, the cold biting through his coat. The world around him was silent, the snow falling in soft, endless drifts.

He hadn’t meant to be here, but somehow, his feet had carried him to this spot—this place where everything felt still.

This place where, once upon a time, he had stood alone.

And then Harry was there.

Draco knew it before he even turned his head.

The way the air shifted, how the space beside him seemed suddenly warmer, how his pulse reacted before his mind caught up.

Harry walked up beside him, hands in his pockets, cheeks flushed from the cold. He wasn’t bundled up enough—his scarf was slightly askew, his hair an absolute disaster from the wind.

Draco hated that he noticed.

Hated that he cared.

He clenched his jaw, staring out over the lake. He didn’t move, didn’t look at him, but he felt him. Felt the way Harry hovered there, close but not too close, like he was waiting for something.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Then, quietly, Harry said, “I don’t want you to atone, Malfoy.”

Draco let out a sharp laugh, breath curling in the air. “Then what do you want?”

Because fuck, if it wasn’t atonement, then what?

What did Harry expect from him?

Harry hesitated, then—

Held out his hand.

Draco stared at it.

His breath caught, heart lurching up into his throat.

It was a simple thing, a small thing, but somehow it was the hardest thing.

Because taking it meant choosing.

It meant believing, even if just for a moment, that he was allowed to stay.

Draco swallowed hard, his pulse pounding in his ears.

“Potter,” he said, and his voice cracked slightly.

Harry didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

Draco forced himself to look up, to really look.

And there was no pity in Harry’s eyes.

No hesitation.

Only understanding.

Only want.

Draco inhaled shakily, something unsteady breaking open inside him.

Because maybe he had been wrong.

Maybe he had been wrong about everything.

And for the first time, Draco let himself want back.

So he took Harry’s hand.

And stayed.

They stood there for a long time, their hands clasped between them, the warmth of it almost shocking against the cold.

Draco should have pulled away.

But he didn’t.

And neither did Harry.

The wind howled softly around them, but it felt distant, separate from the moment that hung between them.

Finally, Harry exhaled.

“I don’t want you to keep punishing yourself,” he said, voice quiet.

Draco let out a breathy, humorless laugh. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Harry shot him a look. “I’m serious.”

Draco sighed, letting his head tip back slightly, staring at the sky. The snowflakes blurred in his vision, soft and endless.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he admitted.

Harry was silent for a moment. Then, softly, “I know.”

Draco looked at him, and the weight of everything pressed in, too much and not enough.

He exhaled sharply. “You don’t understand, Potter.”

Harry’s gaze darkened. “Then make me understand.”

Draco hesitated.

But Harry stayed.

Didn’t push, didn’t pull away, just waited.

Draco swallowed hard.

Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he yanked up his left sleeve again.

The Mark was more faded now, no longer the deep black it had once been, but it was still there. A ghost of the past, burned into his skin, into his soul.

Draco’s voice was raw when he spoke.

“I don’t get to just walk away from this, Potter.” His fingers twitched, the urge to scrub at his arm, to hide it, overwhelming. “No matter what I do, no matter how many things I fix, how many nights I spend trying to make up for it—this will always be part of me.”

Harry looked at the Mark.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t recoil.

Just reached out, slowly, and covered it with his hand.

Draco froze.

His pulse roared in his ears.

“Then let it be part of you,” Harry murmured. “But don’t let it be all of you.”

Draco’s breath hitched.

Harry’s hand was warm over his wrist, grounding.

Draco swallowed, his throat burning. “I don’t know how.”

Harry squeezed his fingers slightly. “Then let me help.”

Draco’s chest ached.

Because he wanted that.

More than he had wanted anything in a long, long time.

So he let out a shuddering breath.

And nodded.

They sat in the snow after that, backs against the frozen ground, staring up at the sky like neither of them wanted to be the first to leave.

Draco’s coat wasn’t thick enough, and Harry had forgotten gloves.

Neither of them moved.

Finally, Harry broke the silence.

“I mean, I killed a man, didn’t I?”

Draco’s head snapped toward him. “What?”

Harry didn’t look at him. His gaze was still trained upward, watching the snowflakes swirl against the dark sky. His breath came out steady, but his fingers—still wrapped loosely around Draco’s wrist—had gone tense.

“I killed Voldemort,” Harry said, like it was nothing. Like it was just a fact, something as mundane as saying he’d had toast for breakfast. “People like to forget that part. They like to talk about defeating him, ending the war, like I waved a wand and he just… disappeared.”

Draco swallowed.

“But I killed him,” Harry continued, voice quieter now. “I wanted to. In that moment, I wanted him gone. And I did it. And sometimes I wake up at night and I still see it.” He finally turned his head, his green eyes shadowed. “So don’t act like you’re the only one carrying ghosts, Malfoy.”

Draco’s stomach twisted.

He had never thought about it like that.

He had never thought about what it had actually meant for Harry to be Harry Potter—the savior, the Chosen One, the boy who killed a man.

Draco exhaled slowly. “It’s not the same.”

Harry huffed. “Why? Because it was him?” He let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Because it was justified?”

Draco didn’t answer.

Harry shifted in the snow, running a hand over his face. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

Draco smirked faintly, the first real expression he had made all night. “Because I’m an excellent listener?”

Harry let out a quiet laugh. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

They fell into silence again, the snow settling in their hair, their coats.

Draco flexed his fingers slightly, realizing only then that Harry still hadn’t let go of his wrist.

He didn’t pull away.

“I don’t want to be this person forever,” Draco admitted, voice so quiet he wasn’t even sure Harry heard him at first.

But then—

“You won’t be,” Harry said, certainty in his voice.

Draco glanced at him. “How do you know?”

Harry met his eyes. “Because I won’t let you.”

Something cracked in Draco’s chest.

The weight of it all—the war, the guilt, the years of being told who he was supposed to be—it didn’t disappear.

But, for the first time, it felt a little lighter.

So Draco nodded.

And let himself believe it.