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Chapter Text

The waiting room of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries reeked faintly of antiseptic potions and something bitterly herbal—like the lingering body scent of a retired apothecary with eccentric tastes. Morning light filtered through magically over-polished windows, casting pale slashes across the floor.

Harry Potter stood by the window, completely still, holding Scorpius in his arms. His eyes were fixed on the London skyline, now kissed with the soft gold of sunrise. But his gaze was empty, as if it were trying to pierce through the fog and bricks, reaching somewhere far beyond his grasp.

He'd been waiting for nearly an hour.

Four-year-old Scorpius rested his small head quietly in the crook of Harry's neck, breathing softly, still clearly adrift in dreams. Perhaps he was conquering a dragon, or simply finishing off an entire tub of Honeydukes ice cream. His silky black hair tickled Harry's chin—just a little irritating, but somehow warm, too. Harry instinctively tightened his hold, pressing his cheek to the warm little head.

The color of Scorpius's hair, unsurprisingly, came from Harry—Potter genes had always been annoyingly stubborn, as Harry's own reflection could testify. But those eyes, currently closed, would open into a shade of grey so achingly familiar. 

Exhaustion rolled over him like waves, one after another. He hadn't slept at all. Anxiety and fear had twisted themselves into a knot in his gut, and someone kept tugging on the ends. Now, it was creeping up behind his eyes, blurring his vision at the edges.

He took a deep breath, as if bargaining with his nervous system: Just five more minutes and I'll reward you with a cup of strong tea. His gaze followed a slow-flapping owl beyond the window, but his mind slipped back, uncontrolled, to the chaos and heartbreak of the night before.

It had begun again. That cursed, parasitic nightmare of the past—Voldemort's lingering soul.

The war had been over for nearly a decade. The lightning scar on his forehead hadn't ached in years. The press had finally moved on from their annual "commemorate the hero" nonsense. But the side effects of that dark memory were like invisible debts—they always came to collect interest eventually.

Lately, Harry's magic had begun to act strange again. Not explosive, not dangerous, but… wrong. Just enough to wake the man sleeping beside him—someone whose instincts were sharp enough to sense anything, even in his dreams.

Draco Malfoy, his partner. The other father of his child. And his reactions had been far more extreme than Harry's own.

"This is not just magical fluctuation, Harry!" Last night, in their sitting room at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Draco had snapped with the same tone ancient nobility might use upon discovering their wine had been replaced with pumpkin juice. His silver-grey eyes had practically ignited the air. "I've been researching the restricted archives in the Malfoy library. Some records suggest that soul ties—deep ones—even when severed, can leave behind something... residual. Like a toxin. Slow. Corrosive."

Harry had been sprawled across the sofa at the time, attempting to convey with his eyes alone: Please, no more books, can we not do this tonight?

"Draco, I know you're worried, but we already saw the Healers. They said it's just—"

"—a rare manifestation of post-war syndrome?" Draco had cut him off mercilessly, his voice sharp, his tone dripping with characteristic contempt. "Those hacks couldn't diagnose a flu, let alone soul magic. I've found something that might work. A way to purge all residual fragments of soul—completely."

Harry frowned. That knot in his stomach tightened, and began to waltz in double time. He'd noticed Draco acting secretive lately—shutting doors, whispering to books like they were under binding contracts.

"What kind of way?"

Draco inhaled sharply, as though rehearsing a pitch for magical life insurance.

"There's a forbidden artefact circulating on the black market—rumoured to have leaked from some ancient tomb. They're calling it the Fourth Deathly Hallow. It's said to seal, even digest, soul fragments. More effective than any known method. I think—"

"No." Harry shot up instantly, voice firm as iron. "The black market? Forbidden artefacts? Draco, are you insane? You know those things come with consequences—half the time, the name alone screams 'this will ruin your life'. I'm alive, aren't I? Relatively fine? What if you're the one who gets hurt? What about Scorpius?"

"Because it's the only way to end this once and for all!" Draco's voice rose to match his. His face flushed with the force of emotion. "I won't stand by while that thing devours you from the inside out! Even if the chance is one in ten thousand—I have to try!"

"And I need you alive!" Harry exploded. "Safe. Sane. Not devoured by cursed artefacts off the back of some shady cart! We agreed—no more dark, no more unknowns! Your safety means more to me than these bloody side effects!"

"My safety?" Draco echoed, like the words were a cosmic joke. He stepped closer, his grey eyes blazing with grief and fury. "If I can't even protect you, what's the damn point of my safety? Harry, don't you get it? I can't lose you again. Not even once more."

He nearly shouted the last part, voice cracking on the edges, raw with a grief too big for his frame. Harry froze. The words landed like a blunt knife straight to the chest—and twisted.

But he couldn't step back.

"This isn't up for discussion," Harry said, his voice cold now, like a door slamming shut. "I won't let you take that risk."

The air froze. Tension snapped tight between them like a string stretched to its breaking point. Draco stared at him, eyes cold as frost on a winter night. And then, slowly, that light in his eyes dimmed—replaced by something far more terrifying: resolve.

"Is that so?" Draco said softly, his tone deadlier than any shout. "As you wish, Potter."

Then he turned, grabbed his coat from the back of the chair with a motion too swift, too clean—like he'd rehearsed it a hundred times—and with a resounding slam that felt utterly wrong in the quiet room, he was gone.

And Harry was left with nothing but silence—and a heart that felt like a corner of it had just caved in.

The fire in the hearth crackled faintly, casting flickers of light across the empty living room. That awful, too-loud door slam still echoed in the air, like a slap that came after the argument was already over, heavy and stinging.

Harry collapsed back onto the sofa. The tension that had gripped every muscle during the argument was now unraveling all at once, leaving behind only exhaustion and a hollow, echoing sense of loss.

His eyes drifted upward—to the oil painting above the mantle.

Draco had insisted on hanging it: a quiet landscape of some sun-drenched valley, all green hills and soft clouds. Now, it looked absurd. Like someone had slapped a smiley sticker in the middle of a war memorial.

Harry knew Draco's temper all too well—proud, stubborn, and always delivering the most reckless ideas in the calmest possible voice. He was like a Hungarian Horntail: once he locked onto a target, not even Fiendfyre could make him turn back.

"I can't lose you again—not even once!"

Draco's last words still rang in Harry's ears, raw and torn like they'd been dragged from somewhere deep in his soul.

Harry shut his eyes. It felt like a beast had settled on his chest, invisible but unbearably heavy.

He knew Draco hadn't been overreacting. The fear in those grey eyes had been real—a ghost of the war years, still clinging to them long after the final battle, never caring whether it was day or night.

Maybe it was precisely because they cared so much—too much—that their arguments always teetered between drawn wands and the desperate need to fall into each other's arms.

Harry rubbed at his temples, trying to sort through the wreckage of his thoughts.

Had he gone too far?

Maybe.

But he couldn't—wouldn't—let Draco take that risk. Not with something that screamed cursed just by being mentioned. "Black market" and "forbidden artefact" weren't just warning signs—they were half the incantation for disaster.

He told himself Draco just needed time. Time to cool off.

Slytherin emotional processes were nothing if not elaborate—anger, detachment, the thirst for revenge, reluctant reassessment, and finally, the 3 a.m. regret spiral. He'd come back. Like he always did after the bad fights. They'd talk. They'd argue.

Maybe shout some more. Then they'd find a way.

That was how Harry had always survived them. He needed to believe in it still.

Each tick of the magical clock echoed like an accusation against his slowly crumbling faith.

Outside, the deep blue of twilight had bled into full night.

The living room lights remained off. Only the last embers of the fire flickered against the walls, stretching Harry's shadow long and surreal, like some lonely, nervous stage puppet waiting for the curtain to fall.

He paced the room, back and forth, his eyes snapping to the door every few minutes, like his body still believed the key would turn any second—Draco would walk in, face cold but eyes soft with regret, scoffing in that trademark drawl:"You didn't even turn on the lights? Honestly, Potter—uncivilized."

But the door didn't move.

It stood still, silent as stone. As if holding a grudge.

The comforting lie of "we both just need to cool down" had deflated like a magical balloon with a slow, pitiful hiss—drifting low and sluggish—before bursting with a quiet pop right next to his ear.

Harry was growing restless, his fingers twisting the hem of his shirt again and again. Should he reach out to Hermione? Or Ron? They were his best friends—maybe they'd have advice, or at least offer a buffer so he wasn't just sitting here alone, casting dramatic shadows in the firelight like a one-man tragedy. But he hesitated.

This was about him and Draco. Speaking about it felt like admitting failure—like he couldn't even handle his own household. And Draco... Draco had his pride. If it all turned out to be nothing, if Harry made a fuss, Draco wouldn't speak to him for a month out of sheer stubborn offense.

That had, in fact, happened before.

Harry kept insisting to himself that it wasn't that bad. Draco was smart. At most, he'd gone to the Leaky's dingy little pub to down a few drinks, or maybe that Muggle café they both liked—sitting at the corner table with that look of contemplative scorn that usually meant he was silently judging all of society.

Or maybe... the Manor?

No. Unlikely. His mother hadn't been well lately. Draco wouldn't want to worry her.

Harry began mentally listing all the places Draco might have gone:

That quiet cobblestone path by the Thames that no one ever used. The all-night magical bookshop they'd stumbled into once. Even those odd little spots only the two of them shared—those irrelevant places that suddenly felt heartbreakingly significant. Each possibility ruled out added another layer of dread, peeled back like skin over an old wound.

The fire had burned down to glowing embers. Harry flicked his wand in a few aimless loops, casting nonsense spells without really knowing what he wanted. He poured himself a glass of water. His hand shook, and most of it spilled. He stared at the puddle for a long time, as if the shape might reveal something—like tea leaves in Divination—some clue about what came next.

Cold water slid through his fingers. It jolted him. Barely.

He couldn't wait any longer. That foolish hope—that he's just out cooling off somewhere hope—was shredding under the weight of a more terrifying thought: What if he's really going to do something stupid?

Fear had taken the wheel. Reason was in the back seat now.

He had to find him—now.

Just in case, he grabbed the Invisibility Cloak and slipped out the door like a restless shadow, driven by dread. He Apparated to every place he could think of—

That battered old bookshop disguised with magical scrap metal at the edge of Knockturn Alley. The weathered bench by the Thames, worn smooth by time and memories. Even that absurd little Muggle amusement park he'd once dragged Draco to—despite Draco's adamant declaration that carousels were "a completely illogical safety hazard."

He drifted through London like a ghost, haunting every alley and hidden corner, voice going hoarse from calling that name, heart sinking deeper into a freezing hollow. His shoes scraped against cold stone, and all he could hear was his own ragged breath, echoing with that desperate refrain: I can't lose you again.

But Draco was nowhere.

Not anywhere.

By the coldest hour before dawn, Harry stood again before Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, limbs heavy like they were filled with lead. He didn't want to imagine—couldn't imagine—what it would mean if Draco...

He took a deep breath and opened the door, ready to face an empty house.

But just as the door swung inward—

BANG! BANG! BANG!

A grey blur slammed against the living room window. A screeching, frantic flurry of wings and claws.

A grey owl.

Frantic.

Tapping its beak and talons sharply—urgently—against the glass.

A letter was tied to its leg. Sealed with a splash of crimson wax—

St. Mungo's emergency crest.

Harry's heart seized, clenched in an invisible fist.

"Daddy?"

A sleepy little voice drifted from the stairwell. Scorpius stood there, rubbing his eyes in his glow-in-the-dark dinosaur pyjamas, shuffling down step by step.

"Is the owl crying?" He paused, then asked in a whisper, like recalling something from a dream: "Where's Papa? He didn't finish reading Wizards and Dragons to me last night…"

Harry turned toward his son—those clear grey eyes staring up at him, confused and glimmering with quiet hope. His throat locked.

All he could manage was:"Scorpius, sweetheart… Papa's not feeling well. He's at the hospital. We're going to see him."

He didn't say more. He wasn't ready to face the letter's chilling, clinical wording—not yet.

He dressed Scorpius with mechanical efficiency, clutching him tight with one arm while reaching for the Floo powder with the other. Then, as if fleeing from the claws of fate, he stepped into the hearth.

"St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries!"

Green flames burst upward and swallowed them whole.

Now, standing in this too-bright, too-small waiting room, Harry buried his face in the soft curls of Scorpius's hair and inhaled deeply. His arms tightened protectively, as if that could keep the fear at bay. The sky outside had begun to lighten, marking the start of a new day—whatever it might bring.

He had to face it. For Draco. For Scorpius.

He just—just prayed it wasn't too late.

The door creaked open. A witch in pale green Healer's robes poked her head in, face grave, but her eyes held the faintest trace of sympathy.

"Mr. Potter?" she said gently. "Mr. Malfoy... is awake. You may see him now. But before you go in, there are some things we need to discuss."

The Healer led Harry out of the waiting room, down a little-used corridor toward its far end. It was a soundproofed section of the hospital—even the flutter of owl wings felt muffled, as if swaddled in cotton. She stopped and turned to face him, her expression composed under years of professional training, though still tinged with a quiet, restrained heaviness.

"Mr. Potter," she began softly, though there was no real need for clarification between them, "I know that here at St. Mungo's, personal ties should never influence the course of treatment. But considering… your status, and the fact that your relationship with Mr. Malfoy is, to some extent, semi-public—I want you to know that I'll handle this with as much honesty and caution as I can."

Harry nodded. He recognized her now. Hannah Abbott, Hufflepuff, from his own graduating year—the one who used to always forget the lid of her brass cauldron in Potions. And now here she was, a Healer's assistant, far steadier than most of their year.

"Mr. Malfoy's condition…" Hannah continued in a low voice, her tone even, though a shadow of clinical hesitation pressed at her brows, "...is more complex than we initially believed. He was indeed struck by an advanced variant of the Obliviate Curse. The caster was highly skilled—almost no trace of spell residue was left behind. Our current diagnosis is that his memory has been completely wiped from around the age of twenty up until last night—seven full years, entirely erased."

Harry felt his breath catch, as if something had slammed into his chest. Even though he had half expected this, hearing it confirmed felt like falling into a bottomless pit.

Seven years.

That was everything—from tentative exchanges to hesitant closeness, from enemies to confidants, lovers, family. It was the whole journey of raising Scorpius together. The most chaotic, yet the most complete years of Harry's life.

And now, in Draco's mind, those years were a blank page, torn out.

"There is no serious physical damage," Hannah went on, "but psychologically, the shock is considerable. The memory gap could cause temporary confusion, irritability, or cognitive dissonance. We don't recommend attempting magical restoration—it's too risky. Especially with potential interference on the soul-binding level, which could result in long-term or even permanent harm."

Harry nodded slowly. He understood the warning beneath the words: He wasn't just facing Draco forgetting him—he was facing the possibility that Draco might never remember him again.

"The best current approach," Hannah continued, her gaze gentle but steady, "is to place him in a familiar, safe, and low-stimulus environment to encourage gradual recovery. Our preliminary assessment suggests his cognitive state has reverted to around age nineteen or twenty—right after the war, during the early days of Hogwarts' reconstruction."

Harry muttered under his breath, "...That was when we still wanted to punch each other."

"Indeed," Hannah pressed her lips together, trying to soften the edge of the truth. "Which is why we strongly advise against revealing too many significant changes—especially regarding your relationship, or the existence of your child—until he shows signs of spontaneous memory recovery."

"You mean… I have to pretend to be the me from seven years ago?" Harry's voice was barely audible, hoarse like sand in his throat.

"Yes," she nodded. "Any sudden revelations could worsen his condition. We hope to employ a gradual triggering process—familiar surroundings, sounds, objects, linguistic patterns—to help stimulate his memory. But it will take time, and will require immense restraint from you."

Harry closed his eyes. A searing image flashed in his mind—he stood in Draco's room, and Draco—the man who had shared countless nights with him, debated magical theory, kicked him off the sofa only to pull him into bed—looked back at him with wary, unfamiliar, possibly even hostile eyes.

He didn't even know if Draco would want to see him.

"There's something else," Hannah added after a beat. "We've scheduled regular guided meditations for Mr. Malfoy, along with a mild regimen of memory-stabilizing potions to manage neural stress and emotional volatility. That will be overseen by a specialist team—you won't be expected to shoulder it alone."

Harry nodded again, throat tightening. He understood the subtext clearly: You may be his support. But you're not his savior.

"I… understand," he said.

He looked down at Scorpius once more—still fast asleep in his arms, one tiny fist curled tight around the edge of Harry's robe, clinging to it like an anchor to safety in a half-remembered dream. The pain of it nearly knocked Harry off balance.

"Hannah," he said, voice as steady as he could manage, "could you look after Scorpius for me? I won't be long."

"Of course." Hannah Abbott smiled gently, reaching for the boy with calm ease. "Leave him to me. I'll handle him with the same care I give to all those odd plants of Neville's."

Harry let out a quiet laugh. Gratitude stuck in his throat.

He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Scorpius's forehead, then straightened, turning toward the half-open door at the end of the corridor. He paused for just a second, fingers resting on the handle. He pushed it open—silently.

Everything was about to begin again.

tbc

Chapter Text

The lighting in the ward had been softened by magic to just the right balance.

Draco Malfoy lay quietly on the hospital bed, his complexion pale as a blank sheet of parchment. Strands of platinum-blond hair clung messily to his forehead, stripped of their usual sharpness, replaced by a rare, fragile kind of disarray.

The door creaked open, and he slowly opened his eyes. His silver-grey gaze landed, unfocused, on the figure in the doorway.

Harry Potter.

Just for a fleeting moment, that gaze remained distant—then sharpened with startling clarity, flashing with an expression Harry hadn't seen in years, though it was so familiar he almost rolled his eyes on instinct: biting sarcasm, and wary mistrust.

"Potter?" Draco's voice was hoarse and faint, the typical weakness of someone newly awoken after an illness. But the acidic, Malfoy-brand drawl remained completely intact. "Where am I? Finally got your chance to kidnap me? What's next—some kind of unspeakable Gryffindor-style torture?"

A sharp pain struck Harry in the chest.

He wanted to move forward, to hold him, to say how terrified he'd been of losing him. He wanted to kiss the unfamiliarity off his brow and whisper the truth into his skin. But he couldn't. He had to press all of that down, deep into his chest—flatten it into a heavy, silent stone that burned but didn't speak.

He stepped forward a few paces, trying to keep his face somewhere between calm and polite—not too familiar, but not cold either. Draco was a patient, not a target. He had to hold back. But if he was honest, any anger he'd felt at Draco's reckless actions had already drowned the moment that emergency owl landed. All that was left now was fear—and longing.

"You were attacked, Malfoy," Harry said, voice even as still water. "You're at St. Mungo's. You've been unconscious since last night."

Draco's brow arched at that. He tried to sit up, but the effort lasted only a second before weakness forced him back onto the pillow. He grimaced, annoyed but resigned.

"Attacked?" His gaze refocused sharply on Harry, and there it was again—the assessing, disbelieving glint in his eyes. "By who? And why are you here? Where's Granger? The Weasel? Don't tell me they're so busy they couldn't check if I'm on my deathbed."

"The Healers informed me," Harry replied evenly. "I'm one of the Aurors assigned to this type of case."

Draco gave a dry little laugh—clearly unconvinced by that excuse.

"There's nothing seriously wrong with your body," Harry continued. "But the attacker used a high-level memory curse. You've lost part of your memory."

Draco's lips twisted into a smirk, as if this were all part of some elaborate Savior-centric fanfiction Harry had staged for his own amusement.

"Amnesia? Really now, Potter. Is this a new tactic? Don't tell me I forgot how you defeated me and locked me in this bed."

Harry didn't take the bait. He just looked at him, voice still flat and clinical: "You've lost seven years, Malfoy. Roughly everything since you were twenty—until now."

This time, Draco went silent.

The smirk melted off his face, and his eyes froze. He stared at Harry like he was waiting for the punchline. Waiting for the joke.

"Seven years?" he echoed, voice rising with a tremble of disbelief. "What the hell are you talking about? What day is it? What month? What year?"

Harry told him the date.

Draco paled even further. He turned his head away, staring blankly out the window, as if he might reconstruct the missing years from the light bleeding through the glass.

"Well then," Harry said at last, breaking the silence. His tone was steady, matter-of-fact, deliberately professional. "You're awake, and you've got the basic information. Once you've regained a bit more strength, you'll be discharged. I'll arrange to take you—"

"Take me?" Draco's expression shifted instantly—like a cat pricked by a sudden noise. He bristled. "Take me where? Azkaban? Is it standard Auror procedure now to detain first and interrogate later?"

His lips pressed into a thin, rigid line—like a drawn boundary. "I don't need your charity, Potter. Notify my mother. She'll come get me."

"Narcissa... isn't well," Harry said quietly, his gaze steady. "She's not in a condition to care for you. As for everyone else… you know their situations."

Something flickered behind Draco's eyes—uncertainty, perhaps—but it vanished as quickly as it came.

"Then I'll return to Malfoy Manor."

"That's not an option." Harry shook his head. "The identity of your attacker is still unknown. You may have been the target. Until you've recovered, the Ministry needs to provide protection. Malfoy Manor doesn't meet the required safety standards."

"Oh, of course." Draco gave a harsh little laugh, the words bitten off with pointed sarcasm. "Let me guess—you're going to lock me away in some high-security safehouse where they even monitor your thoughts? Your kind of Savior-grade 'protection' sounds suspiciously like imprisonment."

Harry looked at him—at the full set of walls that had already been thrown up, the barbed-wire tone, the steely glare—and felt a bone-deep weariness, like he'd just endured an endless policy hearing.

He could've said something threatening. He could've reminded Draco that if he refused to cooperate, the Ministry would send him to a medical observation facility—cold, impersonal, soul-sucking.

But he didn't. He changed his mind.

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. The home they had built together. The kitchen always smelled faintly of pickled vegetables, much to Draco's disdain. The study was cluttered with double copies of books. The sofa had two sides—each with a blanket one of them had stolen from the other. Every corner, every object, bore Draco's imprint. If Draco returned, how would Harry explain all of it?

But Draco couldn't know the truth. His world was still frozen seven years ago—a world where he still hated Harry Potter.

Harry cleared his throat. His tone was that of someone reading an unimportant memo: "Technically… before the attack, we were flatmates. For safety reasons, you'll be staying with me for a while."

The air froze.

"What?" Draco looked as if Harry had just read aloud a Ministry decree to transfigure him into a rug. He jerked upright—too fast. The movement wrenched a grimace out of him, but the surge of anger made him forget the pain. His eyes were wider than usual, full of a strange mix of shock and… instinctive disbelief.

"Say that again, Potter. We are what?"

Harry repeated, one word at a time:

"Flatmates."

The word scraped his tongue as if it were made of glass. His gaze didn't flinch, didn't falter—but only he knew how much it hurt to speak it. It felt like someone had driven a silent nail straight into his chest.

Flatmates?

They had been each other's safe harbor. They had fought, compromised, comforted each other. They had raised a child together.

And now, he had to compress all of that—reduce it to the smallest possible meaning that flatmate could hold.

"Flatmates?"

Draco practically spat the word through gritted teeth, as if it tasted foul. His voice dripped with disbelief, laced with a kind of sneering fragility that sounded disturbingly close to breaking. His grey eyes were wide, filled with incredulity, resistance, and… unease. The entire logic system he'd built over twenty years cracked apart under the weight of a single word.

Harry Potter. His nemesis. The boy he'd scrutinized under a magnifying glass since they were eleven, whom he'd secretly envied, publicly insulted, and—on nights no one knew about—sketched silently in his mind. And now this person was calmly telling him they were… flatmates? It was more absurd than hearing Snape had retrained to teach Quidditch lessons.

He opened his mouth, and a stack of caustic remarks piled up on his tongue—something like "Have you been Confunded lately?" or "Did that troll-stomped brain of yours glitch again?"—But he didn't say any of it.

Because something about Harry's expression was wrong. It wasn't angry. It wasn't the old irritation or disdain from Hogwarts days. It was… still. Detached. Like deep water. That kind of silence wrapped in layer after layer of cloth, too afraid to let anything leak through. For a moment, Draco felt as if this wasn't Harry at all. As if the man in front of him were some Ministry-grown clone, one whose facial muscles hadn't fully learned how to smile.

He tried to claw back some control—to find a weapon in words. Something sharp enough to reestablish the terms of engagement:

"I…" He cleared his throat, then lifted one corner of his mouth into a familiar sneer. "And why should I believe you? Flatmates? Potter, do you honestly think just because I've got memory loss you can feed me whatever half-baked nonsense you want?"

It sounded like classic Malfoy—pointed and mean. But the flicker of uncertainty behind the words still betrayed him. The truth was—he didn't entirely disbelieve it.

That was the real problem.

He hated this confused version of himself.

He had told himself, again and again, that Potter was a self-righteous idiot, a shining hero who understood nothing—a person whose very existence forced Draco to maintain a mask of haughty indifference at all times, just to avoid looking like he cared too much. And yet now, the Potter standing in front of him was disturbingly quiet. He didn't argue, didn't try to persuade—just let the truth hang in the air on its own.

And the more Draco struggled, the more that word—flatmate—felt… real. And real was the most terrifying part.

He didn't want to admit he'd once imagined, in the silence of the night, what it would be like if Potter became part of his life. He'd never admit the frustration and emptiness that followed those dreams—things he couldn't tell a soul. But now—if Potter wasn't lying—if, over the past seven years, they had in any form lived together—That thought spread through his chest like a poisonous gas, accidentally released. He felt shame. And anger. And a bit of… fear.

"I have no reason to lie to you about this," Harry finally said, his voice still low and steady, with no detectable emotion. "Trust me—if the situation weren't what it is, I wouldn't have chosen to live with you either."

That line carried a distinctly Gryffindor kind of blunt dislike—like a complaint about poor roommate assignments. But because it sounded so casual, Draco couldn't find a way to keep fighting.

He scoffed, turning his face away, slipping back into his favorite defense: attack. "As if I'd enjoy seeing your face, Potter."

He paused, cast a glance at Harry's expression—then continued, not bothering to hide the disdain in his tone: "Well then, Potter. Since you're being so selfless and charitable—taking in a homeless… ex-Death Eater—I suppose I'll accept your little arrangement. Let's see what kind of game you're playing."

The words were cutting. The tone—cold. Every syllable designed to sting. But the real resistance… he'd already tucked it away behind the cracks of speech. He knew exactly what this was: an attempt to preserve what little dignity he had left. Because deep down, what he feared more—was Potter suddenly turning to him and saying: "You're right. I lied."

He didn't know how he'd react if that ever happened.

Harry raised an eyebrow, surprised. He'd thought getting Draco Malfoy to come home with him would require something more dramatic—a fight loud enough to shatter glass, possibly some borderline-unethical Auror tactics. After all, seven years ago, their relationship had still been at the "breathing the same air might cause a mid-sized explosion" level. Malfoy would've chosen Azkaban over willingly walking into Potter's house—especially under the label of flatmates.

And yet… Here he was. Mouth full of barbs, eyes full of blades. But no struggle. Just a quiet, cornered compliance beneath all the bluff and show. Like a spooked creature, backed into a dead end—alert, bristling, and in the end… choosing the only path that didn't lead to collapse.

Harry let out a breath. Not visibly, of course—he couldn't let Draco see how much he'd been worried. But his fingertips relaxed just a little.

And he knew.

"When do you want to leave?" he asked, keeping his tone intentionally bland—like he was asking about a train schedule, not silently screaming I waited up all night for you.

Draco glanced around the room. The sterile machines, the vials of magical liquid, the disinfectant smell he still hadn't gotten used to since waking up. His body felt like it was failing him, and that seven-year void in his mind stretched out like a bottomless pit.

He didn't want to stay here. Not for one more minute.

"Now," he said curtly, still wrapped in that patented Malfoy irritation. "I'm sick of the smell in this place. And your face isn't helping."

Harry didn't respond. Not even a snide comeback.

"Alright," he nodded. "Wait here. I'll get your discharge papers." He turned and walked out of the ward. But he didn't go straight to the admin desk. There was something more important he needed to do first.

He strode quickly toward Hannah Abbott. Scorpius was sitting cross-legged on the little sofa in the waiting area, eyes wide with wonder as he watched a softly glowing blue butterfly flutter above his head—conjured by Hannah's wand. His expression read plainly: this is the most magical creature in the world.

"Scorpius," Harry knelt down and called softly, drawing the boy into his arms. "Listen, sweetheart. Papa isn't feeling very well right now. He needs some quiet time to recover. And Daddy… has a lot on his plate at the moment. I might not be able to take good care of you. So I want to send you to the Burrow, okay? Just for a few days—with Grandma Molly, Uncle Ron, and Aunt Hermione."

Scorpius blinked, a flicker of disappointment passing through his eyes. He pouted slightly and asked in a small voice, "Is Papa really that sick? Can't we help take care of him together?"

Harry felt something jab straight into his chest—sharp and twisting.

He kissed his son's forehead and answered with the gentlest voice he could manage: "Papa will get better. I promise. But right now, he needs a very quiet place to recover. Once everything's settled, I'll come and get you. Alright? And then we'll be together again. All of us. No more goodbyes."

Scorpius nodded, but his little hand clutched Harry's robes even tighter. His voice turned muffled: "Then come get me quickly. And… tell Papa I miss him."

"I will," Harry whispered back, voice slightly hoarse. He stood and gave Hannah a nod. "Thank you. Really. And… could I ask you one more favour? Malfoy's discharge papers—would you mind handling them for me? Put the cost on my account. I need to take Scorpius to the Weasleys first."

"Of course," Hannah nodded, offering a kind smile. "I'll take care of everything. And you—get some rest too, alright?"

Harry thanked her again, then picked up Scorpius and headed straight for the Floo Network.

He had to hurry.

Molly welcomed them in the Burrow's kitchen, apron on, a wooden spoon floating behind her dusted with flour.

The moment she saw Scorpius, she opened her arms and wrapped him in a warm hug.

Harry offered a vague explanation: "Draco's not feeling well. Something happened. I'll explain later when I've got it sorted."

Molly looked at him, said nothing more, and simply nodded: "Don't worry. I'll treat him like he's my own grandson."

He knew she meant it.

After settling Scorpius in, Harry declined Molly's offer to stay for a meal and quickly returned to the Floo.

The green flames rose and swallowed him whole.

Part of his heart remained in that kitchen—tied to the soft but stubborn little figure he'd just left behind. The other half fell hard behind the door of a hospital ward—Where Draco Malfoy, now missing seven years and missing them, was still waiting for him.

He had to go back.

He couldn't let Draco face that emptiness alone.

Draco's hospital room had a small adjoining washroom.

A curtain had been drawn to carve out a makeshift changing space—just barely qualifying as "private," assuming one's definition of privacy included air steeped in someone else's patient-scent. Harry pulled a few pieces of clothing out of the canvas bag he'd brought—not new, not tailored, just his own: A clean T-shirt, a pair of jeans, and a soft, dark knit cardigan.

This hadn't been his original plan.

He could've gone back to Grimmauld Place and fetched a few of Draco's old clothes—The wardrobe there was fully stocked, filled with garments Draco had chosen himself, each one oozing his precise, almost antagonistic sense of style. But Harry hadn't had the heart. Or the time.

After dropping off Scorpius, he'd grabbed the nearest spare bag from the Burrow—one that happened to contain a few of his old things left behind from before. It would have to do.

He just wanted to get Draco home as soon as possible. "Your clothes were damaged during the attack."

He set the clothes down on the small stool by the washroom door, voice even.

"St Mungo's only has hospital gowns. These will have to do for now… They should fit." Draco shot him a withering look.

In Malfoy-speak, that translated to: I know you know I hate wearing other people's clothes—especially yours—but I'm in no position to argue. Harry, to his credit, turned around without another word, standing outside the curtain like a politely sculpted human-shaped privacy charm. Draco didn't move right away.

He stared at the clothes for five full seconds—like they were a particularly large toad squatting on a loo tank. He picked up a T-shirt—Worn. Soft. Washed so many times it had lost its color.

It smelled…Bloody hell—it smelled like Potter. Sunlight. Soap pods.

And that trace of Harry Potter fatigue—like he'd spent the day dueling dark wizards in back alleys and forgotten to eat lunch again. He pulled out the cardigan.

Knit. Dark. Soft enough to start a regrettable affair. A very specific image flashed across his mind—Potter, wearing it.

Sleep-rumpled, hair a disaster, scowling worse than the weather outside. Draco blinked hard. Tried to shake the picture out of his head. Failed.

He finally dragged his weak body into the tiny space, gripping the wall as he pulled the damn curtain shut. It let out a sigh of friction—as if it, too, regretted the absurdity of this scene. Getting dressed wasn't easy.

His limbs were stiff. His joints ached. Like trying to fit a crumpled mannequin into a suit that had already been torn at the seams. When the T-shirt finally slipped over his head, the scent hit him stronger—Close. Clean. Intimate.

He could swear he even felt the faint trace of body heat lingering in the threads. Bloody. Hell. "Done?" Harry asked quietly from the other side of the curtain.

His voice calm as ever—like an Auror checking in during a routine interview.

"What's the rush, Potter?" The retort came out instinctively, still breathless—but he did move faster, like he was trying to escape from this ridiculous outfit that wrapped him up like a Draco Malfoy: Harry Potter Memorial Edition.

When he stepped out of the changing area, Harry had already turned around to face him, his gaze settling on him for a fraction of a second—so brief it could have been missed, but Draco noticed it anyway.

"Ready to go?" Harry asked.

"No shit," Draco snapped back, though his voice lacked the energy to match his words. He could hear it himself—this wasn't a tone of battle. It was the defensive exhaustion of someone trying too hard to keep their armor from falling off.

Harry extended a hand, a quiet offer. "I'll Apparate you."

Draco wanted to say something like, 'As if I trust you,' or 'What, did you hit me with some kind of obedience spell while I was out?'

But he didn't say anything. He simply laid his cold fingers over Harry's.

He felt the other man tense up for a second—then exhale and relax.

The sensation of Apparition hit him harder than he remembered—like being yanked out of water, barely given time to breathe before being hurled into another world.

In the next second, they landed in the entryway of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

Draco staggered.

Harry caught him, far too smoothly. Like he'd done it before.

"Thanks." The word slipped out before he could stop it. Too natural. Too sincere. Too unlike him. He immediately yanked his hand away like it had been burned, then looked around—desperately trying to cover the moment of unintentional softness with a change in scenery.

He recognized the place. Grimmauld Place.

But this wasn't the Grimmauld Place he remembered.

The walls no longer loomed; the portraits no longer screamed; the air had lost that suffocating dampness of old rot.

Instead, there was a disturbingly clean lemon scent—like the place had transformed from haunted manor to a photo spread in Witch Weekly's Magical Home Edition.

"You… redecorated?" His tone sounded like an accusation—like Harry had betrayed the sacred traditions of pure-blood ancestral estates.

"Yeah." Harry's reply was flat. He gestured inside with a motion that said go on in.

Draco followed him through the living room like a spy being led into enemy territory, silently mapping out escape routes with every step.

The fireplace flickered with gentle flames. There was a cashmere throw on the sofa (green—bloody hell). The bookshelf held not just spellbooks but Muggle novels, poetry… and—were those children's picture books?

Children.

His heart skipped a beat. He immediately looked away, refusing to give those books a second glance.

Harry led him upstairs and pushed open a door in the second-floor hallway. "This is your room."

Draco stepped in and instantly saw the double bed—The sheets wrinkled, uneven, clearly slept in recently.

Two pillows. One neatly arranged. The other still faintly indented.

He instinctively turned—just in time to see Harry hurriedly shove a photo frame into his pocket.

Quick. Guilty. Like a six-year-old caught stealing treacle tart. Too late.

Draco's mouth twitched, the kind of twitch that felt like being hit with a silent curse. His chest thumped once—uneven, like a heartbeat thrown off-rhythm.

He stood in place for a moment, scanning the room that had supposedly been "assigned" to him.

This wasn't a guest room. That was obvious. There were signs of long-term living everywhere:

A half-used quill on the desk. A mug ring on the bedside table. The wardrobe left slightly ajar, revealing dark and navy clothes inside. The kind of style that screamed Potter: casual, unbothered, borderline careless.

And then—the bed. That damn double bed.

It wasn't a spare. It wasn't hastily made. It wasn't a neutral, nobody-sleeps-here kind of setup.

This room didn't look offered to him. It looked like it had belonged to Harry Potter.

And now, it had been emptied.

The pillow still held a dent. The sheets hadn't cooled yet.

If they were "flatmates" before he lost his memory, then logically, there had to be another bedroom here—his bedroom. But Potter hadn't taken him there.

Instead, he'd "kindly" handed over the master bedroom. Probably out of some bleeding-heart gesture: Let the coma patient have the big room.

Sounded reasonable. Kind. Practical. So damn Gryffindor it made Draco itch.

But it was too obvious.

That idiot—Merlin-damned Harry Potter—had cleared this room just now.

He hadn't even bothered to remake the bed. Hadn't even flipped the pillow.

Draco didn't want to imagine. But he couldn't stop it. His mind filled in the blanks—Harry Potter, probably sleeping here just last night. And beside him……not Draco.

The thought hit him so hard it knocked the words out of him. He couldn't even name the emotion properly.

"Roommate life looks cozy, Potter," he drawled, a cruel smile twisting his lips as his eyes slid from the bed to Harry—like a blade wrapped in velvet. "This doesn't exactly scream single-occupancy."

Harry's expression tensed for a second—just a flicker of alertness—but then smoothed over again.

"It's the master bedroom. You're staying here for now."

Straightforward. Clean. No explanation.

Which, to Draco's ears, sounded a lot like confirmation. He said nothing more.

Just stood there in front of the bed, staring at it—harshly, almost accusingly—at the faint echoes of two people, at a life he didn't belong to.

There were no obvious signs of someone else living here now—Not in a way his current self could decipher.

But it didn't matter.

He felt like an understudy stumbling into a play already seven years in, script missing, stage cues gone, and someone else had long since warmed the role he’d secretly dreamed of—so thoroughly that even the seat had molded to their shape.

Bloody hell.

If they really were "flatmates," He couldn't imagine how he'd stood it.

Had he really fallen so far as to casually listen while Potter… with someone else… in the next room? His hand curled into a fist.

No.

He couldn't have missed that. Footsteps. Spells. That maddening emotional static—No one could hide it that well. Unless he'd taught himself not to see. Merlin knows how he'd made it through. Or what kind of numbness he'd had to master just to survive living with Harry bloody Potter—knowing any closeness could be replaced in a heartbeat.

He was starting to hate the man he must've become.

"This place still has terrible taste," he finally said, voice dry, tone carefully calibrated to sound Malfoy-level aloof.

"But since you've so graciously taken in a homeless… ex-Death Eater, I suppose I'll tolerate it."

There were so many things he wanted to say. So many questions. So much resentment. But not a single word made it out.

tbc

Chapter Text

Draco stood stiffly in front of the double bed, which still radiated the lingering warmth of Harry Potter and his mysterious live-in partner were wrapped around each other here last night. He felt like a peeled orange, exposed to the air—every nerve raw, absurdly sensitive. Tension coiled in him so tightly he seemed on the verge of snapping. And Harry Potter’s gaze—that cursed, searing gaze he wished he never had to feel again—was fixed on his back like an invisible searchlight.

He desperately needed to get out of this room before his imagination combusted.

Harry wasn’t faring much better. He stared at Draco’s back—bundled in his old cardigan, the man almost looked like a miserable, long-necked parrot. Far too thin, especially in a sweater that was unmistakably Harry’s, yet now looked like it had been stolen. What worried Harry more was the thought that, at some random, unguarded moment, this master bedroom might start to feel familiar to Draco’s amnesiac self.

Thankfully, Draco’s privacy management was airtight—a stark contrast to Harry’s “it’s not a home unless there are five books precariously stacked on every surface” aesthetic. Draco kept everything so immaculate it felt like he was preparing for a Ministry inspection. Which only made it worse—because any personal item that did slip through, like the dog-eared Ancient Runes notes by the bedside or the obsessively neat silver-green silk dressing gown in the corner of the wardrobe, once noticed, hit like a Voldemort-level memory bomb.

Harry had to reorganize the entire house before Draco noticed anything was off.

“Do you… want some tea?” he cleared his throat, forcing a falsely casual tone to cut through the oppressive silence. In truth, he needed tea—strong, scalding, something to snap him out of his nerves and exhaustion, if only for a moment.

Draco grabbed the lifeline without hesitation, turning immediately. “Yes,” he said, barely letting the offer hang in the air. He didn’t want to be in that bedroom a second longer.

They walked downstairs one after the other to the kitchen. The kitchen at 12 Grimmauld Place no longer resembled the cramped, hex-happy war zone it had once been. Draco had personally renovated it, installing what the old Malfoy line would have considered an unforgivable offense against wizarding blood: a variety of Muggle appliances.

Harry moved to the counter and, with the efficiency of habit, pulled out his favourite Golden Snitch-emblazoned mug. He tore open a tea bag and dropped it in, then filled the mug straight from the cold tap. Under Draco’s incredulous gaze, he opened a square metal box, placed the mug inside, and pressed a few buttons.

The box gave a low hum, and a soft yellow light glowed from within—like a friendly, slightly mysterious magical artifact brewing an unknown enchantment.

Draco sat at the table, propping his chin on one hand, wearing the unmistakable expression of a pure-blood wizard who’d accidentally wandered into a Muggle home appliance convention. After a long moment, he drawled, “Potter, what is that? Some contraption to gently torture the tea bag into surrendering? Or have you truly become so destitute that you’ve forgotten the boiling charm and resorted to… primitive alchemy?”

Harry picked up the steaming mug, took a noisy sip, and rolled his eyes.

—This ridiculous microwave he was now being mocked for had, in fact, been carried home by none other than Draco Malfoy himself on a sunny Saturday. His justification? “Experiencing Muggle life aids in the deconstruction and reconstruction of magical paradigms.” Harry remembered he’d even worn a casual cashmere turtleneck that day, as if they were off to an art salon rather than an appliance shop.

He took another long gulp of the hot, bitter tea. The heat slid down his throat like a long-overdue sobering charm, finally slicing through the bone-deep fatigue. He leaned against the counter, sipping slowly, thoughts racing. He needed to get Draco out of the way for at least an hour. Anything less wouldn’t cut it.

He had to hide every trace in the house that might hint at their real relationship—including the existence of Scorpius. Lock everything away in the deepest drawers, seal it in the darkest corners, and cast at least ten containment charms—the kind that wouldn’t budge even for an Alohomora.

But how? Send Draco to the study? No—their books were there, their notes were mixed together. Too risky. The garden? Still freezing outside. Draco would think he’d gone mad.

As he racked his brain, something at the dining table caught his eye. The moment he thought, I wish I had a spoon to fish out the tea bag, a small silver teaspoon quietly materialized on the tabletop.

Harry froze for a second, blinking.

He knew what it meant. Grimmauld Place was responding.

Ever since he inherited it, the house had acted like a bitter, half-sentient old man—barely tolerating its new, half-blood master. The magic embedded in its bones was finicky and unpredictable, always sniffing for a reason to decide whether Harry was worthy of its legacy.

Until that day.

That day, Draco Malfoy—scion of the Black family—had stood solemnly in the center of the living room and declared to the house, or whatever spirit dwelled within it, that he formally renounced his claim of inheritance and acknowledged Harry Potter as the sole owner of 12 Grimmauld Place. Harry didn’t know whether the house truly had a consciousness, but from that moment on, it was like the whole place exhaled. It no longer resisted. It no longer grumbled. It had even started… helping. Like an eccentric old relative finally accepting that, yes, the newcomer was family.

A bold idea surfaced in his mind.

He closed his eyes and gave quick, clear instructions in his head: Listen, mate, I know you can hear me. This is urgent. Do me a favor.

Leave all of Draco Malfoy’s personal belongings in the master bedroom—clothes, books, potion ingredients, trinkets—and arrange them exactly as he would. Make the double bed look like… a single bed, with only one side used, the other untouched.

As for my things—move them all to the smallest guest room downstairs, the one next to Sirius’s old study. Don’t leave anything behind.

And most importantly, hide every trace of our shared life in this house—especially anything related to Scorpius. Photos, letters, toys, clothes, books—hide them all. Lock them away in the most remote, most secure corners, and cast the strongest protective enchantments you can. Seal off Scorpius’s little room too, with your strictest wards. No one gets in. Not even me.

He visualized every detail meticulously—even which drawer a specific shirt should be folded into, and on which layer.

Holding his breath, he silently counted to ten. Then, cautiously, he reached into his pocket.

The enchanted family photo of the three of them, which he had tucked away in haste, was gone.

He let out a quiet sigh of relief.

He knew Grimmauld Place had heard—and obeyed, without question. The life they had built, piece by fragile piece, had now been neatly concealed and sealed away by the ancient house.

“Potter!” Draco’s voice snapped him back, impatient and with a familiar drawl of provocation. “Are you just making tea, or meditating through the centuries? Or are you debating what kind of surprise to slip into my cup?”

Harry didn’t turn around. He simply took a sip from his mug, eyes on the steam curling above it.

If I were to add anything, he thought, it certainly wouldn’t be poison. At most… maybe a touch of Amortentia. Would’ve saved me the trouble of hiding all this.

He drained the rest of the strong tea. The familiar bitterness and subtle buzz seeped through him. After a quiet pause, he rinsed the mug under the tap and slid it back into its usual place.

Then, with practiced ease, he opened the drawer under the counter and pulled out a tin of tea—beautifully packaged, the kind of fine Eastern white tea with a faint jasmine note that Draco always preferred. From the glass-front cabinet, he took out a set of bone china teaware adorned with silver dragons: sleek lines, precise edges, elegant to the point of being intimidating—quintessentially Malfoy.

Harry laid the tea set on the dining table with calm precision. His movements were smooth, almost ceremonial. No rushed teabags this time. He took out a silver tea scoop (which Draco had once insisted was “the bare minimum ritual of being alive”), measured out the exact amount of leaves, and placed them into the pre-warmed teapot.

Then he picked up the Muggle-made temperature-controlled kettle, set it to the optimal temperature—a number Draco had repeated so many times it was burned into his memory—and waited silently. Once it heated, he poured the water slowly, with just the right angle, controlling the flow with care. For the final touch—letting the tea steep just right—he used a silent charm to hold the teapot at a perfect tilt.

Before long, a delicate fragrance began to drift through the kitchen. Harry poured the first infusion into a cup, walked over, and set it down gently in front of Draco.

Draco had been watching the entire time.

He’d assumed that Harry Potter’s grasp of “refined living” extended only as far as knowing the difference between coffee and tea. In his mind, Harry was the type to chop potion ingredients with a lazy Diffindo, let alone manage a process that demanded such precision and patience. Yet here he was, recreating an entire tea ritual with such familiarity and—worse—such quiet gentleness, it was almost unnerving.

It was… unsettling.

“Potter,” Draco murmured, eyes on the clear, fragrant tea in front of him, “where did you learn to do this? I don’t recall ‘How to Please Your Arch-Rival’ being offered as an elective at Hogwarts.”

The sarcasm was there, but dulled—like it had been steeped in steam and jasmine, softened by warmth. No longer sharp, it wavered with something unspoken.

Harry poured himself a cup, took a small sip, then said lightly, “We were flatmates for a while, Malfoy. Hard not to notice the performance you made of brewing tea every morning.”

His tone was casual, like commenting on the weather.

Draco picked up his teacup. His breath caught slightly at the feel of the familiar smooth porcelain. He forced himself to rationalize it—if they were truly just flatmates, then Harry had simply been observing and imitating over time.

That explanation—at least for now—kept his mind from wandering too far.

He lowered his head and took a sip. The jasmine scent rose slowly, like a faint, blurred memory of a life once lived.

He was quiet for a while, fingers absently tracing the cup’s edge. Then, in a low voice, he asked, “Potter… what exactly happened in the past seven years?”

Harry’s fingers, curled around his cup, paused—barely perceptibly—for a fraction of a second. He took another sip, and answered with a voice so even it was nearly flat:

“Which part do you want to know?”

“My… my parents.” Draco’s voice was lower than ever, pulled from somewhere deep in his throat. “What happened to them?”

He’d had a premonition. As for Lucius Malfoy, he hadn’t ruled out the worst-case scenario—the postwar fate of Death Eaters was rarely merciful. But some things, no matter how much you prepare yourself, still need to be spoken aloud to truly settle in.

“Lucius Malfoy,” Harry said, looking at him with measured calm. “After the war, he was sentenced to life in Azkaban. A few years ago… he died there. Illness.”

Draco’s face blanched. He said nothing, just bowed his head, knuckles whitening as he gripped the teacup. His lashes cast long shadows over his eyes, shielding whatever emotion lay beneath.

He should’ve seen it coming. He just… wasn’t ready to hear it.

“Narcissa,” Harry continued after a moment, his voice softening, “she’s been doing well. After the war, she cooperated with the Ministry’s review and got involved in several public charity initiatives. Most of the Malfoy family’s reputation was restored because of her. She’s been a little unwell lately—resting—so she can’t be here to look after you right now.”

It was Harry’s pre-prepared explanation. Not a lie, but not the whole truth either. He knew Draco needed something stable to hold on to.

At the mention of his mother, Draco’s shoulders eased slightly. He drew a slow breath, like a sliver of the weight on his chest had lifted. Then he raised his head, eyes locking back on Harry.

“What about me?” he asked at last, his voice uneasy, laced with a faint, self-deprecating irony. “What was I doing all these years? Lying in bed waiting to die?”

“No.” Harry shook his head, his voice steady. “You weren’t.”

He paused, carefully sorting through memory and discretion.

“After the war, you went through the Ministry’s review. Then you returned to Hogwarts and finished your interrupted courses. You did well. After graduation, with your strengths in Potions and Ancient Runes, you joined the Potion Development Division at St. Mungo’s. It was a solid position, and you did exceptionally. You… were good at it.”

His tone was clinical, deliberately stripped of sentiment—even though memories flooded back unbidden: Draco furiously hurling a beaker after a failed experiment; Draco hunched over parchments late at night, brow furrowed in fierce concentration.

Draco didn’t respond right away. He kept his gaze lowered, silently absorbing the information.

Potion development. Yes, that sounded like him—methodical, precise, not requiring excessive human contact. He didn’t mind the choice. It just… felt distant, like another version of himself that now seemed oddly detached.

He stayed silent a moment longer, then his expression shifted. He looked up, eyes searching, voice cautious but compelled: “And… between us—”

He hesitated, voice rasping slightly. “How did we end up as ‘flatmates’? I mean… it’s hard to imagine I’d agree to live with you, even under the most absurd circumstances.”

This was what he truly wanted to know. He couldn’t reconcile the gaps—the uneasy familiarity, the instinctive caution. Something didn’t add up.

And he was afraid. Afraid Harry would tell him something he couldn’t bear—like that it was pity; that they were never close; or worse, that they were once close, but it was long over.

Harry didn’t answer immediately. He stared into his teacup, watching a few stray leaves swirl at the bottom. His mind was racing, crafting a version safe enough to say.

“Things were… chaotic after the war,” he began at last, his tone detached, like reading a long-forgotten case file. “The Ministry started an ‘Observation and Placement Program’ for former Death Eaters and their families. For ‘social reintegration.’”

He kept his voice steady—measured and bureaucratic.

“Your situation was… unique. Malfoy Manor was sealed for a time. Narcissa wasn’t well and needed rest. And I—well, I was considered a war hero, and I’d taken a position in the Auror Office. I was assigned some of the individual oversight cases.”

He paused, watching Draco for a reaction. But Draco said nothing—just listened, eyes careful, expression unreadable.

“Grimmauld Place, being a Black family estate, you had a blood-based inheritance claim to it,” Harry went on, still keeping things neutral. “After weighing a number of factors—security, logistics, Ministry orders—you were placed here. And since I was both the homeowner and your assigned liaison for the… transitional observation period, we became, by default, ‘flatmates.’”

He took another sip of tea after that, as if the story were now complete.

Draco frowned slightly, clearly mulling it over. He didn’t argue. He just traced the rim of his teacup, fingers slow and absent.

“…Is that all there is to it?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. There was hesitation in it—and something else, something quieter, something like disappointment.

Harry finally looked up, lips twisting into a crooked smile—wry and just a little bitter. “What, were you hoping I invited you here out of sheer Gryffindor hospitality? Tea and trauma healing on the house?”

His tone had that old edge, like they were two teenagers exchanging barbs down the Hogwarts corridors. But behind his eyes, something more flickered.

I’m lying to you. The truth is… it started with the Dragon Pox that nearly killed you. I stayed at St. Mungo’s seven days and nights. When your fever spiked, you held my hand and wouldn’t let go. You kept whispering my name—saying things I never dared dream you’d feel. Everything changed after that. We were two stubborn idiots trying to let go of old pride, trying to get closer. Trying to love. And bringing you back here… that was me. I coaxed and tricked you into moving in after you were discharged—because I couldn’t bear to let you leave again.

Draco was momentarily silenced by Harry’s slightly sarcastic remark, caught off guard. Right—if this was Harry Potter’s idea of a “sincere invitation”, then clearly the sun had started rising in the north ages ago.

“Hmph. Not that I expected you to have the guts anyway,” he shot back, voice still edged with familiar sharpness, though the bite had softened noticeably. He stared into his teacup, as if considering something.

This whole “flatmate” story… didn’t quite add up. The way Harry knew his preferences, the practiced fluidity of that tea ritual—it didn’t feel like the kind of familiarity born from a strained roommate situation.

After a beat, he ventured, “So as flatmates… what were we like?”

Harry looked at him. His green eyes were still calm, but the sarcasm from earlier had faded, replaced by something softer—something harder to define.

“It was alright,” he said. “At least we didn’t burn the place down.”

He paused, then added, “Sometimes we had dinner together—if you weren’t buried in your potions lab, and I wasn’t… staring blankly at a crime scene.”

Draco flinched slightly, his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly.

“Sounds like,” he said, with a note of dry humor, “we were basically polite strangers.”

“We argued sometimes, too.” Harry took a slow sip of tea. “You’d call me an idiot for leaving books everywhere, and I’d yell at you for organizing the fridge like it was a bloody potion shelf.”

“…Sounds like a rather twisted marriage,” Draco muttered. But for the first time, a genuine—if slightly bitter—smile flickered in his eyes.

Harry didn’t respond. He just looked at him, and for a moment, it was as if something caught in his throat—something unspoken that refused to turn into words.

tbc

Chapter Text

Harry set the teacup gently back on the table, his fingertips brushing the rim in an absent motion before he looked up at Draco. The scent of jasmine still lingered in the air, like an awkward third party trying to patch over the lukewarm silence between them.

"Finished?" he asked, his tone flat—more like he was commenting on the weather than offering concern. "The master bedroom’s ready. You look like you could really use some sleep."

He hesitated, as if weighing whether to offer something warmer, but in the end delivered only a clipped directive: "Upstairs, turn right. You know the way." The forced civility in his voice sounded like something torn straight from Chapter Seven of the Gryffindor Handbook: How to Be Polite to Former Enemies Without Looking Like You Mean It.

Draco glanced up, one brow arched, though his lips held no humor. He raised his cup and drained the last sip, as if buying time—or examining Harry through the porcelain rim.

"Is that how you manage guests these days, Potter?" he said lightly. "Drag them into your house, point at a bed and say—'Off you go, that’s your corner now'?"

There was little real bite in the words, but it landed like a typical Malfoy trap—subtle, surgical, left at Harry’s feet to step on if he wasn't careful. Behind the airy sarcasm flickered something far more fragile: unease. Like a cat in a tuxedo, elegantly extending one claw to test the floorboards.

Harry returned the look without smiling. Without answering. He simply picked up the two empty cups and walked them to the sink. The clinking of porcelain and the soft gush of tap water filled the silence, the mundane sounds like a curtain drawn over something unspoken.

"The house is big. Sleep wherever you like," he said finally, voice cool but not cold. "That one just has good light. Stable magical field. You used to like it."

"Used to?" Draco echoed, his tone lifting just slightly—less challenge than quiet alarm. He fell still, a flicker of tension passing through his face.

He remembered the double bed in the room upstairs. Potter had spoken so casually—as if Draco had once claimed that room for himself... maybe even frequented it.

A chill rose up his spine. Shame, hot and thin, mixed with something bitter—anger, maybe. Or jealousy, sharp and irrational. He didn’t remember the past Potter alluded to—but the pull was there, gnawing in his chest, unmistakable. A yearning that felt like it had once belonged to him—still echoing. For Potter’s lingering scent, or... for something even harder to face.

His face had gone pale. Not even a sneer to hide behind. He turned, quick and quiet, like fleeing the scene of a truth he hadn’t asked for. His steps were swift, but heavy—as though walking through the ghost of something he didn’t want to recognize.

Click. The door shut behind him.

He stood alone in the room. Stared at the familiar bed like a man who had stumbled into someone else’s dream—except he suspected the dream had once been his.

Eventually, he sat. Slowly. Like a statue left behind in an emptied gallery. He sank into the mattress, hollow-eyed, unable to speak, unable even to think.

Time passed. At last, he stirred. Like someone shaking off a costume after a poorly written play, he sat up, then stood, letting his eyes roam the room, inch by inch. Potter had been right. Whatever magic had been used here, it had tidied the place to a fault. It was pristine to the point of eeriness.

He frowned, muttering to himself—“12 Grimmauld Place is a sentient, mad old house”—and tried to convince himself this discomfort was logical.

A clear glass cup sat perfectly aligned on the bedside table, gleaming with a kind of smug cleanliness. A quill, still damp with ink, lay on the desk—abandoned mid-letter, as though its writer had simply stepped out. And peeking from the half-open wardrobe was a sliver of deep navy cloth—exactly the kind of cut he might have worn at twenty-seven.

He walked over and tugged open a drawer, fingers moving slower than usual. Silk shirts. Cashmere. Folded meticulously. Somber blacks, cool greys, and just a hint of steely blue. Even the creases looked deliberate.

And then—there it was. The silver cufflink box. The one he’d assumed lost the year he left Hogwarts. Nestled neatly in the drawer, right where someone had decided it belonged.

His eyes flickered. Just as he reached for the bottom drawer, his fingertips met an invisible resistance. The drawer refused to budge, as if sealed shut by a powerful spell.

He tried a few more—some slid open without protest, while others seemed to bristle with resentment. The inconsistency was jarring. This selectively enchanted secrecy made his recently calmed nerves tighten all over again. What was Harry Potter hiding? A cursed tome? A binding contract? Or—worse still—a relationship Draco himself was no longer meant to remember?

He turned back toward the bed. The infuriatingly tidy double bed. The sheets looked like they'd been smoothed over by magic, but he remembered—there’d been a faint impression on one side not long ago. Two pillows: one pristine and fluffed, the other bearing the subtle trace of a head that had rested there. These quiet details were like dull knives, prying at the weak seams of his composure.

"You used to like it there." Harry’s voice echoed in his head, soft but unshakable. What did he mean—this room? The person in the room? Or... one particular side of the bed?

A cascade of ill-timed images flashed unbidden through his mind. He tried not to think about them. He failed.

He paced around the bed like an Auror inspecting a crime scene, his eyes flicking from the pillows to the sheets, even to the lingering scent in the air—barely there, but persistent. Which side was Harry’s? Which belonged to the mysterious, possibly imaginary “lover”? He imagined himself lying in the residual warmth left by someone else—and felt a wave of embarrassment so physical it made his shoulders twitch.

He almost pressed his face into the pillow to sniff, but all he could detect was the faintest trace of something vaguely “Harry.” He didn’t know whether it was real or conjured by sheer force of desire. Was he inventing it, hoping to find something on that pillow?

He walked back and forth again, finally stopping by the side nearest the window—the one with the indentation he’d noticed earlier. He remembered it clearly. It had been there. It must be Harry’s side, he told himself. Over and over, like a charm to ward off doubt.

With a quiet defiance—more against himself than anything—he lay down on that side. The mattress yielded softly beneath him, as if it had only just released someone else’s warmth.

He closed his eyes. Sunlight. Soap. And that subtle, insistent Potter scent. It wasn't strong, but it clung to him—like the lingering cold in a scarf after winter has passed. He realized, with a jolt, that this familiarity—the scent—was somehow worse than discovering proof of a lover. Because it made him feel something. Something unbearable.

If they were just flatmates, he thought, why would Harry give him the master bedroom? Out of kindness? Out of guilt? And what about the lover? Had Harry sent them away—to care for him, the broken amnesiac shell of Draco Malfoy?

The idea sank in slowly, bringing with it a mix of guilt, unease... and a shameful flicker of triumph he couldn’t even admit to himself.

He opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. Seven blank years hung over him like fog, thick and endless, stretching from the cracks in his memory to every quiet corner of the room.

How had he gone from someone who would rather hex himself than share a room with Harry Potter, to being... whatever this was now? The mystery. The flatmate. The amnesiac under house arrest in what used to be the enemy’s safehouse.

Harry had spoken so lightly of “observation and placement,” like he were quoting a subsection of the Former Death Eater Rehabilitation and Reintegration Act. But the words “homeowner” and “temporary guardian” carried a tone no legislation could explain. “You used to like it there.” The intimacy in it rang louder than any Ministry decree.

He couldn’t say where this intimacy had come from—only that it didn’t feel new. It felt like something old and forgotten, crawling its way back from the shadows. And the strangest part? He didn’t shove it away.

He turned onto his side, reached for the pillow, fingertips grazing it as if it held evidence yet to be revealed. He half-expected to find a red hair clinging to the fabric, or a trace of perfume not belonging to Harry. Even a whiff of soap that wasn’t Harry’s brand would have served his increasingly farcical mental detective work.

But he found nothing.

Nothing at all.

His thoughts twisted in on themselves. A weariness settled over him—not in the body (he felt fit enough to duel Voldemort in a game of Wizard’s Chess), but in the mind. It was the kind of exhaustion that came from too many unanswered questions and too many ghosts hiding in broad daylight.

He tried to follow the trail, to piece together the puzzle like a sensible, Slytherin-minded detective. But the more pieces he placed, the more jagged fragments appeared. And the image—if there ever was one—grew less coherent by the minute.

Harry Potter, in his memory, was the boy with stormy eyes, a sharp tongue, and a heart too soft for its own good. But now—now he moved like fog, spoke like parchment, handed over teacups and instructions with a distance Draco didn’t know how to cross. He wasn’t cold. Just... unreachable. And in that distance, there was pity. And pity stung worse than hate.

When had that change begun?

What had happened in those seven missing years?

He didn’t know. The only thing he was certain of was this: he hated the current situation. Hated the feeling of being an outsider thrown mid-act into a play whose script had already been written. Hated the passivity, hated the unknown, hated how every answer he managed to grasp only led to more locked doors and shadowed corridors.

He was starting to hate that version of himself—the one from seven years later—the man who had, perhaps, grown used to sharing a space, a bed, a life... with Harry Potter.

Who was that person?

Maybe he should sleep. Surrender to the weight behind his eyes, throw his questions into the fire of his dreams, and hope they'd quiet down—if only for a few hours.

But he knew, deep down, that such hope was just elegant avoidance. Seven years of blankness wouldn’t mend themselves with a nap. And the tether between him and Harry—cut brutally by oblivion—hadn’t snapped cleanly. It lingered, festering like an old wound that refused to close, aching somewhere unreachable inside him.

Everything was too quiet. The kind of quiet that felt constructed—curated. Like a dream woven too precisely. He was a prisoner wandering through someone else’s illusion, eyes open, but nothing truly visible.

The sound of the door clicking shut behind him had been sharp. Final. It was the kind of sound that sealed things off—not just the room, but Harry as well. A border drawn.

Harry was still in the kitchen, the water running soft over porcelain, rinsing the last of the tea. He heard the click and felt something sink inside his chest.

Draco had spoken with his usual edge, but Harry had heard the tremor beneath the thorns—the barely-contained panic in his retreat. He frowned. For a second, he thought about going after him, checking in, saying something—even if just to confirm he’d settled.

But then again... maybe Draco needed space. Space to metabolize truths that had been forced on him like unwanted potions.

Harry knew Draco too well. Malfoy pride didn’t yield easily. Spiky words didn’t mean confidence; fast footsteps often meant he didn’t want to be seen unraveling.

He set the clean cups aside and turned toward the smallest guest room on the ground floor. The one beside Sirius’s old study—Grimmauld Place had straightened it up recently, as it did when it felt someone might be staying. The bed was narrow. Cramped. A half-worn suitcase sat in the corner like an abandoned thought, barely belonging.

He collapsed onto the mattress, bones heavy with fatigue. The springs creaked beneath him, as if reluctant to accept even his temporary presence.

But his mind was far from ready to rest. It boiled like an over-stirred cauldron—familiar names and half-formed questions bubbling to the surface.

Kingsley. He’d need to request leave immediately. There was no way he could work, not while Draco was in this state.

And what exactly had happened that night?

Draco’s injury. The Obliviation charm—far too precise to be amateur work. And the whispered mention of a “Fourth Deathly Hallow.” Everything wrapped in fog, curling around him like an old curse.

And Scorpius. His little Scorpius—safe now at the Burrow. Was he asking for his Papa? Or for Harry? Children noticed changes faster than adults ever did. And their charade—the pretense of being “former enemies”—was becoming less a joke and more a quiet cruelty.

Harry didn’t remember the last time he’d slept properly. Since the owl from St. Mungo’s arrived, dread and fear had gripped him like a Dementor’s chill. He had held himself together in the hospital, but at home... the unfinished sentences, the unresolved glances, the unanswered memories—They dripped through the roof of his mind like water. Slowly. Inevitably.

Sleep took him at last—fast, like a tide pulling him under. He thought he’d stay down for hours, maybe even till dusk. But only an hour later, his eyes snapped open.

He sat up, dazed. His hair stood wildly on end, a few stubborn strands plastered to his forehead with sweat. His eyes were still glazed with the haze of deep sleep. His hand lifted on instinct, rubbing at his scarless brow. Checking, as he always did, that no foreign magic had crept into his dreams.

The old clock on the wall gave a soft tick as its hands moved forward—mocking, somehow, the shallow sleep he'd barely scraped together in the unnaturally quiet room.

Harry sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and padded out without a sound. He crept up the staircase to the second floor, each step groaning faintly beneath his weight, as though the floor itself were reminding him that no matter how lightly he walked, he couldn’t pass through the past without leaving a trace.

He reached the door of what was now Draco’s master bedroom. His steps slowed to a whisper.

He paused.

The silence behind the door was complete—unnerving in its stillness.

He leaned in, placing one ear gently against the wooden panel, holding his breath. Just a whisper of movement would have reassured him. A shifting sheet. A cough. A sigh.

But nothing.

Not even the soft rhythm of sleep-breathing carried through the thick oak door.

After a few seconds of hesitation, he gave in to the gnawing worry that had brought him here in the first place. He pushed the door open—just a crack. It creaked, faint and narrow. Just enough for one eye to peer through the sliver of moonlit darkness.

Draco was fast asleep.

Curled on his side, platinum hair spilled across the pillow like scattered silk, casting his pale cheek into a kind of fragile transparency. A shaft of moonlight fell through a gap in the curtains and kissed the curve of his face, outlining him like a fading portrait—only breath and outline remaining.

His lips were slightly parted, a sliver of white teeth visible. His breathing came soft and steady. His brow—so often furrowed with disdain or suspicion—was relaxed now, almost peaceful. There was something childlike in the way he slept, a serenity Harry couldn’t remember ever seeing when Draco was awake.

The blanket had been kicked halfway down the bed, revealing one slender leg clad in Harry’s oversized grey pyjama trousers, the cuffs bunched up comically around his calf. One hand lay open on the pillow; the other clutched the edge of the sheet tightly, knuckles pale, as if even in sleep he was afraid of letting go—of falling into whatever void might be waiting.

Harry’s heart gave a quiet thump—not surprise, not pity. Just... recognition. A bone-deep familiarity. One that belonged to them alone.

Draco, unguarded, unarmored, unconscious—was utterly harmless. Even a little endearing.

And just like that, Harry thought of Scorpius. He always slept like this too—blanket kicked off, mouth slightly open, sometimes humming faint, satisfied noises. That kind of sleep—unguarded, trusting—was the kind of tenderness you didn’t earn. You were just lucky to witness it.

Harry could almost imagine what Draco might be dreaming about now: a vault full of butterbeer; a battalion of house-elves nervously polishing chandeliers; Draco in his silk dressing gown, standing atop a spiral staircase in Malfoy Manor, archly declaring, “There’s still dust in that left-hand corner.”

He smiled, silently, warmth blooming in his chest.

This was the Draco he knew. The Draco he... loved. The one who, even while unconscious, held onto something invisible like it might vanish if he let go.

Harry exhaled slowly. The urge to cross the room, to gently pull the blanket over him, tugged at him like a child pulling a sleeve.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not yet.

So instead, he just stood there, watching—committing the moment to memory. A precious, secret stillness in a world too filled with noise.

Draco shifted slightly in his sleep, the faintest stir of movement.

Harry pulled the door closed again—careful, silent, sealing him in.

The click was soft, like the end of a dream too brief to hold onto.

He stood for a moment in the hallway, barely daring to breathe, afraid that even the sound of being would disturb the quiet he’d just left behind.

And then he turned.

He had to go to the Burrow.

He needed to see Hermione and Ron—to confirm things, to make sense of threads fraying in his head. And he needed to see Scorpius—his anchor in this storm. The little one who always reminded him what mattered when everything else blurred.

tbc

Chapter Text

He cast a Muffliato spell—careful not to wake Draco—then stepped into the fireplace, took a handful of Floo Powder, and said clearly: “The Burrow!” The green flames flared up and swallowed him.

Evening was falling over London, the city lights beginning to twinkle. The hum of the city faded under a vast, darkening sky. But Harry paid no attention to the view. All he wanted was to get to the Burrow—a place thick with warmth and the smells of home—as quickly as possible.

The Burrow’s kitchen was brightly lit, thick with the scent of stew and apple pie. That was Molly’s kind of magic—no spell required. Just breathing it in made your shoulders drop a little from the weight of the day.

Ron was sitting at the table in a worn jumper, fork in one hand and the latest Daily Prophet in the other, his brows furrowed as though locked in a silent argument with someone in the paper. Hermione sat across from him, glasses perched on her nose, a stack of parchment in front of her, quill scratching steadily—still working, clearly, on Ministry business.

Harry stepped out of the fireplace. The green flames vanished behind him.

“Harry!” Ron looked up, startled. The newspaper slipped from his hands—but his eyes immediately narrowed in concern at the look on Harry’s face. “Didn’t you just drop off Scorpius this morning? What’s happened? Malfoy—?”

He didn’t finish the question, but the concern in his voice made it clear he’d already heard something from Molly.

Hermione pushed her glasses up, her eyes sharp with worry. She was always the first to catch it—like she carried an umbrella ready before the rain even started.

Harry gave a tired smile. His voice was hoarse. “He’s alright. Asleep. But I need to talk to you both.”

He pulled out a chair and sank into it, the worn cushion welcoming the weight of someone who hadn’t stopped moving in far too long.

Ron and Hermione exchanged glances. The warmth in their faces faded, replaced with tension. Molly turned from the stove, drying her hands on a towel, concern in her eyes.

“Where’s Scorpius?” Harry asked first, a flicker of anxiety beneath his voice.

“He’s just fine, dear,” Molly said gently. “He played with Ginny and the others for a bit, and now he’s in Ron’s old room looking through some of his old toys. Before bed, he asked about you and Draco—said you two were busy off fighting dragons.”

Harry let out a bitter laugh. If only it were that simple. At least dragons made sense.

“Ron. Hermione.” He drew a deep breath, struggling for the right words. “Draco... was hit by an Obliviate. A powerful one. He’s lost the past seven years.”

The kitchen went still, the only sound the crackling from the fireplace.

Ron’s mouth fell open. His newspaper slid off the table. Hermione’s glasses nearly slipped off her nose, eyes wide in disbelief.

“Seven years?!” Ron was the first to find his voice. “Harry—you’re not serious? That means... he doesn’t remember anything? Not about you? Not about Scorpius?”

Hermione’s expression shifted immediately into full focus. She understood the weight of it at once. “A deep-layered memory wipe? Who cast it? What did St Mungo’s say?” she asked, rapid-fire, her logic intact but her worry visible.

Harry nodded and quickly summarised the diagnosis from St Mungo’s—a high-level Obliviate, a gap in long-term memory, and the Healers’ advice to keep the truth hidden for now. To let Draco believe they were still... rivals. Just like seven years ago.

As he explained, Ron’s shock turned to anger. “That’s mental! Making him think you two are still enemies?!” He slammed a hand on the table, rattling the cutlery. “Mate, if Malfoy remembers anything, he’ll hex you! He used to loathe you.”

“He’s halfway there already,” Harry muttered with a crooked smile, remembering Draco’s snide line from that morning: ‘Did you put me under an Obedience Charm while I was out?’

Hermione cut in before Ron could get going again. Her fingers tapped lightly on the table. “Ron, listen. If they try to force his memories back, it could cause real damage. Soul-level magic—if mishandled—can be irreversible. They’re worried Draco’s mind can’t take the shock. Harry... is he still stuck in that post-war mindset?”

“Exactly,” Harry said. “He thinks we’re ‘flatmates’—part of some Ministry-assigned arrangement, with me as his assigned Auror during his so-called rehabilitation—an arrangement that’s somehow still in place."

Harry’s voice grew darker. “And as for the attacker—St Mungo’s found no magical traces. None. Extremely professional. But before it happened, Draco had been researching something called the Fourth Hallow. He believed it could remove the last remnants of Voldemort’s soul.”

“The Fourth Hallow?!” Hermione’s voice rose in disbelief. “That’s just a myth! The supposed fourth gift of Death—like the other three given to the Peverell brothers—but no one’s ever proved it’s real. And even the stories about its power are wildly inconsistent.” She looked to Ron, who shook his head, clearly unfamiliar with it too. Then she turned to Harry, eyes narrowing. “Where did Draco hear about this? Something buried in the Malfoy library?”

“He said he found a reference there,” Harry sighed. “I told him not to mess with it—we argued. And then... this happened.”

He didn’t elaborate. But the guilt in his voice said enough.

"Then that’s it," Hermione murmured, as if working through a particularly tricky spell. "If something that forbidden—capable of devouring soul fragments—really exists, then the attacker was probably after it. Draco might have touched something he shouldn’t have." She looked straight at Harry, her gaze firm. "Harry, you can't go back to the Auror Office right now. You need to stay with Draco. We’ll handle Kingsley."

"I’ve already drafted my resignation," Harry said, with a tired smile hovering somewhere between helplessness and thank Merlin I’ve still got you.

"It’s not about resigning," Hermione replied at once, with her usual professional precision. "It’s about taking leave. You can’t just walk away now. We need to find whoever did this—just as much as we need to help Draco recover. I’ll dig into Ministry records, search for any traces of high-level Obliviate spells. I’ll also look into old dark magic family histories—see if anything points to this 'Fourth Hallow.' Ron can keep an ear to the ground in Diagon Alley and the black market. He always seems to know people... in unusual places."

She shot Ron a look—half teasing—and Ron, like a student who’d just been called on, sat up straighter, clearly pleased. "Right, I’m on it," he said quickly, growing serious. "We’ll talk to Kingsley first thing. You just stay with Draco. We’ve got your back."

"We’ll do everything we can to get to the bottom of this," Hermione said, her voice calm but resolute.

Harry looked at them—two of the most important people in his life—and felt something like warmth bloom in his chest. With them beside him, he didn’t feel quite so lost. The glow of the Burrow’s lights, the steadiness in their voices, the simple words “We’ll help you”—it was like a spell, holding his fraying nerves together.

"There’s... one more thing," Harry added, voice lower now. "Scorpius. Draco doesn’t know he exists. Hannah Abbott advised us to wait—until the time is right."

The room went quiet again.

Scorpius was their shared secret—the deepest tie between Harry and Draco. And now that bond had become a hidden blade, one wrong move away from cutting everyone.

"He’s still so young," Hermione said softly. "He wouldn’t understand why his papa suddenly doesn’t know him. That would be... cruel. Harry, you made the right call."

"Can I ask you two to look after him for now?" Harry asked gently, his eyes searching theirs. "At least until Draco stabilises. Or until... we figure out when’s the right time."

"Of course, mate," Ron said without hesitation. He stood and clapped Harry on the shoulder. "The Burrow’s always Scorpius’s home. We’ll take good care of him."

Hermione stepped forward and took Harry’s hand. "Don’t worry," she said. "We’ve actually got a bit of time lately. Rose has been staying with my parents these past few weeks—it’s closer to her Muggle primary school."

She paused, a fond but slightly worried smile playing at her lips. "We thought it’d be good to give her a bit of a Muggle education before Hogwarts. Her maths is already better than mine was—she’s been correcting Ron’s times tables."

"She says I always mess up seven times eight. I keep saying sixty-four," Ron grumbled, throwing up his hands in defeat. His tone was gruff, but his eyes were full of affection. "She’s already started writing essays critiquing Hogwarts’ curriculum. We’re raising another Hermione."

Hermione rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. "So yes—we can absolutely take care of Scorpius. No problem at all. But you should go see him. He’s really missed you."

Harry nodded, relief washing over him. He gave them both a grateful look, then turned and headed toward Ron’s old room.

The door was slightly ajar, and a soft rustling came from inside. He pushed it open gently.

Scorpius was curled up on the bed, surrounded by Ron’s old magical toys. He had his back to Harry, little black curls spilling across the pillow like a cloud. In one hand, he held a faded wooden toy broomstick, and was muttering to himself—commentating a Quidditch match with great seriousness, his little fist occasionally punching the air in triumph.

"Scorpius?" Harry said softly.

The boy turned in a flash, grey eyes lighting up like a Lumos spell. He let out a gleeful cry and launched himself into Harry’s arms.

“Daddy!” His voice was sweet and full of trust, the kind only children carry. He hugged Harry’s neck tightly, burying his head in his shoulder. "Where did you go? Where’s Papa? Is he really sick?"

Harry held him close, his arms wrapped around the tiny body. In that moment, the weight of the day lifted, just slightly. "No dragons, no Aurors, no riddles," he thought. Just this. Just him.

"Daddy had something important to take care of, sweetheart," he whispered, his throat tight. "Papa’s resting. He’ll be alright. And I’m right here now, okay?"

Scorpius nodded and said nothing more. He clung to Harry’s robes and leaned in with quiet contentment, like Harry’s presence alone could smooth over the storm.

Harry kissed his hair, his eyes stinging. He knew—for this child, and for the man sleeping alone in Grimmauld Place—he had to be brave. He had to find the truth. He had to fix this. For them.

He played with Scorpius for a little while—flying old toy broomsticks and battling troll dolls. Scorpius climbed on his shoulders and declared they were riding a dragon through the Burrow’s living room, laughter echoing through the warm house. It was like magic—real magic—the kind that didn’t need wands. Just a boy’s laughter to clear the darkness.

Harry kissed his son’s cheek, holding him a little tighter. He knew he couldn’t stay long. Draco was waiting. But for now, in this moment of warmth and light, he could breathe.

Just a little longer.

It wasn’t until Molly’s voice floated in from the kitchen—calling Scorpius to wash up for dinner—that Harry finally let him go. The boy slid reluctantly from his arms, still clutching a handful of his robes. “Daddy, will you come play with me again?”

“Of course, sweetpea.” Harry knelt down and ruffled his hair, his voice warm and steady. “I’ll be back soon. Papa will feel better too. Be a good boy and listen to Grandma Molly and Uncle Ron, alright?”

Scorpius nodded hard. Though his eyes still shimmered with reluctance, he turned and scampered toward the kitchen.

Harry followed. Molly was already packing up dinner into a magically-insulated box, now stacked high like a miniature hill.

“These are for you two,” she said, handing it to him with her usual blend of gentleness and no-nonsense care. “Make sure you eat. You both need your strength.” She added, more pointedly, “There’s Draco’s favorite—mashed potatoes and rosemary lamb chops. And some brussels sprouts he used to hate, but secretly came around to. He might not be hungry, but try to get him to eat something. Ron’s already spoken with Kingsley—so don’t worry about that.”

Only Molly, Hermione, and Arthur remained in the kitchen—Arthur was tinkering with a temperamental wireless, sparks occasionally flying.

“Thank you, Molly.” Harry accepted the container. Its solid weight felt unexpectedly grounding. He glanced between them—Molly, Hermione, Arthur—all so familiar, all so steady. For a second, the knot in his chest nearly came undone.

“You all…” His voice caught slightly, but his eyes were clear. “Thank you. I mean it. It means everything.”

Hermione gently patted his arm. “You don’t have to carry this alone, Harry.”

He gave her a nod, then stepped back into the fireplace, took a handful of Floo powder, and spoke clearly: “Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.” Green flames whooshed up and swept him away—from the warmth of the Burrow to a house still steeped in secrets.

The house was quiet when Harry returned. No fire in the hearth. The living room sat in shadow. He lit his wand with a soft Lumos, the tip glowing faintly as he crossed the hall. He placed the insulated box on a side table, then moved quietly up the stairs.

Outside the master bedroom, he paused. This time, he heard movement—soft pacing inside.

Draco was awake. Harry’s heart skipped.

He knocked lightly, then pushed the door open. The glow of his wand lit the room. Draco stood by the window, back turned, slim and still beneath the pale moonlight. He didn’t look over.

“You’re finally back, Potter,” he said, voice low, laced with fatigue and unmistakable annoyance. “What was it this time? A ten-hour debrief with your boss at the Ministry? Or afternoon tea at your favorite Muggle café?”

Harry flicked on the lights, crossed to the desk, and set the food down. “I went to the Burrow,” he said calmly. “To see Ron and Hermione. Molly packed dinner for us.”

Draco stiffened ever so slightly at the word “us.” Then he turned.

His eyes drifted to the container, brow arching faintly. “Oh. Weasley cuisine.” He curled his lip. “I half-expected you to return with St Mungo’s gruel—that would’ve been suitably heroic. But you’ve surprised me. I didn’t know the Weasleys cooked anything besides troll-toe pie.”

He stepped closer, sniffed. “Mashed potatoes. Lamb with rosemary. Brussels sprouts? Merlin, nothing makes me question my past decisions more than discovering I voluntarily ate Weasley food.”

Harry raised an eyebrow but didn’t rise to the bait. He nudged the container forward in invitation.

Draco didn’t move. He stared at the food. Then—unfortunately—his stomach growled. The sound was quiet but loud enough in the silence.

Color rose in his cheeks. He pressed his lips together, clearly mortified.

He lifted his chin. “So... am I meant to stand here inhaling Weasley stew while you eat and vanish?”

Harry met his gaze, the corner of his mouth twitching. “No. I’m inviting you,” he said evenly, gesturing at the box. “You’re free to decline and scavenge for food elsewhere. But if you don’t want it, I’ll take it with me. It won’t go to waste.”

He said no more. Just stepped back and made a “your choice” motion.

Draco wavered. He hated that it smelled good. He hated that he was starving. And worst of all, he hated that Potter looked so damn unbothered—like this wasn’t some subtle battle of wills but just dinner.

He sniffed again. Yes—nutmeg. A Weasley trick.

He gave in. But before he moved, he scowled around the room.

“If you think I’m eating lamb chops on a bedspread, Potter, I’ll hex you into next week,” he muttered. “We’ll eat downstairs. Like civilised beings.”

Harry shrugged, unfazed. “Alright.”

They descended in silence. Harry lit a few low wall sconces in the dining room, casting a gentle amber glow. The hearth here was lit, warm and steady.

Draco sat across from him, posture straight as a wand. He picked up his fork like it might bite him. Then he took a cautious bite of lamb.

It was… annoyingly good.

He wanted to say something biting. “Passable,” maybe. But the words didn’t come. Just chewing.

Harry didn’t say anything either. He ate quietly, methodically, like someone too tired to savor but too polite to wolf it down.

Draco risked a glance. Harry was thinner than he remembered, the hollows under his eyes darker. He chewed fast—habitually fast.

“Potter,” Draco said, setting down his fork. “Are you trying to win a speed-eating contest? Or is this some elaborate plan to choke on Weasley potatoes?”

Harry glanced up. He recognized the tone—mocking, yes, but not malicious. If anything, Draco sounded… oddly at ease.

“I was hungry,” Harry said simply. He didn’t elaborate. But his eyes said everything: You have no idea what kind of day I’ve had.

Draco blinked. Something unspoken curled in his throat. He wanted to ask—Did we use to eat like this? Did I make fun of your eating then too?

But he didn’t. He just picked up another bite.

The rest of the meal passed in quiet tension—somewhere between old rivalry and tentative truce. They ate in silence. But across the table, without saying much at all, they said enough.

tbc

Chapter Text

After the meal, they both set down their cutlery at almost exactly the same moment, with a synchronicity that felt rehearsed a thousand times. Harry quickly cleared the dishes, while Draco turned and headed upstairs—each step measured, neither hurried nor slow, as if retreating from some unspoken awkwardness in the air.

Back in the room Harry had referred to as the "master bedroom," Draco felt no real sense of relief. The moonlight outside, cold and clear as water, cast a sterile silver sheen across the familiar furniture, rendering it suddenly strange. The nap he’d taken earlier hadn’t restored him; if anything, it had snapped his internal clock like a wand, leaving behind a dull, persistent ache, like a hangover that refused to fade. The Weasley family’s food, unexpectedly delicious, had filled the emptiness in his stomach but only served to stir up the disquiet in his mind.

Harry Potter. The name echoed now with the irritation of a repeated incantation. The man sitting across the table—so composed he scarcely resembled the Boy Who Lived of memory—also bore an exhaustion impossible to disguise. He seemed both entirely alien to, and yet uncannily overlapping with, the reckless, self-righteous Gryffindor Draco remembered from school.

He paced the room. The thick cashmere carpet muffled his steps, but not the static that buzzed behind his eyes. Over dinner, Harry had said little. No provocations. No explanations. No sharp retorts to Draco’s barbed remarks. Just—a kind of calm, detached indifference—that, compared to the verbal duels they once exchanged at Hogwarts, left Draco even more unsettled.

He remembered how Harry had practically inhaled his food, and the dark circles beneath his eyes. Harry had said he was hungry. But was it just hunger? Or had he been living this way for the past seven years—some ceaseless state of exhaustion and urgency?

Draco shook his head sharply, as if trying to rid himself of an intrusive Pensieve memory. Why should he care how Harry Potter had been living? They were simply unwilling housemates, forced together under some bureaucratic Ministry arrangement—an arrangement that, somehow, had persisted to this day. Nothing more.

After a few more minutes, the room’s mingling scents—lingering food and faint antiseptic—began to feel stifling. He decided to take a bath, if only to pretend his thoughts might clear.

The bathroom was surprisingly spacious. The pale grey marble tiles were exactly the kind he liked, clean enough to reflect his own image. The deep, vintage-style bathtub almost seemed to greet him: Welcome, handsome wizard, whose life has been completely wrecked by the Ministry. He turned the tap; hot water surged out, quickly filling the room with steam.

He undressed and stepped into the bath, letting the heat wrap around him. Eyes closed, head resting against the tub’s edge, he tried to let his thoughts dissipate with the vapor. But when he opened his eyes and looked down at himself, the forgotten scars were waiting.

He lifted his left arm, eyes locking onto a hideous mark—left by Bellatrix at Malfoy Manor. It coiled on his skin like a centipede, still seeming as though it might twitch at any second. He frowned, shame rising with a kind of reflexive familiarity.

And on his right arm: the Dark Mark. Faded, yes, but no less present. That skull and serpent still sent a phantom grip around his throat every time he saw it. Seven years—how had he lived with it? And Harry Potter, coexisting in the same space as someone who still bore that mark? Had the saviour of the wizarding world simply grown desensitised?

His fingers drifted across his skin, brushing over old injuries. Most had faded, like a map slowly disappearing with time. Until his hand paused at his lower left abdomen.

He froze.

It was a pale mark, faint but clearly surgical—smooth, clean, regular. Unlike any battle scar he remembered. More like… something made with precision. Like a healer’s scalpel.

He had no memory of it. No incident, no injury, no clue. He pressed it gently, tracing the line, as if his skin might tell him the truth. But there was no pain, no echo of recognition—only the alien sensation of a mystery buried beneath his flesh.

When had this happened? And why?

He ran his fingers over the shape again, one possibility after another rising—and rejected—in his mind. Wizards didn’t undergo Muggle-style surgical procedures. Not unless...

Ask Harry?

The thought arrived suddenly, alarmingly logical. As the only one present during this missing stretch of time, Harry might know something.

But the idea died just as quickly.

Him? Draco Malfoy? Asking Harry Potter for details about his own body? He might as well confess a secret fondness for Weasley stew.

Besides—what if the truth behind this scar was worse than the questions? What if Harry calmly told him, “It was your own decision at the time”?

He would rather not know. At least not yet.

He irritably splashed water on his face, letting the cool drops wash away some of the noise in his head. Amnesia was absurd enough, he told himself—no need to add fuel to the fire.

But that small scar, like an ill-timed pebble dropped into the lake of his heart, sent ripples outward, disturbing his already fragile sense of equilibrium. It was like a silent clue, a voiceless reminder—you still don’t know a lot of things, Malfoy.

Harry returned to the cramped guest room on the first floor. Exhaustion weighed on his shoulders like a soaked cloak, making him practically collapse onto the single bed that barely accommodated an adult. The mattress let out a disgruntled groan.

He closed his eyes, but the scene at dinner kept replaying in his mind. Draco’s feigned composure—yet those unconscious, genuine reactions to the food—overlapped unexpectedly with a distant memory.

He remembered those years when they had spent many such evenings—arguing, eating, pretending not to care while secretly edging closer. The Draco of that time was still sharp-tongued, would critique his cutlery placement as unworthy of Slytherin, would roll his eyes when Harry added too much onion again, yet the fire in his eyes had long softened from what it was in their youth. He’d ridicule Harry’s cooking (on the unfortunate nights Harry was on kitchen duty), then proceed to clean his plate better than a house-elf would.

They’d debate the Ministry’s latest chaotic decrees, swap notes on what new tricks Scorpius had secretly mastered, even rage at each other over a footnote in an obscure tome—only to end up making red-faced peace before bed over who said “goodnight” first.

Those warm, trivial routines—like memory shards repaired by a Mending Charm—came together now, painfully vivid. And now, the person sitting across from him was a guarded, cautious Draco, the kind who’d interpret even a simple question as a trap. The contrast hit him harder than any Avada Kedavra ever could.

He rolled over and pulled a folded piece of parchment from his pocket. Scorpius had slipped it to him in secret before they left the Burrow—a lopsided crayon drawing. It showed three stick figures: one with glasses, one with bright platinum hair, and a smaller one in between. All three were holding hands under a huge, bright sun. In the corner, in barely spelled letters, were the words: “Papa, Daddy, Scopi.”

Harry pressed the drawing to his chest, like a warm little talisman. Scorpius—his little dragonlet, his soft arms, that soft and syrupy “Daddy”—Harry could almost hear his laughter echoing beside him. He knew he had to hold on—not just for Scorpius, but for the Draco who had lost himself and was still groping through the dark.

Moonlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting shifting shadows on the floor. Harry lay with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts knotted. He didn’t know how long this masquerade would last, didn’t know when Draco would remember, and certainly didn’t know what—or who—the hidden, invisible enemy truly was.

Weariness swept over him like a tide—merciless and vast. He didn’t even manage to change his clothes before sleep took him, dragging him under with the weight of the day’s fatigue and dread.

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place fell into silence with its master’s rest. The ancient walls stood still in the moonlight, their hidden signs of life—warmth, family, love—slumbering quietly in the dark, waiting for a day they might awaken once more.

The night deepened, and only the final ember in the fireplace glowed faintly—like a distant, fragile, but still unextinguished hope.

The next morning, the first ray of sunlight slipped silently through a gap in the curtains, nudging Draco from his fragmented sleep. He opened his eyes, disoriented for a moment, as if unsure of his whereabouts. It wasn't until he caught the faint scent of disinfectant in the air—and that indescribable mix of soap and sunshine that clung to Harry Potter—that he jolted fully awake.

The unease from last night’s unfamiliar scar had churned in his mind all night, like a splinter of bone lodged in his skull, keeping him from sound sleep. He got up, washed hastily, and changed into a dark shirt and trousers from the wardrobe that were, he grudgingly admitted, of a quality and style he might actually choose himself.

He hesitated about going downstairs. What would a morning at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place be like? Would Harry Potter be playing the competent "roommate" and have breakfast ready? Or would he be in his crumpled pyjamas, hair looking like he’d just been electrocuted by Voldemort, rummaging in the kitchen for stale cereal?

Ultimately, hunger won out over pride. He pushed open the door and went downstairs.

Surprisingly, the downstairs area was remarkably tidy. A warm fire burned in the hearth, the dining table was empty, but there were faint sounds coming from the kitchen.

Draco frowned and followed the sounds to the kitchen doorway. He saw Harry, his back to him, standing at the stove, seemingly busy. Harry wore a simple heather grey T-shirt, sleeves casually rolled up to his elbows, revealing a section of sturdy forearm. Morning light poured in through the kitchen window, casting an almost "slice of domestic life" soft glow on his shoulders.

"Potter?" Draco spoke, a hint of probing in his tone that he himself didn’t quite register.

Harry turned, unsurprised to see him, and simply nodded in greeting. "Awake?" He gestured with his chin toward the pot. "Made some porridge, and there’s toast and jam—if you don’t mind such a Gryffindor-ish simple breakfast."

Draco’s gaze fell on the spatula, and on the two slices of golden toast that had just popped from the toaster. Harry Potter, making breakfast. This fact was even more world-shattering than the mysterious scar.

"I rather thought you’d just conjure a lavish breakfast with a flick of your wand and proudly announce it as 'the Saviour’s hospitality'," Draco drawled, an eyebrow raised, his tone habitually sarcastic, though his eyes traitorously lingered for a few seconds on the steaming pot of porridge.

"I thought you’d be more inclined to 'see it to believe it'," Harry replied coolly, ladling porridge into two bowls and pushing one toward him. "If you’re worried I’ve slipped some strange potion in it, you can choose not to eat."

Draco was taken aback by his composure. He looked at the bowl of not-unappetizing porridge, which even had a few nuts and dried fruits sprinkled on top—it was clearly a breakfast made with a gentle touch, infuriatingly difficult to fault.

He pulled out a chair, sat down, picked up a spoon, and elegantly took a mouthful of porridge. The taste was surprisingly smooth, not too sweet, not bland, even… annoyingly good.

"Barely edible," he huffed, putting down his spoon, striving to maintain his haughty persona.

Harry made no reaction, merely continuing to eat his own portion. Sunlight streamed through the window onto the table, stretching their shadows long and thin. The atmosphere was quiet, no longer hostile, but imbued with a subtle, indefinable peace.

However—

"By the way," Harry said, swallowing his last mouthful and wiping his lips. He pulled a folded piece of parchment from his pocket and handed it to Draco. "A letter Hannah Abbott sent by owl this morning. She’s scheduled your Mind Healing session for this afternoon."

Draco unfolded the letter; it was indeed an official St. Mungo’s missive. His brow furrowed immediately.

"Mind Healing?" he looked up, his grey eyes filled with suspicion and revulsion. "What does that mean? How do they intend to 'heal' me? Pry open my brain to see what dregs are left?"

He loathed others attempting to cross boundaries and peer into his mind, especially when his nerves were already so frayed.

"Hannah said it’s just adjunctive therapy," Harry explained calmly, his tone gentle. "By guiding you into a meditative state, it helps alleviate anxiety, stabilise emotions, and sort through confused memories. No coercive magic, no prying, and no one will be 'prying open your head'."

He paused. "She said it could help you recover. Maybe not everything, but—a start."

"Maybe?" Draco sneered. "Sounds like some charlatan waving incense around to dupe the gullible. I don’t need anyone to 'guide' me. My own memories—I’ll find them myself."

"Draco," Harry’s voice remained calm, but his gaze grew more serious. "I understand you don’t like this feeling. But Hannah is someone you trust; she wouldn’t do anything to harm you. This is just an attempt. If you’re uncomfortable, you can stop at any time."

He paused again. "Give yourself a chance. It might not be as bad as you think."

He looked at Draco, his gaze frank. "Your mental state is very unstable right now. Meditation might help you catch your breath. Besides, they’ll come to Grimmauld Place, so you don’t have to go to St. Mungo’s—which I know turns your stomach."

Draco fell silent. He hated it when Harry spoke to him in that gentle, concerned tone, as if coaxing a skittish Hippogriff.

But he also had to admit—Harry had a point. The constant, draining void and uncertainty felt like an invisible hand clutching his throat. Perhaps… he could try.

"Fine," he finally said, a hint of impatient compromise in his voice. "But I’m telling you now, if there’s any action that goes beyond 'meditation', I’ll have them out on their arses immediately."

"Of course," Harry nodded, as if he’d anticipated this outcome. "They’ll be here at three. Before then, is there anything you want to do? Or anything I can help you with?"

Draco looked at him, those green eyes almost unnervingly clear in the morning light, as if they could strip away his pretenses layer by layer.

He opened his mouth, about to say something like "Leave me alone" or "How much more are you hiding from me?" But in the end, he just gave a cold snort and looked away.

"My affairs are no concern of yours, Potter," he said, his voice reverting to its familiar arrogant drawl as he stood up. "Just make sure those healers don’t mess with my head more than it already is."

With that, he turned and left the kitchen, leaving Harry alone with a half-eaten bowl of rapidly cooling porridge and the gradually brightening London sunlight outside the window.

Draco didn’t actually stay in his room. After confirming that Harry seemed to have retreated to his "exclusive territory" on the first floor and showed no signs of emerging anytime soon, he slipped out of the master bedroom as silently as an alert cat.

He needed to familiarize himself with this house—a place he had nominally lived in for seven years, yet which felt more alien than the Malfoy Manor cellars. Harry Potter had made it sound so simple, all this talk of "roommates" and "observation periods," but Draco’s intuition was screaming alarms: things were absolutely not that simple.

He first wandered the second-floor corridor. Every door here was shut tight, except for the master bedroom he was "borrowing" and a seemingly ordinary lavatory. He tried the handles of a few other doors, finding them sealed as if by some ancient, indifferent enchantment, unmoving. From his fragmented childhood memories, he vaguely recalled one door leading to a small balcony—now it was seamlessly part of the wall, not even a crack visible.

Grimmauld Place, in his memory, should have been dark, oppressive, filled with the resentful aura of pure-blood aristocracy. But now, it exuded a strange, somewhat artificial homeliness—as if some Muggle director had tried to remodel Black House into a "livable post-war sanatorium." The walls no longer oozed viscous black liquid, and the ancestral portraits were much quieter, only occasionally tracking him with their eyes, as if scrutinizing some foreign intruder.

He tiptoed down the stairs, afraid of disturbing some unseen presence. He remembered Harry saying he lived in the guest room next to Sirius’s study. He instinctively glanced in that direction—the door was closed, no sound emanating from within. What was he doing in there? Attending to official business? Or… listening to his every footstep?

The décor of the living room possessed an extremely restrained neutrality. Above the fireplace, where last night a landscape painting of a tranquil valley had hung, now there was a large mirror emblazoned with the Black family crest. The bookshelves displayed exceedingly mediocre magical texts—History of Magic, Transfiguration, Basic Potions… No personal items, no handwritten notes, not even a crumpled quill. Everything was as neat as a show home, as empty as if it were performing a play titled We Have No Secrets.

Draco’s gaze roamed, lingering in every corner, then flitting away the next second. He tried to find even the slightest anomaly in these everyday surroundings. But he also knew that if Potter truly wanted to hide something, the magic of Grimmauld Place was sufficient to bury the truth without a trace—yet even the most brilliant magic couldn't conceal every hesitant crack.

He approached a low cabinet against the wall. A few pieces of silverware, polished to a high shine, were arranged on top. He remembered this cabinet; it used to be the Black family’s repository for forbidden books. He tugged at the cabinet door; as expected, it was also locked—with the kind of "don’t even bother trying" curse.

This pervasive restriction made a nameless frustration rise in his chest. What exactly was Harry hiding? Draco even began to suspect that he hadn't just lost seven years of memory, but perhaps a part of himself as well. Something exceedingly important, hidden away by Harry Potter and this old house together.

The image of the scar from the bathroom last night flashed through his mind. Its location, the way it had been treated… everything felt unsettling. The more he thought about it, the more wrong it seemed, yet he couldn't grasp any clues. He couldn't even be sure if the scar’s existence signified some connection between him and Harry Potter—or if it was all just him grasping at straws.

Sunlight streamed in through the high windows, casting mottled, crisscrossing patterns of light and shadow on the floor. Draco stood at the edge of the light, his expression profound. He was like a traveler who had mistakenly stumbled into a secret chamber, deceived by a familiar exterior, stepping deeper into an unknown labyrinth. He knew he was approaching some truth, but that truth was wrapped in layers of spells and silence, and he could only rely on that restless instinct of his to grope his way through the house’s taciturn embrace.

Time ticked by, minute by minute, the three o'clock Mind Healing session quietly approaching. He hadn’t found any substantial evidence; Grimmauld Place, like a seasoned spy, impassively guarded all its secrets. But the clouds of suspicion accumulating in his heart grew ever denser, as if about to overflow from his chest. He vaguely sensed that all of this—Harry Potter, this house, this blank stretch of time—was concealing a secret vast enough to destroy his very self. A truth that, once uncovered, might never be put back in its box.

tbc

Chapter Text

The chime of three in the afternoon reverberated through every inch of air in Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, as if the old house itself were reminding its inhabitants to prepare for some special arrangement.

Almost the moment the first chime rang out, Harry put down his quill and rose from his desk. He had just finished letters to Hermione and Ron—the contents almost entirely: "I'm fine," "Draco hasn't killed me," "He's still in the house." He knew, of course, that Draco had been awake; occasional footsteps or a slight creak in the floorboards served as reminders—the cat was still prowling the house, simply unwilling to be seen.

The flames in the fireplace suddenly flared up, shifting from orange-red to bright emerald green. A moment later, two figures stepped out. Leading the way was Hannah Abbott, dressed in St. Mungo's pale green Healer robes, her face bearing its customary peaceful smile, as if the tension in the air and the scent of old magic had nothing to do with her.

And the person behind her... made the corners of Harry's mouth lift involuntarily.

“Luna,” he said, his tone light, his gaze genuine. “You're here.”

“Of course,” Luna Lovegood tilted her head slightly, as if listening to a sound only she could hear. She wore a deep blue robe embroidered with silver spiral patterns, a necklace of Butterbeer corks around her neck, and her pale blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders like a waterfall. She looked, as always—peculiar, radiant, and unaccountably comforting.

“Hello, Harry,” she said with a smile, her eyes scanning the entrance hall. “The atmosphere in here is so tense—like stuffing all the old diaries into one drawer and not quite being able to close it.”

Harry smiled, clearly used to her abstract analogies.

Hannah gently explained from the side, “Luna is now a special consultant for our Mental Well-being Department. She has a very unique gift for soothing and guiding traumatized souls.”

“Meaning Draco’s head is her responsibility,” Harry said with a wink at Luna. “Good luck with that.”

Luna simply nodded, looking as though she were entirely prepared for the worst.

Just then, footsteps echoed from upstairs. Draco stood at the top of the staircase, coldly surveying the uninvited gathering below. His gaze flickered past Hannah, but when it landed on Luna’s face, he froze—as if petrified.

In that moment, it was as though he had seen a ghost.

His face turned visibly, deathly pale—paler even than when he had first woken in St. Mungo’s. Shock, revulsion, and a raw, trauma-laced fear flickered through his grey eyes. It was as if something long-buried had been brutally torn open and exposed to the light.

“Loony?!” His voice—hoarse, high-pitched, and jarringly out of place, like a violin string snapping mid-note—erupted from his throat.

“You brought Loony to ‘treat’ me?!” He took a step back, gripping the banister, his knuckles whitening. “Is St. Mungo’s out of people?!”

To Draco, Luna was still the prisoner from Malfoy Manor three years ago—thin, mud-streaked, and yet with eyes so clear they were disarming. She was the most fragile yet most unignorable witness in his memory, living proof of his worst moments. And now here she was, standing in the middle of his living room, cloaked in the guise of a healer.

Hannah, clearly sensing his breakdown, immediately stepped forward. “Mr. Malfoy, please—calm down. Luna is—”

“What’s her specialty? Drawing invisible Crumple-Horned Snorkacks on the wall?” he cut in, his voice cracking. “You expect me to confess my memory gaps to Loony?!”

Luna didn’t take offense. She looked at him, her gaze as distant and soft as always—a strange mixture of compassion and clarity, floating just beyond the reach of ordinary logic.

“Crumple-Horned Snorkacks do exist,” she said softly. “They just seldom choose to appear in places filled with fear and lies.”

Her voice was gentle, but it pierced one of Draco’s already-frayed nerves with the precision of a needle. He choked, his throat tightening.

“Potter!” He spun around, grey eyes blazing. “Is this your doing? You think forcing me to face her is some kind of apology? Punishment? Or just a sick joke?”

Harry's expression shifted slightly. He hadn’t expected Draco’s reaction to be so extreme. He knew Luna had been a prisoner—but he hadn’t anticipated that the memory would still be so raw. For someone with only twenty years of memory, that past was, indeed, alarmingly recent.

“Draco, I honestly didn’t know—”

“I don’t care whether you knew or not!” Draco snapped, his voice already out of control. “If she doesn’t leave immediately, I won’t accept any so-called treatment! And you!” He raised his hand, pointing at Harry. “You get out too! During my treatment, I don’t want to see your sickening face!”

His breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The feeling of being watched, assessed, expected to “cooperate”—it was almost suffocating. He wasn’t some sacrificial offering brought in for a confessional trial—he wasn’t.

He was Draco Malfoy. He didn’t need their pity.

The scene fell into a brief, taut silence.

Harry looked at Draco—he seemed like a cornered wild animal, cloaked in noble fur but wound tight with tension, his eyes sharp with mistrust. That cold, keep-your-distance rejection stung more than any insult.

Luna still stood there, expression calm as still water, gaze gentle, unwavering.

At that moment, Hannah Abbott sighed softly and stepped forward. Her tone remained gentle, but the firmness within it was unmistakable, as though even the air quieted the moment she began to speak.

“Mr. Malfoy,” she said, looking straight at him, her voice low but resolute. “I completely understand how you’re feeling right now. No one here intends to force you into anything you’re unwilling to do.”

“Luna’s presence was my decision—because I trust her professional judgment and believe she can help you.” She paused for a moment, glancing around the hushed room before turning her attention back to Draco.

“If her presence makes you genuinely uncomfortable, we can re-evaluate the treatment team. However, regarding Mr. Potter’s temporary departure, I do believe it’s both reasonable and necessary.”

“Mind Healing requires a quiet, uninterrupted space.” Her voice remained soft, but there was no mistaking the authority in it. “And more importantly, it requires your willingness to relax and to trust. If his presence is a barrier to that, then it should not remain in the treatment room.”

With that, she turned to Harry, a trace of apology in her eyes—but more than that, the calm, decisive demeanor of a seasoned healer.

“Mr. Potter, for the treatment to proceed smoothly, we may need you to step away temporarily. You can wait downstairs; we’ll call you immediately if there’s any change.”

Harry was silent for a moment, his gaze flicking between Hannah and Draco. Draco, still standing on the stairs, looked like the embodiment of resistance, as if bracing himself for someone to clap a magical restraint around his neck at any second.

In the end, Harry nodded. He knew this wasn’t the time to argue. Draco’s emotions were already stretched thin—any more pressure, and the cord would snap.

“All right.” He exhaled, nodding to Hannah and Luna. “I’ll be in the kitchen. If... anything happens, let me know straightaway.”

He gave Draco one last look, his eyes full of worry, restraint, and something else—something quieter, harder to name. It was the dull sting of being shut out. Not sharp, not loud, but real.

Then he turned and walked toward the kitchen, leaving the living room—and whatever was about to unfold within it—to Draco and the two healers.

Draco watched him go, Harry’s silhouette vanishing behind the door. His shoulders loosened slightly, but his expression remained grim, like someone who had just retreated from a battle he never meant to fight.

He turned his eyes back to Luna, his grey gaze still laced with hostility and cold disdain.

“Well then, Loony—Miss Lovegood.” He enunciated each word with exaggerated sarcasm, as if biting down on something he refused to swallow. “Potter's gone. Are you about to begin your ‘soul purification process’ now?”

A corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk, cold as a blade. “Or perhaps you’re going to pull out some cork-made amulet to hang by my bedside, to stop me dreaming of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks at night?”

Luna didn’t respond to his mockery, simply watching him in silence, her pale eyes seeming to see through everything—without judgment, without pity—just a kind of bone-deep stillness.

This silence, however, only made Draco more agitated. He would have preferred if she’d snapped at him, talked back, even rolled her eyes—at least then she’d seem like someone made of flesh and blood, not some sleepwalker hovering on the edge of the spirit world.

Hannah Abbott spoke at just the right moment, breaking the taut stillness.

“Mr. Malfoy,” she said gently, her voice like someone coaxing a fragile wand, “shall we sit down first? The sofa in the living room looks quite comfortable.”

Draco snorted but awkwardly rose and walked over to the sofa. He didn’t choose the softest spot in the middle, but sat rigidly on the edge, spine straight as a drawn bowstring, ready to snap.

Hannah and Luna took the armchairs opposite him. Hannah pulled her wand from her Healer’s satchel, cast a Silencing Charm, then produced a small, ornate silver hourglass, placing it in the center of the coffee table. The sand began to flow slowly, making a faint, almost inaudible hiss.

“Mr. Malfoy,” she began, her voice calm and controlled, bearing the quiet authority of a professional healer, “the purpose of Mind Healing isn’t to forcibly extract memories or intrude into your mental space. It’s a form of guidance—to help you gradually ease out of a state of high neural alert.”

“When the mind stops trying to control everything, forgotten fragments can sometimes resurface naturally.” She paused, then added, “Of course, this takes time—and it requires your consent and cooperation.”

Draco said nothing, simply staring at them with a look that screamed, I’d rather kiss a Dementor than close my eyes in front of you. To him, words like “relaxation” and “openness” sounded suspiciously like “disarm and surrender”—and those were not part of the Malfoy vocabulary.

“We’ll begin with some basic breathing exercises,” Hannah continued smoothly. “Please close your eyes—or, if you prefer, choose a fixed point to focus on—and follow my voice, concentrating on your breathing.”

Draco still didn’t close his eyes. His gaze flicked between Hannah and Luna, his expression that of a rescued hedgehog—bristling, unwilling, on the edge. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Luna quietly twirling a thin silver thread that looked like a talisman made from unicorn tail hair. She was also humming an off-key melody, something like a distant, unwritten lullaby.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Hannah gently reminded him again, “your shoulders are very tense. Try to let them relax.”

Draco shifted slightly, only then realizing he was as stiff as a statue. He muttered a curse under his breath, exhaled slowly, and managed a semblance of cooperation. At last, he closed his eyes—though his eyelids still twitched faintly.

“Very good,” Hannah said, her voice low and soothing. “Inhale… feel the air filling your chest… exhale… let go of the tension, let go of the cluttered thoughts…”

Draco tried to follow along, but it was harder than resisting the Killing Curse. His thoughts were a tangled mess—like a cauldron of overcooked potion hit with an Engorgement Charm: unable to hold anything more, unable to clear anything out.

Just then, Luna’s voice floated over—soft, like a feather landing on still water.

“Your thoughts are very active, Mr. Malfoy,” she said in her usual ethereal tone. “Like a flock of startled Puffskeins, bumping into everything.”

Draco’s eyes snapped open and he glared at her. “I don’t need you to tell me what’s going on in my head!”

“Everyone has Puffskeins in their head,” Luna replied serenely, tilting her head. “Some are colourful, some are grey… yours seem a little sad.”

“Enough!” Draco growled, on the edge of exploding. “I’m not here to listen to your nonsense!”

“Mr. Malfoy, please—try to remain calm,” Hannah said gently. “Luna is just using a more figurative approach to help you get into the right state. If it doesn’t suit you, we can try a different method. What matters most is—how you feel.”

Draco was breathing heavily now, his fingers digging into the edge of the sofa. He felt like these two “healers” were tearing him apart from different directions: one telling him softly, “You can relax,” the other whispering, “Your Puffskeins are sad.”

He should’ve exploded. He was ready to hurl them both—hourglass and all—out the bloody door.

But—there it was again. That strange, creeping exhaustion, washing over him like a tide.

Not physical pain, but the hollowness that comes when a mind stretched too tightly for too long suddenly snaps. He hadn't slept well—no, he’d barely slept at all. He had just awakened from the chaos of amnesia, only to be battered black and blue by the barrage of new information: “roommate,” “treatment,” “Loony.”

He closed his eyes again. This time, it wasn’t out of politeness or compromise, but a near-instinctive retreat.

Hannah sensed the shift, and her voice softened accordingly. “Feel your body… from head to toe… relaxing inch by inch… forehead… eyebrows… eyelids…”

Draco’s breathing began to steady. He found himself unconsciously listening to the strange tune Luna was humming—something like an ancient language, random yet oddly unchaotic.

And in that haze, the “Puffskein” metaphor had somehow taken root. The cluttered thoughts in his head—questions, rage, doubts—seemed to morph into soft, dusty creatures, worn-out and curled up into tiny balls.

The air seemed to quieten too. He could no longer clearly hear sounds from the outside—only the fine hiss of sand in the hourglass, as if time itself was being shaved into impossibly thin slivers.

His awareness began to blur. It felt like slowly sinking into a bottomless pool. A weightless spinning, a drifting sensation, washed over him. He tried to grab hold of something—but the harder he tried, the more he lost his sense of gravity.

Colors flickered and pulsed behind his closed eyes: a blinding platinum blond—his own hair? Or metal?

Then a deep green, like a forest—or like eyes.

Then shapes began to surface: blurry outlines, fractured dialogue, like ink smeared by rain…

He wanted to see clearly, but the dizziness intensified. He was just about to turn and flee when, suddenly—

“Papa… don’t go…”

A child’s sob—choked and crystal clear—stabbed through the fog like a needle, piercing the softest part of his chest.

Draco jolted, his entire body trembling, his chest tightening with something close to panic. He wanted to open his eyes but couldn’t. He wanted to reach for the voice—but his consciousness was being dragged deeper by something unseen.

It came fast and left faster. Like wind sweeping through a thick forest, leaving behind a stinging echo.

He didn’t remember anything.

But that small, broken “Papa,” like a pebble tossed into the lake of his heart, sent ripples across the surface of his weary soul. It gave him no answers. But it gave him questions.

And questions are often the first door back to memory.

Harry paced restlessly in the kitchen. The door to the living room felt like a barrier charm, firmly keeping him on the outside. He knew Hannah would’ve cast a Silencing Charm, so there was no way to hear any actual part of the session—just the occasional drifting murmurs and Luna’s out-of-tune humming, like the low chant of a ghost, from which he desperately tried to glean anything.

Being so ruthlessly kicked out of the therapy session by Draco—he’d be lying if he said it didn’t sting. He knew Draco had amnesia, knew he was emotionally unstable, knew this wasn’t the “whole Draco” right now… but that look—cold, resistant, stabbing straight into his chest like a sharpened pin—no matter how many times Harry told himself don’t take it personally, it still hurt.

He forced himself not to dwell on it. All he could do was keep repeating in his head: Let the session help. Even just a little.

Time crawled like glue, every second thick and dragging. He poured himself glass after glass of cold water, trying to quell the nervous churn inside him. He even started to second-guess himself—had he pushed too fast? What if the therapy backfired? What if the fragile trust he’d just started to rebuild was shattered?

He was on his fifth lap of pacing, nearly about to crack and rush over to peek through the door, when it finally opened.

Draco stood in the doorway. His face was still pale, but that full-body tension—that alert, coiled-wire posture—had eased, slightly. Like a string pulled too tight that had finally loosened, though no one would dare pluck it yet. His hair was tousled, his eyes glassy, like he’d just been dragged out of some nightmare-drenched trance.

Harry shot to his feet, jittery as a student awaiting exam results. “Draco? You... how do you feel?”

Draco didn’t answer right away. He leaned against the doorframe, looking as though he barely had the strength to stand. His gaze landed on Harry for a few seconds—no longer a blade, but something more uncertain. Scrutiny, confusion... maybe even a touch of blankness.

“They’re gone,” he said at last, his voice hoarse, like he’d spent the night breathing dust. “That Loony... Lovegood, and Healer Abbott.”

“Was the treatment... okay?” Harry asked cautiously, his voice as careful as if he were tiptoeing through a field of enchantments.

Draco was quiet for a moment, as if struggling to find an adjective that could even begin to describe what had just happened. His brow twitched, and an unreadable look passed over his face—somewhere between disdain, bafflement, and the numb aftermath of being pranked.

“I don’t know if I’d call it smooth,” he finally muttered, laced with his usual self-mockery. “Felt more like… being shoved into a washtub full of cotton wool, stirred around with a wand a few times, and then when I dazedly poked my head out, they said, ‘Right, that’s today’s session done.’”

The way he described it—half complaint, half diagnosis—made something ache behind Harry’s ribs.

“That Lovegood…” Draco went on, his words a beat slower now. “She kept saying all these mad things. Puffskeins. Tangled emotional threads. Completely mental.” But despite what he said, Harry could tell—somewhere in there, the intense hostility from their earlier encounter had… softened. If only just a little.

“And Hannah? What did she say?”

Draco finally met his eyes. And in that look was something Harry couldn’t name—a question Draco hadn’t decided whether or not to ask.

“She said I was exhausted. That I needed rest. And that the next session’s in three days.”

“So… did you feel anything?” Harry tried to keep his voice steady, but a flicker of hope snuck in. “Like… remember anything?”

Draco’s shoulders twitched, ever so slightly. That voice—that child’s voice—Papa... don’t go...—surged up again, too raw, too real. It hit like a stone to the chest.

His heart clenched.

But in the very next breath, as if doused with a Cooling Charm, he forced it down. Not in front of Potter. Not ever. He’d bite off his tongue before showing weakness now.

“No,” he said sharply, instantly. His voice turned to iron. “I didn’t remember anything. Except that ‘Mind Healing’ is an utter waste of time.”

Harry didn’t challenge him. But he saw the flicker in Draco’s eyes—like someone trying very hard not to see something.

He didn’t push. Just said softly, “You do look tired. Go back to your room and rest. Dinner... is there anything you’d like? I can—”

“No need, Potter,” Draco cut him off. There was impatience in his voice, but the edge had dulled. “I just want to be alone right now.” He brushed off Harry’s offered hand and, steadying himself against the wall, slowly started toward the stairs.

His steps were a little unsteady—not elegantly so, but the way someone moves after crawling out of a deep well of magic. He looked drained.

Harry watched him disappear around the curve of the staircase, his emotions a swirl of worry, helplessness, and something else he couldn’t quite name. He didn’t know whether this Mind Healing session had helped or hurt Draco. But he had a hunch—deep in his gut—that something had shifted.

And that voice—that sudden “Papa, don’t go”—was like a pebble dropped into the sealed depths of Draco’s memory.

It hadn’t started a storm. But below the surface, the ripples had begun—circling outward, silent but irreversible.

tbc

Chapter Text

Harry stood alone in the kitchen for a long time. The air still held Draco’s familiar scent—firwood and old parchment—now tinged with a shadow of alienation and exhaustion, like a yellowed, unsent letter, faintly carrying an emotion that pushed people a thousand miles away. He took a deep breath, suppressing the urge that almost propelled him upstairs to lay everything bare.

“No,” he told himself. Hannah had repeatedly warned that any intense emotional stimulation could trigger more severe memory damage. He had to endure, had to be like a damn model student in Snape’s class—cautious, calm, restrained.

He began to mechanically tidy the kitchen, the clatter of cutlery a bit too forceful. His gaze involuntarily swept towards the closed door, as if he could see through the wooden panels to the room upstairs, where Draco was struggling amidst nascent, fear-tinged memory fragments.

Meanwhile, Draco practically threw himself onto the disproportionately large bed in the master bedroom. Every inch of his muscles screamed with exhaustion, as if he had just finished scrubbing ten years’ worth of grime off Azkaban, yet his mind was as active as if it were hosting a party.

That “Papa… don’t go…” made his scalp tingle, the tear-choked voice echoing over and over in his mind. The sound was like a small, rusty key, stubbornly trying to pry open some heavy door of memory even as it sobbed.

Papa?

Who was calling? Who was he calling?

It couldn’t possibly be him. There had never been a moment in his life when someone had called him Papa. He, Draco Malfoy—whose memories before age twenty included only Lucius Malfoy as a reference point for “father”—had grown up in such a polished aristocratic environment that even “owning a Kneazle” ranked higher than “adopting a wizarding child.”

Him, a father? Utter fantasy.

Perhaps… it was just a hallucination from the therapy? That Loony Lovegood, always spouting nonsense about “nebula vibrations” and “doors of the mind”—who knew what spiritual energy she had implanted in his brain during the session. Her theories, cloaked in moonlight, could make even a Potions Master start doubting life itself if listened to for too long.

Yes, it must be a hallucination. He tried to convince himself.

Yet that sudden palpitation, that chill rising from the base of his spine, was far too real. As if something was stirring awake in the depths of his memory, grabbing the nape of his neck with a cold, damp hand.

What if… what if it wasn’t a hallucination?

Draco shot up from the bed, his gaze fixed on the starless night outside the window. It was as black as an unreadable life history. If a child was truly calling him Papa—what did that mean?

It meant that in his forgotten seven years, he had had a child.

His chest suddenly tightened—an instinctive sense of panic.

With whom?

There was no shadow of any woman in his memory, not even the blur of a skirt hem. Could he have had an affair with some witch, even… had a child he completely didn’t remember?

This thought, like a pebble dropped into a seemingly calm lake, sent ripples spreading downward, striking him to the core.

If this was true—who was the woman? Where was she now? And the child? Why had they disappeared from his life? Even more absurdly—why was he now living with Harry Potter? Instead of… with his own wife and child?

He subconsciously reached for his lower left abdomen; the scar still lay there silently, like some unbroken seal. Was there some connection between it and the child that he couldn’t comprehend?

No, this was too preposterous.

Draco rubbed his temples hard, trying to force the increasingly twisted chaos out of his mind. He would rather believe that all of this was just an aftereffect of some subpar St Mungo’s therapy. A child, a woman, an intimate relationship he couldn’t remember at all… This made his scalp tingle even more than the amnesia itself. It meant he hadn’t just lost time, but also the most intimate, most vulnerable part of his humanity.

His hands unconsciously buried themselves in his platinum blond hair, fingers slowly gripping his scalp as if cupping a head on the verge of collapse. He felt an unprecedented confusion and helplessness, like a traveler lost in a thick fog, each step treading the edge of the unknown.

He would rather have heard nothing. Rather that Papa was just noise from a short-circuiting brain.

At least then, he could pretend he had merely lost seven years of memory, and not—abandoned a child, a child who might have once called him Papa with all their might.

Just then, a knock came from outside the door. Thump, thump, thump. Unhurried, yet with a certain irresistible persistence.

Damn Harry Potter!

Draco frowned and slowly looked up—his first reaction was to play dead. He didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to hear his lectures, and certainly didn’t want to look into those green eyes that seemed capable of dissecting his skull.

“Draco?” Harry’s voice came through the door panel, gentle and restrained, as if negotiating with a ruffled Hippogriff. “Dinner’s ready. Come down and eat something.”

Draco didn’t respond.

But Potter outside was clearly determined to see this through. He didn’t leave, but paused for a moment, then spoke again, his tone noticeably firmer this time. “I know you’re awake, and I know you’re tired. But you need to eat. Come down, or I’ll bring it up.”

Typical Gryffindor—never giving up until the goal is achieved, even their stubbornness cloaked in the righteous guise of “caring for you for your own good.”

Draco gritted his teeth. He knew that if he didn’t cooperate, Potter would indeed appear before him in the next second with a world-savingly solemn expression, carrying a bowl of mushroom soup. Rather than let him invade his territory like a saviour, it was better to take the initiative and maintain a shred of dignity at the dinner table—at least he could still decide when to storm off.

He took a deep breath, straightened his crumpled collar, and mustered all his Slytherin composure to force out a relatively calm reply: “Understood.”

The dining room at 12 Grimmauld Place still maintained that tidiness which strove to create an atmosphere of “warm family life.” The fire in the hearth leapt, casting golden light onto the two dishes and a soup on the table—homestyle beef stew, roasted vegetables, and a steaming bowl of suspiciously coloured cream of mushroom soup. He badly wanted to ask if Harry had made it himself, but he strongly suspected it was another Weasley masterpiece—he could almost imagine Molly, matriarch of the red-haired clan, brandishing a ladle and saying, “Child, health is magic’s first line of defence!”

Harry was already seated at the table. Seeing him come down, he merely lifted an eyelid, gesturing for him to sit opposite.

Draco pulled out his chair, his movements as elegant as ever, though the fatigue and anger etched between his brows made him look as if he’d just fought a dragon at Gringotts for ten minutes.

They picked up their cutlery almost in sync and fell silent at nearly the same moment. Apart from the slight clinking of knives and forks against china, the entire dining room was as quiet as a funeral.

Harry tried to speak several times, but swallowed the words back each time they reached his lips. He could feel that the former Slytherin across from him had an even stronger aura of vigilance than in the afternoon, like a hedgehog with its spines raised, ready to impale anyone at the slightest misstep.

Draco, of course, had no intention of engaging with him either. That “Papa” was still echoing in his mind, making even chewing feel superfluous. Every mouthful of food felt like performing some hard labour task.

He glanced at Harry out of the corner of his eye. The fellow was eating with concentration, though the dark circles under his eyes had deepened. Was he worried about him? Or regretting playing out this “roommate version of married life” with him?

“The Mind Healing...” Harry finally couldn’t hold back and spoke, his voice a little dry. “Hannah said... it might cause some reactions. If you feel unwell, or remember anything...”

“I’m fine, Potter,” Draco interrupted him unceremoniously, dabbing his mouth with a napkin—though he hadn’t eaten much at all. “No other reactions, apart from losing the last shred of trust in the professional competence of certain ‘healers.’”

Harry stared at him, his green eyes like bottomless lakes in the candlelight.

“Draco—”

“If you’ve finished eating,” Draco put down his cutlery neatly, his tone as cold as an early spring rain, “excuse me.”

He finished speaking and rose, giving Harry no chance to respond, his footsteps on the floor like non-lethal precision strikes against Harry’s heart.

Harry watched his retreating back, finally just sighing silently and stuffing the last small piece of beef into his mouth, his expression unreadable.

That night, for Draco, was longer than any before. That tearful “Papa” and the silent scar on his abdomen were like two sharp yet wordless knives, one piercing the depths of his memory, the other buried in the possibilities of the future.

He struggled like a madman between “this can’t be true” and “what if it is?”

And downstairs, Harry was equally unable to sleep. He sat on the living room sofa, watching the flickering flames, the copy of Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts: Special Edition in his hand still stuck on chapter four after turning the page three times. He could sense Draco’s emotions were even more unstable than before, that almost instinctive self-isolation growing stronger. He didn’t know what the Mind Healing session had awakened in Draco’s mind, only that he had to be more patient—and also find the truth faster.

About the attack, that Fourth Deathly Hallow of unknown origin—and that future, which he had long since dared not dwell on, but had never truly forgotten.

He had to get it back—Draco’s memories, and their... everything.

At six in the morning, Harry finally admitted utter defeat in his battle with sleepiness. He had only closed his eyes intermittently throughout the night, and each time he was about to sink into a dream, Draco Malfoy’s pale, dazed face—eyes hiding some enormous secret yet fiercely suppressing it—would flash back abruptly like a slide.

He couldn’t just wait like this any longer.

Outside the window, the sky was still a thick, inky blue, with only a touch of greyish-white, like a hesitant brushstroke, heralding the approach of dawn. Harry quietly got out of bed, stretching his limbs, which felt stiff and unlike his own. He needed to go to the Burrow. Last night, Ron and Hermione had hastily sent a vague message via Floo powder, only saying they had some “insignificant findings” about the attackers—their “insignificant” usually meant “potentially life-threatening.”

More importantly—he wanted to see Scorpius. Even just for a glance, just to draw some strength and comfort from his son, like a gentle life-sustaining charm for himself.

After washing up, he changed into an understated dark pullover and cast a final glance towards the stairs—the end leading to the master bedroom remained silent, as if slumbering in an overly long nightmare.

Walking to the living room fireplace, he grabbed a handful of Floo powder and clearly enunciated in a low voice: “The Burrow.”

Green flames engulfed his figure. Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place returned to its usual ancient, restrained, almost oppressive silence.

An unknown amount of time passed—perhaps only half an hour, perhaps longer—when the first true ray of morning light struggled through the thick clouds, casting a pale glow into the master bedroom. Draco finally opened his eyes amidst an intermittent, blade-like headache.

He had barely slept all night.

That “Papa” was like a nail refusing to be removed, slowly turning in his mind all night. He felt like his nerves were about to snap.

He pushed himself up, his complexion even worse than the night before. There were faint dark circles under his eyes, and even his platinum blond hair, usually as sleek as a model’s in an advertisement, seemed somewhat dull. He felt like the remains of something that had been repeatedly trampled by a gang of drunken trolls and then tossed into a recycling bin—charred on the outside, tender on the inside, and utterly demoralised.

Downstairs was quiet.

And Harry Potter? Was the Gryffindor saviour who called himself his “roommate” currently holding a spatula, planning to “care” for him like feeding a stray cat?

Draco snorted coldly and dragged his utterly despondent self into the bathroom. He needed a cup of black coffee right now—a very, very, very black one, preferably strong enough to repel a Dementor. Or a pick-me-up potion would do—if one could even be found in this house, which was comparable to a haunted one.

After washing up, he changed into a dark grey cashmere sweater. The man in the mirror looked to be in a state he least wanted to admit to—exquisitely tired, respectably falling apart. He frowned, forcing himself to straighten his spine as if his backbone alone could ward off a whole day of collapse, then pushed open the door.

The ground floor was still empty, neither human voices nor the familiar aroma of breakfast.

Potter wasn’t there.

Draco’s steps faltered slightly. An indefinable emotion flickered through his mind—was it relief? Or... a hint of disappointment?

He shook off the absurd thought and headed for the kitchen.

With practiced ease, he retrieved coffee beans from the cupboard—a nearly instinctive familiarity surfaced in his mind. He took out his wand and made himself a large cup of pure black coffee: no sugar, no milk, as bitter as his current life. The scalding liquid brought a subtle burning pain as it slid down his throat, yet it also cleared his tangled thoughts somewhat.

He wandered aimlessly with his coffee, his gaze eventually landing on a small mahogany tray by the window—on it sat an exquisite set of oriental white porcelain tea service, and next to it, a tin tea caddy—the very white tea with a peculiar floral fragrance that Potter had brewed for him the day before yesterday.

He remembered the taste of that tea, remembered its clear, sweet aftertaste, and also remembered Harry’s infuriatingly skillful movements when brewing it. But his mind held no memory of himself drinking tea. It was as if that period of having morning tea together didn’t belong to him, but was acted out by some stand-in whose name he didn’t know.

Every item, every detail in this house was like a meticulously arranged stage set, silently and cruelly reminding him: You are an outsider. Draco Malfoy, a tragic character who couldn’t even control his own past.

Papa...

That chillingly familiar childish voice sounded again, choked with sobs, as if it had grown from the depths of his eardrums.

Draco’s grip on the coffee cup suddenly tightened, his knuckles white from the force. He couldn’t go on being dragged along in this muddled state by the past. He had to do something, even if only to prove—he wasn’t mad yet.

Harry Potter. That damn Gryffindor, he was definitely hiding something.

An idea formed in his mind. Potter was very likely not even in the house right now; this was an opportunity. That shabby guest room of his... perhaps he could find some clue there? Even if not, at least it could serve as an outlet for him to vent all the restless anger accumulated from last night.

He put down his coffee cup, took a deep breath, and walked towards the ground-floor guest room near Sirius’s study.

The door was unlocked.

Draco’s fingertips paused on the doorknob for a few seconds, then, gritting his teeth, he gave it a gentle twist—the door opened.

The room was empty, the bed made relatively neatly, but traces of a hasty departure were not hard to detect. The air still held that characteristic Potter scent—soap, sunshine, and a hint of that irritatingly reassuring smell.

He quickly scanned the room—a single bed, an old wardrobe, a desk piled with a few books and parchments. Nothing to see, much like Harry himself, as if everything had been deliberately simplified to the extreme in order to hide something.

Then, his gaze fell on a splash of brightness on the bedside table.

A folded piece of parchment, its edges somewhat worn, as if it had been repeatedly handled. On it were some crooked, childish drawings in crayon.

Draco frowned. This was clearly not some classified Ministry dossier. He took a step closer, with a tension he himself hadn’t noticed, and reached for the paper.

He slowly unfolded it—

The next second, his breath caught, and his entire body froze as if struck by a silent, invisible Petrification Jinx, motionless.

On the parchment were drawings made with a few simple yet bright crayons. The most prominent were three small stick figures holding hands. The one on the left had a messy mop of almost symbolic black hair, and a pair of round-framed glasses had been deliberately dotted on its face with black crayon. The one on the right was coloured with dazzling, almost golden hair. And standing between them, held by the two adults, was an even smaller stick figure, with a huge, distorted sun above its head that looked as if it might melt at any moment.

What made Draco’s blood run cold was what was spelled out in the corner of the parchment in childish, crooked, almost unformed letters:

“Papa, Daddy, Scopi.”

tbc

Chapter Text

“Scopi…”

Draco’s lips moved silently, the word—a jumble of crooked letters—rapidly magnified and distorted across his retina, then, like a bolt of lightning, violently split open his murky consciousness.

Scorpius. It could be nothing else.

This name, like an ancient family brand, had been solemnly inscribed into the future’s expectation when he was fifteen or sixteen, in that gloomy study hung with portraits of his ancestors, while discussing the family heir with his parents. A name he had once dismissed but secretly cherished deep within his heart.

And now, it appeared so brazenly on a child’s crayon drawing, alongside the labels “Papa” and “Daddy.”

Papa… The little blond figure was him.

Daddy… The little dark-haired figure with glasses—undoubtedly—was Harry Potter.

In an instant, that desperate sob during the Pensieve therapy—“Papa… don’t go…”—raced up his spine to his forehead like a gush of ice water, making his scalp tingle. That sound, that drawing—like two pieces of a puzzle lost for years—now clicked together before his eyes with sickening precision.

Not an illusion.

This was bloody well not an illusion.

A powerful wave of dizziness almost instantly swallowed him. The entire room seemed to sway and tilt—Harry Potter’s cheap single bed, the window letting in the morning light—transformed into a distorted blur of colours before his eyes. He felt his stomach churn, his throat squeezed tight by an invisible hand, making even breathing a luxury.

He stumbled, nearly falling, instinctively grabbing the bedside table, his knuckles white from the strain. The parchment was still clutched in his other hand, its edge digging deeply into his palm, causing a sharp sting that was nothing compared to the tidal wave in his chest.

Cold sweat trickled down his temples, snaking in rivulets across his pale cheeks. His heart pounded so fast it threatened to rip through his chest—not from shock, not from joy, but from a raw, unconcealed fear.

No… it couldn’t be like this…

His brain—that calm, meticulous, Slytherin-esque logical engine he had always prided himself on—had completely crashed. Only instinct began to rebuild order from the ruins, frantically scavenging for various absurd but barely plausible reasons, attempting to construct a less devastating scenario for everything before him.

“This must be Potter’s…” His voice finally broke free from his throat, echoing in the empty room, hoarse as if it had crawled from the floorboards. “Scopi… Scorpius… This must be Potter’s child. With… with some witch.”

Yes, that had to be it.

The term “Daddy” couldn’t be clearer. That child was Harry Potter’s own.

But “Papa”? Why was the blond figure drawn as him? Why would the child call him Papa?

“We’re flatmates…” he mumbled, trying to grasp at this slippery, barely-there lifeline. “Perhaps… perhaps it’s just because I live with Potter, and the child just picked it up? Or… this is just a prank by Potter. He made the child call me that… just to humiliate me?”

This explanation filled him with a familiar rage. Harry Potter—that self-proclaimed Saviour, that idiotic Gryffindor—of course, he was skilled at finding roundabout ways to push his boundaries. Making his child call him Papa? This was a childish operation, an insult to the art of humiliation itself—a Gryffindor-esque bad joke.

He even began to imagine Potter downstairs, feigning tea-making, bringing up meals, then turning around to secretly exchange glances with Ron and Hermione: “Look, Malfoy can’t even tell who his son is anymore.”

…Ha.

This explanation did allow him to temporarily detach from the Papa identity, at least letting him roll his eyes at Potter from a moral high ground.

But…

That Papa, that emotional tsunami in the Pensieve—could it really be triggered by a child’s mistaken address for a flatmate uncle?

And that name. Scorpius.

Even if Harry Potter was completely clueless, he wouldn’t be so bored as to joke about the Malfoy family’s designated heir’s name. This wasn’t a prank—it was a provocation. No—more like… a declaration.

Draco’s stomach lurched.

No, this was wrong.

The most damning thing was the scar.

He instinctively reached down and pressed his lower left abdomen. That smooth, regular, oddly unfamiliar scar lay quietly there, like some sealed magical mark. It didn’t look like a combat wound—more like some kind of surgical incision.

If Scorpius was merely Potter’s child, then where did this scar on his body come from?

Had he… after some drunken night, really been accidentally injured by a house-elf with a butter knife, and Potter just happened to know a St Mungo’s attending physician skilled in aesthetic stitching?

…Don’t be ridiculous.

This absurd thought had barely surfaced before he coldly dismissed it himself.

He tried to fit himself into the role of Harry Potter’s flatmate, plus occasional babysitter, but this scar was like an oddly shaped puzzle piece that stubbornly refused to fit into that story. It was mocking him—mocking his logic, mocking his evasion.

Dizziness surged again, like waves crashing against an already fractured ship.

That explanation that had allowed him to breathe—that “Gryffindor prank script” that shifted all blame to Potter—was as fragile as wet parchment in the face of the scar. He had pulled back the curtain himself, only to find not sunlight outside the window, but unfathomable darkness.

He stood before that drawing, covered in cold sweat, fingers white, eyes vacant—like a lost ghost.

He still wanted to convince himself it was fake—but even he didn’t believe it.

Draco felt a powerful sense of suffocation. He loosened his whitened fingers, and his body uncontrollably fell backward, landing heavily on Harry Potter’s single bed, which was hard enough to qualify as a torture device. The mattress let out a slight groan—a perfectly timed sound, a mocking sigh of “what did you expect?”

If… if that child, that Scorpius, truly called him “Papa”—if that blond figure was indeed him—Then how had he become a father?

Especially—with Potter as the other father.

His gaze drifted uncontrollably to his left abdomen again, to that smooth, cold, silent scar.

A male wizard, bearing offspring…

The thought exploded in his mind like a curse-laden nail, bringing waves of tinnitus and nausea. All the blood in his body seemed to rush backward at once, his limbs filled with a chilling sensation that was almost tooth-aching. He had, of course, heard of it—in the darkest chapters of forbidden tomes, there did exist twisted potions and rituals, the kind that enraged the gods and gave the Ministry of Magic a collective aneurysm.

They could, at an immense cost, alter a wizard’s body. Granting him abilities he was never meant to have.

Like… carrying life.

But what kind of madness, what kind of despair, would make someone willingly touch such a taboo?

Unless—

Unless, it was for someone.

Someone he loved enough to abandon everything for. Loved enough to give up even the fundamental identity of male, loved enough to betray his own bloodline, family—soul.

Twenty years old.

His last memory was fixed at that age. Post-war Malfoy Manor, dead silent. He paced the ruins like a young dragon with its teeth pulled—angry, pathetic. And Harry Potter… that name, those green eyes—like an omnipresent spell—had always hovered over his life, never far away.

Did he hate him? Of course.

That bone-deep jealousy and resentment had been the background music of his entire adolescence.

But beneath that hate… what had been hidden?

Draco closed his eyes in pain, not daring to delve deeper. The emotions he had deliberately suppressed, never touched, now surged from the depths of memory like beasts unleashed. He remembered how many sleepless nights he had spent tossing and turning because of that scar-headed Gryffindor; he remembered his pathological obsession and scrutiny, masked with the sharpest venomous tongue just to hide a concern that even he couldn’t fully admit.

Did he really…

A terrifying “truth” slowly formed in the wreckage of his consciousness, like a self-destructing portrait—its lines distorted, but its outline growing clearer.

It must be him.

It was him, Draco Malfoy, who, driven by that love—humble to the dust, silent, desperate—made such a mad choice during those blank seven years. Like an addict. Like a complete madman. He had altered his own body—just to carry Potter’s child. Just to use such an extreme method to inextricably bind the forever unattainable Saviour—to himself. With blood. With a child. With kinship.

And Harry Potter?

Would he love him?

The thought had barely surfaced before Draco extinguished it himself with a cold laugh.

What a joke.

How could Harry Potter love him? A former Death Eater. A Malfoy he had hated with gritted teeth at Hogwarts. Their lives were always meant to be two parallel tracks; even if they intersected, it would only be a temporary derailment—a collision—and then they would return to their respective orbits, distant, untouched.

So, the so-called truth could only be—

All of this was Draco Malfoy’s solo act. A self-written, self-directed, self-performed tragedy. Sickeningly humble.

Potter, perhaps on some hazy drunken night, or in some cleverly engineered “sudden situation,” had reluctantly become the sower.

And afterward?

Potter knew.

He knew about the child’s existence, about Draco’s sacrifice—and he knew Draco had no way back.

So when he lost his memory, Harry conveniently “adopted” him back, settling him at Grimmauld Place like a lost fire toad mistakenly brought into the Ministry, using the grand excuse of “flatmates” to hide everything perfectly. On the surface, it was concern; in reality—

Guilt. Responsibility. Pity.

Not love. Absolutely not love.

This “truth” was like a rusty surgical saw, biting into his heart, sawing back and forth—each cut bringing out a gush of blood and unbearable pain. He felt the world spin, his stomach churning like a thick potion recipe book, waves of nausea rising.

Shame. A thick, unyielding shame, like a rising tide, engulfed his last breathing space.

He, Draco Lucius Malfoy, would do such a thing—for Harry Potter.

He had betrayed Malfoy pride, betrayed his identity as a man, betrayed the integrity of his own body—just to become that child’s Papa? Just to get a little—even if it was just an illusion—of intimacy from Harry Potter?

The crayon drawing, still tightly clutched in his hand, now felt heavy as a thousand pounds. Those crooked letters, those crude, childish lines—each stroke seemed to mock his ridiculousness and humility.

He had lost not just seven years of memory—but his last shred of self-respect, his final piece of Malfoy decorum.

And the most pathetic thing was—all of this was his own doing. He had personally trampled that pitiful dignity into the floorboards.

The room was eerily silent, broken only by Draco’s ragged, faint breathing. He sat numbly on Potter’s hard, single bed—cold as a judgment block. The drawing paper, damp with sweat from his palm, had softened, its edges curling slightly. His body remained rigid from the initial shock, yet it seemed to have lost all weight and warmth—an unprecedented emptiness, as if his soul had been drained, leaving only an exquisite but hollow shell sitting alone in this strange yet overly tidy room.

However, his brain—refined from childhood to be as cool and precise as a Slytherin clockwork mechanism—could not entirely shut down even under such impact. On the contrary, it began to piece together, question, and deduce—each shattered piece of truth like sharp glass, slowly cutting into his inner being until it revealed new, even more terrifying questions: If Scorpius truly existed—if he was indeed his and Potter’s blood—

Then where was he now?

This thought, like a cold lightning bolt, violently split open his already crumbling consciousness. Draco abruptly lifted his head, his gaze sweeping across the cramped guest room. But no matter how he looked, there were no signs of a child’s presence. No clothes, no toys, no sweet and subtle magical vibrations characteristic of a young wizard. Not even a squashed candy stick or a parchment covered in doodles.

This place was like a secluded corner designed entirely for adults. As if Scorpius had never existed in this house.

So… if the child was truly his, why wasn’t he here? Why were there no traces left behind?

He remembered Harry’s evasiveness about his amnesia, the crude lie of “we’re flatmates,” Harry giving him the master bedroom while huddling in this guest room himself—like a temporary detention cell… These details now twisted and converged into a logical chain that was almost nauseating.

Could it be… something happened to the child?

Draco’s heart lurched. His throat tightened, like something had coiled around it. The sensation was stronger than the shame and pain he had just felt—a never-before-experienced, overwhelming panic.

A child. His child. If Scorpius was conceived through some forbidden potion, twisted ritual, or even dark magic—then would he… not have survived at all? Or was he flawed from the moment he came into this world?

A terrible image flashed through his mind: a child, so weak he barely cried, wrapped in magical cloths in a silent ward at St Mungo’s, his very breathing maintained by potions.

If it was true… if his mad love had indeed brought forth a life destined for tragedy… then Potter’s “care” and silence toward him would all make sense.

It wasn’t pity for his pathetic state—but pity for the child.

It was a calm reckoning of an accomplice.

Or—another possibility surfaced, coiling around his neck like a venomous snake: what if the child was still alive?

Draco’s thoughts suddenly accelerated—like a runaway thunder-dragon—roaring toward even darker conjectures.

If Scorpius was still alive, then why would Potter hide him? Was it because of him? Because he was an amnesiac, unstable, disgraced former Death Eater?

Had Harry already reached an understanding with those hypocritical Healers at St Mungo’s—concluding that he was unfit, unworthy, incapable of taking on the role of a father? Had they already labeled him—an unstable individual, a potential danger, an uncontrollable risk?

Draco’s nails were almost digging into his palms, blood faintly oozing beneath the skin. He was familiar with this feeling—not being disliked, not being antagonized, but something colder, purer—

Being stripped.

Stripped of his rights. Stripped of information. Stripped of his identity as a father.

Stripped of the freedom to choose whether to know or not.

He had thought he had lost memory, dignity, the past. Now he suspected—he might have also lost his child.

And the one manipulating all of this—was Harry Potter.

The person he once thought he loved now acted like a judge in a Saviour’s skin, cutting him out of his life piece by piece with a calm, polite, impeccable demeanor.

The room remained eerily silent, broken only by his increasingly rapid breathing and a mind torn apart by questions, racing at full speed. He felt trapped in a spiderweb woven from half-truths and malice—and with every struggle, the web tightened, choking him until he could barely breathe.

And that seemingly childish crayon drawing—now like a knife, both buried in his palm and plunged into his heart.

The characteristic warmth and aroma of food from the Weasley household, like a gentle potion, instantly drew Harry away from the oppressive atmosphere.

He had just stepped out of the fireplace and hadn’t quite steadied himself when his gaze was drawn to the familiar “family drama” scene in the kitchen: Ron was flipping bacon with his wand while mischievously poking Hermione’s arm with his finger, trying to interrupt her concentration on her Transfiguration Today journal. Hermione frowned, pretending not to notice, but the next second she helplessly swatted Ron’s hand away.

Little Scorpius was nestled beside Molly Weasley, his small body nearly swallowed by the chair cushion. The plate in front of him looked like some kind of kitchen magic experiment, piled high with fried eggs, sausages, roasted tomatoes, and he was laboriously trying to subdue a rebellious piece of bacon with his fork.

“Harry! You’re finally here!” Molly spotted him with sharp eyes, immediately put down her spatula, and quickly came forward, giving him a firm hug. That maternal scent of cinnamon and freshly baked bread enveloped him, making him almost forget he was a wizard nearing thirty—not a poor little thing just picked up from the Forbidden Forest.

“I have something to discuss with Ron and Hermione,” Harry explained softly, his eyes involuntarily drawn to Scorpius.

The little one heard his voice and abruptly looked up, those familiar silver-grey eyes instantly lighting up like fireworks ignited in the night sky.

“Daddy!” he cried out in a soft, childish voice, even abandoning his fork, which clattered back onto the plate. He slid off the chair and scurried over on wobbly little legs, throwing himself into Harry’s arms—so fast it was as if he feared Harry would disappear the next second.

Harry crouched down and hugged Scorpius tightly, like clutching a piece of driftwood.

The little one’s warm body pressed against his chest, his soft hair tickling his chin, and he smelled of morning dew and honeyed bread—a more effective balm than any potion. He felt his heart finally settle, if only for a moment.

“Daddy, missed you…” Scorpius mumbled indistinctly, rubbing his little face against Harry’s neck like a clingy kitten.

“Daddy missed you too,” Harry replied, his voice husky, lowering his head to kiss the top of his head. In that moment, he almost wished he could just ignore everything—holding him like this, holding the whole world. He knew Scorpius wasn’t just missing him—he was also missing the absent “Papa.”

Molly looked at the father and son with gentle eyes, then winked at Ron and Hermione. Ron nodded, pulling Hermione to a corner of the kitchen, giving them space.

“How are things?” Hermione asked directly, her voice laced with concern. “Is Draco all right?”

“Same as ever.” Harry gently set Scorpius back on the ground, patting his back to tell him to go play, then walked over to his friends, his voice low. “Hannah and Luna gave him his first Mind Healing session… even without Legilimency or any magic, his reaction was still very strong. He resisted fiercely. But… I think something was stirred. He became more agitated, but also more… silent.”

“That’s very much his style,” Hermione nodded, thoughtful. “Malfoy fundamentally dislikes having his emotions dug into. But you said ‘stirred’… any signs?”

Harry was silent for a moment. “He seemed very confused. As if something surfaced in his mind, but he couldn’t believe it.”

“That at least means it’s working,” Hermione changed the subject. “We found something about the attackers.”

Her voice dropped, and her pace slowed. “They might be from the Shadows of Retrospection. A very secretive group, whose history might trace back to before the nineteenth century. They focus on ancient magic and… soul-related research. Especially skilled in advanced mind magic—able to precisely erase a target’s sense of existence.”

“Soul-related?” Harry frowned, his temples immediately throbbing. Just the word soul was enough to make his stomach churn. That lingering shard of Voldemort’s soul within him would automatically itch at the mention of it.

“They have an extreme ideology,” Ron picked up. “They believe that only ‘complete and pure souls’ can truly connect with the essence of magic. Human souls that have been torn, corrupted, or even ‘overly emotional’ are the root cause of magic’s decay.”

Harry sneered. “Sounds like a bunch of high-class madmen.”

“Mad in a systematic way,” Hermione pushed up her glasses. “They’ve recently been frantically searching for something on the black market—the Soul-Crossing Mirror, said to reflect all impurities in a soul and strip them away.”

Harry’s mind thundered. Wasn’t that… the fourth Deathly Hallow Draco had mentioned before?

His whole body instantly tensed, and he remembered Draco’s sharp eyes when he had said, “I must find it.”

“Are you saying,” he whispered, “what Draco was looking for… was this?”

Ron nodded, his expression grim. “We suspect he approached the Soul-Crossing Mirror on the black market, which attracted the attention of the Shadows of Retrospection. They should have killed him, but instead of killing him, they only erased his memory.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Hermione frowned. “They’ve always been extremely radical in the past. There’s only one possibility—they need him alive, or… they don’t want to expose their identity. Memory erasure is cleaner than killing—and also more cruel.”

The three continued to discuss, and Harry briefly recounted Draco’s reaction at St Mungo’s. Hermione said she would consult Luna about the procedures and effects of Mind Healing as well as Pensieve therapy. Ron said they would take turns helping look after Scorpius, allowing Harry to focus on Draco’s condition.

As breakfast drew to a close, little Scorpius scurried over again, holding onto Harry’s leg, refusing to let go. “Daddy, play.”

Harry bent down, stroking his soft face, his emerald eyes full of trust and affection. How he wished he could just spend a normal morning here with him and Draco—like a complete family.

Unfortunately, he was not someone entitled to a normal morning.

“Daddy has something else to take care of,” he coaxed softly. “Scorpius, be good and play with Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione, okay?”

Scorpius pouted, and tears quickly welled up in his eyes, but he still nodded.

“I’ll be back soon, okay?”

“Okay…” Scorpius’s voice was so soft it was almost inaudible.

Harry kissed his forehead, stood up, and took a deep breath.

He bid farewell to Molly, Ron, and Hermione, and walked back to the fireplace. As he clutched the Floo powder, he couldn’t help but glance at Scorpius again—the child was standing at the kitchen doorway, his eyes like a temporarily displaced kitten’s, wet and full of reluctance.

“Grimmauld Place 12,” Harry’s voice rang out in the flames, carrying an unsuppressable weariness, and a kind of grim resolve—a scent only familiar to those who wake up each day amidst secrets and loss.

When he stepped out of the fireplace, the room was already filled with the dawn light streaming through the windows.

He looked up at the staircase.

Draco Malfoy was standing at the top of the stairs on the second floor, his figure stretched long by the morning shadows. He didn’t turn away immediately as he usually did when Harry returned, nor did he let out an annoyed scoff. He just stood there quietly, arms crossed over his chest, his pale face bearing an unusual calm. But those grey eyes—like deep lake water—gazed at Harry. There was no longer the irritability and struggle of last night, nor the usual disdain. Instead, there was a complex light Harry had never seen before—carrying scrutiny, and a kind of morbid probing.

The air was still. Harry felt an unprecedented sense of oppression—more unsettling than Draco’s enraged roars.

tbc

Chapter Text

Harry instinctively tightened his grip on the wand in his pocket. This silence was more penetrating than any accusation. He didn't know what had happened, but he knew Draco was different now.

“Back?” Draco spoke, his voice low, steady, and unusually soft, devoid of its usual sarcasm—like a pebble dropped into a deep pool, just enough to break the surface’s momentary calm.

Harry’s throat tightened, explanations churning in his mind, but finding no foothold.

“Yeah,” he managed to keep his tone normal, responding briefly. “Ran some errands.”

Draco’s gaze lingered on his face for a moment—not probing intently, but as if tracing him, bit by bit, into his mind.

“Is that so.” He nodded gently, not pressing further, his eyes calmly shifting away, then turning to descend the stairs step by step. His back was clean and sharp, every step exuding an overly controlled composure, as if he knew that even a fraction of a second faster would allow emotions to spill out with his footsteps.

Harry watched him leave, a growing unease slowly climbing into his chest like a vine.

Draco didn’t go back to his room; he headed to the kitchen.

Harry followed.

The kitchen was filled with the aroma of coffee, and Draco was meticulously grinding coffee beans. His back was quiet, focused, as if performing a repetitive ritual. But Harry noticed his shoulders were slightly tensed.

“You usually drink tea,” Harry finally spoke, his voice somewhat hoarse.

Draco’s hand paused imperceptibly, without turning. He poured the coffee grounds into the filter, and the kettle on the stove began to hum softly.

“I decided to try something different,” he said very lightly, his voice like a whispered self-mutter. A moment later, he softly added, “Perhaps… just wanted to try what you usually drink.”

When these words landed, the air seemed to halt for a second. Harry froze. It didn’t sound like casual banter—more like a quiet, almost gentle imitation, or a subtle probing.

He walked to the dining table and sat down, his gaze still fixed on Draco’s back. Draco brewed the coffee, poured a cup for himself first, and then poured one for Harry, gently pushing it over.

“Yours.” He tapped the rim of the cup with his fingertip—a natural gesture, like a long-accustomed daily detail.

Harry took the cup, his fingertips touching the ceramic, which was surprisingly warm.

Draco sat opposite him, taking a light sip, his gaze fixed on an inconspicuous crease in the tablecloth.

“Grimmauld Place is quiet,” he suddenly murmured, as if musing casually, yet with a hint of vague thought, “Quieter than Malfoy Manor. So quiet… it feels empty.”

Harry’s heart jolted.

“It’s always been quiet,” he said as steadily as possible, his voice hovering between honesty and concealment.

Draco looked up at him, his grey irises calmly reflecting Harry’s face. There was no anger, no suspicion; his eyes were as clear as mirrors, reflecting Harry’s perfunctory response. Then he smiled faintly—a smile so gentle it was almost harmless, yet it seemed to silently question an untenable lie.

“Is that so,” he repeated softly. “I don’t think so.”

He set down his cup, clasped his hands on the table, and slowly shifted his gaze to Harry, as if slowly reading a story whose riddle had already been revealed.

“Are you always like this, Potter?” Draco asked, his tone low—like a chill hidden in the fog. “So cautious with those you feel you should take care of…?”

Harry’s spine instinctively stiffened. For a moment, he couldn’t discern the emotion behind the words; it seemed like resentment, yet also a test—or perhaps an unveiling of a long-established distance.

He took a breath, slowly lowering his guard, his tone softening, as if approaching a fragile edge:

“Draco… you’ve just temporarily forgotten some things. I know this time is confusing for you, and some things… will seem very unfamiliar.”

His gaze was honest, not evasive, not trying to persuade, but pleading for understanding.

“I promise you, I mean no harm,” he paused, his voice softer, “All you need is time and recovery. And when you’re ready… I’ll tell you everything. Not as compensation, but because you have a right to know.”

He spoke slowly, each word seemingly weighed in his heart repeatedly, then uttered one by one.

When Draco heard “compensation,” an elusive glint flickered in his eyes. Harry didn't notice it. All he saw was Draco’s usual calm.

But those eyes had quietly pierced through the fog, revealing a clarity mixed with pain and composure.

He didn't respond to Harry's words—just sat quietly, looking down at the empty plate in front of him, his fingertips slowly caressing the handles of the knife and fork.

That silence was more unbearable than words. Harry could hear his own heartbeat, thudding deep within his nerves. He knew Draco must have misunderstood something, but he was bound by St Mungo’s instructions and Scorpius’s secret, unable to move.

“Do you want something to eat?” he asked, trying to steer the atmosphere back to normal—and also to give himself an excuse to move. He got up and walked towards the cupboard.

Draco didn’t answer immediately, just looked up at his retreating back, as if waiting for an answer he already knew.

“Whatever,” he said, his tone light, as if tossed casually, “Anyway… you always know what I like, don’t you?”

Harry’s fingers, holding the frying pan, trembled slightly. He silently took out eggs and bacon and began to prepare breakfast. The pan soon sizzled, and steam rose. The aroma of food tried to dilute the silence in the air, but it couldn't disperse the lingering intensity in Draco’s gaze.

“You look tired, Potter,” Draco’s voice sounded again, a hint of long-lost concern in his tone. But that concern was fleeting, replaced by a distant aloofness. “Didn’t sleep well last night? Is something weighing on your mind?”

Harry’s motion of flipping the bacon paused slightly. He didn’t answer, only saying, “Some Ministry business.”

“Oh?” Draco chuckled, his voice smooth. “The Saviour always has many important things to do…”

Harry didn’t take the bait—just quickly set out breakfast: the fried eggs golden at the edges, the bacon crisp and fragrant. He toasted a few slices of bread and pushed it towards Draco.

“Eat,” his voice was slightly hoarse.

Draco didn’t immediately pick up his cutlery. He looked at the plate of food, as if it was once familiar, but now somewhat alien. He slowly picked up the knife and fork.

“You’re not eating?” he suddenly asked.

“I’ll have some coffee first,” Harry walked to the coffee maker and poured another cup. He didn’t really have an appetite; his stomach felt clogged.

Draco didn't speak again. He began to eat, his movements as meticulous as ever—yet he didn't seem to be enjoying breakfast, but rather completing a simulation of a past life. Every cut, every forkful, seemed peeled from the depths of memory. He was once someone’s lover, now a patient who had lost his memory—and Harry still played the role of the one who knew everything but couldn’t say.

He occasionally looked up at Harry, his gaze devoid of anger, yet harboring an emotion so complex it almost overflowed.

Harry looked down, drinking his coffee, not daring to meet his gaze. He could feel those emotions slowly seeping from the other man's eyes, like an old letter, repeatedly folded, holding countless sentences read and forgotten.

The kitchen gradually filled with morning light, but the atmosphere remained heavy. Breakfast became a silent standoff—everyone chewing on their own bitterness and silence.

Until Draco finally set down his cutlery, his movements light and controlled, as if concluding a brief performance. He sat there, hands clasped on his knees, his gaze blank and calm.

Harry looked at him, wanting to say something, but couldn't. He knew Draco hadn't asked—but he must have already known something. Tonight, he needed to send a letter to Hannah.

He shifted his gaze from Draco to the window. The morning light was slowly pouring into the kitchen through the glass, falling on the tiles and table corners.

“Draco,” Harry suddenly spoke, as if stating a simple life arrangement, “I’ve requested a leave of absence from Kingsley for the foreseeable future.”

He glanced at Draco subtly as he spoke. The other man’s gaze was still fixed on the empty plate before him.

“I was thinking… instead of always being cooped up indoors, we could go out,” Harry continued, his tone gentle, yet distinctly more rhythmic. “A change of scenery might help you sort things out.”

The only sounds in the kitchen were the faint hum of appliances and the occasional distant birdsong from outside the window.

Draco finally looked up. His grey eyes pierced through the morning light and shadows, landing on Harry’s face—as if trying to penetrate his skin and read the motives behind his words.

“So, Potter?” Draco’s tone was utterly calm, almost mechanical, showing neither expectation nor aversion.

“So…” Harry’s fingertip gently traced the rim of his coffee cup. “I plan to go to Diagon Alley this afternoon. If you’d like, we could go together. Just browse, see if you need anything… or just take a walk.”

His gaze remained on Draco’s face, carrying a faint expectation.

Draco didn’t respond immediately. His eyes flickered slightly—those grey irises like two still pools, reflecting the kitchen’s light.

“Alright,” he said, no clear emotion in his voice. “Perhaps… it’s time to get to know this world again.”

“Then… you rest a bit this morning,” Harry stood up, almost with a sigh of relief, taking the initiative to conclude the conversation.

Draco slowly rose as well, his movements steady, his posture still upright. Sunlight fell perfectly on his shoulders.

He gave Harry a slight nod, said nothing more, and turned to leave the kitchen.

Harry remained alone in the kitchen, the warmth of his coffee quietly dissipating on his fingertips. He watched the direction Draco had left in for a long time.

When Harry pulled Draco through the fireplace into Diagon Alley, it was bustling with people. The echoes of spells, the shouts of vendors, the laughter of children mingled together, and the scent of baking and herbs assailed them—a stark contrast to the silence of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

Draco frowned slightly. He had walked this street countless times as the Malfoy heir, his gaze once met with scrutiny and deference at every turn. But now, those memories of brilliance and arrogance floated disjointedly through this post-war, revitalized streetscape—like shattered illusions. He instinctively scanned his surroundings, as if waiting for something: disgusted glances, hushed whispers, embarrassing reenactments of his past.

But what he encountered was an unexpected calm.

The crowd flowed like water, moving around them. Glances swept over them, but most were merely curious and casual. A few people who recognized Harry offered respectful nods; their gazes then naturally fell on Draco—not with indifference, not with hostility, but with a strange kind of peace.

A young mother leading her child passed by. The child pointed excitedly at Harry and shouted, “Harry Potter!” But the mother merely gave Draco a slight nod, a smile playing at her lips. An elderly wizard murmured a greeting as they brushed past, and neither man quite managed to respond. Even a few Muggle-born witches and wizards glanced at Draco with slight hesitation—then simply moved on.

Draco stood at the street corner, speechless for a moment. He should have felt relieved—perhaps even at ease—but this atmosphere of being forgiven made him feel strangely uncomfortable. It was too smooth. Too quiet. He couldn’t tell—was this Diagon Alley seven years later? Was this the tolerance of oblivion, or some arrangement he hadn’t yet perceived?

He turned to look at Harry. Harry was already watching him, his gaze calm, as if he had anticipated Draco’s reaction. He didn’t speak—just gave a slight nod, as if silently granting permission.

“Where would you like to look?” Harry asked, his tone gentle.

Draco looked down the length of the street, his gaze passing through the bustling crowd before settling on the entrance of Flourish and Blotts. He didn’t speak—just nodded.

They moved through the crowd and stepped into the bookshop. The scent of parchment and ink filled the air, and the light inside was much softer than outside. Draco slowly exhaled, as if finally entering a space where he could begin to settle his emotions. He walked directly toward a back corner marked Ancient Magic and Bloodlines—as though he had already known where he needed to go.

It was a familiar section, filled with many ancient tomes long since considered obsolete. Draco pulled out a thick volume—Forbidden Rituals and Blood Pacts—and flipped through it, the pages rustling crisply. His fingers slowly traced the yellowed text, his expression focused but tinged with urgency.

Harry stood not far behind, watching quietly, saying nothing.

“Draco,” he finally spoke, his voice lowered—calm, but with a hint of caution. “Are you… researching something in that book?”

Draco’s body stiffened slightly, his fingertip pausing on a tattered illustration. He turned his head—Harry was standing very close, close enough that he could smell the faint scent of sunshine and soap on him: subtle, but distinct.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at Harry, a faint, unidentifiable light emerging in his otherwise indifferent gaze.

“Potter,” he said softly, as if reliving a memory that had never truly existed, “Did we… used to do this? Research something forbidden in the back corner of a bookshop?”

His tone carried a low-key, deliberate flippancy—but there was no humor in his eyes.

Harry didn’t respond immediately. His gaze didn’t waver. Slowly, he reached out, took the book, and closed it.

“Researching this sort of thing won’t do you any good,” he said quietly but firmly. “We can look at something else.”

Draco watched him silently. After a moment, he smiled faintly—a very small, very shallow smile.

“Alright,” he said, his tone returning to that detached ease. “Anyway… you always know what’s best for me, don’t you?”

Harry didn’t reply. He only tilted his head slightly, signaling for Draco to follow.

They slowly wandered through the shelves. Draco occasionally picked up a book, but his eyes never lingered long on any page. Harry kept him in his peripheral vision, quietly tracking his every subtle reaction.

Just as they were about to leave the bookstore, a slightly surprised voice called out behind them: “Draco? Potter?”

They both turned.

Pansy Parkinson stood not far away, her robes impeccably tailored, her presence sharp as ever. Beside her, Blaise Zabini leaned lazily against a bookshelf, a familiar smirk playing on his lips. His gaze swept over them both—cool, amused, unreadable. It was clear they had come together.

tbc

Chapter Text

“My dear Draco, it’s been ages. How have the past few months been treating you? We haven’t really caught up since the September gathering, have we?” Pansy approached with a warm, poised smile and an overly familiar tone.

Harry’s heart gave a small jolt. The September gathering—that had been Scorpius’s birthday party… He cleared his throat, his hand clenching unconsciously inside his cloak.

“Parkinson. Zabini.” He tried to maintain his composure, his voice stiffly polite. “Are you two here for books as well? We were just heading to the Leaky Cauldron to sit down—care to join us?” He glanced subtly at Draco, whose face betrayed nothing, as if the event Pansy had just mentioned were a meaningless phrase.

Pansy looked at Harry with a half-smile, seemingly sensing the faint awkwardness in his tone.

“Of course—it’s been far too long since we last saw the both of you.” She answered readily, then casually linked her arm through Draco’s, strolling with him toward the Leaky Cauldron. Their voices were low, as though they were chatting about something inconsequential.

Harry, meanwhile, walked alongside Blaise, half a step behind.

“You look thinner, Draco.” Pansy’s eyes meticulously swept across his slightly hollow cheeks and the loose collar of his shirt. “Haven’t been feeling well?”

Draco’s shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly, but he responded quickly in the familiar tone he always used with Pansy—at least in memory: “What else could it be? You know as well as I do—Malfoys are built to last.” His lips even curled into a vaguely mocking smile, as though performing a part—his voice carrying that same arrogantly careless edge, as if she’d asked him something trivial.

Pansy caught the stiffness beneath his practiced tone, and something shifted in her expression. She gently pressed her lips together.

“That gathering you just mentioned…” Draco’s voice was as light as air, devoid of any true emotion. “I think I…”

Pansy’s eyes flickered—she was just about to respond—

“Pansy,” Blaise cut in from behind, his voice slow and casual. “Would you mind stepping aside? I need a word with Draco.”

Pansy paused and turned to look at Blaise. He stood behind her, shoulders slightly slouched, his gaze surprisingly steady—calm, but with an unmistakable gravity. She wanted to complain, but in that moment, she wisely held back, instinctively swallowing a “What for?” and reluctantly let go of Draco’s arm.

Draco glanced back. He caught the brief, knowing look shared between Harry and Blaise, and something unspoken sparked in the air—a restrained tension, almost visible.

A flicker of displeasure crossed his eyes—even something sharp. He gave Harry a hard stare, a look almost loaded with an unvoiced question, but the words never made it out—silenced by reason.

He simply dropped his gaze, his emotions tucked neatly away, as if nothing had happened.

The group continued forward, their boots echoing a weary yet steady rhythm on the cobbled street.

Harry leaned close to Pansy’s ear and whispered, “Listen—Draco has amnesia. He’s lost all memories from the past seven years. He’s practically twenty again. St Mungo’s says… we shouldn’t provoke him, and definitely not mention Scorpius.”

Pansy’s eyes widened, her shock nearly impossible to hide. She looked at Draco’s back, then turned to Harry again, her eyes filled with dismay, lips parted slightly—unable to speak at first.

“No wonder…” she murmured, her brow drawing together. “Those few words just now… no wonder they sounded so…” Her voice trailed off into the cold winter air.

“How could he…?” She stopped walking, her voice tinged with dazed disbelief, her gaze drifting back to Harry with a trace of reproach.

Harry’s eyes darkened. His voice dropped to a near whisper, as if afraid Draco might hear: “That day… we fought. He walked out, and something happened. He was attacked—hit with a high-level Obliviate.”

He kept it short. He didn’t mention the Soul-Crossing Mirror—he instinctively avoided that phrase, hiding those dangerous fragments in shadow.

Pansy’s expression shifted, a flash of something unreadable in her eyes. She knew Draco’s temperament, and she knew how often they clashed—but she’d never imagined it would come to this.

“So… that’s why he’s been gone,” she said softly.

She gazed at Draco’s back, and in her eyes, beyond pity, there was an added trace of tenderness and understanding—a quiet ache that only true old acquaintances would recognize.

She knew that what Draco found most unbearable was the loss of control. And amnesia—Obliviate—was perhaps the most complete betrayal imaginable in his world. His emotions must have been wildly unstable during this time.

“It must be hard, looking after him, isn’t it?” Her voice softened, shedding its earlier polished edge, replaced by a note of genuine concern.

Harry didn’t deny it; his gaze was layered, but held no trace of complaint. “...After all, he used to hate me so much. We were practically enemies.”

Pansy looked at him meaningfully, a slow smile spreading across her lips. It was no longer the polite kind, but one tinged with something like mischievous insight: “...Perhaps those who claim to hate someone often care for them more than they’d admit.”

Her eyes returned to Draco, carrying a hint of fondness. “Don’t you dare make him lose his temper again.”

Harry took it as half-teasing, half-genuine advice. He let out a dry chuckle, offering no reply, though he felt as if someone had gently nudged him toward a truth he wasn’t quite ready to face.

Up ahead, Blaise and Draco walked side by side.

“What have you been up to lately?” Blaise spoke first, his tone still wearing that signature drawl, like a cat lazily dragging its claws across a window—scratching, but not quite breaking the surface.

Draco glanced sideways at him, an edge of inquiry in his gaze. “What else could I be doing? Potter seems awfully fond of… ‘taking care’ of me these days.” He kept his voice deliberately low, the sarcasm so thick even a Hinkypunk could sense it.

Blaise raised an eyebrow, his voice even lighter. “Oh? So the great Savior’s taken to offering domestic services? That’s new.”

He half-smiled, casually tilting his head to glance back at Harry, and added, “Honestly, the most he used to take care of was probably his broom.”

Draco didn’t respond, just shot him a cold look. That glance carried fatigue, skepticism, and a kind of resigned silence—like someone bowing their head against the wind, not in defeat, but because it was simply too cold, and conserving strength made more sense.

The four of them continued, one pair trailing behind the other, deeper into Diagon Alley. The commotion of Flourish and Blotts had long faded; the street, draped in winter mist, seemed to hush around them, leaving only the echo of boots on flagstone.

Pansy would occasionally glance up at Blaise, her brows knit tightly. Blaise, meanwhile, looked entirely at ease—like someone watching a play just entering its second act.

And Harry kept Draco within his peripheral vision—not a direct stare, but the practiced, unobtrusive attentiveness of someone who had long learned how to watch without being noticed. He could tell Draco’s shoulders were stiff as stone, his eyes unfocused, scanning every window, every signpost, as if searching for something—but always coming up empty.

He was searching for something—or perhaps, losing something.

And of everyone present, Harry saw it clearest.

At last, they stopped outside the Leaky Cauldron. Orange light spilled from the frosted windows, casting a soft glow that made the air seem warmer, as if an invisible hand were gently inviting them in, telling them—for now—it was safe to lower their guard.

Pushing open the Leaky Cauldron’s heavy wooden door, a warm scent—a mix of ale, old wooden floorboards, and freshly baked biscuits—wafted toward them. The room was almost lazily warm, filled with chatter and laughter, a stark contrast to the damp, silent winter world outside.

Tom, the pub owner—balding, gap-toothed, looking more like a figure from a painting than a real person—was wiping glasses, his eyes, remarkably good at recognizing regulars, sweeping across the crowd. When he saw them enter, a smile immediately lit up his face.

“Oh, Harry Potter! A rare sight indeed! And Mr Malfoy, Miss Parkinson, and Mr Zabini!” He set down his glass as he spoke, gesturing enthusiastically. “Come in, come in, find a seat by the fire!”

Harry smiled and nodded, while Draco responded with a customary nod, wearing that “polite pure-blood” expression—distant and composed. His gaze drifted across the bar, the fireplace, the ceiling—familiar, yet alien, like a scene visited a hundred times both in waking hours and in dreams.

They settled at a four-person table near the hearth. Harry sat for a moment, then stood up again. “I’ll get the drinks. Anyone want to come along?”

Blaise lazily rose, glancing at Draco, then at Pansy, a nearly imperceptible smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Alright, Your Saviorness,” he drawled. “But please—no more Butterbeer. I beg you. Last time we had that stuff, we nearly died of sweetness at the door.”

Harry only smiled, offering no reply, and followed him to the bar.

Only Draco and Pansy remained at the table.

The surrounding clamor seemed wrapped in a thin veil; all the noise dulled, blurred—leaving only the sound of their breathing and the shallow flicker of the firelight reflecting off the varnished wooden table.

Draco’s gaze shifted from Harry’s retreating back to Pansy’s face. He rubbed the edge of the table with his thumb, his movements gentle, as if trying to conjure up a hazy memory. A kind of indescribable emptiness lingered in his eyes—that Grimmauld Place kind of silence—as though it had followed him here.

“Pansy,” he whispered, his voice soft as a breath rising from deep in his throat, “was Grimmauld Place always that quiet?”

He paused, his fingertips still idly tracing the tabletop. “Was there nothing… special? Like… sounds that should be there, but aren’t?”

He didn’t say “child,” or “room,” or “person”—only that elusive, abstract phrasing. Like trying to pin down a vanishing dream with words.

Pansy nearly knocked over the dish of olives beside her. She should have anticipated the question—but even so, hearing it caught her off guard.

She, of course, understood what he was asking—or rather, what he might have already remembered. It was a dangerous tipping point, like a single drop of blood seeping from a blade’s edge.

The name Scorpius lingered on her tongue, like a burning ember, but she had to swallow it.

She took a gentle breath and reached out, slowly taking Draco’s hand where it rested on the table.

His fingers were cold, even though they had been sitting near the fireplace for quite some time. They were chillingly cold, as if some warmth had silently drained from his body.

“Draco,” her voice was soft and gentle, like soothing a patient just awakened from a nightmare, “that house is quiet—it’s Potter’s home, after all. It’s always been quite… stable.”

“As for those ‘different sounds’ you mentioned…” She managed a faint smile. “Perhaps it’s just some old memory you haven’t recovered yet. Memories sometimes open their own doors, you know.”

She didn’t lie, but every sentence carefully skirted the truth.

Her fingertips gently patted Draco’s hand, like an unspoken closing statement.

“I really hope that you and Potter… you know, what you and Potter have…” She finally looked up at him, her voice as soft as falling snow. “It can’t be summed up by ‘friends,’ ‘enemies,’ or ‘flatmates.’”

She paused for two seconds—two seconds that felt like a silent sigh—then added: “He’s really been good to you. Hasn’t he, dear?”

Draco moved almost imperceptibly. He looked at her in silence, his grey eyes unfathomable.

Pansy, seeing no resistance, continued: “He knows what kind of tea you like, which crusts of bread you pick off; when you’re sick, he stays up with you; when you were unconscious, he guarded the entire house alone—even when you didn’t respond at all…”

Her tone was gentle and certain, that “I’ve seen it” kind of certainty that made it impossible to argue with.

Listening to these familiar yet unfamiliar things, Draco’s fingers tensed slightly.

He hadn’t missed those details—Potter, unexpectedly gentle, who no longer snapped back no matter how much he was provoked; the kitchen always stocked with coffee, tea, and all the spices he liked; even the cleaning spells were cast with exceptional precision—as if someone had long adapted to a life lived with him.

But in his fractured memory, all of this felt like an exaggerated, compensatory performance. He had once called it “guilt-driven cleanup behaviour.”

“Care…” he repeated the word softly, his voice tinged with both fondness and biting sarcasm. “Yes. He’s quite good at that.”

Pansy looked at him, her eyes half-pitying, half-exasperated. She knew the wires in his mind were hopelessly tangled—she could see that to him, the word love must now look like a carefully laid trap.

She was quiet for a moment, then said again: “You know, he wouldn’t remember your preferred bathwater temperature out of guilt.”

Draco froze, a flicker of panic flashing through his eyes.

Pansy sighed, as if letting go of some quiet burden, and finally said slowly: “Maybe you don’t remember, but you used to… really care about him. Maybe even like him. Am I right, dear?”

Draco went rigid. He stared at her suddenly, his eyes trembling violently.

“How could you… I… Is— is it that obvious?”

The thought surged up from the depths like poison. The possibility that he’d been a laughingstock all along made him feel nauseous, repulsed. His face turned pale by degrees, as if he’d just uncovered some truth in a hidden chamber.

Pansy realized she’d overstepped. She opened her mouth, wanting to take something back, but at that moment, all words felt crude and clumsy.

Just then, Harry and Blaise approached with their drinks—the clink of two glasses sounding sharply in the air.

The moment they drew near, Harry immediately sensed the thick, stalled atmosphere at the table. Pansy’s lingering worry, now tinged with regret, as though she’d just been silenced mid-sentence; Draco’s lowered lashes, like a dark grey curtain, veiling something deeper. Even the air itself felt heavy with the chill of a line just crossed—like a silence accidentally exposed.

He took a breath, set the beer glasses on the table, and tried to appear relaxed.

“Tom’s place is really busy today,” Harry said, pushing a foamy pint of ale toward Pansy, and offering another to Draco.

Blaise, meanwhile, casually handed the third pint of ale to Harry, then raised his own glass of Firewhisky—dark as honey—with a kind of ritualistic flair, like he was toasting himself.

Draco didn’t move. His eyes landed on the Firewhisky in Blaise’s hand, his gaze darkening briefly—then, suddenly, he reached out. The movement was so abrupt it bordered on rude. He snatched the glass, simultaneously pushing the ale Harry had offered back toward Blaise.

“This one looks more suitable for me,” he said, his voice low, but with a stubbornness that left no room for argument.

Blaise raised an eyebrow, a “suit yourself” smirk curling on his lips. He didn’t stop him—just chuckled softly and took the ale instead.

Harry’s heart sank instantly, as though an icicle had pierced his spine. He knew Draco rarely drank hard liquor—let alone something that could “ignite your fire glands with one sip.” This wasn’t casual. It was a statement: I don’t care anymore.

“Draco, you just got out of St Mungo’s,” Harry said quietly, trying to keep his voice steady. “That kind of drink… it’s not good for you.”

Draco ignored him. He simply raised the glass; the Firewhisky gleamed in the candlelight with an almost searing intensity. He tilted his head back and took a long, unhesitating swig.

For a moment, his body shuddered slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbed—but his face didn’t change, as if he’d drunk water.

“Hiss—” Blaise sucked in a sharp breath, still smiling faintly, as though watching a show just beginning.

Pansy’s expression shifted. She reached out almost immediately, trying to stop Draco.

“Draco! Are you mad?” Her voice was hushed, but the genuine worry couldn’t be contained.

Draco deftly avoided her hand, like a silver snake slipping from a grasp, and took another sip, his movements composed, almost provocatively elegant.

He placed the half-empty glass down on the table with a sharp clink, as if shattering something at the very heart of the night.

He slowly turned to look at Harry, his grey eyes gleaming with an almost sickly brightness in the dim light. He stared at Harry as if trying to pin him in place, his voice light, but each word pressing down, making it hard to breathe.

“Mad?” Draco scoffed, his laugh dry, like paper scraping against glass. “Perhaps… you should ask him. Potter, didn’t you take such good care of me? How could I possibly be mad?”

He bit out the word care as if in mockery.

Harry’s throat tightened. He could feel each word Draco spoke like the tip of a blade touching his most vulnerable place.

“Let’s… go home, Draco,” he said as gently as he could, reaching out to touch his arm.

But Draco turned away, avoiding the touch. He leaned forward slightly, his face nearly brushing against Harry’s, like a cat testing the edges of danger.

The scent of liquor and white tea intertwined into a dizzying illusion.

“Home?” he repeated softly. “Aren’t we home now? Aren’t you my dearest family?” He pronounced the word slowly, as if slicing it into pieces and laying them before Harry.

Harry’s fingers trembled slightly. He could tell Draco’s emotions had reached a breaking point.

“Draco, you’re drunk.”

“Drunk?” Draco’s lips curled, but the smile was like a snapped violin string. “No, I’m perfectly sober. Just… soberly in pain.”

He leaned back, his gaze drifting, sweeping over the laughing crowd in the pub, his voice suddenly deepening, as if speaking to the air.

“Look at them, how happy they are. They know who their loved ones are, where their children are. They don’t need others to feed them memories.”

The moment the word children left his lips, Harry froze.

Pansy’s face instantly went pale, and Blaise stopped smiling.

Harry opened his mouth, his throat tight. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

Draco didn’t answer. He raised his glass again, about to finish the rest.

Pansy was quick, pressing down on his wrist.

“Enough, Draco,” her voice was trembling slightly.

Draco didn’t resist. He only looked at Harry, his eyes glimmering with something that might’ve been tears—or perhaps he was simply smiling at someone making a mistake.

“What do I want to say?” he murmured, his tone almost gentle, yet steeped in exhaustion. “I want to say—my world seems to have been hidden by you. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what you are. I only know that I… am in pain.”

He leaned closer again, his voice like a breath against Harry’s ear, tinged with a cold, obsessive intensity.

“Tell me, Potter,” he whispered, “what exactly… did I give up for you?”

When that sentence fell, it was like a blunt knife cutting through all the fragile silence between them.

Harry’s face turned pale at once.

“Let’s go.”

He said it with a voice that allowed no argument, though his hand trembled faintly. He wrapped an arm around Draco’s narrow waist, almost forcefully lifting him to his feet.

Blaise rose as well, his movements swift, his eyes no longer playful but solemn. Pansy followed quickly, her expression anxious, reaching out to support Draco on the other side.

“Let’s go,” Pansy urged, her voice hurried but as gentle as possible. “Don’t make a scene here.”

Draco neither struggled nor complied. He simply stared at Harry, his gaze locked in place by some unseen pain, allowing himself to be pulled along—like a disassembled device, all polished shell, with a soul no longer functioning.

Within the warm, noisy confines of the Leaky Cauldron, the four of them slipped out the door like a sudden gust of cold wind being drawn away.

tbc

Chapter Text

The cold winter wind swept through the alley, carrying a damp chill that crept beneath Harry’s collar. He held Draco tighter, as if to ward off the sudden cold.

“I… I’ll take him back first,” Harry murmured, his voice a little hoarse. He didn’t look at Pansy and Blaise for long—just a brief glance, his eyes lingering on the worry plainly written on their faces.

“I’ll write once he’s settled,” he added, trying to keep his voice steady.

Pansy’s face was pale, her eyes filled with concern. She instinctively took a step forward, her voice almost carried off by the wind: “Is he… is he really alright?”

Blaise said nothing, simply stepping beside her and quietly placing an arm around her shoulders. His gaze moved past Harry to settle on Draco’s face, then returned to meet Harry’s eyes. That look was a silent assent.

Harry nodded, saying no more. He turned, holding Draco close, and pushed quickly through the crowd, as if afraid someone might stop him. The person in his arms made little effort to walk, leaning limply against his shoulder, his breathing slightly uneven, occasionally murmuring unintelligible syllables.

The Floo point was tucked away in the back alley of a stationery shop just around the corner. Harry flicked out a corner of his cloak, took a pinch of Floo Powder from the nearby jar, and tossed it into the fireplace. Emerald flames flared up, casting a pale green glow over his face. He steadied Draco and stepped into the flames. Space twisted violently. In the dizzying swirl, Draco let out a low hum, shrinking deeper into Harry’s arms, his fingers instinctively clutching at Harry’s cloak. Harry held him tight, as though shielding something incredibly fragile.

The familiar living room burst into view the next moment. Both of them stumbled out before the fireplace at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, landing with a soft thump on the rug. The room was quiet, the only sound the faint crackling of the fire.

Harry didn’t bother to brush the soot from his robes. He carefully helped Draco up—his body limp like a broken puppet, though at times tensing, as if he might suddenly bolt. Harry half-carried, half-dragged him up the stairs to the master bedroom.

The room was dimly lit, with only a small enchanted lamp by the bed casting a soft glow. Harry settled Draco onto the mattress, gently removing his coat and boots. His clothes were damp, still clinging with the chill from outside. With a wave of his wand, Harry conjured a warm, damp towel and slowly wiped the cold sweat from Draco’s brow and the flush on his cheeks. His skin was pale, nearly translucent under the touch of warmth and moisture.

Harry sat at the bedside, his gaze slowly tracing the contours of Draco’s face, his eyes soft and focused, as if looking at his whole world. He reached out and brushed aside the damp blond hair from Draco’s forehead, his thumb gently skimming over the crown of his head.

Draco didn’t resist—only his brow furrowed faintly.

“Draco…” Harry whispered, his voice barely audible. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Draco’s forehead—so light, yet heavy with unspoken meaning, with pain and guilt that had been buried for far too long.

He took Draco’s hand into his own. It was cold, and tightened faintly in his grasp.

Draco’s eyes fluttered open. He looked at Harry with moist eyes, his body inching toward him. His breathing was uneven, and he mumbled continuously—like sleep-talking, or fragments spilling out from deep within: “…home… did I… lose it…”

For a moment, Harry could hardly breathe. He knew that hollow ache had returned to Draco.

“…I know you’re in so much pain.” His voice was soft, barely more than a breath. “I’m sorry… I can’t tell you. Not yet. But I promise—I never meant to hurt you.”

After a long pause, he went on, his voice still low: “I’ve been waiting for you to come back. And I was a mess while you were gone too… migraines, insomnia, mood swings.” He paused, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his lips—a private, bitter kind of humor only they would understand. “Maybe when you recover… when my ‘illness’ gets better too, things will finally be okay again…”

—A declaration, impossibly gentle.

Draco’s lashes trembled, and a tear slid silently from the corner of his eye, trailing down his cheek and into his hair. He seemed to understand—and also not to understand at all.

“How could I forget?” he whispered, his voice thick, trembling. “I’m so… useless…”

Harry felt his chest tighten, as if squeezed by an invisible hand. Without thinking, he leaned down and pulled Draco into his arms. His chin rested atop Draco’s head, and his hand stroked slowly along his back. The motion was feather-light, but it gradually steadied Draco’s breathing.

“…It’s all still there. Just waiting for you to find it again.”

After what felt like a long time, Draco finally lifted his head slightly, his breath brushing Harry’s jaw. His voice was barely a sigh: “…Don’t leave me.”

At that moment—

“I won’t,” Harry whispered, so quietly only the air could hear him.

Harry didn’t return to his own room. He carefully rose from beside Draco, his movements so cautious that even the slightest sound might disturb his fragile treasure. He walked to the desk by the window; the curtains swayed gently, and the night wind seeped in through the gap, carrying a hint of winter’s chill.

The only sounds in the room were the crackling of firewood in the hearth and Draco’s shallow breathing, woven into a quiet, solitary rhythm. This had once been their shared bedroom, and now it was Draco’s refuge. Harry looked at the familiar bed, a wordless desolation rising in his chest.

He pulled out a chair and sat down, his quill twirling once between his fingers before touching the parchment. Outside, the night was deep and silent, broken only by the occasional hoot of an owl in the distance—like an echo unwilling to fade.

The first letter was to Hermione and Ron.

The quill scratched across the paper, line after line appearing in his tidy hand. He meticulously recorded everything that had happened at the Leaky Cauldron—Draco’s emotional collapse, the question “What did I give up for you?”, and that vague yet jarring word—child.

As he wrote that part, he took a deep breath, his quill pausing on the parchment, ink pooling slightly beneath the tip. He continued:

“…Perhaps I was too hasty. I shouldn’t have taken him out. I underestimated his hunger for the truth… and how much he resents my silence. He must be in so much pain right now, and I…”

He didn’t finish that thought. Instead, he pressed harder on the page, dragging the ink into a long, dark streak. He urged them to accelerate their investigation into the Shadows of Retrospection and the Soul-Crossing Mirror—these were the only things he could still cling to.

His second letter was to Hannah.

His handwriting grew a little messier, his tone laced with open anxiety. He described in detail Draco’s emotional volatility that evening, and his vague groping toward something—“He might have sensed something. I suspect it has to do with Scorpius,” Harry wrote.

He ended by asking whether the treatment plan needed adjustment, whether there was a gentler, safer way to guide Draco—his words edged with urgency.

The last letter, to Pansy and Blaise, was the shortest.

“He’s safely home and asleep. Thank you for tonight.” He didn’t write more; he knew that explaining too much would only deepen their concern.

Once the letters were written, Harry stood, folded each one, and tossed them into the fireplace. Emerald green flames flared up instantly, casting a flickering glow around the room. A few moments later, the flames died down, and with them, the light and warmth faded.

Silence returned. A heavy silence—deeper than the night outside.

He turned and walked back to the bed, his eyes falling on the sleeping Draco. That pale, quiet face still held the trace of unshed tears, almost invisible in the dim firelight. Harry watched him for a long moment, then let out a soft sigh, like releasing half the weight of the night.

He kept his promise. He gently drew back the covers and lay down beside Draco. He knew Draco was now sleeping on the window side—which wasn’t his usual place, but for that very reason, something tender stirred in Harry’s heart. Even if Draco’s love for him had gone dormant, it still revealed itself in these small gestures—a quiet dependence that never fully disappeared.

He turned on his side, watching Draco’s profile. He didn’t reach out, didn’t move closer. He simply lay there in silence, a small distance between them, feeling the rhythm of Draco’s breathing and the faint chill that came from his skin. It wasn’t a coldness—just an emptiness that hurt.

He closed his eyes, exhaustion rising from deep within. And in that silent companionship, for the first time in a long while, he felt a fragile, fleeting peace—as if, so long as he was there, Draco wouldn’t fall apart again in his arms.

And so, on that night stitched with pain and tenderness, Harry finally fell into a deep sleep.

The faint morning light filtered through the curtain gaps, drawing several thin golden lines across the wooden floor. Draco stirred in bed, a dull ache from his hangover exploding at both temples, like a thousand restless house-elves banging gongs inside his head. He let out a low groan, his brow furrowed, and forced his eyes open.

He reached out, fumbling at the bedside for a while before finally grasping the familiar wand. The cold wood against his temple brought a moment of clarity. He whispered, “Finite Incantatem.”

A gentle surge of magic flowed from the tip of the wand, rippling through his nerves like water. The splitting pain gradually eased, replaced by a cool clarity.

He slowly exhaled, feeling somewhat better. Instinctively, he turned over and reached for the other side of the bed—there was still a trace of warmth, laced with a faint scent of soap, quietly reminding him that Harry hadn’t been up for long.

The alcohol’s numbing effect slowly faded, and fragments of the previous night at the Leaky Cauldron began to surface. Pansy’s “You like him,” Blaise’s half-joking sarcasm, and his own slurred words—home, child… Everything reassembled in his mind like a rising tide, making him flush.

He felt the shame almost physically, burning in his ears. He had lost control like that in front of Harry, in front of everyone. All his carefully cultivated composure and pride had been shredded by drink, scattered like scraps across the floor.

He didn’t deny his feelings for Potter, but all the questioning, the probing, all the pain from last night had become a cruel self-interrogation. The thought alone made him nauseous.

He cursed under his breath, grinding his teeth, but it was only a powerless whisper into the vast silence of the room.

He washed and dressed, his movements as crisp and measured as ever. Descending the stairs, his footsteps were light, as if afraid to disturb something fragile.

As he reached the kitchen doorway, he saw Harry with his back to him, standing by the table reading a letter. A few rays of morning light streamed in toward him, as if deferring to the chosen son of light, outlining a quiet halo around his shoulders. The air was filled with the warm, comforting scent of bread and tea.

Draco cleared his throat softly.

Harry paused, just for a moment, then smoothly folded the letter in his hand and slipped it into his robe pocket. He turned, his expression gentle, carefully masking his concern.

“Awake? How do you feel?” His voice was low, with a subtle note of probing. “Does your head still hurt?”

Draco didn’t answer immediately. He simply walked over and sat down at the table. His gaze swept over the breakfast spread: buttered toast, fried eggs, warmed pumpkin juice, and a cup of white tea already poured. Clearly, it had been made for him.

He picked up the tea and took a small sip; the slight bitterness eased the dull throb in his temples.

“Much better,” he said, his tone far softer than the night before. His voice still carried the hoarseness of a hangover, but it was unexpectedly calm—like a sea temporarily stilled after a storm.

He didn’t attempt to address what had happened, nor did he let last night’s collapse show on his face. He simply lowered his head, broke off a piece of bread, and slowly chewed it with a dab of jam. His demeanor was composed, but it couldn’t fully hide a certain introspection.

Harry also sat down, picked up his own teacup, and quietly watched Draco for a moment.

The kitchen was quiet for a while, broken only by the faint clink of porcelain and the occasional soft crackle from the fireplace. The two of them seemed to be performing an ancient ritual—communicating with silent actions, measuring the unspoken space between them.

Finally, Draco set down his teacup and got straight to the point: “About the Mind Healing… I think next time we can go straight in. Coughing up emotions over breakfast isn’t really my idea of playing house.”

His silver-grey eyes locked on Harry, as if trying to extract all the hidden answers from his gaze.

Harry paused. He had expected Draco to still be resisting, or at the very least, lingering in his shame from the night before. But now, this directness caught him off guard, leaving him momentarily unable to discern Draco’s true intentions.

He set down his teacup and exhaled quietly, his thoughts still on the owl-delivered letter he had read that morning.

The letter was from Hannah Abbott. She had written:

“During the last session, Luna detected blocked memory fragments in Draco’s subconscious—a child’s voice, a vague light, a powerful instinct to protect. All of this suggests that the memories haven’t been erased—they’re just suppressed by trauma and strong mental defenses… You must guide, not implant.”

She had warned Harry to proceed gently, and not to reveal the truth outright.

“Let him recognize the truth, not receive it. Let him participate, not passively accept. That’s the most stable path toward recovery.”

Harry withdrew from his thoughts, meeting Draco’s calm but resolute gaze. After a moment, he said, “Hannah suggests one or two more Mind Healing sessions without magical intervention, to ease the resistance in your subconscious.” His tone was even. “Once your mind’s more stable, we can proceed with Legilimency.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. A flicker of impatience crossed his face, but his eyes were cool and unwavering.

“No need to be coy. I can cooperate. Just go straight in next time.”

His fingers slowly traced the rim of his teacup. His voice remained steady, but the firmness in it was unmistakable. “I don’t want to get drunk and make a mess like that again.”

Harry looked at him and didn’t answer right away. Draco’s pride and vulnerability coexisted in a way that was unexpectedly moving.

“All right,” he said at last, his tone softening. “I’ll check with Hannah to see if we can adjust the treatment order.”

They said nothing more.

Sunlight glinted on the porcelain and the edges of silverware. The scent of fried eggs lingered in the air, mingling with the hush of the morning. Two people—once inseparable, now distant yet still familiar—continued their quiet, utterly real breakfast in silence.

After breakfast, Harry rose and collected the dishes, placing them into the sink one by one. The gentle clinking of porcelain and pottery echoed through the kitchen with an almost steady rhythm. He turned slightly and glanced at Draco.

“I might not be home this afternoon or evening,” he said, his voice as calm as if he were announcing the weather, though his eyes held a subtle note of scrutiny. “Something came up at the Auror Office. Kingsley wants me to take care of it.”

He didn’t elaborate—just left it as a casual announcement.

Draco leaned back in his chair, raising his eyes to survey him with his usual habit of careful appraisal. He didn’t answer immediately, only let out a faint hum, a knowing smile tugging at his lips.

“Oh? The great Savior is ever so busy,” he said, his tone still laced with that familiar sarcasm as he lazily brushed crumbs from his robe sleeve. “Go, then. No need to report to me.”

The familiar arrogance remained in his expression, but his tone was softer than expected—like a blade that had finally dulled its edge.

Harry looked at him, something in his gaze relaxing. A quiet sigh of relief stirred in his chest. He heard the hidden concession in Draco’s words.

In truth, there was no urgent assignment from Kingsley.

After receiving Hannah’s reply that morning, Harry had also gotten an owl from Hermione and Ron. They had made a breakthrough in their investigation into the Shadows of Retrospection and wanted to meet with him as soon as possible. So, he’d decided to go to the Burrow that afternoon—to see Scorpius.

He knew Draco’s current state still couldn’t bear the weight of that memory. But he hadn’t seen his son in too long. Scorpius’s slightly round face and soft little voice often surfaced in his mind. He needed to see him—perhaps to remember what he was fighting for.

That afternoon, once Harry had left, Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place returned to its usual silence.

Draco remained upstairs alone, his fingers slowly tracing the rim of a freshly brewed coffee cup. He listened to the soft click of the front door closing, as if something invisible had slipped away with it. Then he stood, finished the rest of his coffee in a few quick gulps, and took the empty cup downstairs, placing it in the sink with hardly a sound.

The kitchen was quiet. The fireplace had gone cold, and a corner of the curtain swayed gently in the breeze. He stood for a moment, watching it, then turned and made his way into the living room.

A few books Harry had left behind lay scattered over the armrest of the sofa. He picked one up, flipped through a few pages, and found the content so dry it irritated him. He snapped it shut and turned away, as if from something vaguely repellent.

He began to wander through the house, unhurried. He passed the dull-toned living room, pushed open the door to the study, and then entered the cluttered storeroom filled with odd magical objects. He lingered in front of a bookshelf for a while, fingertips gliding across the thick spines. The scrolls were yellowed, the pages slightly curled; signs of frequent use—but not by him.

He flipped through a few pages, closed the book again, and idly picked up an expensive-looking magical instrument—it resembled a silver-plated timer, but it glowed softly the moment he touched it. He frowned and set it back.

He moved slowly, without purpose. Just walking, looking—trying to gather a shred of comfort, a hint of familiarity, from any corner. But no matter where his eyes landed, his heart remained hollow—like someone standing at the door of a strange house, without the key.

At the end of the corridor hung several oil paintings. The former residents in the portraits stared at him with unmoving eyes, silent, yet charged with a kind of wordless scrutiny.

He stood before one of the portraits, gazing at the black-robed wizard inside for a long time before suddenly scoffing: “You people are so boring.” His voice was low and flat.

Time passed slowly in that silence. The afternoon sunlight slanted in from the west, growing thinner and dimmer, as if the house itself were swallowing the light.

Harry did not return.

Draco went back to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. A rush of cold air greeted him. Inside, neatly arranged, were the sandwiches Harry had left that morning and a small pot of pumpkin soup, sealed with a freshness charm. He took them out, warmed them with a quick flick of his wand, and ate a few bites—it all tasted like nothing, bland as water.

Afterwards, he returned to the living room with a book on ancient wizarding families on his lap, but after only a few lines, his head began to ache. He tossed the book aside irritably, leaned back on the sofa, and rubbed his temples hard.

He was about to head upstairs for a nap—or perhaps an early night’s sleep—to escape the emptiness of the evening.

Just as he placed one foot on the staircase—

The fireplace suddenly flared to life without warning. Emerald green flames roared upward, lighting the entire room. Sparks scattered, and the flickering glow reflected in Draco’s widened eyes.

He froze and turned, half expecting Harry to have returned early.

But in the next second, his eyes flew open wider, his body tilting slightly forward, moved by instinct before reason could catch up.

A small figure stumbled out of the fireplace—

A boy, around four or five years old, with black hair, grey eyes, and a round face still carrying a trace of baby fat. In his hand, he clutched a folded piece of parchment; his clothes were dusted with ash, and his face still bore the dazed look of one who had just traveled the Floo Network.

Then he saw Draco.

Those silver-grey eyes lit up instantly, like lanterns flaring to life in the dark. A defenseless smile spread across his face, as if he had just spotted the person he trusted most in the world. He raised the parchment high above his head like a prize.

“Papa!”

A tender, bright child’s voice, full of unfiltered joy and attachment—like a key fitting into the most vulnerable place in Draco’s heart.

Without hesitation, the child launched forward on his short legs, stumbling slightly as he rushed toward him.

tbc

Chapter Text

Draco’s mind went blank for a moment. As if struck by a Silencing Charm, he stood frozen, the roaring of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears—thump by thump—as if it might tear apart his barely held-together thoughts.

This was… Scorpius? He had imagined this encounter countless times, but he had never thought it would crash into his life so directly and vividly, on such a calm, almost unremarkable night.

Those silver-grey eyes, the rounded cheeks, and that unguarded, barrier-piercing cry of “Papa”—it was like something tangible squeezing through the cracks of his broken dreams and crashing headlong into reality.

He hadn’t had time to think, but his body reacted first. He didn’t even realize he’d opened his arms, as if some ancient, instinctive force had taken hold of him.

The next second, a small, warm body collided with his chest, carrying the scent of milk, sunshine, and fireplace ash.

“Papa!” Scorpius cried again, his little arms wrapped tightly around his neck, the closeness, dependence, and unreserved intimacy nearly suffocating Draco.

Almost reflexively, he hugged the child back, his movement swift and almost desperate, as if this small weight in his arms was the only anchor in a suddenly lurching world.

A tiny crack split open in a long-sealed corner of himself. His vision blurred for a moment, as if he had returned to a misty memory—he was holding a baby in a warm, dim room, fumbling with a feeding bottle, the child clutching at his robes, letting out faint cries. He was exhausted, but a fierce, wordless determination burned in his chest—for this child, he had to live well, so he could give him endless love...

The feeling was so real, so deeply etched—his chest seemed to remember its weight. In that hazy memory, he even turned his head, slowly, wanting to look at someone beside him…

Draco snapped back to the present.

He instinctively looked around. Who had he wanted to share that moment with? Who was it?

His heart clenched, as if gripped by an invisible hand.

He looked down, meeting the child’s upturned face. Those eyes were still bright, filled with worry and confusion, and a small hand was gently brushing his cheek.

“Papa, are you alright?” Scorpius asked softly, his voice utterly sincere. “Daddy said you were sick and haven’t come to see me in a long time.”

Draco was stunned. Sick? Oh… right. But he couldn’t bring himself to say something cruel like “I don’t remember you.” He couldn’t even imagine the look on the child’s face if he said those words. A wave of helplessness surged up, and instinctively, he pulled Scorpius into a tighter embrace.

“It’s nothing,” he said quietly, his voice slightly hoarse, but unexpectedly gentle. “Papa is much better now.”

He sat down on the sofa, still holding Scorpius. The child immediately climbed onto his lap like a clingy kitten, wrapping his arms around Draco’s neck and nestling into it, his small breaths brushing warmly against Draco’s skin, almost painfully warm.

“How did you get here?” Draco asked softly, still a trace of confusion in his eyes. “…Where’s Potter?”

At the mention of “Potter,” Scorpius visibly stiffened. He looked up, his eyes carefully watching Draco, as if trying to read him.

“Papa…” he hesitated, lowering his voice, “did you and Daddy have a fight?”

Draco froze slightly.

Scorpius went on, quiet and earnest: “When you two used to fight… you’d call each other by your last names like that. Especially you… you only called him ‘Potter’ when you were angry.”

Draco lowered his eyes, silent for a long moment.

His hesitation wasn’t lost. Scorpius noticed, and seemed to understand something.

His small fingers fiddled with the edge of Draco’s robes, and he spoke more slowly: “Daddy stayed with me at the Burrow all afternoon. We even played with little Quidditch models.” His eyes lit up slightly at the memory—but the brightness quickly faded.

“Until evening, Auntie Hermione and Uncle Ron came too. The three of them talked for a while, and then Daddy left.” He paused, as if working up his courage.

Draco waited patiently, his eyes fixed on the child’s face.

“I was actually… supposed to stay in my room. Daddy told me to before he left…” Scorpius lowered his head, whispering, “But I saw on the table… I forgot to give Daddy a drawing… I was afraid he’d get lost, so I… followed the Floo and came here.”

After saying this, he looked up, eyes a little flustered, watching Draco as if awaiting judgment.

“You snuck out?” Draco asked instinctively, his voice surprisingly gentle—but in his mind, he had already rolled his eyes: Damn Harry Potter. Just as he suspected—lying through his teeth again about “handling matters at the Auror Office.” Did he really think Draco would fall for that?

“…I didn’t mean to,” Scorpius mumbled in protest, but still carefully unfolded the crumpled parchment.

On the paper was a crayon drawing.

This time it wasn’t people. Not the three of them holding hands, nor stick figures under the sun.

The picture showed a strangely shaped house, its roof like a wizard’s hat tipped sideways, surrounded by dense plants—biting flowers and mushrooms with hats on their heads. Beside the house stood a crooked tree with a few lopsided fruits hanging from its branches.

At the center of the house, a large door had been drawn. The door stood open, and inside were two blurry figures, seemingly standing close together.

The entire drawing was crooked and the colours spilled outside the lines, but if one looked closely, a small swing could be seen under the tree—on it sat a little person in a blue cloak, waving and smiling.

In the corner of the page, in childlike, wobbly handwriting, it said: “I miss home.”

Below that was a scrawled name: Scopi.

Draco stared at the drawing, his fingertips hovering mid-air, as if afraid to touch it—or unsure how to.

After a long time, he finally looked down at Scorpius, his eyes filled with an unspeakable complexity—confusion, struggle, and a kind of aching, inarticulate yearning.

The child sensed his silence, and a flicker of unease crept across his face. He subtly shrugged his shoulders, as if unsure what he had done wrong.

“This is…” Draco’s throat tightened, his voice so soft it sounded choked. “…this house?” He pointed to the distorted but warm-looking house in the drawing, and to the small swing beneath the tree.

Scorpius tilted his head, looking seriously at the drawing, then at Draco. “Not this house, Papa.”

He replied in a childish, clear voice, as if correcting a not-so-clever adult. His eyes were confused, but not accusatory.

“This is Gorric’s house!” he said very seriously, a little excited smirk playing at his lips. “Every time we go there, Daddy and Papa shout ‘Gorric’s Hallow’ in the Floo!” His pronunciation was a bit slurred, like he’d come up with a name of his own for the place.

“Gorric’s… Could it be… Godric?” Draco repeated softly. The name, like some ancient, sealed word, rippled on his tongue with a faint sting—he had heard it when he was very young, when his grandfather spoke of the old sacred families, that the Potter family’s ancestral home was in Godric’s Hollow.

It had always been a vague and distant place in his memory, yet now it stirred a strange familiarity from who knew where. For a moment, he couldn’t tell whether the name had triggered something buried deep in his memory, or if it was the child’s tone that made it all feel real.

Scorpius’s eyes lit up in that instant. As if affirmed, he excitedly nuzzled into Draco’s embrace, his voice growing louder: “We used to play there all the time! Daddy would tell Scopi lots and lots of stories, and… you took me to see the flowers that bite fingers!” He waved his little hands enthusiastically as he spoke. “And the swing! Papa and Daddy pushed Scorpius super high!” He stood on tiptoe on the sofa for a moment, gesturing how the swing soared, his little face flushed, eyes shining.

Draco stared at him, feeling as though someone was pressing down on his heart—then slowly tightening the grip.

These vivid details—Harry telling stories, the garden, the swing—matched uncannily with the outlines of the “home” he had once longed for. Yet they were richer, warmer, and more alive than anything he had imagined.

It hadn’t just been Harry’s guilt and compensation, as he had once thought. It had been a shared life. Intimate routines. Real, gentle days.

A sudden wave of dizziness came over him. Some mental defense he had built was crumbling, inch by inch. He pulled Scorpius closer, squeezing him slightly, as if trying to confirm something from the child’s small, solid weight.

“Pott… your Daddy…” Draco began, voice a little dry. “Was he usually… good to me… to us, at home?”

He didn’t look up, just rested his chin lightly on the child’s hair, a trace of anxiety he hadn’t noticed creeping into his tone.

Scorpius didn’t pick up on it; he just looked up, as if he found the question funny, his eyes lighting with certainty: “Daddy is super good to us!” he declared proudly, as if stating a fact everyone should know. “He loves Papa, and he loves Scopi!”

“He hugs and kisses us every day! Kisses in the morning, and kisses at night too! Sometimes his tummy even growls!” he added, then suddenly leaned over and planted a “smooch” on Draco’s cheek. “Just like this!”

That light touch was almost soundless, yet it struck Draco’s body like lightning.

He froze. His mind went blank.

He remembered Pansy saying “He’s really good to you” at the pub—something he had wanted to dismiss at the time. But now—now the child’s words landed like a clear, inescapable verdict—

Harry loved him.

The sentence erupted in his chest in the purest, most direct way. The impact was stronger than any declaration.

Was this… real?

Could he believe it?

Part of him hovered between joy and dread. He had never let himself truly believe it—that Potter loved him, just as fiercely as he longed to love Potter.

But now, the defenses he had built up—the rational justifications, the self-deceptions that explained Harry’s presence as guilt—all of it was unraveling, undone by a kiss on the cheek and a child’s innocent words.

He drew a deep breath and pulled Scorpius tightly into his arms again. The child was soft and warm, his little limbs pressing close. Draco buried his face in the boy’s fine hair, breathing in the clean, sun-warmed scent unique to children—as if trying to use this purity to quiet the storm inside him.

He couldn’t trust it. Not yet. He still needed proof, clearer explanations.

Loosening his hold slightly, he looked down at the child in his lap—so innocent it was almost cruel.

“Is this true, Scorpius? No, I mean…” He paused, thinking how to rephrase it so a child could understand. “Did your Daddy ever tell you… why Papa was ‘sick’?”

This time, Scorpius didn’t answer right away. He seemed to be thinking, his brows furrowed, then whispered: “Daddy said Papa had a tummy ache and needed to rest at home, so he couldn’t come to the Burrow to play with me.” He looked down at his fingers. “And he said I shouldn’t make noise… just wait quietly for Papa to get better.”

“Daddy also said…” Scorpius looked up, eyes achingly clear, “when Papa gets better, we can all go home together.”

Draco froze.

That sentence was a key, fitting perfectly into the lock of what Harry had said the night before: “Maybe when you… recover, when my ‘illness’ gets better, everything will be alright again…”

He understood, suddenly.

Potter—no, Harry—he wasn’t hiding anything. He was… waiting. He had been waiting all along.

Scorpius’s words, like the final piece in a puzzle, finally brought into focus that faint yet undeniable outline—the home they once shared, still connecting the three of them.

Draco lowered his head and held the child tighter. He didn’t speak. He just sat there, silent, cradling him like a truth he could finally—tentatively—begin to believe in.

In the quiet, his heart slowly, truly began to accept that all of it had once been real—

No matter how it began, or what he and Potter had gone through, or how Scorpius had come into their lives… maybe—just maybe—

It could be real again.

Hours earlier, as Draco sat quietly upstairs at Grimmauld Place, sipping coffee, Harry Flooed to the Burrow.

The house smelled of butter and vanilla, and the wooden floor creaked beneath his feet. The kitchen was warm and bustling—just another ordinary afternoon in the Weasley home.

Molly always had a gift for looking after Scorpius. Right then, the boy was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a mess of old Quidditch models Ron had dug out from Merlin knows where. He was holding a toy broomstick, muttering to himself, mimicking a match commentator in an exaggerated tone.

“Daddy!” Scorpius’s eyes lit up the moment he saw Harry in the kitchen doorway. He tossed aside the model and shot forward like a little cannonball.

Harry crouched just in time to catch him. Scorpius’s arms clung tightly around his neck, and the burst of warmth hit him like always. Harry pressed a kiss to the top of his son’s head, brushing his nose against the faint scent of milk and sun-warmed earth.

“Was Scopi a good boy today?” he asked gently, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes!” Scorpius nodded eagerly, his voice bright and clear. “We played Quidditch! Uncle Ron even brought out the Firebolt!” He pointed proudly at the scattered models on the floor.

Harry smiled and lifted him into his arms, savoring the familiar weight, the soft trust in how the boy curled against him. He played with Scorpius on the seesaw in the Weasley garden, told him stories about the Summoning Charm, until the boy eventually dozed off mid-laugh in his lap. Then, quietly, Harry carried him upstairs to the children’s room—once Rose’s—with pale blue sheets and faint crayon doodles still etched on the walls.

As he looked down at Scorpius’s sleeping face, Harry’s heart filled with something both tender and painful. He loved this child more deeply than life itself. And it was precisely because of that love that he had made so many choices—carefully guiding Draco’s healing, and bearing the silence that came with waiting.

By evening, the fireplace roared to life again. Ron and Hermione returned.

Ron had barely stepped out—ash still clinging to his cloak—before he started grumbling about the Ministry: “That Statute of Secrecy amendment got kicked back three times today. Three! I swear, I’m losing it.”

Hermione, unbuttoning her coat, rubbed her temples—clearly worn down by a day of paperwork. But when she saw Harry, something in her eyes lit up despite it all.

“Harry, you’re finally here.” She set down her briefcase, her voice laced with urgency. “We found something… about the Shadows of Retrospection and the Soul-Crossing Mirror.”

Ron, hearing this, immediately stopped talking. He leaned against the kitchen table, brows deeply furrowed. “Yeah, mate. This time… it’s bad. And pretty damn important.”

The trio sat around the old wooden kitchen table. Molly had already placed steaming beef stew and warm bread rolls before them, but none of them touched the food. The atmosphere turned heavy, with only the crackling of the kitchen fire breaking the silence.

“We found records of an abandoned manor near the northern border,” Hermione said in a low voice, unfolding several neatly stacked sheets of parchment. “It once belonged to an extinct pure-blood family, renowned for their research into mind magic. The Ministry archives mention they attempted to replicate a forbidden object—called the Mirror of Souls. The name is different, but the description matches the Soul-Crossing Mirror almost exactly.”

“More importantly,” Ron added, his voice deepening, “last week, an Auror team had a run-in near there with some unidentified wizards. They used powerful Disillusionment Charms and memory-wiping spells—nearly wiped all traces. But there was still residual magical energy… and that magical signature was very similar to the night Draco was attacked.”

Harry’s hand slowly clenched, his knuckles whitening. A vague trail in his mind was finally taking shape—solid, traceable.

“So that manor is likely their base,” he said quietly, a long-lost determination gleaming in his eyes. “Or at least one of their key locations. I have to go there.”

“Now?” Hermione frowned, clear concern in her gaze. “Harry, going alone is too dangerous.”

“I’m on leave. Kingsley approved it.” Harry’s voice was calm but firm. “I can’t afford to wait anymore. If we can find that mirror—or even just another clue—then Draco has hope.”

“We’ll come too,” Ron said without hesitation, voice resolute.

“You don’t have to.” Harry looked at them, his voice soft but unwavering. “You both have work, and it’s easier for me to act alone.”

“Harry,” Hermione interrupted gently, her voice lowering, but her eyes serious. “Do you remember how we used to do things?”

As she finished, Ron chimed in with a familiar grin: “Yeah, the Boy Who Lived? Since when did you get so responsible and tactical?”

He raised an eyebrow, that long-missed teasing tone returning: “You used to go to class by day, run around the Forbidden Forest at night, and defeat Voldemort without so much as a plan.”

“Now look at you,” Hermione said, shaking her head with fond exasperation, “worrying about managing our schedules.”

Harry let out a helpless chuckle, lowering his eyes to hide the sudden wave of emotion. He opened his mouth, then only managed to say: “You two… you haven’t changed a bit.”

“And neither have you,” Hermione replied softly.

For a moment, the kitchen was quiet again, the fire casting flickering shadows across their faces. It was the kind of silence built over years—one that didn’t need words to convey understanding.

“All right, all right,” Harry raised his hands in surrender, a faint smile on his lips. “But you follow my lead.”

“You’re the boss,” Ron shrugged, clapping him on the shoulder.

None of them said another word. But in that moment, Harry knew—he was never alone.

After checking that Scorpius was upstairs reading picture books, the trio quietly slipped out of the Burrow.

The night wind rustled the chimes in the garden. The sky stretched endlessly above, scattered with stars. They exchanged a look—no words needed. And the next second—three figures vanished into the dark, dissolving into ripples beneath the moonlight.

They were setting off again, just like before.

tbc

Chapter Text

The night wind was biting, like a blade scraping across the skin of the northern English moorland. Harry, Hermione, and Ron Apparated to the edge of a field several miles from the target manor. Underfoot, the earth was frozen hard, and overhead, thick clouds piled up, letting only a sliver of pallid moonlight through the gaps, illuminating the twisted shadows of trees on the ground.

The wind howled, whipping up dry branches and leaves, and the air carried the musty scent of damp soil—a wet, silent sense of decay enveloping the surroundings, as if the land held something not yet awakened.

“Disillusionment Charm,” Hermione murmured, waving her wand. The three figures immediately melted into the night, leaving behind only an imperceptible ripple in the air.

“There’s a strong magical ward,” she whispered close to Harry, her voice broken by the wind. “It’s not a locking ward; it’s more like a concealment charm—they don’t want to be found.”

“We’ll go around from the west side,” Harry replied softly, his gaze steady, fingers gripping his wand tightly, his senses quietly extended.

“I’ll handle defense,” Ron said, standing on Hermione’s other side, his expression vigilant. “Don’t let the two of you hog all the glory.”

“Just focus on not stepping into any traps,” Hermione muttered back, a subtle smile flickering in her eyes.

The three of them, one leading and two following, passed through the broken iron gate and entered the long-abandoned manor. The rusty gate let out a brief groan, like a startled nightmare.

Inside, it was colder than outside, the smell of mildew in the corners mixing with the damp scent of decaying wood. The floorboards creaked, and patches of water damage stained the ceiling. Faint outlines of oil paintings remained on the walls, the portraits themselves long peeled away, but a lingering gaze still seemed to hover on the surfaces.

Hermione softly chanted, the tip of her wand glowing with a pale blue light as it swept over every crack and doorframe. “No offensive traps detected, but there are a lot of runes. Some are for containment… Look here.”

She stopped before a wall, her finger tracing an almost invisible symbol.

“There’s a hidden space,” she murmured.

Ron stepped forward, gripping his wand steadily with both hands. “Let me do it. Moving wall.”

“Alohomora,” he whispered.

A slight tremor ran through the stone, and the wall slowly shifted aside, revealing a narrow staircase leading downwards.

A dense magical aura wafted up, carrying the scent of blood, smoke, and an indescribable rot.

Harry’s brow furrowed, a dull ache pulsing in his temples that intensified the closer they got to the bottom, almost blurring his vision. He muttered, “Merlin, damn it. I can feel it… the soul fragment in me is reacting… this twisted energy residue, it’s them.”

They descended into the basement.

It looked like an abandoned laboratory. Scattered across a long table were cauldrons, broken potion bottles, a few torn parchment scraps, and several dust-covered magical instruments of unknown function.

The walls were covered with densely carved runes, and the air still carried the faint trace of ritual.

“Something… definitely happened here,” Hermione said, kneeling to examine a half-burnt scroll. She quickly cast a Reversal Charm. “Textus Reformatio!”

The paper slowly pieced itself back together, and despite the burn marks, Hermione instantly recognized several of the terms.

“‘Soul-Stripping Charm’... ‘Consciousness Rejection Point’... ‘Stable Memory Severing’.” Her voice trembled slightly. “They weren’t trying to kill Draco—they were trying to precisely remove a specific memory.”

She looked up, her expression growing more solemn. “This is… a method for deliberately constructing selective amnesia. Like… intentionally making him forget something. But why?”

“They’re masters at soul manipulation,” Ron said grimly. “This isn’t just Dark magic… it’s dismantling a person.”

Harry remained silent, fingers unconsciously tightening around his wand. Then, suddenly, he felt a familiar cold twist in the air.

He looked up sharply.

“Someone’s here,” he warned, his voice low and alert.

Almost at the same moment, near a distant door, a shadow flickered. It moved too fast to make out clearly—just the edge of a cloak catching the light, and the brief metallic glint of something in its hand.

“Left!” Harry shouted, lunging forward first.

Hermione and Ron followed in sync.

The three quickly moved through the narrow passage; ahead, the brief sound of shattering objects and roaring spells indicated the other party was destroying evidence.

“Impedimenta!” Harry shouted, a red light shooting forward, attempting to block the exit.

The opponent waved their wand in retaliation, and a black protective shield instantly rose—the red light struck it and sparked. They didn’t linger, instead dragging several scrolls of parchment into a brazier.

“Stupefy!” Hermione cast spell after spell, pursuing relentlessly.

The opponent turned, flicked their wrist, and a screeching spell shot back. Harry quickly waved his wand: “Protego!” A silver shield rose, barely deflecting the curse, but the impact still numbed his arm, and his sleeve burst open, leaving a burning red mark on his skin.

“Harry!” Hermione gasped.

“I’m fine!” Harry gritted his teeth.

The opponent didn’t prolong the fight. They turned, shimmered, and, using the spell’s recoil, quickly vanished into a small passage.

“I’ll chase—!” Ron was about to move when the passage suddenly collapsed, large stone bricks falling and kicking up dust.

“Damn it,” Ron retreated, coughing. “He set a trap in advance.”

On the ground, there were still some unburnt fragments.

Harry knelt, picking up a piece of parchment that bore blurred characters: “Mirror—Seventh Day—Erosion Stabilization Period.” The ink was distorted, as if struggling to leave a message.

Not far off, Hermione picked up a small object half-buried in the ashes—a tiny badge of black metal, with intricate runes carved on the back and an hourglass in reverse on the front.

She frowned. “This wasn’t left behind... they forgot to burn it.”

“Perhaps it’s… the mark of the Shadows of Retrospection,” she said softly, her voice very low.

Harry silently stood up, his fingers slowly rubbing the burned patch of skin at his cuff. His expression was cold, yet even more determined.

They said nothing.

But they all knew this was just the beginning—they might have alerted the enemy.

At midnight, three weary figures quietly landed in front of the Burrow. The night was utterly silent, with only a faint yellow light from the kitchen window radiating a little warmth and a sense of peaceful life.

“Mum left it for us,” Ron whispered, his voice soft as he pushed open the door, as if afraid of disturbing something.

Indeed, the kitchen light was on, and a pot of hot tea remained on the table—as if someone had waited there for a long time, then dozed off and left.

Hermione said no more, immediately taking out her potion kit and skillfully pulling Harry to sit at the table. She rolled up his scorched sleeve, and with a light tap of her wand, a soft white glow gently moved over the wound. The red mark was still striking, but finally, it no longer stung.

“Still a bit inflamed,” she frowned, adding a gentle antibacterial charm, her tone as efficient as when she used to treat Quidditch injuries back at Hogwarts.

Ron found teacups by the stove, expertly poured three cups of warm Earl Grey, and placed one in front of each of them. Finally, he sat down beside Hermione, his movements bearing a hint of the habitual fatigue of someone just returned from the battlefield.

He lightly shifted his right side, his brow furrowing. “That guy’s last attack... it was brutal,” he muttered. “I bet it was a Bone-Breaking Curse, but more powerful than any we saw in training.”

“He clearly specializes in mind magic,” Hermione continued, pressing gently on Harry’s arm to confirm the spell’s effect, her voice low but clear. “And he’s a researcher, not just an ordinary Dark wizard. His mastery of energy precision… it’s very close to the academic branch of magic.”

Harry said nothing, just looked down at the mark on his arm, as if staring at an imprint. His expression was impassive, but there was an unreadable coldness and pensiveness in his eyes.

“From the fragmented documents we saw in the basement,” Hermione continued, her eyes focused, “they weren’t simply erasing memories with magic, but in some way... severing them. Like a surgical procedure—only targeting the parts they wanted.”

“And the reason Draco didn’t die,” Harry concluded, “might be because he himself... wasn’t the target. He was the path.”

Hermione nodded. “Or rather, the medium. We saw the line ‘Erosion Stabilization Period’ on the scroll, which means they might be observing the aftereffects of some magic. Behavioral reactions or even personality restructuring after memory loss... this isn’t combat-type Dark magic—it’s experimental.”

Harry looked up, his gaze sharp and calm. “So Draco wasn’t an accident.”

“No,” Hermione confirmed.

Ron leaned back in his chair, tapping his finger against his teacup, frowning. “But why him?”

“Perhaps it’s not ‘why him’,” Hermione softly countered, “but ‘what he remembered’ that they didn’t want him to retain. And also, ‘why seven years of memory were needed.’”

At that moment, the kitchen fell into a brief silence.

The fire crackled softly, the wind outside rustled through branches, and shadows danced on the wall. The three sat at the table, just as they had on countless nights before, side by side, sifting through clues, tired yet alert.

“We can’t delay any longer,” Harry broke the silence, his voice hoarse but firm. “Whatever they wanted to take from Draco’s mind... we have to help him get it back.”

He stood up, his cloak rustling with his movement, his eyes holding a profound weight that left no room for argument.

Hermione looked up at him, her face no longer showing the focus of problem-solving, but the familiar, friendly concern.

“Harry,” she said, her voice softer, “you’ve been pushing yourself for too long. Go back to Grimmauld Place first, and get some rest tonight.”

“You want to help him, don’t you?” Ron also spoke, his voice muffled but with a hint of genuine reproach. “Then don’t collapse first. We’ll keep investigating this lead tomorrow.”

Harry lowered his gaze, thought for a second, then nodded slightly.

“I understand.”

He walked to the fireplace, his hand already reaching for the Floo powder, but his movement paused, as if he had something to say but didn’t speak it.

Hermione watched him silently, not urging him.

Finally, Harry just took a deep breath and grabbed the Floo powder.

Green fire surged, and his figure was swallowed, vanishing into the night.

With the familiar sensation of spatial distortion, Harry stumbled into Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

He hadn’t even regained his footing when the cool, crisp air washed over him. The living room was dim and quiet, with only the dying firelight flickering in the fireplace—a weak orange glow dancing on the walls, casting broken shadows. Unlike when he had left, the house now held a subtle but unmistakable breath of life—a pair of small shoes beside the coffee table, and a faint, sweet scent of pumpkin juice lingering in the air.

Harry’s heart suddenly sank.

He held his breath, wand still clenched in his palm, though he didn’t raise it. Something in his gut told him not to. He stepped forward slowly, his gaze drifting toward the sofa.

And then, he froze.

Moonlight streamed through a gap in the heavy curtains, casting a quiet silver sheen across the old fabric. Beneath a thick blanket, Draco lay curled on his side, asleep—his brow faintly furrowed, as if his dreams were uneasy. Cradled in his arms was a small figure, black hair brushing against Draco’s golden temples, a tiny hand clutching the fabric of his shirt, breathing steady, face peaceful.

Scorpius.

For a moment, Harry forgot to breathe.

He had never imagined Scorpius would be here—and certainly not like this. Not nestled so naturally in Draco’s arms, in such an intimate, unconscious posture. It was as if something long broken had been pieced back together and laid before him in the gentlest, and cruelest, of ways.

Who brought him here? A flurry of thoughts surged in Harry’s mind—alertness, instinct, panic, guilt all at once. He nearly moved forward, almost to check the child’s safety, but forced himself to stop.

The scene was too perfect—like a night that had once truly existed, now conjured anew only in dreams. In that moment, he wasn’t the Savior, wasn’t an Auror—just a man, a father, watching helplessly as a secret was unveiled and his world quietly reassembled.

His fingertips trembled.

The low hum of the fire wasn’t loud, but in the stillness it stirred the room. Draco frowned faintly in his sleep, as if disturbed. He let out a soft sound, lashes fluttering, then slowly opened his eyes.

The confusion lasted only a second. His gaze locked onto Harry standing in the center of the room, pupils narrowing slightly. His expression held judgment, tightly reined emotion.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He only drew Scorpius closer in his arms—an instinctive motion, as if somewhere deep in his subconscious, he had already accepted that the child belonged to him.

Harry stood frozen, heart pounding in his ears. He searched Draco’s face—had he remembered something? Was he angry? Crumbling? But it was impossible to tell. The silver-grey eyes were deep as mercury, reflecting only a faint moonlit shimmer.

Scorpius stirred, shifting against Draco’s shoulder. He blinked up groggily, his eyes landing on Harry—and in the next breath, a hazy but unmistakably genuine smile bloomed across his face.

“Daddy?”

He reached out a hand, waved sleepily, his voice still soft and milky from just waking.

Harry’s throat tightened, but no words came. He tried to smile, couldn’t. Tried to move, couldn’t. It was as if some invisible magical barrier held him in place—even his breath came shallow and slow.

Scorpius looked between Harry and Draco, and mumbled, “You two… haven’t made up yet?”

Draco’s gaze dropped. He gave a soft hmph, voice flat but not unkind: “…Your Daddy’s gotten quite good at acting.”

Harry’s face visibly tensed. He finally managed to speak, voice hoarse and strained: “Draco… I…”

“Don’t,” Draco cut him off. His voice wasn’t sharp, but carried a muted, heavy ache. “We’ve been waiting for you all night, Saint Potter.”

He wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t accusing. But that phrase—we’ve been waiting for you all night—landed like a well-placed hex, striking the softest, most exposed part of Harry’s heart.

Scorpius was still glancing between the two of them, sensing something unspoken but unable to name it. He gently tugged on Draco’s sleeve and asked, almost in a whisper: “Are we going to sleep together again?”

Harry couldn’t answer.

Draco lowered his head, pressed a kiss to the child’s forehead, and whispered, “Sleep if you’re tired. Don’t worry. But… do you want to go sleep in Papa’s room now? I’ll come with you.”

He looked up at Harry then—his eyes dark with complex emotions, held back with effort.

“Later,” he said. “I want to talk to you about something.”

His voice was like a drop of ink in water, instantly diffusing through the tense air.

Before Harry could respond, a brilliant green flash of fire erupted suddenly in the fireplace, accompanied by hurried footsteps and anxious shouts that shattered the brief calm.

“Scorpius is missing! We searched the entire Burrow—!” Ron’s voice was breathless and panicked. He nearly stumbled out of the flames, his face still etched with fear, mud clinging to his boots, the hem of his robes swaying in the firelight.

His eyes scanned the living room quickly—then froze.

On the sofa, Draco was cradling a newly awakened Scorpius; not far away, Harry stood pale-faced, as if he had just come through an unspeakable storm.

Close behind, Hermione stepped out of the flames, her expression much calmer than Ron’s, though her eyes betrayed a similar astonishment. Her gaze locked instantly on Draco and the child, and in that moment, all the pieces seemed to fall into place at once.

The air froze for three seconds.

Ron’s mouth hung slightly open, his fingers unconsciously tugging at the edge of his robes, as if grasping for an explanation—but no words came.

Hermione was the first to react. Her eyes moved quickly between the three of them, catching Draco’s slightly rigid expression and Harry’s white-knuckled fists.

She stepped forward, cautiously approaching, her voice soft and laced with a gentle warmth. “Draco, are you… alright?”

She leaned slightly, her gaze carefully avoiding Scorpius, deliberately sidestepping any sensitive terms or implications.

Draco didn’t respond right away. He instinctively held Scorpius tighter, his eyes flickering with complex wariness and scrutiny. He looked at the two people who should have been “enemies”—Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley. The ones in his memory had been grating, crude, Mudbloods, Weasleys—never friendly voices. But the two now standing before him showed no hostility, only a sort of… gentle familiarity he couldn’t quite place.

Scorpius looked up at Ron and Hermione, waving his little hand excitedly and calling out sleepily, “Auntie Hermione… Uncle Ron…”

A barely perceptible flicker of hesitation crossed Draco’s eyes.

Hermione seized the moment. She smiled gently, stepped forward, and in a voice so natural it was almost affectionate, said to Scorpius: “Scopi, it’s getting late. Shouldn’t you brush your teeth and change into your pajamas?”

Scorpius rubbed his eyes and whispered, “I want to sleep with Papa…”

Hermione crouched down and smoothed his hair, her voice kind but tinged with firmness: “Of course you can. But let your Papa rest a little first, alright? Uncle Ron can take you to your favorite room from when you were little—do you remember? The one upstairs with the singing wallpaper.”

—She carefully swallowed the words your Daddies’ bedroom.

Scorpius nodded drowsily, mumbling, “I still remember the dragon picture,” before reluctantly climbing out of Draco’s arms.

Draco’s body stiffened slightly, but in the end, he said nothing. He let Hermione take the child, gently passing him to Ron.

Ron still looked a bit overwhelmed, but he fell into step at once. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, then gave up and simply nodded at Harry—a look that seemed to say, We did our best.

He took Scorpius’s hand and said quietly, “Come on, little one. Let’s go find that singing dragon.”

Scorpius looked back at Draco, then at Harry, and asked softly, “Can I come back later?”

Draco didn’t answer, but Harry nodded, just barely.

Hermione gave Harry’s arm a gentle pat. She didn’t say anything, but the look she gave him—encouraging, understanding—said it all: Now it’s your turn to talk.

The living room door closed slowly. The fire still flickered in the hearth, but the air had grown quieter. Only Harry and Draco remained, standing in the heart of a night where secrets no longer needed to hide.

tbc

Chapter Text

The firelight in the hearth still flickered quietly, elongating, entwining, and tearing apart their shadows, enacting a silent judgment on the wall. Outside the window, the moon hung low, its cold light filtering through the thin curtains, casting a silvery frost over the mottled old house.

Harry still stood by the fireplace, a ghost destined to be rooted to the spot. His face was ashen, his lips tightly pressed, and his shoulders so tense they almost trembled. The wound on his arm still throbbed faintly, but that fiery pain was nothing compared to the searing in his heart.

It felt like a curse replaying itself—the more he tried to protect Draco, the harder he tried to conceal those heavy truths, the more cruelly fate repeatedly pulled back the curtain he had drawn. The more cautious he was, the faster Draco approached the core of those secrets, as if this were a destined cycle between them.

On the sofa, Draco sat quietly, leaning forward, his gaze as cold as ice, almost translucent. He clutched a cushion, his fingertips slowly stroking the velvet surface, as if grasping a lifeline. There was no anger in him, but a suffocating calmness, a stillness that froze all warmth—more terrifying than rage, like the dead quiet before a storm.

Harry's breathing became difficult. He felt as if his lungs were filled with cold air, tightening painfully. Finally, he spoke: "Draco... I..."

His voice was hoarse, like sandpaper, trembling slightly, and broke off before he could finish the sentence.

Draco looked up, his silvery-grey eyes staring straight ahead, like two bone-chilling mirrors reflecting Harry stripped bare. He didn't raise his voice, but his tone was like a blade sliding across glass, chillingly calm.

"So, Saint Potter," he said softly, with a subtle hint of sarcasm, "is it time now to explain... about the child? About Scorpius?"

His gaze subtly fell on the small shoes by the sofa, as if laying out prepared "evidence."

"Or rather—'he’s our child,' is that what you were going to say?" He let out a cold, knife-like chuckle. The amusement didn’t reach his eyes; instead, it was like a crack in the snow, slicing diagonally across the already precarious trust between them.

"Is this your so-called 'home'? A 'Daddy,' a 'Papa'... and a child you tried to erase from my memory?" He spoke softly, yet every word struck a vital spot, each as if it had been torn from his throat, sharp enough to make the air subtly tremble.

Harry felt as if he’d been struck by lightning. His body swayed slightly, the color draining from his face almost instantly. He hadn’t expected Draco to piece together the truth so quickly, nor had he expected him to articulate everything so starkly, with such precise, calm language.

He walked step by step towards the sofa, his footsteps heavy, as if treading on broken ice. He finally stopped before Draco, yet maintained an uneasy distance, as if separated by an unbridgeable chasm.

"Draco, I wasn’t..." His voice was low and hoarse, as if his throat were full of grit. "I wasn’t trying to deceive you. Hannah said your memory loss was too severe, and any strong stimulus could—"

His words were interrupted by Draco raising a hand.

"So you decided for me?" Draco’s voice suddenly dropped, becoming even more menacing. "You decided what I could and couldn’t handle? You decided what was 'good' for me?" A deep sense of disappointment and anger flashed in his eyes. "Harry, I don’t even remember... how I became a father. I don’t remember the day this child was born, I don’t remember him calling me 'Papa' for the first time, I don’t remember..."

His voice cracked slightly at that moment, as if something was caught in his throat. His fingertips tightened, his knuckles white, the cushion almost crumpled to pieces.

"Did you ever consider that, for me, this 'protection' is itself a form of deprivation?" He spoke slowly, each word like a rusty blade. "You deprived me of the right to spend time with him, deprived me of my identity as a 'father,' deprived... our past together."

Harry was almost breathless. He reached out a hand, but then withdrew it before touching Draco’s shoulder, his movement hesitant, as if electrocuted.

"I was afraid," he said, his voice almost hoarse, his eyes red-rimmed. "Afraid you couldn't handle it, afraid you'd hate me, afraid you'd leave again."

He paused, his breathing ragged, almost whispering, "Do you know how much I dread waking up and finding you're not there? These past few days since you lost your memory... I've been living like I'm dead."

"I've been living a lie, just as miserable as you," he said slowly, each word like dissecting his own heart with bloody precision. "I'm almost at my breaking point. The migraines haven't stopped, my emotions are steeped in venom, my whole being is torn in half... You know—you know what that feels like, don't you?"

Draco's rigid expression softened slightly. He didn’t respond, but something in his eyes wavered.

He didn’t interrupt Harry—just watched him quietly, watched this disheveled man who still stubbornly wanted to "protect him." In his mind: Scorpius’s hug, Pansy’s questions, the fleeting guilt in Hermione and Ron’s eyes... and now, the unmistakable depth of affection in Harry’s.

For a moment, only the faint crackling of the fire in the hearth remained in the room, like two hearts beating in the darkness, too afraid to draw near.

Draco’s gaze slowly shifted from Harry’s red eyes to the faint mark on his right arm, which hadn’t fully faded—the wound had been treated, leaving only a shallow burn, like an unhealed scar.

"So you ran out in the middle of the night for... this?" Draco asked, his voice low, hoarse like a thin layer of ash settling in the quiet night.

He leaned in slightly, his fingertips twitching, as if instinctively reaching out to touch the mark—but stopping just short of the skin. His hand hovered in the air, hesitant, restrained, carrying a concern he himself hadn’t yet realized.

"...It was Granger, wasn’t it? She must have treated it already..." he murmured, slowly drawing back his fingers. The motion carried a trace of... discomfiture. As if an instinct had been cut short midway, leaving him awkwardly reassembling himself.

Harry stared at him, unmoving. In that instant, he could feel that what flowed from Draco wasn’t pity, nor interrogation, but a warmth that almost stopped his heart—it was familiar, an emotional pattern they had confirmed countless times before. Not "estranged lovers," nor "former enemies," but a connection uniquely their own.

"I'm fine," he finally said, his voice even hoarser than he expected, like a patchwork of nonsense cobbled together after being crushed by emotion. "It's just a graze."

Draco stared at the red mark for a few seconds, his lips twitching slightly, as if about to speak—but in the end, he only said coldly: "Then you'd better not show up... at home... looking half-dead like that again." He paused, then added, as if against his better judgment, "...Otherwise, Scorpius will be frightened if he sees you."

The words still carried a sting, but it was no longer a bloody blade—it was more like a barb that hadn’t been fully withdrawn, tinged with a hesitant intimacy—or rather, a tenderness not yet settled.

Harry didn’t respond. He simply looked at him, a tiny spark of hope flickering in his eyes.

Silence settled again. The firelight flickered, casting shifting shadows across Draco’s face. His features were still striking, but no longer rigid—in the warm light, they seemed a little... weary, and perhaps, a little soft.

Harry watched him quietly, his throat tight. He wanted to say "thank you," but held it back. He knew this moment was too fragile— even a single syllable too heavy might shatter the balance just beginning to take shape.

And Draco’s silence, perhaps, said more than any declaration could.

Just as the carefully restored balance between the two of them still hung precariously, a faint rustling of footsteps came from upstairs. Moments later, Hermione appeared at the top of the stairs, then quietly descended.

As soon as she stepped into the living room, she immediately sensed the stagnant, ambiguous tension between Harry and Draco.

She smiled faintly, breaking the silence with a gentle yet clear tone: “Draco, Scorpius is still awake. He said he can’t sleep until you go up and tuck him in.”

Draco’s eyes visibly jolted. He had been feigning calm on the sofa, still clutching the cushion, but now, as if hearing a summons, his body instinctively leaned forward slightly.

Harry, noticing this change from the side, felt a sharp pang in his heart. He gathered his courage, his voice carrying an unrestrained longing and a careful plea: “Draco… can I… come up too?”

The question was like a thin thread, attempting to draw Draco closer in a certain direction. He looked up, his gaze cold with a hint of light, for a moment seemingly reverting to the imperious young master of Hogwarts who would glare at the slightest provocation.

“You?” Draco raised an eyebrow. “Weren’t you just afraid I couldn’t handle the truth? And now you want to… share a bed with me?” After saying this, he huffed, blushing, like a cat scratching at a carpet—claws out, but not really digging in.

He stood up, clutching the now-wrinkled cushion, and walked awkwardly toward the stairs. His back was no longer resolute, but carried a hint of evasion, as if afraid that staying another second would reveal too much of his wavering emotions.

Hermione watched him leave, letting out a soft sigh. She walked over to Harry, her tone neither light nor heavy, but with her usual precision: “Your man… is still upset, but he’s not pushing you away.” She tilted her head to look at Harry, a knowing smile appearing in her eyes. “If he really wanted to drive you off, he’d have said Avada Kedavra long ago. Would he let you stay down here moping? Don’t be daft.”

Harry gave a low chuckle, but also felt somewhat speechless, burying his face in his hands and rubbing his temples hard. He was both helpless and grateful.

Hermione said nothing more, just patted Harry gently on the shoulder.

Upstairs in the bedroom, the dim bedside lamp cast a warm glow over the bed, and a faint scent of lavender hung in the air. Ron was sitting by the bed, half-clutching a children’s storybook, reading clumsily.

“…And then the little dragon cub told Mr. Greengrass he’d rather eat sardine-flavored sweets than take a bath…” His voice was deep and slightly impatient; clearly, he himself didn’t quite believe what he was reading.

Scorpius lay in bed, blinking, trying hard not to fall asleep. As soon as he heard footsteps at the door, he immediately sat up, his eyes bright: “Papa!”

Draco saw him the moment he entered the room. The child, like a small flame, lunged toward the head of the bed, reaching out for him to come closer.

“Didn’t you say you were tired?” Draco’s tone held a hint of reprimand, but his feet moved without hesitation toward him. He bent down and kissed Scorpius’s forehead, his fingers expertly tucking the kicked-off blanket back in place.

“You have something else to do, don’t you?” Draco looked at Ron, his voice not loud, but very clear.

Ron stood up, his mouth twisting into a slight grimace. “He’s quite attached to you; I couldn’t get him to listen.” He scratched his head, his tone surprisingly sheepish. As he reached the door, he suddenly stopped, looking at Draco, then at Scorpius on the bed.

“He’ll be much better with you around.” Ron paused, as if wanting to add something, before finally muttering, “Harry… too.”

Draco didn’t respond immediately, just held Scorpius, quietly saying, “Close your eyes. Sleep.”

After the door closed, the only sound in the room was the child’s shallow breathing. Draco stared at the bedside lamp for a few seconds, then sighed softly, placing the cushion behind him.

He couldn’t help but begin to contemplate everything that had happened since he awoke at St. Mungo’s.

The days since waking at St. Mungo’s had been like being lost in a potion’s mist—confusing, contradictory, disorienting. But tonight was different—tonight, the clues, like a tightly interlocked string of stars, suddenly arranged themselves clearly in his mind. He recalled Hannah Abbott’s words, as mentioned by Harry—“don’t provoke him”—Harry’s repeated silences when refusing to explain, and the lingering ache of the unhealed red mark on his arm.

And Scorpius, with that almost excessively candid childish remark: “Daddy loves Papa very much.”

He initially thought it was a delusion—that it was merely Pansy’s misjudgment, his own wishful thinking. But everything that had happened throughout the day, and the suppressed, almost heartbreaking tenderness in Harry’s eyes, made it impossible for him to pretend not to see it anymore.

He loves me. Potter, Harry Potter... loves me.

These words exploded in his mind like a blazing flame tearing through the long night. He remembered the boy who used to bicker with him in the Hogwarts Great Hall, remembered those eyes that always held light, remembered every unforgettable duel they had, remembered the countless times he had secretly watched him from behind. It was an emotion buried too long and too deeply, one he had always categorized as “unspeakable shame”—ridiculous and weak, a futile obsession that would never be reciprocated.

But now, that obsession had an echo.

He was almost certain: this wasn’t unrequited love. It wasn’t just his imagination. Scorpius wasn’t an accident, nor a residual curse, nor some failed magical experiment. He was their child—the most real and undeniable testament to their relationship.

A fervent, trembling emotion surged in his chest, tinged even with dizziness. He felt an unspeakable happiness, as if he had finally grasped something—yet also as if he were being suffocated by it.

But that overly sweet ecstasy didn’t last long.

His fingertips slowly settled on his lower left abdomen, where the faint scar still remained. A wizard bearing a child—he knew what that meant. It meant sacrifice, loss of magic, irreversible physical changes. It meant he had poured everything into this child, into this relationship, even at an extremely heavy cost.

What kind of love was this, truly?

He couldn’t help but imagine—what kind of resolve? What kind of obsession? Was there even a touch of madness in him back then? In those unknown years, he had set aside his family, his pride, even his own life—for Potter. And now, all of it had been forgotten, stolen from him—while Harry, keeping those memories, had lived on silently, day after day.

An unspeakable sense of shame and frustration churned in his chest. He wasn’t oblivious to Harry’s motives, nor did he fail to understand his fear that too sudden a truth would harm him. But he was Draco Malfoy, after all. He didn’t like being protected, nor did he accept being kept in the dark—even if it was well-intentioned.

He took a deep breath, his gaze shifting to Scorpius beside him. The child slept soundly, his small hand still clutching Draco’s clothes, a slight upturn at the corner of his mouth, as if smiling in a dream. His little face had an undeniable blend of Harry’s features and his own—a natural intimacy and belonging no one could question.

As he watched, his gaze finally softened.

Regardless of the past, Scorpius was real. He was his child—their child. That blood connection was the gentlest anchor in his life right now. Even if his memories hadn’t returned, even if all the details remained vague, he was certain—he was willing to pay any price for this child. And what he had paid was absolutely not worth regretting.

He gently reached out, tucking the blanket around Scorpius, his fingertips almost imperceptibly brushing the child’s forehead.

But in the next moment, his eyes suddenly sharpened.

He remembered what Scorpius had said earlier today. The child had innocently remarked: “Auntie Ginny played with me for so long—she took me flying and taught me to throw little balls... She also said you and Daddy used to fly together a lot when you were little, and that I’m very much like Daddy when he was little.”

Ginny Weasley.

Draco’s expression instantly turned cold.

Scorpius had said it himself. That meant—during his unconsciousness, Harry had not only taken Scorpius to see Ginny, but had even... let her play Quidditch with their child? And they casually chatted about “what Harry Potter was like when he was little”?

He could almost picture the scene: red-haired Ginny smiling innocently, asking casually, “Who do you like playing with more—Daddy, Papa, or... Auntie Ginny?” While amusing the child, she would “casually” pry into things that were none of her business.

—Her smile would be exactly the same as before.

A sudden, almost instinctual possessiveness—deep from the Malfoy bloodline—surged within him. His fingertips tightened abruptly, nearly wrinkling the bedsheet, his knuckles white, his lips pressed into a hard line.

Potter, that utterly idiotic dolt.

How could he be so oblivious to such a threat? How could he let that woman—that ex-girlfriend who was once called “the Golden Girl” alongside Harry, that bright-smiling, always-likable Gryffindor—get close to their child? Get close to him?!

And... he hadn’t even offered an explanation.

He couldn’t help but wonder—had Potter truly broken cleanly from that red-haired girl since their eighth year? If he dared to entangle himself with her...

Merlin, if that were the case—how had his past self ever tolerated it?!

Draco gritted his teeth, an indescribable fury churning in his chest. He knew where this anger came from—not Ginny, but Harry’s denseness. It was the feeling of being forced into silence, of being helplessly restrained throughout this whole ordeal.

He hated that feeling. He was a Malfoy, not some casualty to be tiptoed around.

He had made up his mind.

No need to wait for memories to return.

From this moment on, he would personally guard Harry and Scorpius. He wouldn’t let anyone with ill intentions get close—no matter who they once were, or how “natural” their presence might seem.

Including Ginny Weasley.

He slowly closed his eyes, letting out a sigh. His emotions, like a newly tamed dragon, churned within him—and in the child’s warm breath, they gradually settled.

But the unyielding sharpness in his eyes grew clearer in the dim lamplight.

Malfoy’s possessions were not to be touched by others.

If Potter still didn’t understand this rule, he would teach him personally—through a lesson he would never forget.

tbc

Chapter Text

The faint glow of dawn filtered through the curtain seams, casting several soft, slender golden lines on the floor. The room was quiet, with only the sound of shallow breathing and the occasional dust motes, roused by the sunlight, silently drifting in the air.

Draco slowly turned over in the bedding, feeling the soft, warm weight in his arms—Scorpius was curled up against him, his small body like a miniature furnace. The child was sleeping soundly, his mouth slightly open, his small hand still clutching Draco's pajama hem tightly, like a clingy kitten refusing to let go.

Draco looked down at him; the emotions that had churned within him last night now seemed to have settled into a warm pool. The profound ecstasy and shame, jealousy, and subtle pride were gently smoothed away by Scorpius's serene breathing on this tranquil morning.

He slowly extended a hand, his fingertips gently smoothing the wisps of hair from Scorpius's forehead, as if touching something rare and precious. His thumb brushed the child's soft cheek, his breath involuntarily slowing, afraid to disturb this dream-like moment.

Scorpius's eyelashes fluttered, and when he opened his eyes, his dark grey pupils still held traces of sleep. He first looked around in confusion, and then, as his gaze landed on Draco's face, his small face immediately broke into an unguarded, brilliant grin.

"Papa!" He kissed Draco, making a soft "pop" sound on his cheek.

Draco was caught off guard by the kiss, freezing slightly. He could feel the warmth and pressure of the small lips, a strange tingling sensation shooting from his skin to his heart. He stiffened for a moment, then leaned down and kissed Scorpius's forehead, the gesture a little awkward but revealing an undeniable tenderness.

He picked up the still drowsy Scorpius, bathed and dressed him, then headed downstairs.

Harry was already sitting at the dining table, holding a copy of the Daily Prophet, though he clearly wasn't reading much. The sizzle of bacon and the gurgle of a stew pot came from the kitchen, the aroma slowly spreading through the air.

As soon as Scorpius saw Harry, his eyes lit up, like a small animal switching channels, and he broke free from Draco's arms with a slap, stumbling towards Harry.

"Daddy!" he cried, then buried his head in Harry's embrace, his small arms tightly circling his neck like a little koala.

"Oof!" Harry laughed out loud, caught off guard, and naturally pulled him onto his lap, kissing his fuzzy head. "Good morning, little one."

Scorpius giggled, then looked back at Draco, blinking a few times. After a long moment, the small head tilted from side to side, as if comparing mismatched puzzle pieces.

"Daddy," he said in a milky voice, full of genuine confusion, "why don’t you... give Papa a good morning kiss like you used to?"

—Thump.

The newspaper in Harry’s hand dropped straight to the floor.

He froze for a moment, his cheeks visibly and rapidly flushing pink from his earlobes to his neck. He secretly glanced at Draco, who was standing opposite him, his eyes filled with embarrassment.

Draco also instantly froze, as if struck by a Full Body-Bind Curse. After a few seconds, he quickly turned his head, coughed, and fixed his gaze intently on the window, as if a talking Mandrake had sprouted on the old elm tree outside.

He even instinctively raised a hand to pull at the collar of his pajamas, then quickly realized the action seemed too flustered and immediately lowered it—he nearly rushed over to cast a Silencing Charm on Scorpius.

But he ultimately didn’t, because deep down, there was a faint, almost imperceptible... thrill.

“Scorpius...” Harry finally managed to find his voice, about to change the subject, but Scorpius seriously retorted, “Daddy used to always say—you have to kiss someone you love!”

As he spoke, he solemnly held up a chubby little finger, pointing in Draco’s direction, his eyes filled with a juvenile sense of justice, as if enforcing some rule of love on the adults.

Draco whipped his head around, blushing, and glared fiercely at Harry.

That look held three layers of meaning—What on earth have you been teaching him?! Are you insane?! Just try and kiss me?!

Harry met his gaze, the corners of his mouth curving slightly, his eyes sparkling with amusement. He felt his entire heart churning with the morning’s commotion, yet it was also incredibly sweet.

“All right, little one.” Harry gently ruffled Scorpius’s head, settling him onto his chair. “Why so many questions today?”

“I don’t have questions,” Scorpius corrected him seriously. “I’m helping you remember what you said!” He nodded like a little professor, proudly swinging his short legs.

Draco finally sat down, slowly pouring himself tea. The cup made a faint clinking sound against the teapot’s spout, his hand remarkably steady, almost deliberately so. But Harry noticed that his earlobes were still red, glowing red.

The entire kitchen fell silent for a moment.

Then, Harry curved his lips and softly said, “Thank you, Professor Scorpius.”

Scorpius was just picking up a slice of toast and spreading blueberry jam on it, and at Harry’s words, he made an “Hm?” sound, seemingly completely absorbed in the food before him, having already forgotten his conversation with Harry.

Harry and Draco exchanged a glance, then both looked away, each picking up their cups, pretending nothing had happened.

But the hands gripping their cup handles both trembled slightly.

At the breakfast table, the atmosphere was unprecedentedly delicate.

Harry occasionally looked up, stealing glances at Draco across from him; Draco, meanwhile, kept his head down, meticulously cutting the bacon and fried egg on his plate, his movements so precise it was like a ritual. The silver fork in his hand was like a sculptor's tool, every cut incredibly accurate—only, a little too slow, a little too forceful.

Scorpius sat between them, eating with utter contentment, a little blueberry jam on his cheek, his chewing sounds a gentle backdrop, adding an innocent touch of life to this awkward yet intimate morning.

"Papa—your egg is so round today," he praised in a soft, childish voice, even pointing to the perfectly round fried egg on the plate, his tone full of seriousness and admiration.

Draco's movements paused, his earlobes slowly tinging with a faint blush. He gave a soft huff, as if to push away the compliment, but the corners of his mouth subtly turned up just a fraction. He didn’t look up, but tilted his eye, his peripheral vision accurately sweeping toward Harry, as if accusing him: This is all your fault.

Harry chuckled, lowering his head to continue drinking his tea. But under the table, he subtly extended his foot, lightly brushing Draco's shin, the movement as gentle as a feather.

Draco stiffened abruptly, the fork nearly slipping from his fingers. He snapped his head up, his silvery-grey eyes like moonlight falling on water, filled with surprise and warning, staring fixedly at Harry. But the anger in his gaze was quickly replaced by a more subtle emotion—a touch of shyness, a hint of panic.

He looked away, picking up his teacup as if needing something to do, to cover the turmoil in his heart.

"Potter, you'd best not push your luck," he muttered through gritted teeth, his voice low enough only for Harry to hear, the trailing sound a bit like grinding his teeth—yet it didn’t sound like anger, more like sulking.

Harry suppressed a smile, watching his earlobes grow redder and redder, his eyes filled with an undeniable tenderness.

"Daddy—I'm full!" Scorpius suddenly announced, interrupting the unspoken thread between the two. He patted his round little belly, then hopped off the chair with a thump, rushing to Draco’s side and clinging to his thigh.

"Papa, can we go play on the seesaw in the garden today?" he asked, looking up with a serious expression, his small hand already trying to stuff his messy bib into Draco’s hand.

Draco looked down at him, his lips moving, not answering immediately. He suddenly glanced at Harry, and in that instant, his gaze was as complex as a triple-locked door, hiding a cautious inquiry.

Today... will you still be here? Will you still stay with us?

His voice held a hint of deliberately controlled calm: “Do you have any Saint-Potter duties to save the world today? Or has the Auror Office finally released you?”

Harry put down his teacup, looking at him, not offering a single rebuttal.

He simply reached out and gently covered the back of Draco’s slender hand on the table, his thumb slowly stroking it, meeting those evasive yet stubborn eyes, and softly said, “I’m not going anywhere today.”

Draco stiffened slightly, his fingertips twitching gently under Harry’s hand, but he didn’t pull away. His Adam’s apple bobbed; he seemed to want to say something, then swallowed it.

Harry watched him, the corners of his mouth slowly curving into a smile, and whispered, “You, like this right now... remind me of when we first got together.”

Draco reacted as if struck by lightning, snatching his hand back with the speed of someone touching something scalding. He sat bolt upright, his cheeks flushing red at an astonishing speed, the color spreading all the way to his neck.

“You... you’re talking nonsense!” he glared at Harry, his tone a mix of embarrassment and annoyance, like a small cat whose fur has been stroked the wrong way. He gnashed his teeth, yet couldn’t genuinely flare up, trapped by his own emotions, unable to move forward or back.

Harry tilted his head, saying nothing, just slowly taking a sip of tea.

Draco shot him a furious glare.

Scorpius sat on the floor, playing with his small socks, watching the two of them, his head tilted, looking completely bewildered.

Draco cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. He stood up, picked up his son, as if to end this embarrassing breakfast with action.

“Let’s go play on the seesaw,” he announced, his voice unnaturally husky. “I’ll go with you right now.”

He strode away quickly, his back showing a hasty retreat.

Harry sat at the table, watching that retreating figure, a faint smile on his lips.

Today was a good morning.

Harry watched Draco’s hurried departure with Scorpius in his arms, smiling softly, his eyes filled with undisguised fondness. He didn’t follow them out immediately; instead, he cast a simple Cleaning Charm, and the leftover breakfast quietly vanished in the faint light. He folded the Daily Prophet, set it aside, then picked up his teacup and slowly strolled into the living room.

Outside the window, the sunlight slanted in, filling the garden with the warm glow of morning. Draco was walking toward the old seesaw they often used, holding Scorpius. The child’s laughter floated clearly into the house, his small legs happily kicking in his father’s embrace.

Harry stood by the French doors, watching the scene, a soft ripple spreading through his heart. He knew Draco’s awkwardness and evasion came from emotions not yet fully sorted. But the way his hands held the child tightly, the tenderness that leaked from his eyes—was more honest than any words.

He set down his teacup, pushed open the back door, and stepped into the garden.

The scent of spring washed over him: the fresh fragrance of dewy grass, and a few peculiar juice-spitting flowers swayed gently in the breeze, lazily creaking. Under the old willow tree, the seesaw rocked back and forth, sunlight casting dappled shadows on its wooden planks.

Draco had already placed Scorpius on one end of the seesaw, while he sat on the grass, controlling the motion with magic, letting Scorpius play happily on his own. The little one laughed, tapping the board with his shoes, making excited “whoosh” sounds.

Draco’s profile appeared serene and gentle in the sunlight. He hadn’t noticed Harry’s approach, his eyes solely focused on his child with quiet attention. His expression wasn’t overtly emotional, but it was more genuine than ever. He murmured something softly, perhaps coaxing the child, or perhaps speaking to himself.

Harry didn’t speak, just sat down a little farther away. He rested his elbows on his knees, quietly watching the father and son. The golden light framed them like a peaceful painting, and even time seemed to slow in that moment, like an undisturbed dream.

He watched the unconscious softness at the corners of Draco’s mouth, his heart subtly infused with a steady, warm feeling.

Draco, in this moment, was a side of him never revealed in public.

A strong urge suddenly rose within Harry—to walk over and embrace him from behind; to tell him that the past scars and chaos were gone; that they were no longer the disheveled young men fresh out of war; to say that once Draco’s memories returned, they could start a new future together.

But he just sat there, silently gazing.

The wind rustled through the leaves, bringing the scent of flowers.

“Pot... Harry.”

Draco’s voice suddenly broke the quiet. His tone was steady, his back to Harry, as if casually bringing up a minor matter.

Harry paused slightly, his heart immediately quickening. He knew Draco didn’t speak idly.

He didn’t respond, just poured all his attention into that back.

“Regarding the Legilimency session...” Draco’s voice came as if through a thin garden mist, neither loud nor soft, but carrying a resolve that had weighed on him for some time. “You said before that Hannah wanted to do one or two more sessions without magical intervention, right?”

He didn’t turn around as he spoke, just slightly raised his hand and tapped his wand. Scorpius, giggling on the seesaw, was gently lifted into the air by soft magic.

“I don’t think that’s necessary anymore.” He paused, his tone so light it was almost emotionless. “We can proceed directly with Legilimency. Today, or tomorrow.”

As he said this, he finally turned to look at Harry.

His silvery-grey eyes in the sunlight were like polished sword blades, without a trace of hesitation. That gaze was more powerful than words—no longer questioning, probing, or resisting, but a self-possessed, almost challenging kind of permission.

Harry was stunned. He could see that Draco had made his decision. He should have known that someone like Draco, even when lost in confusion, would never allow himself to be manipulated for long.

But hearing “I’m ready” in that moment still tightened his chest uncontrollably.

Not from fear—but from love.

He knew that from now on, all the truths between them would have nowhere left to hide.

tbc

Chapter Text

Draco's decision to accelerate the treatment was like a long-awaited ray of sunshine, piercing through the lingering mist in Harry's heart. He wrote to Hannah Abbott almost without hesitation that very afternoon.

His quill glided rapidly across the parchment, Harry writing the entire narrative with a newfound lightness. He meticulously described Draco's cooperation and determination at breakfast, inadvertently weaving his own yearning for him finally coming back into the very words.

After finishing the letter, Harry happily turned to look out the window, finding the daylight warm and the sun streaming obliquely from the kitchen window, falling onto the table covered with a light blue checkered tablecloth. So he decided that no matter what, he would gather around the living room coffee table with Draco and Scorpius for afternoon tea today.

Cups gently clinked, the delicate porcelain sounds soft and clear, and the air was filled with the aroma of honey scones and black tea. Harry used magic to gently tilt the teapot, and the amber liquid rippled subtly in the cups.

Scorpius, holding a slice of toast freshly spread with jam, took a serious bite, then revealed a tiny expression of effort to express praise while chewing: “This is yummy! Like—like little birds flying into my mouth!”

Harry chuckled, “Sweet birds or salty birds?”

“Jam birds!” Scorpius declared righteously, then turned and held out the remaining half to Draco. “Papa, you have some too!”

Draco leaned down and took a bite, giving a faint “Mm,” the corners of his eyes subtly curving.

The afternoon sun fell upon them, adding a soft glow to this rare peaceful moment. Harry watched the scene before him, his heart softening unconsciously.

After finishing the last bite of scone, Scorpius licked the remaining jam from his fingertips, then suddenly looked up, his eyes bright as he gazed at Harry.

“Daddy, I want to go play with the ponies and the lions in my room!” he announced excitedly, his small feet already kicking on the floor like a broomstick ready for takeoff.

“All right, little one,” Harry said with a smile, patting his knee. “Go slow, don’t fall.”

They walked upstairs one after another, Scorpius bouncing happily towards his small room. But as his small hand gripped the doorknob and turned it, he found the door wouldn’t budge.

“Huh?!” He froze, tried twice more, his small face scrunched up like a bun. “Daddy, is it broken? It won’t open—”

Harry’s heart jolted, his footsteps instantly halting.

“Uh... maybe it’s just...” Harry was about to mumble an excuse when Draco walked up, carrying a glass of water.

He stopped beside Scorpius, his gaze falling on the closed door, his eyebrow slightly raised, and a hint of a knowing curve on his thin lips.

“How interesting,” he said, his voice faint, reverting to his usual sarcastic tone. “Does Mr. Saviour lock even a door? Are you afraid the child will discover something—or are you afraid of me?” The glass of water in his hand swayed, shimmering.

Harry was speechless for a moment. He took a deep breath, quickly communicating with the will of Grimmauld Place in his mind: “Grimmauld Place, I know what I said before... Sigh, but now, please allow us into Scorpius’s room.”

The door clicked open automatically, light spilling from the crack, illuminating Scorpius’s surprised face.

“Yay!” he cheered, immediately rushing inside, like an explorer who had found a treasure map.

Draco didn’t follow immediately. He turned, his gaze deeply fixed on Harry, eyes complexly interwoven with sarcasm, challenge, and a hint of unwilling... hurt.

“...Are you still hiding a lot from me?”

Harry’s heart seized at the question.

He wanted to deny it, but the truths hidden in the corners of his memory were too heavy, so heavy he barely dared to let them loose. He stepped forward and said softly, “I wasn’t trying to hide anything from you... I just wasn’t sure if now was the right time to tell you everything directly... Perhaps, tomorrow, when Hannah arrives, we can ask her.”

He tried to reach out and touch Draco’s arm, but the other man merely folded his arms, his gaze coldly sweeping over Harry’s movement.

“Then let Miss Abbott be the judge,” Draco sneered, turning and walking into Scorpius’s room, his movements decisive, yet with an imperceptible hesitation and avoidance.

Harry stood rooted to the spot, watching the two figures, one large and one small, slowly exhaling.

The entire afternoon felt like it had been paused.

The three of them huddled in the long-unused children's room. Scorpius crawled excitedly among the toys like a small mole, rediscovering his “hidden friends”: a biting lion, singing building blocks, transforming cars, an old frisbee... each item seemed to have dropped out of a time machine.

“Daddy, look!” Scorpius waved a colour-changing cloth doll. “It still remembers me!”

“Of course it remembers you,” Harry chuckled. “It also remembers you liked to stuff jam in its belly.”

“I did not!” Scorpius protested, his face flushed but laughing like a cat caught stealing sweets.

And Draco, still as cutting as ever: “Who designed this feature? Building blocks that sing Hagrid’s Lullaby—are they toys for children or a scare tactic for adults?”

Yet, he patiently helped Scorpius assemble a “flying mini-train,” even unconsciously stroking the fluffy, fiery-red lion, his fingers lingering on its mane for a while, as if accidentally touching an old dream.

Harry sat beside him, propping his chin on his hand, watching the scene, his heart overwhelmed with both tenderness and a touch of melancholy.

At that moment, he wanted to say nothing, do nothing—just wish for time to stand still.

That evening, a grey owl arrived with a reply, gently tapping on the kitchen windowpane.

Harry immediately got up and opened the window, pulling out the familiar parchment. His fingers almost impatiently unfolded it. But the further he read, the tighter his brow furrowed.

Hannah’s reply was, as always, precise and formal, her tone gently professional. However, that professionalism, this time, seemed... a little too pronounced.

In the letter, she reiterated the therapeutic principle of guidance, not imposition, emphasizing that memory content must not be revealed to Draco without his consent, as it could lead to “defense mechanisms rebounding.” Her tone was more cautious than usual, even carrying a subtle warning. And the explanations about the repair mechanisms of mental barriers made Harry feel oddly that it was too calm, as if showing... indifference to the patient’s will.

Harry tightly clutched the letter. That indescribable subtle unease gently brushed against his heart, like wind chimes outside a window, making only a single tinkling sound. He tried to attribute it to his accumulated stress over the past few days and his obsession with Draco’s recovery. He told himself that Hannah was just being overly cautious—she might always be like this, otherwise she wouldn’t have become one of St Mungo’s Chief Healers at such a young age.

He took a deep breath, pushed the vague discomfort to the back of his mind, and put the letter away.

The next morning, sunlight poured like golden dust onto the windowsill.

With a flash of emerald flame, Hannah and Luna stepped out of the fireplace one after the other.

Hannah was still in her standard St Mungo’s Healer robes, her hair neatly pinned up, wearing her usual gentle, polite, and reassuring smile. Luna wore a brightly coloured robe, its hem adorned with tiny, sparkling bird embroideries, her hair flowing smoothly down, appearing slightly more serene than usual.

Harry instinctively looked at her a moment longer. Luna tilted her head slightly, giving him a faint smile, still familiar, with a hint of fairytale mystery.

So he didn’t give it much thought; it was normal for anyone to be a little more silent than usual at a time like this, even Luna Lovegood—St Mungo’s was almost full of people who had been mentally exhausted lately.

After settling Scorpius, who was still asleep, Draco came downstairs. He wore a sharply tailored dark green robe, his hair neatly combed back, looking like a meticulously sculpted silver coin—calm, yet with a hint of nerves stretched too taut.

His gaze first landed on Hannah and Luna, then returned to Harry.

“Do you have... other plans today?”

Harry paused, then chuckled, understanding this was Draco’s way of saying, You can’t be absent. He nodded, walked over to stand beside Draco, and quietly replied, “Of course not. I’ll be here all along.”

Hannah’s gaze quickly flickered between them, a gentle curve forming at the corners of her lips, but she said nothing.

“Very good,” she said, her tone steady and gentle. “Legilimency does carry some risks, but with sufficient preparation and cooperation, everything will be quite safe.”

Luna remained silent, simply standing there, nodding slightly, her gaze passing through Draco as if observing the bottom of a deep lake.

They quickly set up the treatment area. The coffee table in the centre of the living room was moved aside, and Hannah waved her wand, drawing a complex rune array on the wooden floor. The intersecting lines glowed with a soft blue light, subtly undulating like tides.

Luna took several small bottles containing strange liquids from her pocket and poured them into four hollow cauldrons. Mists of different colours intertwined and rose, and a faint aroma gradually filled the room, like rain-soaked moss mixed with cool mint—refreshing, yet giving a fleeting illusion of light-headedness.

Harry frowned slightly, his gaze sweeping over the strangely fragrant cauldrons and the rune array. A vague sense of unease rose within him. He suddenly wished Hermione were standing beside him—she could always quickly discern what these symbols and potions represented, while he could only rely on instinct to judge whether everything was reasonable. This helplessness made him feel anxious and unsettled.

“Please sit here,” Hannah said, gesturing to a chair in the centre of the rune array.

Draco didn't hesitate.

He walked over and sat down, his hands on his knees, his posture as upright as if facing a trial. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Hannah and Luna stood on either side, their wand tips simultaneously pointing at his temples. Two silver-thread-like lights slowly converged, connecting the invisible mental pathways between them.

“Relax, please,” Hannah murmured, her voice so soft it was almost hypnotic. “We won’t force you to remember, only… to see.”

Luna remained silent, her wand held perfectly steady, her fingertips seeming to gently touch Draco’s consciousness. Her gaze deepened, as if listening to whispers only she could hear.

Two silvery-white rays of light slowly extended from the wand tips, like two slender silver snakes, silently entering Draco’s temples. His body trembled slightly at that instant, his brow furrowing deeply, and the colour draining from his face as if it had been drawn out, leaving him ghost-pale.

Harry stood not far away, barely daring to breathe. He could clearly hear Draco’s hurried and suppressed gasps, and the frantic drumming of his own heart. The air seemed frozen by magic, the entire living room plunged into the centre of a silent storm.

Deep within Draco’s consciousness, everything resembled a vast palace constructed of memories. It wasn’t an empty void, but tightly encircled by layers of mist-like mental barriers. These barriers were subconscious guardians—once they sensed intrusion, they emitted a low, unsettling resonant sound, like some ancient and powerful creature stirring in its sleep.

Hannah and Luna’s awareness flowed in like streams of light, skilled and cautious, like experienced locksmiths carefully undoing each mental knot.

“Here...” Hannah spoke softly, her voice seeming to echo both in Harry’s ears and at the edge of Draco’s consciousness, calm and gentle. “This is Mr Malfoy’s self-defence mechanism. His rejection of the past is stronger than I anticipated. We cannot force our way through.”

Luna stood silently on the other side. She didn’t speak, but her gaze grew more focused, and the light at her wand tip brightened slightly. She was silently sensing, searching for minute cracks in the mental barriers.

Their consciousness flowed like silver liquid, hovering and probing before those tightly closed “doors of memory.” Finally, one of the doors slowly emitted light—not strong, but a lingering glow, as if inviting explorers to draw near.

However, as their awareness barely touched that door, a powerful, almost violent rebound surged from behind it, as though some deeply buried fear and resistance had awakened, attempting to expel all intruders from the boundaries of the mind.

“Bang—!”

Hannah and Luna’s bodies simultaneously swayed, and the light at their wand tips flickered violently. Draco’s brow twisted abruptly, he let out a muffled groan, and his body arched slightly, as if enduring some invisible impact.

“Too strong,” Hannah’s tone was still calm, but it clearly held a touch of displeasure and hesitation. “He’s instinctively resisting—not allowing anyone near that memory.”

She glanced at Harry, her gaze carrying a significant trace of reproach—Did you stimulate his memories when he wasn’t ready?

Harry’s heart clenched, and he instinctively tightened his grip on his wand. What lay behind that door was perhaps Draco’s most unwilling memory—perhaps including Harry himself.

Luna still didn’t speak. She gently rubbed her temple, a rare, thoughtful solemnity appearing on her brow. She seemed to sense something—not from Draco himself, but from the structure of the door, she perceived an inconsistent fluctuation.

“We’ll try a different area,” Hannah said quickly, her voice regaining its professional composure.

Their consciousness shifted to another wing of the memory palace. An ancient door appeared before them, its surface mottled and covered with what looked like battle scars. It didn’t resist as stubbornly as the previous one, but it still emanated a strong sense of suppression—like ancient, bottled venom gently disturbed.

This time, the door didn’t fully shut itself. It slowly opened a crack.

Draco’s body reacted immediately, his breathing growing more rapid, a fine layer of sweat appearing on his forehead, his hands gripping the arms of the chair tightly. He seemed to be trapped in a nightmare, with no way to wake up.

Through the crack in the door, scenes flickered indistinctly: the long corridors of Hogwarts, the coldly shimmering surface of the Black Lake, the Room of Requirement consumed by Fiendfyre, and—those chilling crimson eyes.

These were fragments of Draco’s memories of war, fear, and defeat.

But Hannah and Luna’s focus didn’t seem to be on the emotional trauma itself.

Their mental presence threaded through like fine silk, not attempting to help Draco recall, but rather to search. They deliberately bypassed overly emotional scenes, moving directly toward deeper content. They avoided memories of crying, skipped fragments of breakdown, and glided instead toward the hazy remnants of memories related to soul, memory charms, and deep conscious realms.

Harry stood to the side, cold sweat beading on his forehead.

This didn’t feel like the proper way to conduct Legilimency. A chill he couldn’t explain rose along his spine.

Moreover, there was no communication between them, yet their cooperation was almost mechanically precise.

He almost wanted to rush over and stop it all. But he knew that if he interrupted, Draco could suffer a mental backlash.

Time seemed to stretch under magic.

Draco’s body had begun to twitch slightly, his lips pale, his breathing growing increasingly ragged. Sweat pooled on his forehead and dripped to the floor, like an unspeakable pain blooming inside him.

The light at the tips of Hannah and Luna’s wands suddenly became intensely bright, faintly shimmering with an icy blue ripple—a resonance that only occurred when a mental connection touched a core memory.

“We found it,” Hannah’s voice was extremely soft, yet held a subtle excitement—like an archaeologist finally unearthing a rare artifact. She didn’t specify what it was, but at that moment, Harry felt it too—a strange surge of magical fluctuation suddenly rippled through the air.

He had felt that fluctuation before, in the abandoned manor.

He stiffened, as if frozen, his mind instantly blank.

The next second—

Draco abruptly leaned back, as if flung violently from the mental realm. His wand slipped from his fingers, its light extinguished at once. He let out a low, hoarse moan, drenched in cold sweat, his expression twisted in pain.

He slowly opened his eyes, his gaze filled with a profound, post-shock bewilderment, as if he had seen unspeakable sights. He opened his mouth but no sound came out, only gasping for breath, trying to claw his way back from memory into reality.

The Legilimency session was over.

tbc

Chapter Text

Harry stiffened, his frozen thoughts suddenly shattering. He jerked his head up, his gaze leaping over Draco’s contorted, pained face and fixing on Hannah Abbott. The eerie magical vibration he’d felt from the Shadows of Retrospection in the abandoned manor was now emanating from her without disguise, carrying a sickening, gloating, twisted joy.

“You—” Harry’s voice was as rough as sandpaper grating on stone. “What have you done to him?!”

With hardly a moment’s hesitation, he drew his wand and lunged forward.

But someone was faster.

Luna Lovegood, standing on the other side—the girl who was usually as quiet as a shadow, seemingly adrift from the crowd—suddenly erupted with a cold, sharp light in her eyes. In that instant, she was no longer the whimsical, dreamy girl.

With a flick of her wand, a silent spell coiled around Harry like a snake.

A suffocating pressure squeezed him from all sides, his limbs stiff as if filled with lead. He couldn’t utter a single syllable, only a low, muffled groan escaping his throat. The magic within him felt sealed beneath a layer of ice, thrashing wildly with no escape.

He was pinned in place, as if nailed to the air.

“Don’t move, Potter.” Hannah’s voice remained soft and melodious, but beneath that feigned gentleness was a naked threat. The tip of her wand lightly touched Draco’s heaving chest, like a venomous needle poised to strike. “Otherwise, I can’t guarantee your… companion won’t suffer a cardiac arrest.”

These words, spewed from her mouth, were like poisoned silver needles.

Draco’s consciousness was still adrift in the aftermath of the mental storm. His silver-grey eyes stared unfocused at the ceiling, his lips moving soundlessly, as if whispering or crying for help. He didn’t turn back, didn’t react, unable even to grasp what was happening in front of him.

Hannah wasted no time. With a flick of her wand, Draco floated from the chair like a puppet with its strings cut. And Luna steadily held her wand aloft—her eyes, which should have held dreamlike stars, were now hollow as ice, utterly devoid of warmth.

They escorted the unconscious Draco, retreating step by step toward the fireplace.

Harry watched them recede, anger a searing brand pressed against his chest, scorching every breath; fear, a cold river pouring into his limbs. His magic roared within him, slamming against the malicious restraint. He let out a low, feral growl, every cell in his body screaming—Let me move! Let me save him! Let me take Draco back from those cursed betrayers!

He saw Draco’s bloodless face, his limp, fragile body—and his heart felt like it was being crushed, one beat after another, burning with helpless agony.

No.

No—!

They couldn’t take him!

Hannah and Luna, having reached the fireplace, exchanged a glance. No words were spoken, but their movements were precise, honed by practice. Hannah pulled a handful of Floo powder from her cloak and tossed it into the hearth. Green flames flared to life, casting flickering light over her face like a torn mask.

But they didn’t announce any destination.

Just as Harry thought they were about to leave, a deeper surge of magic exploded in the air. The green flames pulsed violently, and their bodies blurred and stretched within the fire, as if consumed by warped space.

“Crack—”

A sound like shattering glass echoed—and they, along with the levitating Draco, vanished into the flames.

The fire died down, leaving the hearth silent.

A faint scent of potion lingered in the air, mingling with the subtle ozone smell left behind by spatial distortion.

The spell binding Harry weakened rapidly once its casters vanished. He gritted his teeth, gathering his last reserves of will into a burst of fury. He twisted his body sharply—and raw, wild magic burst from within him.

“CRASH—!”

The invisible restraints shattered on the spot. He staggered forward, collapsing to the ground, his wand slipping from stiff fingers. But he didn’t bother to retrieve it—he scrambled to the fireplace, reaching desperately into the pile of still-warm ashes.

He was gone.

Draco had been taken.

The realization slammed into Harry’s mind like a hammer, blacking out his vision. Fear, rage, and despair surged like a tsunami, engulfing him instantly. He wanted to scream, to destroy the entire house, to chase them down now, to bring Draco back!

But in the instant before fury could consume his reason, a single thought broke through the storm like a lighthouse beam—

Scorpius.

He was still asleep upstairs.

The thought yanked him back to reality like an anchor. He couldn’t collapse. He couldn’t break. He shot to his feet, clenched his jaw, forcing down the murderous intent boiling in his chest. He snatched up his wand, turned, and charged up the stairs, every step as heavy as thunder.

He reached the bedroom door and pushed it open a crack.

The room was quiet. Scorpius lay on his side, curled around the plush lion toy, a smile on his lips, sleeping soundly.

Looking at that peaceful, innocent face, Harry’s heart twisted like it had been slashed open—grief flooding through him. If Draco was truly… gone… how would he explain all this to Scorpius? How would he tell him the cruel truth that “Daddy lost Papa”?

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. He knew he was about to step into an abyss—and he couldn’t take Scorpius with him.

That thought solidified into resolve.

He entered the room, gently scooping Scorpius into his arms, blanket and all. The child stirred sleepily, nuzzling into Harry’s shoulder like a small creature seeking warmth.

Harry held him close, hurrying downstairs. He grabbed a handful of Floo powder and threw it into the hearth without hesitation.

“The Burrow!”

The green flames surged around him and the boy—and in a rush of spinning firelight, he tumbled into the Weasleys’ kitchen.

Molly Weasley was humming as she prepared tea. Harry’s sudden arrival made her jump—but when she saw his pale, bloodless face, wild with fear and fury, and the sleeping child in his arms, her shock turned quickly to alarm.

“Harry? Good heavens—what’s happened?”

“Molly!” Harry’s voice was hoarse and desperate. He placed Scorpius carefully into her warm arms. “Please—please watch him! Draco’s been taken—by Hannah Abbott! I have to find Ron and Hermione!”

He gave her no time to respond, already grabbing more Floo powder and turning back to the fireplace.

“Harry, wait—!”

Molly’s startled cry was swallowed by green flames. Harry’s eyes blazed with vengeance and desperation. As the world spun around him in smoke and light, he shouted with all his might:

“The Ministry of Magic!”

The fire swallowed him and spat him out.

Harry stumbled into the ash-choked public Floo lobby. The roar of magic filled his ears, mingling with the bustle of footsteps and conversation from every direction. He collided with a wizard fresh from the fire, who grumbled and dusted off his robes—but Harry didn’t stop.

He pushed forward, heading straight for the heavy oak doors of the main Atrium.

They burst open with a bang—and the air changed.

The Ministry Atrium was as crowded as ever. The golden Magic Is Might statue was long gone, replaced by a stone memorial to those who had fallen in the Second Wizarding War. Witches and wizards hurried past. Owls flitted overhead. The scent of parchment, ink, and floor polish hung in the air—normal, ordinary.

Too normal.

It made Harry feel sick. Everything was too quiet, too undisturbed—while he was breaking.

“Harry? Merlin’s beard, what are you doing here?” An Auror colleague—Williamson—was passing by and stared at him in surprise. “Aren’t you on leave? What’s wrong?”

Harry didn’t even glance at him. He only rasped out two words:“Move aside.”

His voice was so hoarse it was almost unrecognisable. His face was ghost-pale, and his green eyes burned with something feral and uncontained.

Williamson stepped aside instinctively, watching as their Chosen One—the youngest leader of the Auror Office—stormed past like a thunderclap.

Harry didn’t stop, charging up the stairs to the second floor. Hermione’s office door was practically flung open. The heavy wooden door slammed against the wall with a deafening thud.

It was lunchtime, and Ron and Hermione were standing together, discussing something. Both were startled by the loud noise. Ron’s reaction was lightning-fast; his wand appeared in his hand, pointed at the doorway.

“Harry?” Ron recognized him and lowered his wand in surprise.

Harry stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, gasping for breath. His robes were a crumpled mess, his face smeared with fireplace ash, as if he’d just crawled out of an explosion. His eyes were bloodshot.

“They… they took him.” He spoke, his voice shattered like dry paper. “Hannah… Luna… they’re Shadows of Retrospection… Draco… they took him.”

His words were broken, but they were enough.

Hermione’s face went white. She quickly rounded her desk and gripped Harry’s arm. Ron shut the door, raised his wand, and tapped it a few times. Defensive and silencing charms layered over each other, isolating them from the world outside.

“Harry, sit down.” Hermione pressed on his shoulder, her voice firm, yet trembling.

Harry sat down like a puppet. His hands clenched into fists, his back ramrod straight, as if he might collapse at any moment.

He spoke of the sudden attack, rambling and disorganised. But the core words were clear—fake treatment, premeditated kidnapping, magical fluctuations.

Hermione listened, her knuckles white. When Harry finished, she walked straight to a private bookshelf against the wall, her fingers rapidly sweeping across a row of spines, pulling out several old books of varying thickness.

“I’d suspected—but I always thought it was because St Mungo’s had developed a brand-new treatment,” she said through gritted teeth, her voice filled with regret. “Harry, look here… I checked all the information I could find, and almost all authorities state that for deep memory damage caused by a Memory Charm, the preferred therapy is ‘contextualisation,’ where the patient is exposed to the most familiar people, things, and places from before their memory loss as quickly as possible, using positive emotional connections to stimulate memory recovery. But Hannah’s advice was completely contrary to all of this from the start! She told us to isolate Draco, not let him see Scorpius, not tell him the truth…”

Her eyes flickered to the window, then back, with an increasingly clear anger.

“And Luna,” Hermione said, looking at Harry. “I wrote her three letters. Three. Not a single reply. That’s so unlike Luna. Even if she were chasing Crumple-Horned Snorkacks on the other side of the world, she’d send a messenger bee back to me. She’s completely incommunicado.”

“We need to notify Kingsley,” Ron said softly. He flicked his wand, and a silvery Patronus, a terrier, darted from the tip and phased through the wall.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

Kingsley Shacklebolt entered. He was tall and composed, his stride unhurried, as if the entire building quieted at his presence.

He stood at the doorway, listening to the trio’s account, silent throughout. Only in his deep eyes did a hint of gathering storm subtly swirl. When Harry finished, his gaze slowly shifted to him.

Harry felt that gaze, as if an invisible force pressed down on him. He gritted his teeth, took a breath, his voice low and trembling.

“I… I beg you, Kingsley. Let us go. Or at least, let me go. I can’t… I can’t be without him…”

Kingsley was silent for a moment, slowly rubbing his temples, as if suppressing a string of more vehement responses.

“Listen, Harry,” he said, his voice low and steady, carrying an irresistible weight. “You won’t need to ask for leave. The Ministry was already preparing to establish a top-priority investigative task force targeting the Shadows of Retrospection.”

He paused.

“And I truly can’t think of anyone more suited to lead it than the three of you.”

Harry nodded gratefully, his throat moving. He whispered, “But we… we don’t even know where they might have gone.”

“No… wait…” Ron suddenly spoke, as if something utterly terrible had just occurred to him. He ran a hand through his red hair. “This… this is too wrong. Their advice was fake, their actions were fake… it feels… it feels too familiar.”

He didn’t finish, but Harry already understood. His Adam’s apple bobbed, his voice dry.

“Moody.”

The name pierced Harry’s mind like an ice-pick—Barty Crouch Junior. Polyjuice Potion. A year-long impersonation.

Memories flipped through his mind, frame by frame. Hannah’s perfectly gentle smile at the end of the St Mungo’s corridor now seemed like a mask, moving too smoothly, too perfectly, unreal. He had even asked her to briefly look after Scorpius! And those two possible imposters had come to Grimmauld Place, performing so-called “meditation therapy” on an unsuspecting Draco.

He had truly trusted them then.

But perhaps they had been waiting for just such an opportunity—a moment when they could directly touch Draco’s mind… A chill spread from the back of his neck, slowly seeping into his bones.

“How could I not have seen it…” he murmured, his voice filled with self-loathing. “I should have known…”

“Harry, this isn’t your fault!” Hermione immediately interrupted him, her voice picking up speed. “You hardly knew Hannah. During the first treatment, you had just been through so much, your focus entirely on Draco, and you weren’t even present for the whole time! They precisely calculated that both you and Draco were on the brink of collapse…”

After a long moment, Harry slowly lifted his head, a hint of madness flickering in his eyes.

“At St Mungo’s, she mentioned Neville,” he said in a low voice. “She said she would ‘care for Scorpius as carefully as Neville’s strange plants’…”

The other three instantly understood the implication.

“Neville,” Ron said immediately. “We need to find him.”

Harry stood up, suddenly ramrod straight. A familiar fire rekindled in his eyes, that unyielding will no one could stop.

“We’re going to Hogwarts,” he said. “Now.”

With a loud crack, the trio vanished from the Ministry, reappearing a second later on the familiar yet damp, cold ground at the edge of Hogsmeade Village.

The sky was now heavy with thick clouds. A cold wind, laced with fine rain, cut through their cloaks and chilled them to the bone. Honeydukes’ windows were still brightly coloured, The Three Broomsticks’ lantern still swayed, but they seemed like mere background props—the parts of the world that continued as normal were irrelevant to their anguish.

The three walked quickly in silence, heading up the stone path to Hogwarts. Harry heard his own frantic heartbeat, Ron’s ragged breathing, the rustle of Hermione’s robes sweeping the damp ground. In the distance, Hogwarts, outlined in shadow beneath the clouds, lay like a sleeping giant.

They didn’t enter through the main gates, instead heading to the back of the greenhouses, pushing open the door to Greenhouse Three.

The scent of damp earth wafted towards them, mixed with the smell of decaying leaves and herbs. Water droplets hung from the glass dome, and the light filtering through was a greyish white, like a thick mist.

Neville Longbottom was turned away from them, wearing a work apron, carefully feeding a faintly pulsating purple plant with tweezers. He was focused, gentle, as if immersed in his own world.

“Neville,” Hermione spoke.

He turned, a smile immediately appearing: “Hermione? Ron? Harry? What are you—” He broke off, seeing Harry’s face, his smile stiffening. “Merlin… your face is so…”

Hermione didn’t answer, simply stepping forward, pointing her wand at him, her voice clear and calm: “At the end of first year, when we were trying to stop Quirrell, and you stood in our way in the common room doorway. What did I do to you?”

Neville froze, his face flushing.

“What? Hermione, why are you asking that? It was… you used the Full Body-Bind Curse… I fell over like a plank… but that was years ago…”

He spoke, his voice gradually trailing off. He finally noticed—none of the three opposite him were smiling.

He put down his tweezers, stood up straight, and his usual gentleness rapidly receded from his face, replaced by a quiet alertness.

“Something’s wrong,” he said.

They walked together to a corner of the greenhouse, hiding behind several giant bouncing bulbs. Harry quietly recounted what had happened, his tone flat, as if narrating the beginning of a nightmare.

When “Hannah” was mentioned, Neville’s expression became complex.

“Her treatment of Draco… was cold,” Hermione continued, frowning deeply. “She insisted Harry hide everything, separate him from Scorpius, claiming ‘too much emotional stimulation would cause the mental barriers to rebound.’ She explained it flawlessly, sounded professional, but there was just no—” She paused. “No real concern.”

“Cold?” Neville frowned, immediately shaking his head. “Impossible. Hannah is not like that at all.”

He paused, then added softly, “Once my Mimbulus Mimbletonia squirted juice all over her, and she didn’t wipe her robes first; she worried if the plant had been frightened.”

He looked up, a hint of wavering appearing in his eyes for the first time. “She couldn’t possibly be that indifferent to a severely injured patient…”

Hermione continued, “So, when was the last time you saw her with your own eyes?”

“…Two weeks ago,” Neville’s voice grew softer. “Diagon Alley, we even had butterbeer together.”

At this, he seemed a little embarrassed, but continued: “Actually… I’ve been asking her out a lot lately. We’ve been best friends since we graduated, but recently I thought… maybe, I and she could… but after that meeting, she just… she became very strange. The letters I wrote to her either weren’t answered, or she replied with just a word or two, coldly, completely unlike her.”

He added painfully, “I thought I was too eager, said something wrong, and scared her off…”

The group fell silent for a moment, until Ron broke the silence first—

“…Exactly like Luna,” he said.

Harry nodded, saying, “Two weeks ago… Draco was attacked a week ago, perhaps during that time, the real Hannah was… And there’s another thing—I didn’t think much of it then. At St Mungo’s, she said she would ‘carefully look after Scorpius, like Neville’s strange plants’.”

Neville froze, then his face changed.

“She’s absolutely fake.”

He said it softly, but without any hesitation.

“Hannah never touches my ‘strange plants’,” he said. “Once she tried to help me water a young Tentacula and almost got wrapped up. Since then, she’s never dared to touch them. And I’ve never let her near the dangerous ones.”

He pursed his lips, his voice dropping, but with undeniable conviction.

“She knows they’re one of my most precious things. She respects them, and she respects me. From what I know of her, she would never speak about caring for them in my stead in front of others, in that tone…”

He paused, as if suppressing his emotions. “The person who said that… only knew we were friends, but didn’t understand how we interact.”

With that statement, the greenhouse fell into a brief, heavy silence.

The disguise was torn, the truth laid bare. But they felt no triumph, only a deep sense of loss and anger.

“So where do we go next?” Ron’s voice held a hoarse despair. “…They could be anywhere.”

“We’re not completely without leads,” Hermione said. “The abandoned manor in the north—that’s the only significant stronghold the Shadows of Retrospection have revealed. Last time we went for reconnaissance, but this time it’s different. We know their methods, we know when the substitution happened… if we go again, we might find new clues!”

This suggestion was like a shot of adrenaline, making Harry’s almost numb heart pound violently again.

Just as he was about to agree, Neville stepped forward.

He looked at Harry, his usually gentle eyes now burning with the same all-consuming determination as Harry’s.

“Count me in,” he said, clenching his fists. “I can’t sit here and do nothing. For Hannah, I have to go.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at him. No one objected, no one even seemed surprised. In that moment, they seemed to be transported back many years, back to that war-torn night, where they were comrades, partners, family who existed to protect each other.

Harry gave him a firm nod.

tbc

Chapter Text

Cold.

This was the first—and only—clear sensation Draco had when he regained consciousness.

Not the chill of surface skin, but a more insidious, bone-deep cold that radiated outward. It crawled up his spine like a slick serpent, each inch of its ascent leaving behind a nauseating, clammy residue. He was lying on rough flagstones—uneven, pitted, as if trampled by countless feet—and steeped in a persistent, earthy smell of mould and decaying moss. The air was thick, too—with rat droppings, dried blood, and the cloying sweetness of something rotting, something he instinctively didn’t want to identify.

He tried to move. A searing pain—as if his skull were being split apart—stabbed through his temples. The aftermath of a brutal Legilimency session raged through his mind like a storm. Every heartbeat triggered a fresh wave of agony, like someone gouging at his brain with a dull, rusty blade. He caught flashes of memory—Hannah Abbott’s overly perfect smile, hiding a coldness that wasn’t hers; Luna Lovegood’s hollow eyes, filled with a dead sort of silence; and finally, the white light that had consumed him completely—but between these shards was only endless, terrifying darkness.

He had been kidnapped.

The realization struck with clarity, like a stone plunging into his gut. He fumbled beneath him, fingertips scraping across the flagstones until they throbbed, but found no wand. Magic stirred sluggishly within him, like a river locked in ice; every attempt to channel it left him weaker, more drained.

Just when it seemed the darkness would never end, a faint sound reached him—thin as a strand of spider silk, nearly torn apart by the damp.

A tiny sob, muffled and strained to the limit.

Someone else was here.

The discovery jolted him, momentarily snapping him out of his own torment. He forced a sound from his throat—dry, as though rubbed raw with sandpaper.

“…Who’s there?”

His voice echoed in the dungeon, as if it came from somewhere distant.

The sobbing stopped.

Silence.

Even the dripping water in the corner seemed amplified, each drip, drip maddeningly precise, like a metronome counting down the seconds of their imprisonment.

After a long pause, a woman’s voice finally emerged—trembling, hoarse, and full of raw fear:

“…Who are you?”

Draco licked his chapped lips, tasting blood. Revealing his identity could be dangerous, but right now, any potential alliance was better than facing this alone.

Besides, if their enemies were who he suspected, his identity was no secret anyway.

“…Malfoy,” he said, voice rougher than expected. “Draco Malfoy.”

A sharp inhale came from the other side, followed by a longer silence. Draco could imagine her expression—shock, maybe disbelief.

Just when he thought she might not reply, the voice came again, tentative, as if confirming what she could barely believe:

“…I’m Hannah. Hannah Abbott.”

His mind buzzed, like something had struck him hard. For a moment, the world spun.

Hannah Abbott?

If she was here… then who had performed Legilimency on him at Grimmauld Place?

As if in answer to his unspoken thought, another voice floated out from a different corner. Light and ethereal, like a drifting breeze with no weight, yet oddly dreamlike even in this nightmare.

“They hid the sun, Draco. That’s why the stones here are so sad…”

Only one person in the world spoke like that.

“…Lovegood?” Draco asked tentatively, not noticing the note of relief in his own voice.

“Mm.” Luna responded softly, her voice utterly drained.

Draco leaned against the cold wall and slowly sat up. The freezing stone pressed through his thin clothes, but he forced himself to remain upright. A terrifying picture was forming in his mind—huge, deliberate, and cruel.

“Did someone… do something to you?”

“…They want to know everything.” Hannah spoke after a moment, her voice laced with an unhealable wound. Each breath came with a ragged hiss, as if speaking physically hurt. “A while ago—I don’t even know how long—it’s all a blur… after they caught me… they used the Cruciatus Curse… again and again, until it felt like my soul was tearing apart… They wanted to know everything about me and Neville. And they asked about… about that connection between you and Potter.”

Draco’s heart gave a violent lurch. He thought of the bonds forged in wartime, and of his tangled connection with Potter—one even he didn’t fully understand.

“They care a lot about connections,” Luna’s voice drifted back in, soft but heavy. “They want to know what colour Harry’s light is… and how it twines with your shadow…”

Light…

Before he could process it further, a loud metallic creak shattered the fragile stillness. The dungeon door groaned on its hinges, every scrape like nails raking across slate.

A blinding light streamed in from beyond the cell door, making all three occupants—long accustomed to the darkness—squint involuntarily. Draco felt tears well in his eyes, not from emotion, but from the sudden intensity of the glare.

Two tall figures stood in the doorway, their silhouettes stretched and distorted by the light—like gaolers from a nightmare.

A man and a woman.

The man’s black hair was immaculately styled, every strand in place like a work of art. His eyes were sharp—scalpel-sharp. When his gaze landed on Draco, it held no anger, no hatred—only a chilling, clinical focus, like that of a scientist observing a specimen.

Draco had seen that look before—on his father’s face when torturing house-elves, or on Death Eaters’ faces as they discussed how to deal with “Mudbloods.”

The woman beside him was a perfect mirror of the man. Tall, rigid, like a goddess carved from obsidian, she exuded a predatory stillness. Her beauty was disturbing—so flawless it seemed unreal, more like a carefully crafted automaton than a living being.

They were the ones who had impersonated Hannah and Luna.

Draco stared at them, and the Malfoy pride in him crushed down his fear. He forced a pale, mocking smile, using every ounce of strength to make his voice less feeble, lacing it instead with the kind of ingrained contempt that only pure-blood aristocracy could carry.

“I thought it would be someone terribly important,” he said, each word crisp, precise, dripping with inherited arrogance. “Turns out it’s just two rats who only dare scuttle through the gutter.”

His taunt was like a stone dropped in stagnant water—it caused no outrage, only sent ripples through the silence.

The lead wizard’s face curled into a faint smile, as if humouring a child’s tantrum. He walked slowly to Draco’s cell door, each footstep echoing on the flagstones. In the flickering torchlight, his face looked deathly pale.

“Rats?” he echoed softly, voice laced with ice. “Mr. Malfoy, I think you’re mistaken. The moon may choose not to shine in the day.”

He paused, as though amused by his own thought, and his smile widened—revealing a row of disturbingly even, gleaming white teeth. “Speaking of which… did you really believe your feeble will could resist my Memory Charm? That’s just… adorably naïve.”

His gaze swept Draco from head to toe like a scanner. “Let alone a young wizard like you… Even those so-called masters of the art were just students I once tutored—out of sheer boredom. I recall, many years ago… there was a rather interesting boy. Blond hair, blue eyes, charming like a prince out of a fairy tale, and ambitious too.”

His tone turned leisurely, as if reminiscing. Draco could feel his heartbeat lurching like a beast in a cage.

“I heard he eventually taught at Hogwarts. That doddering old bumblebee Dumbledore actually hired him!” The wizard gave a quiet, mirthless chuckle. “Alas, his talents stayed shallow. Such brilliant magic—capable of rewriting memory, of warping reality—and he used it for the pettiest thing: stealing adventures and publishing third-rate novels. What a waste. Last I heard… he’s at St. Mungo’s, isn’t he?”

Draco’s blood turned to ice. A freezing shock raced from his soles to his scalp, making every hair stand on end.

A face flashed unbidden in his mind—ever-smiling, with artfully curled blond hair.

Gilderoy Lockhart.

That charlatan, that laughable fraud who’d been hit by his own backfired Memory Charm—now a hollow shell of himself, living out his days in the Janus Thickey Ward for Permanent Spell Damage.

And this man—the one who stood before Draco, exuding madness like a miasma—had been Lockhart’s teacher?

A cold terror wrapped around Draco’s heart. He had always assumed that—even as a fraud—Lockhart had mastered memory magic. But now he knew: the man who could Obliviate dozens of wizards with ease had been nothing but this madman’s side project.

So what kind of power did the real monster possess?

Before Draco could even begin to recover from this crushing revelation, the ancient, mountain-heavy iron lock on the cell door clicked open on its own. The clang of the bolt hitting the iron echoed through the corridor like a death knell.

The witch—silent until now, as shadow-like as ever—stepped inside. As she passed Draco, a strange scent drifted past him: a mixture of herbs and something metallic—the lingering trace of dark magic experiments. A force, stronger than chains, gripped Draco and lifted him from the cold stone floor, suspending him in mid-air like a lifeless puppet. He tried to resist, every muscle seizing to the point of pain—but his magic had been so utterly suppressed, he couldn’t move a finger.

More wizards in black robes streamed into the cell. They dragged him through the corridor. The stone walls were damp, covered in moss and unknown fungi. Occasionally, drops of icy water fell from the ceiling, splashing on Draco’s face and soaking into his clothes like pinpricks of frost.

The lead wizard walked ahead, each step echoing. The torchlight behind them cast long, grotesque shadows on the walls—like a procession of demons from some infernal parade. He no longer spoke to Draco. Instead, he began to chant under his breath—soft, reverent, like a psalm whispered in a desecrated church.

The words weren’t loud, yet they carried a terrible weight, bypassing the ears and resonating straight into Draco’s mind:

“…Shattered souls, yearning for a complete wail…”

“…Forgotten love, seeking a wandering return…”

“With deepest longing as the guide, with the most painful severance as the sacrifice…”

“With purest tears as the medium, with truest heart’s blood as the witness…”

Draco floated behind them, helpless as a puppet. The words sank into him like ink into water. And in the muddled storm of his thoughts—everything he’d heard from Hannah and Luna collided with these phrases, rearranging and reassembling themselves into something terrible and coherent.

“They want to know everything about you and Potter…”

“They are very interested in ‘connections’…”

Soul… Forgotten… Love… Longing… Severance… Tears… Heart’s blood…

The puzzle pieces rapidly assembled in his mind, and a complete, terrifying picture gradually emerged. He suddenly understood—

These maniacs! They didn’t want him to regain his memories at all; they didn’t even care about the contents of those memories! What they sought was something that would erupt from his soul in that most extreme, soul-shattering emotional torment—between despair and longing—as he struggled to remember. Something they referred to as “power” or “light” in their deranged research!

He was a sacrifice. An offering for a dark magical ritual, fuelled by his emotions and soul.

He didn’t know how much time had passed—perhaps minutes, perhaps hours; in this sunless underground labyrinth, time had lost all meaning—when they finally emerged from the seemingly endless narrow corridor, and the space before them abruptly opened up.

Draco gasped.

It was a cavern of impossible scale, the ceiling so high it disappeared into the torchlight, like an inverted sky. At the centre of the chamber, a vast, dizzyingly complex magical array composed of hundreds of ancient runes glowed with an eerie blue light. It rotated slowly, humming lowly, as if resonating from the earth’s core.

Several robed figures in dark cloaks stood around the circle like statues, unmoving in body, but with lips silently parting and closing, chanting some ancient and malignant incantation. Their voices merged into an ominous chorus, a soundwave that felt like it could raise the dead, reverberating endlessly through the cavern.

Draco was brought to the very centre of the circle. The invisible magical force binding him pressed him onto a black stone slab, polished smooth like a mirror. Its surface was inscribed with magical symbols he didn’t recognize. The moment his skin made contact with them, a stinging sensation coursed through him, like countless fine needles piercing into his veins all at once. He could feel the array’s energy—searing, invisible probes boring through his skin, penetrating his flesh, plunging into his mind—aggressively ramming at the locked door to the past seven years. It felt like red-hot nails being hammered into his skull.

“Ready, Mr. Malfoy?” The lead wizard stood outside the circle, hands clasped behind his back like a mad artist about to unveil his masterpiece, his face alight with something close to rapture. “You are about to witness a miracle—a creation even Merlin never conceived.”

Draco clenched his jaw so tightly he could taste blood, but he didn’t answer. In this nightmare, silence was the last weapon he still possessed.

At that moment, the witch who had remained silent since the dungeon stepped forward. In her hands, she held a small box of deep purple velvet, inlaid with intricate silver filigree. Her voice was low, cold, and precise: “I told you. Emotion needs an anchor…”

The wizard glanced at the box, contempt briefly flashing across his features, as though such objects were trifling nonsense to him. But he didn’t argue—he merely waved a hand, impatiently.

The witch slowly approached Draco. Under his trapped gaze, she gently opened the box.

In that instant, Draco forgot how to breathe. Time itself seemed to halt.

There were no formidable magical artefacts in the box. Only two utterly mundane items—

A transparent glass vial, thumb-sized, sealed with strong magic. Inside it lay a single, delicate strand of baby-soft hair—even under the dim torchlight, the black thread shimmered with healthy lustre, unmistakably like Potter’s signature, eternally untameable hair.

And a battered, dull Muggle coin. Its edges were worn, the design nearly rubbed smooth, though faint traces of its once-fine craftsmanship still lingered.

They were—

Draco gasped, his breath uneven. The door in his mind that had remained sealed burst open, and memories came flooding in—

Scorpius’s baby hair. The very first strand cut on his son’s first birthday, carefully preserved in the safest place he could think of, never shown to anyone.

And that Pound coin… the one Harry used to buy him a mocha at a Muggle café, back when things between them were still uncertain. Draco had secretly pocketed it—driven by emotions too tangled and humiliating to name—and kept it hidden for six whole years.

His most tender, most private memories—of love, of loss, of things he would rather die than let anyone see—were now being paraded before him by these monsters, displayed like exhibits.

He vaguely remembered… he used to carry them with him. Always. They must have taken them when he was unconscious…

They were the final keys.

And the final blow.

Draco’s vision went stark white. All colour and sound vanished from the world. Then came the pain—searing, cataclysmic, as if someone were tearing his soul into shreds. It exploded from deep within his mind like a volcano, impossible to contain.

Four successive explosions shattered the afternoon stillness at the edge of Hogsmeade Village. The air still reeked with the acrid tang unique to magical transport. In the wake of the burst, the figures of Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville flickered into view, already in motion—no pause, no hesitation.

As the space around them steadied, the temperature dropped sharply. The air thinned, tight enough to constrict the lungs. Somewhere in the distance, the harsh caw of a crow cut through the silence with eerie clarity.

They had arrived.

The abandoned manor—long forgotten on Britain’s northernmost edge—sat like the fossilized skeleton of some ancient beast, crouched beneath a leaden, oppressive sky. Around it, the once-majestic oak trees stood dead and bare, their twisted branches clawing at the heavens like tortured limbs.

“I’ll go first,” Ron said, his voice lower than usual, steady with the calm tension of a seasoned Auror. His wand was already drawn, his fingers tight around the handle. Each step was measured, his boots crunching softly on gravel and brittle leaves, eyes sweeping each shadow with practiced vigilance.

At the side door, Hermione bent down, her sharp gaze fixating on faded carvings worn nearly invisible by time and weather.

“Here,” she murmured, pointing with her wand at a tangled rune, nearly eroded but still visible at the right angle. “Last time, I thought it was just a standard protective charm—something to reinforce the structure. But I went back and cross-checked Ancient Soul-Speak. This pattern, especially the knotwork... it’s for guiding. And channeling.”

Her voice quickened with the edge of discovery. “They weren’t trying to keep people out. They were funneling something in—some kind of invisible force, and possibly something incredibly dangerous—straight into the centre of the manor.”

A cold shudder ran down all four spines, an instinctive dread crawling through their nerves.

They moved inside with caution. The moment Harry crossed the threshold, the lightning scar on his forehead began to throb—a dull, icy pressure like a shard of glass being pressed into his skin.

He could feel it clearly now. Somewhere deep within this seemingly deserted manor, something evil and potent was faintly resonating with the vestiges of Voldemort’s soul still lodged within him.

“This way.” He halted, wand raised toward a section of wall that appeared no different from the rest. “Look. The dust here—it’s too clean. No cobwebs either.”

He rapped his knuckles against the stone, then leaned in, eyes shut, pressing his ear flat to the surface. A few moments later, he pulled back, certainty etched in his expression.

“A Disillusionment Charm—very subtle. It’s hollow behind, and the space is big.”

Hermione immediately stepped forward, the tip of her wand tracing patterns across the stone in rapid, precise strokes. Golden incantations bloomed like fine thread across the surface, weaving a web of light against the cold grey wall.

Moments later, the stone rippled like disturbed water—then melted inward, vanishing without a sound, leaving behind a gaping black entrance.

A heavier wave of damp and decay spilled out, thick with a sweet, putrid stench that caught in the back of their throats.

“My turn,” Harry said, casting a swift Shield Charm over himself.

He drew a breath and plunged in first. Hermione was right behind him. Neville followed, and Ron brought up the rear, covering their flank.

They stepped into a narrow corridor carved directly from natural rock. The moment all four had passed through, the entrance behind them slammed shut with a thunderous BOOM, the stone snapping back into place and sealing them off from the outside world.

“Lumos.”

Four wands flared to life almost in unison, casting pale silver-white beams into the dark. The light, though bright, barely pushed back the gloom—but what it revealed was enough to make each of them tense.

The corridor stretched endlessly.

Just as they began adjusting to the suffocating atmosphere, an unnatural, milky mist began to snake from the depths of the corridor—slow, sentient, eerily deliberate.

“Get back! Hold your breath—it’s a trap!” Harry shouted, Auror instincts snapping to the forefront. He yanked up his sleeve to cover his mouth and nose.

But it was already too late. The fog was laced with magic—uncanny and ancient—and it seeped through even enchanted protections. It swallowed them whole in a matter of seconds, the familiar walls around them wavering and warping.

“Hermione? Ron? Neville?” Harry called, but his voice was muffled, like shouting through layers of thick wool.

Worse still—no one answered.

No footsteps. No breathing. Not even the whisper of fabric brushing stone.

He reached out, groping blindly—but grasped nothing. No hand. No sleeve. Nothing.

The steady presence of his friends had vanished.

He was alone. Isolated, utterly and horrifyingly alone—in a labyrinth woven from magic and malice.

tbc

Chapter Text

Thirty Years Ago.

Thorne Manor nestled in a sun-drenched river valley in Wiltshire, far from the city's clamour and gloom. Unlike the cold, imposing black-iron gates and stone walls of Malfoy Manor, it boasted red-brick walls draped in vibrant green ivy and fragrant honeysuckle. On clear days, white smoke always puffed from its chimneys, and the gardens teemed with magical plants—moonflowers that glowed silver at night, weather-predicting hyacinths, and magical lavender that swayed gently in the breeze, exuding a honeyed scent.

Alfred Thorne, was a renowned magical botanist who had authored over thirty academic papers for the Journal of Magical Herbology. His disposition was as cheerful, honest, and full of life as the giant sunflowers he so lovingly tended—always turned toward the sun. Visitors to the manor would often find him in his soil-stained work robes, eagerly introducing the magical properties of each plant, his eyes alight with childlike excitement.

Elizabeth Thorne, was a true mistress of Charms, once a prized student under Professor Flitwick at Hogwarts. But unlike those who specialised in duelling or offensive spells, her strength wasn’t in destructive magic. She devoted herself instead to bringing joy to every lovely witch managing a home—her charms could make china waltz gracefully as it cleaned itself, or coax garden roses to bloom in the dead of winter, filling the entire manor with the vitality of spring.

They loved each other deeply and unreservedly, in a way that seemed to step straight out of a fairy tale. And in that same wholehearted and selfless fashion, they adored their only son—little Thaddeus.

Back then, Thaddeus Thorne was a lanky Hufflepuff, with unruly chestnut hair constantly tousled by autumn winds, and a slightly shy but sincerely warm smile—the kind of innocent smile almost exclusive to Hufflepuffs.

In Thaddeus’s fondest childhood memories, Thorne Manor was a wonderland perpetually brimming with magic and warmth. The marble fireplace in the sitting room always held a cheerful, flickering orange flame. Now and then, the dancing silhouettes of house-elves would appear within the fire—an illusion charm cast by his mother just to amuse him.

The air always carried the irresistible aroma of his mother’s baking—sponge cakes drenched in Essex honey, apple pies dusted with cinnamon, and magical macarons that melted into rainbows on his tongue, the sort found only in the finest sweet shops of Diagon Alley.

Each weekend, his father would take him out at dawn, feet damp with dew, to the mysterious woods behind the manor to gather rare and magical herbs. Alfred would crouch patiently beside him, his soil-roughened hands teaching him how to recognise each plant’s habits, magical traits, and harvesting methods— which ones had to be picked under the full moon to retain potency; which flowers only held magic if collected after they had withered naturally; which roots must be sliced with a silver blade to avoid releasing toxic sap...

In the Thorne household, love was as constant and essential as the air they breathed. It was as warm as spring sunlight, as steady as the earth beneath their feet, filled with kindness, patience, and quiet harmony—like an invisible magical dam that sheltered them from the dark, chaotic world beyond, a world increasingly consumed by Voldemort's growing shadow.

Until that late autumn, when fifteen-year-old Thaddeus had just begun his fifth year at Hogwarts.

Tragedy struck like lightning from a clear sky. His mother—Elizabeth—the gentle witch whose voice, sweet as a nightingale’s, had always hummed lullabies in the early morning, fell to a sudden outbreak of Dragon Pox. In just three days—from the first stinging in her throat, to the webbed red rashes blooming beneath her skin, to the final collapse into magical exhaustion as her body blackened—she was gone, leaving behind a heartbroken husband and son.

The Healers at St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries tried everything they knew, but Dragon Pox—ancient, ruthless—remains one of the most feared afflictions in magical medicine. When Thaddeus arrived home from Hogwarts, his mother lay motionless on pristine white sheets, her eyes closed, unable to look at him one last time.

From that moment on, the sturdy dam called love—the one that had protected the Thorne family’s joy-filled world—began to crack.

His father, Alfred, who had once been as warm and bright as summer noon, whose laughter could dispel any shadow, was utterly broken by the loss of his beloved wife.

He no longer tended to the magical plants he once adored. The giant sunflowers in the garden drooped their golden heads, one by one withering, until they became a dry and lifeless yellow wasteland. Alfred stopped speaking—offering no words even to old friends or former colleagues who came to pay respects. Day and night, he would sit in front of the cold, unlit fireplace, clutching his wife's favourite belongings, silently weeping tears that never ended.

Thaddeus, with all the loyalty, kindness, and quiet determination of a true Hufflepuff, made a decision born of desperation: he would do everything in his power to save the only parent he had left.

He withdrew from Hogwarts and returned to the manor that had lost its laughter. Mimicking his mother’s example, he tried to bake those comforting pastries with his trembling teenage hands—but more often than not, he burned the cakes, or turned the dough an odd shade of purple.

He poured his heart into tending the magical garden his father had once so lovingly cultivated—now desolate and crumbling—desperately trying to revive the dying plants. But his own immature magical skills could never replace the decades of expertise his father had once possessed.

Again and again, he sat by his father’s side, pleading in a voice born of utter desperation: “I love you, Dad,” “I’m still here with you,” “Mum would want us to keep going.” He tried to fill the gaping void in his father’s heart—a darkness that devoured every trace of light—with all the love his young, innocent soul could muster.

But he failed. Utterly, and heartbreakingly.

He soon discovered, to his horror, that his father’s grief wasn’t merely an emotional wound that time might gradually heal, but a terrifying, destructive force that had fused entirely with his magic.

The delicate porcelain teacups once filled with cherished family memories would spontaneously shatter into sharp, glittering shards whenever his father suppressed a sob, as if even the inanimate objects could no longer bear the weight of such sorrow. Outside the windows, the usually gentle Wiltshire skies began to reflect his father’s pain—each time Alfred sank deeper into despair, clouds would gather, unleashing cold, relentless rain that cast the entire manor into oppressive gloom.

The most terrifying moment came when Thaddeus gently tried to take from his father the cloak his mother used to wear, now drenched with tears. Without warning, a brutal surge of magic erupted from Alfred like a raging storm, flinging Thaddeus across the living room as if hurled by an invisible hand. He slammed into the stone wall, left dazed and breathless, ribs screaming in pain.

Alfred had never meant to hurt his son. But the magic, poisoned by grief, no longer answered to reason or will. It had become a beast—wild and raw—driven solely by sorrow, lashing out at anything that dared come near.

Love—praised by poets, revered by philosophers, and held by the wizarding world as the purest and most beautiful force—was slowly, mercilessly killing his father.

That long, unending winter, fifteen-year-old Thaddeus Thorne—the Hufflepuff boy who once believed in fairy tales and the goodness of the world—could do nothing but watch as the last person he loved was consumed, piece by piece, like slow-working poison, by a love just as profound as it was devastating.

His father breathed his last on a snowy morning, in the warm bed that had once echoed with laughter. He died not from injury, but from the complete depletion of his magic—his life force burned to ash, little by little, by the unrelenting agony of losing the woman he loved.

In the vast, empty halls of Thorne Manor, only Thaddeus remained—along with the withered plants swaying in the cold wind and the shattered remnants of a once joyful home.

He stood at his father’s bedside, eyes dry, showing no sadness, no pain. He simply gazed at the face that, at last, was free of suffering. In that silence, beyond his years, a single, dreadful thought took root—fully formed and terrifyingly rational:

That love—the force so exalted by the wizarding world—was a lie.

It was not the endlessly safe emotional haven everyone believed it to be. It was also a raw, destructive magical force—one never truly understood, never properly tamed. It could create life and beauty… but it could just as easily reduce everything to ruin.

It was a beast—one that slumbered in the heart of every witch and wizard. And the wizarding world, in its blindness, worshipped this creature without ever seeking to know its true nature. No one had ever thought to study it—not systematically, not seriously.

From that quiet, snowbound morning, Thaddeus Thorne’s life gained one clear purpose:

He would become the beast tamer.

He would be the one to master, and ultimately control, the magic called love.

Isolde Valerius’s childhood was, by every outward measure, perfect.

The Valerius family was one of the oldest and most respected pure-blood lines in the wizarding world—though curiously absent from the Sacred Twenty-Eight. This was not due to any lack of heritage, but because they scorned the Dark Lord's open pursuit of power.

Instead, they preferred to weave their influence through subtler means—threading themselves elegantly into the intricate power structures of the Ministry of Magic, like Acromantulas spinning unseen webs. Their family motto was carved into the marble arch over their ancestral hall: Vis Unita Fortior—United We Stand, Stronger Together. But only those within the family understood its true meaning:

Strength lies in the precise control of others’ emotions.

And Isolde was the most radiant jewel in that carefully woven web.

From the moment of her birth at St Mungo’s, she was cradled in a hothouse of affection, power, and priceless magical artefacts. Her crib was spun from unicorn hair, with a music box above that played lullabies automatically. Her first robes were crafted from dragonhide silk imported from the French Ministry, embroidered with silver stars that shimmered according to her mood. Even her toys were magical antiques.

Her parents—Antonius and Serena Valerius—gave her everything the world considered perfect: the warmest embraces, the most refined pure-blood education. By the age of three, she had her own private tutors.

She was taught how to smile with perfect grace—the corners of her lips curving precisely seventeen degrees to seem both modest and sincere; how to express gratitude at just the right moment—her tone carrying three parts humility, four parts sincerity, and three parts the proper shade of pride.

She was a flawless actress.

Because she had discovered a terrible truth early on—in her so-called “perfect” family, love was nothing more than a refined instrument, used to preserve appearances and consolidate power. Her father’s passionate declarations of love for her mother were backed by the political convenience of two ancient pure-blood families forming an alliance. Her mother’s meticulous care for her was, in essence, a well-planned investment in the family’s heir. Even the affectionate greetings from elders at family gatherings came laced with quiet calculations of her future worth.

She understood love all too well—and its hypocrisy even better.

Like a finely tuned emotional gauge, she could assess the value behind every sentiment. She could read the expectations behind her mother’s every embrace, decode the political motives in her father’s approving glance.

And precisely because of this, she felt a bone-deep weariness toward it all—toward this “perfect world” that others so envied.

That weariness, like a slow-acting poison, gradually corroded the emotional blossoms that were meant to bloom inside her.

While other Slytherins at Hogwarts were still reveling in Prefect badges, flattering professors, and gloating over House Cup victories, Isolde could only view it all as an immensely childish game. To her, whether it was power, wealth, honour, or prestige—everything came down to one thing: manipulating others through the ever-present tool of emotion.

And she had mastered that art by the time she was three.

She didn’t need to believe in love. She only needed to wield it.

Kindness, loyalty, sacrifice, affection… all the things others held sacred and vowed to protect with their lives were, to her, nothing more than predictable strings of emotional code. Every feeling had its trigger. Every vulnerability could be charted. And every heart had a door she could quietly, easily unlock.

Her life, as a result, felt hollow and tedious—like a symphony she had memorized note for note, long past the point of surprise or pleasure.

Until her third year out of Hogwarts. One bitterly cold December night, in a deeply hidden underground salon in Knockturn Alley, she met Thaddeus Thorne.

The salon lay beneath a seemingly ordinary antiquarian bookshop, accessible only to those witches and wizards with both a taste for forbidden magic and enough Galleons to pay the price of entry.

The walls were hung with replicas of banned magical manuscripts—pages covered in Forbidden Curses, glowing faintly under flickering candlelight. The air was thick with the scent of ancient potions: dragon’s blood, Mandrake essence, and several substances even Isolde couldn’t quite place.

The first time Thaddeus gave a lecture there—on his theory that “love is a raw magical energy that can be extracted and transformed”—most attendees, including self-proclaimed experts, former Death Eaters, and dark arts enthusiasts, laughed him off as a lunatic.

Only Isolde, whose cool blue eyes had always been like still water, suddenly lit with a fire she had never shown before.

Of course, she didn’t believe in his lofty vision of “liberating mankind from the suffering of love.” But she immediately recognised that what this man was doing was the only truly interesting thing she had ever encountered—he was trying to drag the god of emotion, worshipped by all, off its pedestal… dismember it… and see what lay beneath.

What a delicious act of blasphemy.

She didn’t approach him that night. Instead, she spent three full months observing him. She attended every salon meeting, listened intently to his theories, and quietly investigated his background and magical credentials. She found that he was, indeed, exceptional—not only was his magical talent formidable, but his insight into the nature of emotion was deeper than anything she had ever seen.

She finally made her move.

It was a night of gentle spring drizzle. As Thaddeus was about to leave the salon, she calmly approached and presented him with her value—her innate, precise ability to read the human heart.

“I can tell what a person desires most, fears most, and cherishes most,” she told him. “And more importantly—I know how to use those things to make them do exactly what I want.”

To prove it, she performed a small “trick” on the spot: in less than ten minutes, she got an old wizard who had always dismissed her to walk over, apologise sincerely for his past rudeness, and insist on buying her the most expensive Firewhisky in the house.

Thaddeus watched, and for the first time, real interest flickered in his eyes.

From that moment on, she became his perfect partner—not a subordinate, not a disciple, but a partner in the truest sense.

He wanted to seize love, dissect it, reshape its essence and boundaries.

She? She only wanted to see what this ridiculous, glorified thing—this “love,” worshipped like a sacred truth and equated with life itself—would become when subjected to their experiments.

For the first time in her life, Isolde Valerius felt truly, intoxicatingly alive.

tbc

Chapter Text

On November 1st, 1981, as the wizarding world was still awash in celebration over the Dark Lord’s defeat, Thaddeus Thorne, in his secluded retreat in the Scottish Highlands, stared at the blurry front-page photo of the Daily Prophet—a baby with a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, hailed as The Boy Who Lived.

But Thaddeus’s attention was never on the infant himself. What truly intrigued him was the woman who had created this “miracle”—Lily Evans Potter. The magic she unleashed that ordinary night in Godric’s Hollow, in Thaddeus’s view, was the real phenomenon—worthy of rigorous study.

“What a foolish Dark Lord,” he murmured to himself, fingers grazing the edge of his research notes on ancient sacrificial magic. “So much power… yet utterly blind to where true power lies.”

For the next sixteen years, Thaddeus and Isolde remained in the shadows, silently tracking every so-called “miracle” surrounding Harry Potter.

“Absurd,” Thaddeus wrote in his research journal. “Tom Riddle believed splitting his soul would grant him immortality, not realising it had severed his access to true eternity. He was a colour-blind painter, forever incapable of seeing the beauty of a rainbow.”

On the night of the Battle of Hogwarts in 1998, Thaddeus and Isolde concealed themselves at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, bearing witness to the final “experimental result.” When Harry walked willingly into death—choosing to sacrifice himself for others—that same unconditional love, identical to Lily’s, once again created an unprecedented miracle in magical history. He returned from the dead. Voldemort’s final soul fragment disintegrated—unable to withstand love in its purest form.

“Finally,” Thaddeus whispered at dawn.

After the war, Thaddeus focused on building his own organisation—the Shadows of Retrospection—while continuing his observations of Harry. Using Transfiguration to take on various disguises—a Daily Prophet reporter, a junior Ministry clerk, a shop assistant in Diagon Alley—he silently followed Harry’s postwar life, recording his emotional states, analysing how love manifested in everyday magic.

But observation alone proved disappointing. Harry in peacetime, though still kind and gentle, no longer triggered the extreme emotional intensity required for miracles. What they needed was not peaceful love—but a love so intense, so consuming, it could shake the soul and reshape destiny itself.

Until the autumn of 2000.

Isolde, assigned to covertly monitor Harry as he completed his Auror training, observed him from afar under a Disillusionment Charm. Unexpectedly, she saw Draco Malfoy.

The once-arrogant Malfoy heir stood at a bend in Diagon Alley, watching Harry with a gaze so layered, so complex, that it momentarily stunned her. In Draco’s eyes, she saw something she had never seen in anyone else—an emotion that transcended hatred, pride, even reason.

“Fascinating,” she whispered to herself. “Utterly fascinating.”

In the years that followed, they bore witness to perhaps the most remarkable emotional transformation in the wizarding world. Draco Malfoy—the pure-blood aristocrat raised to compete with Harry Potter, to scorn him, to envy and even hate him—had grown to love him with a depth bordering on devotion.

When word spread that Draco was pregnant with Harry’s child, Thaddeus could barely contain his excitement.

This was far more than a love story.

On the night of decision, Thaddeus sat hunched over a thick stack of parchment—his life’s research on Harry Potter and the protective charm of love, compiled over twenty-five years. Isolde lounged nearby in an antique armchair, fingers idly caressing the ruby pendant at her throat.

“We don’t need ordinary love,” Thaddeus began slowly, his voice low in the echoing cellar. “Even the sincerest affection only yields limited energy. What we need is—”

“Miracles,” Isolde finished softly, a faint smile playing on her lips.

Thaddeus nodded, spreading the parchment across the oak table. The top sheet bore a name, written in ancient runes: Harry James Potter.

Isolde rose and moved to the table, fingers drifting across the documents chronicling Harry’s magical history.

“The source of it all,” she murmured.

Thaddeus turned to the next page, revealing another name: Draco Lucius Malfoy.

He slid Draco’s file toward her, a thin smile tugging at his mouth. “And this… this is the catalyst that makes the source boil. Real hatred, turned into real love—deep, contradictory, and absolute. Look at this emotional polarity. A perfect specimen.”

Isolde’s gaze fell on Draco’s file.

Thaddeus flipped to the final page, revealing a candid magical photograph: Draco Malfoy holding a dark-haired infant. He looked tired—but in his eyes glowed a softness never seen before.

“A proud pure-blood,” Isolde murmured. “A Malfoy—taught from birth to despise half-bloods and Muggle-borns—willing to carry and bear a child for Harry Potter. The same ‘Saviour’ he once disdained. That kind of devotion… that kind of sacrifice…”

“Is the purest proof of love—taken to its final, most volatile form,” Thaddeus said, eyes gleaming.

Isolde returned to her armchair, lifting the Soul-crossing Mirror, its silver light shimmering in her eyes.

She looked to Thaddeus. “Are you sure you want to begin?”

Thaddeus’s gaze fixed on the mirror, his expression ablaze with fanatic light. “Of course. I’ve waited… far too long.”

They exchanged a glance—and smiled. That unhinged, giddy kind of smile shared by people who had stepped far beyond the edge.

Isolde spoke again, voice low. “When a person’s memories are taken, and they’re left to ache, to search, to suffer—and then begin to rebuild themselves from the ruins…”

“…That pain, that longing,” Thaddeus finished, “will be enough to ignite the Soul-crossing Mirror in one perfect, glorious surge.”

In the candlelight, the parchment detailing the lives of Harry, Draco, and Scorpius took on an eerily clinical air, as though they recorded not the lives of three living people, but instructions for handling rare and volatile experimental material.

Moonlight streamed through the cellar’s only small window, casting dappled shadows on the worn experimental table. Within those shadows, three faint figures seemed to emerge—a man with messy black hair, a man with platinum blond hair, and a small boy between them.

And soon, news of an ancient magical treasure—the Soul-crossing Mirror, said to be capable of healing all soul damage caused by dark magic—surfaced on the black market and spread like wildfire.

The mist grew thicker, almost corporeal. When the scene before Harry’s eyes cleared again, he was shocked to find himself no longer in that cold, damp underground corridor.

He was standing in his home in Godric’s Hollow—the one he had shared with Draco for years.

Warm afternoon sunlight poured through the window he had looked out of countless times, casting golden, honey-like patches across the dark wooden floor they had picked together. The fire in the hearth crackled gently, filling the room with the most comforting sound he could remember. The air carried the faint scent of white musk incense—Draco’s favourite—the very one he’d insisted on buying during their first shopping trip to Diagon Alley.

Everything was as perfect as a dream one never wished to wake from.

And then, he saw him—the person who had given meaning to his entire world.

On the soft living room sofa, where they had spent so many moments reading, talking, or simply holding each other in silence, Draco sat cradling Scorpius, offering Harry—just returned home—a smile so gentle it could melt every inch of ice in the world.

This wasn’t the prickly, suspicious, and emotionally cautious Draco he had known after the memory loss. This was the one from his deepest, most cherished memories—the one who would stir at first light, those beautiful silver-grey eyes quietly watching Harry like he was everything.

There was not a trace of gloom or restraint in that smile—only intoxicating, unguarded love. Little Scorpius sat gleefully on his father’s lap, his pudgy hands—like small, warm buns—fiddling with a delicate golden Snitch model, the birthday gift Harry had given him just last week.

“You’re back, Harry,” Draco said, his voice the softest, most reassuring tone Harry could recall—smooth as silk. “Rough day at work, darling? We’ve been waiting for you to come home for dinner. Scorpius learned a new word today—he’s been dying to show you.”

In that instant, Harry felt as though a warm, strong hand had wrapped gently around his heart. All the exhaustion of recent days—all the rage, the fear, the despair—seemed to dissolve completely in this perfectly unreal moment.

Home—he just wanted to come home, to this small, sacred world that belonged to the three of them. Wasn’t this the very image he had fought so hard for? The life he had risked everything to protect?

He stepped forward, almost involuntarily, and then again, stretching out a trembling hand—desperate to touch the face he had longed for to the point of madness, the one he had kissed in a thousand dreams.

But just as his fingers were about to brush Draco’s cheek, he froze.

His eyes caught on the curve of that smile.

It was… too perfect.

Perfect like a portrait, too polished—lacking even the faintest trace of the real Draco Malfoy’s innate pride and razor-edged wit.

Draco—seeing him come home dishevelled, hair sticking up in every direction—would always first raise a brow and, in that unmistakably slow, drawling aristocratic tone, make some snide comment about how he looked like he’d been hit by a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Or complain about some strange smell on him.

And only then—only after that—would he let the act fall and show genuine tenderness.

Harry’s nerves, which had almost relaxed, snapped taut.

The man before him was nothing more than a clumsy, fabricated illusion—one designed to cater to every fantasy he’d ever had.

The moment that truth struck him, it wasn’t sorrow or disappointment that surged through him—it was fury. Cold, consuming, white-hot rage that burned in his gut.

“You—are—not—him!”

Harry’s roar cracked through the false warmth like lightning, his voice shaking with fury and a sense of utter betrayal.

Like a mirror smashed by a hammer, the illusion shattered with a piercing CRACK, each splintered shard catching the light and scattering it wildly, revealing the damp stone wall behind—etched with twisted, cursed runes.

The dream was broken.

He was back—in that malevolent magical trap, alone, facing the unknown.

He braced himself against the jagged wall, his chest heaving, every breath like inhaling flame. His green eyes blazed with fury—pure and unfiltered.

And beneath that rage, something cold and resolute took shape.

You will pay for this.

tbc

Chapter Text

Topic 1: The essence of "love" as a magical force

Reader asks:

From the way it’s described in the fic, is Thaddeus trying to harness something similar to the force behind an Obscurial? Is “love,” in this context, just another emotional force—like fear and suppression are the roots of the Obscurial?

Author replies:

That’s a very sharp comparison. The force Thaddeus wants to control does share some traits with an Obscurial—they're both overwhelming, almost uncontrollable magical surges born from intense emotion.

But their roots are fundamentally different. As we know, an Obscurial is born from magical suppression—destructive magic triggered by being forced to repress one’s true self. What Thaddeus is after, though, is an emotional surge born not from suppression, but from release. Specifically, it’s the moment when the soul and memory are rejoined—and the overwhelming love that floods in from that instant. So while an Obscurial is a product of repression, Thaddeus’s power is the result of deliberate pursuit, born from love, not fear.

Topic 2: Thaddeus’s true stance on love — liberation, demonization, or hidden motives?

Reader asks:

Thaddeus claims he wants to “liberate people from love.” Is that speech really about freedom—or does it stem from his fear of love and his warped understanding of it? Did he label love as “evil” just because his father died for it?

Author replies:

That whole “liberation” speech is best understood as seductive propaganda—designed to manipulate, not necessarily reveal his true beliefs.

In truth, Thaddeus never outright calls love “evil,” nor does he deny its value—that would be Voldemort’s stance. Thaddeus’s mindset went through a dangerous shift: from believing “love can create everything” to believing “love can also destroy everything.” Which, in itself, is actually quite reasonable.

His father’s death was the trigger that pushed him toward extremism. His real mistake isn’t recognizing the duality of love—it’s choosing to respond to that truth by collecting, controlling, and trying to “tame” a force he both craves and fears.

Topic 3: Childhood trauma

Reader asks:

Deep down, does Thaddeus resent his father for abandoning him in the name of love?

Author replies:

Yes, resentment absolutely exists. It’s a core trauma from his childhood. From his point of view, the abandonment was twofold: “My father loved me—but he loved my dead mother more. He chose his grief over me.”

That sense of being abandoned turned his longing into something vengeful. His desire to master “love” as a force carries an unspoken message to his father’s ghost:
“Look. I did what you couldn’t. I tamed the monster that killed you—and made you leave me.”

Topic 4: Why couldn’t fatherly love save his father from grief?

Reader asks:

If Thaddeus’s father still loved him, why wasn’t that enough to pull him back from the brink? Why didn’t that love cancel out his grief?

Author replies:

Great question—and it touches the heart of the setup.

The way I frame it, love has different “forms.” Before the tragedy, the father’s love for his wife and son coexisted in balance. But the moment he lost his wife, that love turned into something else—a black hole that collapsed inward and consumed him.

Meanwhile, his love for Thaddeus remained unchanged (after all, the boy was still alive and thriving). But trying to heal the overwhelming grief for his wife with love for his son is like pouring a glass of clean water (love for Thaddeus) onto a chemical fire (grief for his wife).

They’re not on the same level. The fire simply evaporates the water. His survival instinct broke. He still loved his son—but in his heart, he had already let go of the future.

Topic 5: Isolda 

Reader asks:

Let’s talk about Isolda. She thinks she understands emotion, but really, she’s just learned how to use it, right? And that’s why when Thaddeus presented his theory of love, it struck her so hard—like a red streak in her otherwise grey world. He had something she never even grasped.

Thaddeus has felt real love—intense and vivid. But Isolda never really knew love. Is it possible that when someone grows up surrounded by too much love, they also end up numb to it?

Author replies:

From what I’ve seen in real life, love that’s too intense can actually make someone lose sight of what love really is. Of course, that also depends a lot on the person—it’s not a hard rule, more like a tendency that shows up depending on someone’s nature.

But Isolda’s case is a bit more complicated. She grew up in an environment where the “concentration” of love was incredibly high—but the “purity” of it was basically zero. It’s like… imagine someone raised in a world where only perfect counterfeit money exists. She knows everything about fake bills—how to recognize them, how to use them, how to pass them off without getting caught. But then one day, you hand her a real note, and she’s totally thrown. She doesn’t know what it is. She might even think that’s the fake one.

So when she hears someone like Thaddeus say, “Love isn’t your family’s lukewarm, polished afternoon tea—love is a force of magic, something that can destroy worlds and work miracles,” it hits her like lightning. That’s why she’s so drawn to it. Because to her, that’s the first time she’s ever seen what feels like real currency.

Topic 6: Inspiration

Reader asks:

Help, I’m starting to agree with some of their logic… 😭 But seriously—aren’t their views on love a bit too extreme? Also, I’m curious: was the inspiration for all this rooted in Lily’s love-magic for Harry?

Author replies:

LOL yeah, they’re seriously extreme. And that exact kind of extremity is what makes them come off as the “villains,” at least from our point of view. What makes it worse is their whole “genius” vibe—it gives them this constant sense of arrogance, which just feeds back into the paranoia. Same deal with Voldemort, honestly.

To be real, their backstories aren’t all that special. Like, Voldemort’s childhood? I don’t actually think it was any more tragic than Harry’s. They just ended up going in completely different directions. So I kinda feel like, yeah, experiences matter, but a lot of it comes down to something already wired into who they are—like a built-in predisposition or whatever.

As for inspiration, I did have Lily’s love magic floating around in the back of my mind while brainstorming. But honestly, my writing process is super messy—I don’t do outlines or anything. I just start writing and figure out the logic as I go. So for this one, it was basically a case of “drawing the target around the arrow.” The whole thing started with the “Draco gets amnesia” trope, and then I worked backwards to build the plot and backstory around it. That’s probably why some readers felt the Hannah and Luna stuff came out of nowhere in the early chapters—I hadn’t planned on them being villains at first.

Reader (follow-up):

Ahh, that explains a lot! But honestly, looking at the story as a whole, the twist totally works—it doesn’t feel out of place at all. First off, you’d already shown that Isolda’s insanely good at mimicry and disguise. And second, since the story’s told from Harry and Draco’s shifting points of view—and they were both totally thrown by the memory loss and attack—it makes total sense that they’d miss certain things. The timing of the reveal felt spot-on.

Chapter Text

Harry stood alone in the deep stone corridor.

He leaned against the rough wall beside him, the chill of the stone seeping into his palm, grounding him slightly. His chest still rose and fell in ragged breaths, each inhale like swallowing fire, scorching his throat and lungs.

The surge of magic that had burst from his rage moments ago, while it had shattered the false illusion, had also left behind a subtle magical reverberation in the surrounding darkness—faint, almost imperceptible.

It was a strange sensation, as though countless fine silver threads were extending from him, reaching toward something distant.

Harry closed his eyes, forcing himself to ignore the burning in his chest, and focused on those faint magical threads. During his years at Hogwarts, Dumbledore had once told him that truly powerful emotional bonds left traces—like dew on a spiderweb, visible only at certain angles and in certain light.

Yes, there it was—somewhere within the labyrinth, there were three faint yet persistent pricks of magical light. Like embers in the dark, they flickered stubbornly, dimmed but not extinguished. One of them was particularly strong.

—Neville.

He had found his way.

Harry moved through the twisting, shadowy underground maze, guided by the magical connections he sensed. His footsteps echoed along the stone corridor, each sound stretched into an uneasy reverberation, as though something unseen was following close behind.

At last, in a relatively spacious, circular stone chamber, he saw Neville.

Neville was kneeling on the floor, his back to Harry, his shoulders trembling slightly.

Harry said nothing. He simply stood quietly at the threshold of the chamber, giving Neville the time and space to gather himself.

After a moment—or perhaps only a few seconds, though time felt meaningless in this place—Neville took a deep breath and slowly wiped the tear tracks from the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand. His movements were gentle and deliberate, as if even the smallest noise might shatter something fragile. Then, he rose to his feet.

When he saw Harry, Neville didn’t seem surprised. He merely gave him a somewhat sorrowful, yet deeply resolute smile.

There was a maturity in that smile, like someone who had finally made peace with the past.

“I saw them, Harry,” Neville said softly. “My mum and dad… they stood before me, clear as day, just like in the photos from when I was little. Dad was tall and strong like I remembered, Mum was gentle and beautiful... They told me they were proud of me—for what I’d done at Hogwarts, for my courage in Dumbledore’s Army, for standing my ground in the Final Battle.”

He paused, a flicker of moisture in his eyes, but he kept it at bay, refusing to let the tears fall again. “…They said I could stay, that I could be with them forever. In that place, there was no pain, no war, no fear—just the warmth and joy of our family... It was so beautiful, Harry. I almost... almost said yes.”

Harry understood. That kind of temptation was nearly impossible to resist.

“But,” Neville shook his head, a simple, steady light shining in his eyes, “I remembered who they really were… They’d never want me to leave my friends behind in danger just to chase some easy, false dream.”

“So,” he looked Harry in the eye, his voice steady with quiet acceptance, “I thanked them, told them I’d always love them, that they’d always be my heroes... Then I let them go, let them return to where they belonged. I know I’ll see them again one day—but not now, and not like that.”

Something heavy struck Harry’s heart. In that moment, he realized Neville was no longer the boy who trembled in Potions class, nor the clumsy classmate always needing help.

He saw it clearly now—the person standing before him was a warrior. A true Gryffindor.

He stepped forward and clapped Neville firmly on the shoulder. A thousand words surged to his lips—“You did brilliantly, Neville. Truly, brilliantly. Your parents would be so proud.”

Then they went to find Ron and Hermione. Somewhere else in the labyrinth, they found them.

Ron was sitting on the ground, leaning against the stone wall, his expression so grim it looked close to tears. He said nothing, just absently ground small pebbles beneath the toe of his shoe, the scratching sound repetitive and faintly maddening.

Hermione’s brown hair was tousled, her clothes streaked with dust—clear signs of a recent and fierce struggle.

Harry could guess the illusions had struck at the most private corners of their hearts—perhaps Ron had seen Fred, the brother he’d lost. As for Hermione, he didn’t know, but imagined it had something to do with her parents.

Perfect, warm dreams born of longing—cruel in their beauty, because they reminded them of what could never be truly reclaimed.

Harry didn’t ask. He simply approached and knelt quietly beside them, his gaze and a gentle pat on the shoulder conveying all the comfort and support they needed. Ron looked up, gave a faint, bitter smile, and nodded. Hermione drew a shaky breath, trying to steady herself.

In this place full of danger and illusion, how precious it was to be reunited, to be able to lean on each other.

The four of them continued on through the magical labyrinth. Every wall, every turn, every corridor seemed steeped in a malicious sentience, as though the structure itself were alive, watching, waiting for the right moment to strike.

The corridor narrowed, the ceiling pressed lower, the air grew thinner. Their footsteps echoed oddly against the stone, at times sounding like more than four people were walking. At other times, it seemed something unseen was close behind. Ancient runes on the walls flickered faintly now and then.

They didn’t know how long they walked—time here no longer followed any logic. But eventually, they reached the end of the corridor.

And what lay before them stole the breath from their lungs.

A massive circular door, carved from a single slab of obsidian, blocked their path like a giant, tightly shut eye. Nearly ten feet tall, its surface was smooth as glass, reflecting their wandlight in a ghostly sheen.

There were no visible handles or keyholes on the door, as if it were a natural barrier grown directly from the mountain.

But most striking were the ancient runes carved at the very center of the door. The symbols shimmered with an icy blue glow—beautiful yet dangerous, mysterious and ominous. They pulsed in the darkness, as if alive.

“What is this?” Ron frowned, his voice echoing in the empty stone chamber.

Hermione stepped forward, carefully examining the runes. Her expression grew increasingly grim, her brows furrowing deeper with each second. As one of Hogwarts’ most brilliant students, she had considerable knowledge of many ancient magical languages—but these symbols were clearly no ordinary spells or ciphers.

“This is a... definition,” she said slowly. Her voice trembled slightly, as if the meaning she had just deciphered disturbed her. She softly spoke the translated inscription:

“The deepest bond, forged by the strongest possession.”

All four fell silent.

A beat later, Neville immediately objected. “Nonsense.”

His voice was tinged with anger. “Does true affection mean locking someone in a cage?”

“Nonsense or not,” Harry said, his voice urgent and cracking with tension, “we need to figure out how to open it! Draco is behind that door—I can feel it.”

They tried the most straightforward method first, the one most familiar to them in battle.

“Confringo!” Harry bellowed, and a dazzling red light exploded from the tip of his wand. The blast, like a small meteor, struck the obsidian door.

The Blasting Curse was strong enough to blow apart castle gates, but here it vanished silently—like a drop of water into a vast sea. It left no mark. Worse, the obsidian seemed to absorb it; the runes glowed even brighter.

“Expelliarmus! Petrificus Totalus!” Ron fired off several powerful spells in quick succession, but the result was the same—every incantation was effortlessly absorbed by the door.

“Brute force won’t work,” Hermione concluded, her voice tight with frustration and worry. “This door isn’t designed to resist attack—it’s powered by some kind of emotional magic. Look at the runes. They brighten when we attack—like they’re feeding on our magic!”

She turned back to the inscription: “The deepest bond...” Her eyes narrowed. “That phrase is key. Maybe it wants us to demonstrate a truly powerful emotional connection.”

Harry nodded, and the others agreed to test her theory. The four of them stood in a line before the door, closed their eyes, and began to summon their warmest, most cherished memories—those filled with love and friendship.

Harry thought of his first Christmas at Hogwarts, the warmth that had wrapped around him like a blanket when he realized he wasn’t alone. The moment he, Ron, and Hermione fought side by side for the first time in the girls’ bathroom. The fatherly comfort of Sirius’s embrace. And above all—the dizzying joy of discovering that he and Draco loved each other, a sweetness that seemed to seep into his very blood.

He didn’t know what the others remembered, but maybe—just maybe—he was part of their dearest memories too. That thought alone gave his weary heart a flicker of comfort.

They channeled these emotions into the tips of their wands and spoke in unison:

“Alohomora!”

Four soft silver beams shot forward, meeting at the center of the obsidian door.

The runes flickered. A faint hum rose in the air.

Then—nothing.

A few seconds later, the light faded. The runes stilled. The door remained shut.

“Still not right,” Hermione said, clearly frustrated. “We’re approaching this the wrong way... What we gave it just now isn’t what it wants.”

Harry’s heart sank again. He ran a hand through his hair, agitated.

He thought hard—and suddenly, an image from the illusion earlier flashed in his mind: Draco’s flawless, false smile.

The real Draco never smiled like that. Not without shadows. Not without weight. Often, for reasons they both knew too well, Draco’s real smile carried a hint of bitterness, complexity, a shadow of past pain.

Maybe... the one who created this trap didn’t understand what love really was.

To them, love was something to be analyzed, calculated, manipulated.

“…We were all wrong,” Harry said suddenly, his voice hoarse. Everyone turned to him. “We’ve been trying to use our understanding of love. But maybe we need to use their understanding.”

He looked at the puzzled faces around him and pressed on, “Think about those traps—the way they used illusions of the people we love most to trap us. They made everything perfect, like a dream. But clearly, they weren’t praising love.”

Harry’s voice grew more intense. “To her, love is just a weapon. Something to be used, twisted, controlled. To her, love means possession—getting what you want, keeping it at any cost.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. She turned back to the door. “‘The deepest bond, forged by the strongest possession’... Oh my God. It’s not a riddle. It’s a literal instruction.”

“Possession... obsession... jealousy...” Ron muttered, his expression darkening. “So it doesn’t want the good stuff. It wants...”

“It wants the kind of protectiveness that’s twisted with pain, with rage, with fear,” Harry said flatly. “That desperate, furious urge to protect something precious—no matter what it takes.”

They looked at one another again. But this time, their gazes were calm, grim, resolute.

They had changed their approach completely.

No longer reaching for warmth and affection, they began instead to confront their darkest emotions—anger, terror, despair.

In Harry’s mind, he saw Draco chained on a stone slab—his skin white as chalk, his face twisted in pain, a weak groan escaping his lips. He imagined Draco being hurt by enemies, tortured without mercy. Rage burst from his chest—wild, all-consuming. The air around him sizzled with magic.

Love. Anger. Pain. Fear. Protection. Possession. Vengeance. Despair.

These raw, overwhelming emotions surged within all four of them, building like a storm. The stone chamber began to shake. The runes etched into the walls lit up, pulsing blood-red.

They raised their wands again. This time, their hands trembled.

“Alohomora!” they cried together.

What burst from their wands was no gentle silver light, but blinding beams streaked with red fury, blue sorrow, and golden vengeance. The four spells slammed into the center of the door like crashing lightning, flooding the room with light.

The obsidian door finally responded.

It let out a long, grinding roar—low and guttural, like some ancient beast awakened. The ground shook. The glowing blue runes flashed faster, brighter, until—

CRACK!

The inscription shattered into a shower of glittering fragments, scattering like broken stars, vanishing into the dark.

The massive obsidian door began to move.

Inch by inch, it slid open, the sound of stone scraping stone filling the air. Beyond the doorway lay a vast chamber, dimly lit, where a low, eerie chant echoed from deep within.

It was an enormous natural cavern, like a cathedral buried underground. The dome soared far above, lost in darkness. The walls sparkled with countless glowing crystals, casting a cold, dreamy blue light across the space.

When they reached the center, they saw—

Draco Malfoy.

Suspended at the heart of a massive magic circle, held aloft by invisible magical force. His limbs were splayed wide, his head hung low, platinum hair veiling half his face. Pale blue rings of magic slowly rotated around him, and with every spin, a thread of silver was drawn from his body.

Harry’s heart nearly stopped.

It was far worse than they had imagined.

The battle was about to begin.

tbc

Chapter Text

Harry almost shrieked, “Draco!” He lunged forward without thinking, only wanting to pull that familiar figure out of harm’s way.

Ron yanked him back. “Wait, Harry—this… this isn’t right.”

Indeed, it wasn’t. The entire cavern had no guards, no traps, not even a shadow of another person. Only a faint, indistinct moaning echoed from nowhere—they hadn’t even seen “Hannah” or “Luna.” Draco simply floated silently at the centre of the magical array, utterly exposed, as if silently calling to them: Come, save me.

This eerie calm was more chilling than chaos, and goosebumps crawled up their necks.

“…They’re waiting for us,” Harry muttered warily, eyes scanning their surroundings. “It’s a trap.”

Neville gripped his wand tighter, tension in his voice. “Then what? Do we just wait?”

Harry clenched his jaw, torn. Even knowing it was a trap, Draco… he was right there. He couldn’t—

Just then, the crystals embedded in the cavern walls suddenly pulsed with violent light. Harry noticed the way they were arranged—it wasn’t random. They formed complex runic shapes, almost identical to those they’d seen on the obsidian door earlier.

“Look out!” Hermione shrieked. “It’s a runic array—!”

But it was already too late.

In an instant, the runes erupted into blinding blue light, sweeping over them like a tidal wave. Before Harry could react, a surge of magic struck him squarely—straight into his mind—as though something had silently pierced the deepest layers of his consciousness.

Then—

Reality shattered before his eyes.

As if someone had splashed blood-red ink over his vision, the stone walls of the cavern vanished, replaced by the heartbreakingly familiar sitting room of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

But now, it looked like a slaughterhouse—crimson liquid dripped from the arm of the sofa onto the carpet, each drop landing with a sickening drip, drip. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood.

Draco was there.

He lay sprawled on the sofa—once beige, now soaked dark with blood. A fist-sized hole gaped in his chest, edges jagged, torn open as if by some wild beast. Blood poured from the wound, tracing down his deathly pale ribs, pooling in the hollow of his collarbone. His grey eyes, once bright and alive, were now wide and empty, pupils blown, staring blankly at the chandelier above.

“No…” The word tore from Harry’s throat. His knees gave out, and he nearly collapsed, trembling as he crawled forward. “No, no, no… This isn’t real…”

His fingertips brushed Draco’s cheek—once warm like spring sunshine, now cold as a gravestone—and passed right through.

Nothing. It was all nothing. But the horror of touching death felt too real, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest.

“Of course it’s real.”

Harry spun around—and found himself face-to-face with someone identical to him. Same clothes, same scar, even the same mess of hair at the same angle. But the eyes—those were different. Cold. Mocking. Brimming with a malice Harry had never seen in his own reflection.

“Pathetic, isn’t it?” the other Harry sneered, voice sharp with venom. “Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Saviour…” He glanced down at the corpse on the sofa. “But tell me—who exactly did you save?”

“Shut up!” Harry snarled, wand instantly raised to the other’s throat. “This isn’t real! Draco’s alive, he’s in that damned magical array—!”

“Waiting to die there, you mean?” the other Harry interrupted, stepping closer, each word driving a nail into Harry’s chest. “Just like Sirius waited to die behind the veil. Just like Cedric waited to die in that graveyard. Just like your parents waited to die in Godric’s Hollow.”

Harry’s hand shook, his wand nearly slipping from his grasp. Tears welled in his eyes.

Those names—names etched in him like scars—echoed like curses. He blinked hard, desperate to dispel the illusion, but the scent of blood only grew stronger, and Draco’s body began to blur, fading at the edges.

“You know what your problem is?” the cold voice pressed on, each syllable splintering his resolve. “You’re too ‘good,’ Harry. Too ‘noble’. Always swallowing Dumbledore’s dusty little mantras—‘Love conquers all’, ‘Choose what’s right, not what’s easy’.” The other Harry let out a jagged laugh. “And look where those choices got you.”

Reality and illusion completely collapsed in Harry’s mind. Tears burned his cheeks. His heart roared in his ears. The scent of death wrapped around him like smoke. Everything was too real—so real he began to doubt. Maybe this was reality. Maybe he was too late. Maybe Draco really was—

“No.” He whispered, voice so faint he barely heard it himself. “No… I don’t believe it…”

But the words trembled on his tongue. His certainty faltered.

And that terrible other self… smiled.

Meanwhile.

Ron found himself back on the night of the Battle of Hogwarts.

The sounds of explosions and shouted spells echoed in his ears, mingled with the groans of the dying. He saw Fred collapsed amidst the rubble, that half-finished smile still on his face—but his eyes were long since dull.

“Fred…” Ron stumbled forward, collapsing to his knees beside his brother, his body shaking uncontrollably, as if touching a long-buried nightmare in his heart. “Wake up, please…”

“He won’t wake up.” A cold voice came from beside him.

Ron turned, expecting to see George’s grieving face—but instead saw a face twisted with anger and resentment.

“He died because you didn’t protect him. You were right there. You could have pushed him out of the way…”

“I… I tried…” Ron muttered in defence, his voice growing weaker and weaker.

“You tried?” George advanced on him, nearly backing him against the wall, his voice like needles piercing Ron’s chest. “You always try, and you never do anything right. Harry’s the hero. Hermione’s the genius. Neville’s got courage. And you? You’re just… extra.”

Ron’s wand slipped from his hand, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

The instant the blue light struck, Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, she was in distant Australia.

The street was unfamiliar and quiet. She saw her parents—now Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins—walking hand-in-hand from across the road. Her heart leapt, and she ran to meet them.

“Mum! Dad!” she called, her voice full of uncontrollable joy. “It’s me, Hermione—I’ve come to take you home!”

But their eyes, as they looked at her, held only blankness and polite confusion.

“I’m sorry, dear,” her mother said gently. “Have you mistaken us for someone else?”

“No…” Hermione’s voice began to tremble. “You… you’re my parents…”

“We don’t have a daughter,” her father said with a furrowed brow. “We have a cat, but... perhaps you need to lie down?”

Her heart shattered, piece by piece.

In that moment, she realised—she had believed she could bring them back, believed that memories could be restored, believed love could conquer all. But what if it was just wishful thinking?

“You’re nothing but a selfish daughter,” a cold voice echoed in her mind. “You abandoned the ones who truly loved you for a world you never belonged to... you foolish Mudblood.”

And Neville was dragged into a familiar, unwelcome classroom.

Potions class. Snape stood before him, black robes billowing like smoke, eyes dark with cold mockery.

“Longbottom,” he said slowly, his voice like ice. “Do you truly believe you’ve changed?”

“Professor, I… I’m not who I used to be,” Neville said, forcing a calm façade.

“Are you?” Snape gave a low laugh. “You’re still trembling. Still the same clumsy, hopeless potion-maker. Your friends are trapped in nightmares, and you—you can do nothing.”

The room around him shifted. Illusions of Harry, Ron, and Hermione appeared before his eyes, each of them writhing in pain. And he could only stand there—helpless.

“You can’t even save yourself. What makes you think you can save anyone else?”

Neville’s knees buckled. The fears and self-doubt he thought he’d conquered surged back as if they’d never left—now devouring him, inch by inch.

The air suddenly grew viscous, as if countless unseen threads were winding around the four of them. Then, a voice silently permeated the space—echoing directly within their skulls, nauseating and cold.

“Look at you heroes, proclaiming yourselves friends, comrades-in-arms—but how much do you truly know about each other?”

Her words carried a magical weight, making each of them feel as though she were staring straight into their eyes, probing the darkest corners of their minds.

“Harry Potter,” the voice became a lover’s whisper, “tell me, when you look at Ron, do you truly never think, ‘If only he were a bit smarter’? When you look at Hermione, do you never grow tired of her always being right? And Neville… poor Neville—have you ever felt that dragging him along is just dead weight?”

The fake Harry reappeared, but this time, the expression on his face was no longer mocking—it was disturbingly understanding. He nodded slowly, as if in agreement: “She’s right, isn’t she? You’ve been tolerating them. You never really needed them. You just… got used to being adored.”

Ron’s face flushed crimson, just like when Percy used to scold him in front of others. His fists clenched, knuckles white. “I… I’m not…” he stammered, voice shaking like it had the first time he doubted whether he deserved to be Harry’s friend, back when they were eleven.

Hermione’s breathing grew quick and shallow. She shook her head, trying to counter this mental assault with logic. “This is just psychological warfare,” she whispered, but her voice was fading. “It’s not real, I know it’s not…” Yet those words about her parents kept cutting through her, dull and relentless like a blunt knife.

Neville’s body began to tremble uncontrollably, just as it had under Snape’s glare. But this time, not even retreat was possible.

The light from the runes was no longer just bright—it pulsed sickly. Each flash left behind scorching afterimages in the air, gradually forming an invisible net that wove around the four of them, trapping them completely.

Harry felt like every step forward was a battle against invisible resistance. His magic raged inside him like a beast in a cage—the more it fought, the more it suffered.

He wrenched his gaze away from Isolda’s eyes, forcing himself to move—step by agonizing step—towards Draco, as if wading through quicksand.

At the other end of the cavern, Draco’s condition was deteriorating fast. The silver rings clinging to him looked like parasites, greedily draining something vital—perhaps his magic, his memories, or… something even more precious.

His face was ghostly pale, his breathing barely discernible.

Time was running out, minute by minute. And they, once comrades-in-arms, now stood helpless—unable to save one another.

Suddenly, a familiar voice echoed in Harry’s mind.

“Harry.”

It pierced through the fog of illusion—gentle, steady. He snapped his head up, and the blood-soaked sitting room began to blur—

“Professor?” Harry breathed. “But you’re already…”

The figure didn’t answer the question, only said softly, “Do you remember? Our conversation about choices.”

A hazy image flickered in Harry’s mind—the Headmaster’s office, warm with candlelight.

“Death is but the next great adventure, my boy.” The man smiled, voice filled with his usual calm. “But now, what matters most is the choice you make.”

Even as he spoke, the fake Harry let out a cold sneer, dripping with contempt. “Still clinging to the same old rubbish? Dumbledore, look at what your so-called power of love has done to Harry. Draco’s dying—because of your idiotic ideals.”

But Dumbledore didn’t respond. He simply looked at Harry, eyes as calm and deep as ever.

“But… Draco…” Harry whispered, pain catching in his throat.

Dumbledore’s voice reached him through the ache: “Draco doesn’t need another Thaddeus, Harry. He needs the Harry who, even in the darkest hour, still believes that sacrifice is greater than possession.”

The fake Harry growled, low and furious: “Can your empty words save him? Can they stop him from dying?”

Harry straightened slowly, wiping the tears from his face. He remembered many things—his mother’s hand reaching out to shield him, Sirius’s steady eyes in the moment of death, Dumbledore’s silhouette atop the tower, wind tugging at his robes.

And then he answered, voice quiet but unshakable: “Yes.”

The word wasn’t loud, but it held an unbreakable strength.

The fake Harry shouted something, but Harry no longer heard him. He turned to the illusion that wore his face.

“I know who I really am.”

The image began to warp—like mist caught in a strong wind, its edges dissolving into smoke. It hissed: “You’ll regret this…”

Harry didn’t reply. Through shifting light and swirling shadow, he found himself once more in the cavern—his eyes clear, steady, alive.

In the center of the magical array, another soul struggled on the edge of death.

Draco felt as though he’d been thrown into the deepest part of the sea. The silver rings were no longer just restraints—they had become greedy parasites, wrapping around him, tearing something away with every rotation.

His consciousness peeled off layer by layer, like parchment scattered in the wind. First, his fingertips went numb, then his arms, then his entire body... He couldn’t even remember what pain felt like anymore.

“Papa…”

A voice sounded—small, tinged with a child’s nasally whine, as though from very far away.

Draco’s heart gave a jolt—the only part of his body that still seemed capable of responding.

And then, a crack opened in the floodgates of memory.

He saw a newborn, wrinkled and red, crying like a tiny trumpet. The moment the child opened his eyes—grey, the exact same grey as his—Draco felt his own heart nearly leap out of his chest.

“My… my child…” he had whispered then, lips trembling, voice too faint for even himself to hear.

“Is Papa not feeling well?” Scorpius’s voice came again, clearer now, tinged with worry. “Daddy says you’re sick... When will you get better?”

More memories surged back. Scorpius burning with fever in the middle of the night, his little face flushed red like an apple. Draco had paced the room, cradling him, singing the lullaby his mother used to sing—badly, off-key, his hands shaking with panic—but Scorpius had quieted in his arms.

“You promised...” Scorpius’s voice was fading, but each word landed like a carved seal: “You said we’d always be together...”

Draco wanted to answer. Wanted to reach for that voice. But his lips wouldn’t move. His fingers wouldn’t respond. The silver tendrils were draining the last of his strength.

Until—

Another voice joined in.

“Draco...”

Rough. Raw with despair. And unmistakable.

It was Harry’s voice—just as it had sounded after their first real argument, when they’d finally made up: tentative, but aching with emotion.

“Come back... I’m still here.”

It felt like something exploded in his chest—not pain, but a surge of emotion so intense it bordered on suffocating. The memories that had been ripped away began to push back—they refused to be taken. They clawed to return to where they belonged.

He remembered the night Harry nervously proposed, stammering through every word. He remembered their first kiss—awkward, fumbling, like they were both thirteen again. He remembered the day Scorpius was born—when Harry had cried harder than Draco, the one who’d just given birth.

And He remembered when he held Scorpius in his arms, weary yet brimming with joy, who it was he had instinctively turned to, wanting to share that boundless happiness—

The iconic black hair stuck up at wild angles in all directions, and behind his spectacles, those green eyes sparkled with a light deeper than they had ever held before. War had tempered Harry. He had the resolve of a seasoned Auror, the warmth of a father and husband. The lightning-shaped scar was still there, no longer hidden beneath a fringe—he let it show now, part of who he was. The man standing beside him was hardened but kind, fierce but gentle, steady and impossibly human.

And when he looked at Draco—that gaze, focused and unwavering—time seemed to stop.

Because no matter how much he’d changed, that unshakable core had remained. He was still the same Harry Potter that Draco Malfoy had admired—had loved—all along.

And that was why he was here now. Not to be rescued. Not to be pitied. But because he couldn’t bear to see Harry still plagued by nightmares, couldn’t bear to let the man who always put everyone else first carry the scars Voldemort left behind all alone.

“I...” Draco fought to open his mouth. His voice was no more than a thread.

His eyes snapped open.

Like surfacing suddenly from deep underwater. The grey in his eyes was no longer fogged, but razor-sharp with clarity—almost angry.

“I remember.” His voice was quiet. “I remember what a pain you are, you absolute idiot... and I remember how much I love putting up with that pain.”

Something struck Harry square in the chest—Draco’s voice, unmistakably his, rang inside his mind, full of its usual arrogant sharpness.

“Draco?” Harry whispered in his thoughts.

“Who else, you absolute moron.” The reply came with trademark exasperation. “Did you really think I’d let you face this alone? I never actually forgot anything.”

Harry felt a warmth behind his eyes. It felt like a ship, long adrift, finally reaching shore.

“I thought...”

“Don’t. Don’t think about all that rubbish.” Draco cut in, but his voice was gentler now. “Even if I forgot the whole bloody world... I wouldn’t forget you. Because...”

He paused. Then said, in a tone as casual as if it were nothing special:

“I’ve loved you for a long time. Longer than you think.”

And that connection sent out ripples.

Ron felt the crushing weight on his chest begin to lift. He remembered Fred’s final clap on the shoulder—not saying “Why didn’t you save me?” but: “Take care of everyone, little Ronnie.”

Hermione remembered her parents’ last embrace—their words were never “Why did you leave us?” but: “We’re proud of you.”

And Neville no longer saw his parents’ vacant stares—but instead, the soft light that occasionally shimmered through the fog, even when their minds had long slipped away.

Isolda watched it all, frowning.

A flicker of hesitation passed through her eyes—so small, so subtle, even she didn’t notice it. But it was there, like a crack forming in flawless marble. She took a step back, just slightly, as if the scene unfolding before her had begun to drift away from the script she’d written.

She opened her mouth to speak—but a hand landed calmly on her shoulder.

“Excellent.”

Thaddeus stepped out from the shadows, eyes gleaming with something sick and ecstatic.

“Excellent... This is what I’ve been searching for. The purest love.”

tbc

Chapter Text

Thaddeus stepped forward, like a chess master who had calculated every move. A barely perceptible curve appeared on his lips—perhaps one could call it a smile, but there was no warmth in it, only a cold satisfaction, like a hunter watching his prey’s final struggle.

He reached into his black robes, drawing an object from its depths. His movements were elegant, imbued with the solemnity of some ancient ritual.

The Soul-crossing mirror awakened in his hand.

At this moment, the mirror’s surface was no longer the pure, silvery sheen of legend, but a flowing black—like the deep ocean, capable of devouring every wisp of light that touched it. The greenish verdigris covering its frame gleamed with a sickly lustre in the faint light, and the ancient runes carved into the metal seemed to writhe faintly, as if alive, whenever eyes fell upon them. As Thaddeus lifted it, a low hum spread outward, like an ancient echo from beneath the earth, and even the stones beneath their feet trembled almost imperceptibly.

Isolda stood behind him, her ebony wand tracing complex geometric patterns in the air. With each tremor of her fingertips, silver light pulsed like a living thing, flickering, casting his pale face in and out of view. Her every movement was like weaving an invisible net, tightly binding the body suspended mid-air. Her gaze was focused and cold, as if the struggling entity before her were not a living being.

Thaddeus gripped the mirror intently, its surface shifting under his control. In that unfathomable darkness, countless fragmented images flickered in and out of view—perhaps shattered pasts, perhaps futures yet to come, all interwoven and entangled deep within the mirror.

Just then, Harry’s magic erupted like a tempest. The air crackled with storm-like energy; tiny sparks danced around him, illuminating his face—twisted with fury. He raised his wand high, its tip already beginning to gather a dazzling crimson light.

But Thaddeus merely tilted his head slightly, as if appreciating a performance he had foreseen. He raised his left hand, his wrist twisting, and a transparent ripple spread through the air. An invisible barrier immediately descended, solid as steel.

“Please,” he said, his tone even, yet it resonated throughout the entire cavern. “Control yourselves. Soon, you will know what roles you are to play.”

Harry roared, muscles tensing, charging the barrier like an enraged lion. A vibrant red light burst from his wand tip like an arrow, aimed straight at Thaddeus’s face. Yet, the spell—powerful enough to tear through steel—vanished the moment it struck the barrier, like a pebble dropped into the deep sea. No explosion. No impact. It simply ceased to exist.

He could barely believe his eyes, his fingertips still trembling with residual magic. That light—his full-force, emotion-fueled strike—had just disappeared, without a trace. He felt a rage boiling in his chest, but beneath that fury, a deeper, gnawing emotion had taken hold: helplessness, raw and threatening to tear him apart.

“Harry.” Hermione spoke softly, shaking her head, a few strands of brown hair falling across her tear-filled eyes. “His defensive magic is beyond anything we imagined… We need to bide our time.”

Harry gripped his wand so tightly the veins stood out across the back of his hand. He wanted to argue, to say he couldn’t wait, to blast through that damned barrier again—but the words caught in his throat, leaving only a strained gasp. He knew Hermione was right. And he knew—time was not on their side.

That suffocatingly familiar feeling swept over him—like watching Sirius fall through the veil all those years ago, always a step too late. He had sworn, through countless sleepless nights, never again. Never again would someone he loved die just because he hesitated. Especially not Draco.

Yet here he was—at the brink of that same abyss.

Isolda’s ritual continued. She wove precise bindings around Draco. The silver energy drawn from his body now flowed faster, as if being filleted out of him. Although his body and memories had reawakened, the restraints were too strong. He could barely move.

Thaddeus turned to the Soul-crossing mirror, an ancient and unfamiliar language rumbling deep in his throat.

Chillingly, the mirror seemed to respond. The inky surface shifted into a swirling vortex—bottomless. Staring into it felt like being pulled in, as if one’s very soul might be ripped away.

“Seven years...” he murmured, almost to himself. His voice barely audible, tinged with an imperceptible tremor. “Seven years of love... the perfect fusion of souls... Now, it is time. Time for you to answer my expectation—to fulfill my wish.”

The silver light of the ritual array slowly became covered with a soft golden glow; the two hues intertwined like clouds at dusk. These pure, potent energies streamed along countless silver threads, converging—and pouring into the mirror.

The Soul-crossing mirror was a ravenous abyss, devouring every ripple of power, every trace of energy.

Everything seemed perfect.

The mirror surface began to emit an increasingly strong light, from a faint glimmer to a dazzling golden radiance—like the first ray of dawn before daybreak—illuminating the entire cold cavern. Thaddeus’s face appeared extraordinarily clear in this light; in that moment, he was no longer merely a composed dark wizard—a real, unsettling emotion flickered in his eyes.

It was a desire bordering on madness, the fervour of a long-starved soul finally glimpsing salvation.

He had planned for this moment far too long, paying unimaginable costs. This ritual was the culmination of years of pain and obsession—the destination of all his suffering and waiting. The ancient power sealed within the mirror was a gateway to the past, his last chance to rewrite fate and reclaim what he had once lost.

The golden light climbed to its zenith, and the entire cavern was suffused in a warm silver glow, reaching even the darkest corners. Thaddeus raised the mirror high, ancient and mysterious incantations rolling off his tongue. His intent was clear: to gather this hard-won energy into a doorway, to tear open the veil of time, to carve a fissure into the past.

He took a deep breath, then slowly uttered the final incantation—

And then—

Nothing happened.

The light flickered faintly, then trembled erratically. It wavered—then began to dim.

The change was subtle at first. But to Thaddeus, it was like hearing a sour note in a well-rehearsed symphony.

He narrowed his eyes, staring hard at the mirror’s surface. The vortex was subtly shifting; the energy no longer converged, but... tangled within. He knew something had gone wrong.

“Isolda.” His voice was low, but carried the faintest thread of tension. “Has the ritual—failed, or...”

He unconsciously stroked the edge of the mirror’s frame with his thumb, again and again, as if seeking comfort in the texture of something familiar.

Isolda’s usually composed expression showed the faintest crack.

“The energy is stable,” she said. “But the mirror...”

Thaddeus was no longer listening. He had already seen it—the mirror wasn’t absorbing the energy released by the reunion of memories and souls as expected. That artefact, which had carried his hopes through so many long nights, was now—

Hesitating.

He leaned forward slightly, as if drawn closer by some invisible pull. The mirror’s silver light faltered—and new images appeared on its surface. But these weren’t visions of the past. This wasn’t the temporal doorway he had sought to open.

It was a reflection of the present.

The mirror now showed the cold, damp cavern, the ritual array hanging in mid-air, and their own distorted faces. Deeper within, it reflected things that were either real—or truths that should not exist.

Thaddeus’s knuckles turned white from gripping the mirror too tightly, his fingertips almost digging into the frame. His Adam’s apple bobbed slightly. His gaze darted between the mirror and the ritual, his brow slowly furrowing.

He should have been composed. But at this moment, he looked like a man standing on a crumbling chessboard, fissures opening in all directions beneath his feet.

He pulled the mirror closer, by mere inches, as if trying to force it to obey his will. Trying to wring answers from its ancient silence.

But the mirror showed nothing but that chaotic, unreadable reflection.

“Why…” His voice cracked for the first time—like snow landing on fire. “Why isn’t it responding?”

His lips pressed together in pain, his cheekbones taut. One hand loosened from the frame, his thumb and forefinger slowly pressing against the bridge of his nose, as if trying to quell a sudden migraine—or the rise of something deeper: an unraveling despair.

Isolda’s movements faltered. Her chant broke, and several silver lines wavered in the air. The flow of energy started to falter. She tried to re-focus, to recenter her power—but the array was no longer under her control.

Draco stirred slightly, as though sensing the faint slackening of his restraints. At first it was just the twitch of a finger. But then, his brow trembled, as if consciousness were clawing its way upward from the depths of some distant abyss. His lips parted slightly, and a word escaped in a whisper—

“Harry…”

The voice was barely audible—lost in the cavern’s echo. But right where Harry stood, the once-impenetrable golden barrier quivered faintly, as if struck by an unseen force. Its light pulsed, slow and rhythmic, as though stirred by a heartbeat—as if resonating.

Thaddeus continued rotating the mirror, adjusting its angle over and over.

But the mirror did not respond.

It simply reflected everything in the cavern—exactly as it was.

“This is impossible!” His voice turned sharp, carrying unconcealed fear and madness. “Continue the incantation… I don’t care if he lives or dies!”

Thaddeus violently raised his arm, his wand slicing through the air with a bone-chilling coldness. A silver-white energy lashed out like a whip toward Draco’s body, with a cold, absolute resolve to crush everything.

Draco’s body convulsed in mid-air, his spine arching in a painful arc, as if it could snap under the pressure at any moment. Sweat rolled down his pale cheeks, soaking the few strands of golden hair clinging to his forehead. But he made no wail, no struggle, only desperately forced his eyes open, his grey pupils fixed on one direction—

Harry.

There was no fear in that gaze, not even pain. Only a long-buried focus that refused to waver, even on the brink of death. It was a gaze that no longer needed words.

Harry saw this scene, and his chest felt as if something had violently struck it. He charged toward Draco recklessly, seemingly intent on tearing through the barrier with his bare flesh. His black hair flew wildly in the stormy air, and his emerald eyes blazed with reckless fury. The wand grew scorching hot in his hand, hissing like an iron brand plunged into water, the faint patterns on its shaft even beginning to glow dark red under the heat. Golden magic poured from his body like fire, forming a swirling storm around him, the air warping and distorting from it all.

“Don’t—you—touch—him!” His shout was swallowed by the roar of magic, but everyone could read the desperation in his contorted expression.

A few steps away, Ron, Hermione, and Neville struggled to contend with Isolda, her spells like living silver serpents, deflecting their attacks one by one. Isolda’s movements remained calm, precise, as if she could never lose control. She easily parried Ron’s Blasting Curse, then sidestepped Hermione’s Freezing Charm with fluid grace, as if it were merely a meticulously choreographed performance. Only occasionally would her gaze drift toward the Soul-crossing Mirror.

Neville cast a Full Body-Bind Curse, then yelled to the other two: “Hold on, Harry’s almost there!”

After a series of piercing bangs, Harry found a weak point in the barrier. Golden magic burst from his wand tip, like a sharp knife, piercing through the once-thought insurmountable magical wall, and deflecting Thaddeus’s attack.

He practically collapsed beside Draco, his knees thudding heavily on the rune-covered stone ground. His trembling hands cupped Draco’s face; the touch was colder than he had imagined, almost not a living person’s temperature.

“Draco—” His voice was hoarse, unlike his own, every syllable carrying a pain that almost tore him apart.

Draco’s breathing was shallow, barely audible, but the moment Harry neared, his pale, chapped lips slowly curved upwards, forming a blood-stained smile. That smile was stubborn, laced with a hint of mockery, as if silently saying—You’re always like this, Potter, always the hero who arrives last.

“Harry…” He forced out the name with all his strength.

In that instant, seeing that everything was no longer going as he expected, Thaddeus suddenly turned, his eyes flashing with a mix of terror and madness. He raised his wand, the incantation already on his lips.

“Obliviate—”

He intended to wipe out everything, to utterly destroy Harry and Draco’s memories, to excise this connection from their minds!

The power seemed to tear the entire space apart. Harry instinctively hugged Draco tight, casting a golden-red Disarming Charm.

Unexpectedly, however, Draco suddenly raised a hand and tightly gripped Harry’s wrist. The grip was surprisingly strong, his fingers digging deep into Harry’s skin, almost with a sense of command. A look of resolute calm, which Harry had never seen before, flashed in his eyes, like the improbable stillness at the heart of a storm.

“Don’t be afraid.” His lips were almost touching Harry’s earlobe, his breath abnormally hot.

These words were both a farewell instruction and a secret promise, as if he already knew what was about to happen.

Immediately after, his body seemed to ignite with its last vestiges of life, like a fully drawn bow. A golden light erupted from within him, instantly engulfing Harry’s form. The light was so pure it was almost divine; their bodies pressed closely together within the light, their outlines blurring and merging, as if they were one.

Even more wonderfully, their heartbeats gradually synchronised with the resonance of that ancient magic, as if two souls were intimately connected on some unseen plane.

Just then.

The Soul-crossing Mirror suddenly emitted a deafening hum, like an echo from the end of time. Its surface abruptly became blazing bright, like the midday sun, forcing everyone present to raise their hands to shield their eyes.

In that dazzling light, countless fragmented yet real images scrolled through the mirror like a kaleidoscope—a baby’s first cry, a gentle mother holding him tightly in her arms; the back of a blond boy running through a flower-strewn manor garden, sunlight casting a dreamy halo around him; and countless hands clasped tightly across different times and spaces, promising, parting, then reuniting. Those scenes were like flowing ink washes, overlapping and intertwining in the mirror, like insignificant yet incredibly precious fragments in the grand river of fate.

Thaddeus’s face appeared extraordinarily fragile in this unprecedented light. The cold mask he had maintained all this time completely shattered in this moment, revealing the long-desired true self hidden beneath.

His lips parted slightly, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, like a long-parched traveller in the desert finally seeing an oasis. He ignored the light that threatened to blind him, staggering a step forward, his hands trembling uncontrollably as they reached out to the mirror’s surface, like an infant instinctively reaching for its mother’s embrace.

“Mum…” he murmured softly, his voice full of longing and a long-awaited release.

His voice held an almost innocent vulnerability, as if he had returned to a long-ago, innocent time before fate had twisted him.

The mirror surface suddenly seemed to gain a will of its own, the light it emitted outward, now substantial, enveloped his entire being. In the instant he was completely swallowed by the light, an almost morbid ecstasy appeared on his face, an ultimate satisfaction of finally having his long wait fulfilled.

Tears, unshed for years, now flowed like a broken dam down his rigid facial lines, and a strange, genuine smile even curved his lips—it was his last expression as an ordinary boy before becoming Thaddeus.

But this happiness was fleeting, as fragile as a mirage.

The next second, a horrifying shriek came from deep within the light column, a sound unlike human, or any known creature. It was a tearing sensation from the depths of the soul, as if something was being forcibly pulled from the fabric of the world. The wail was so piercing that even the cavern walls trembled, and tiny stone fragments pattered down from the ceiling.

The light column suddenly contracted, and in an instant, all light and sound vanished, as if sealed by some ancient power. The Soul-crossing Mirror’s surface returned to calm, leaving not a ripple, like an ordinary old mirror. Thaddeus’s figure dissipated along with the light, leaving no trace, as if he had never existed in this world.

Only the ancient Soul-crossing Mirror remained suspended in the air, slowly rotating, its last wisp of golden light, like a reluctant sigh, quietly extinguished at the mirror’s edge.

Harry collapsed onto the cold stone ground, all strength seemingly drained from him. Draco in his arms was similarly depleted of all life energy, his face even paler and almost transparent than before. His breathing was shallow and erratic, his chest rising and falling imperceptibly, but his fingertips still stubbornly, tightly clung to Harry’s wrist, as if it were the last thread binding him to this world.

Harry lowered his head, his forehead resting gently on Draco’s hair. His golden strands were dishevelled with sweat and dust, yet they still shimmered faintly in the weak light. Harry felt his eyes warm, and tears finally flowed uncontrollably, silently streaming down his cheeks.

He could feel the heavy shadow that had haunted his chest for years dissipate; that fragment of Voldemort’s lingering soul, that dark parasite that had clung to him like a shadow, was also carried away by Draco’s released golden light, vanishing into nothingness. For the first time, he truly felt whole, completely himself.

“We did it…” he whispered against Draco’s ear, his voice trembling with disbelief. “It was you… you saved everyone…”

Ron, Hermione, and Neville finally broke through the layers of confinement Isolda had set. Hermione was the first to rush to their side, her hair more dishevelled than usual, a few shallow scratches on her face. Without a word, she knelt beside Draco, professionally and calmly checking his condition.

“He’s alive, but he’s exhausted his magic…” she said softly, her voice slightly hoarse with tension. “We need to get him to St. Mungo’s as soon as possible.”

Neville’s heart, meanwhile, was with Hannah and Luna, who were still nowhere to be found.

Just as everyone’s attention was focused on Harry and Draco, Isolda’s figure seemed to meld into the shadows themselves. Her movements were incredibly swift, without incantation, without sound, not even disturbing the flow of air. Only in the deepest darkness of the cavern, for a single moment, did a pair of cold eyes seem to flash, and then, she completely vanished.

Time seemed to pause, and everything finally settled into stillness.

Harry held Draco tightly; only when he felt that faint yet tenacious life still beating in his arms could he find a sense of security.

Draco’s fingers moved slightly in his grasp, responding to the warmth with his last ounce of strength. His lips curved almost imperceptibly, struggling to form a faint smile—it was the most genuine expression he had ever made in his life, dedicated to his former rival, now his beloved, the reason he would give everything for.

Though he didn’t say it aloud—he was too tired—the him in his heart quietly said: Don’t cry, Scarhead… Savior… you look… quite dreadful when you cry…

tbc

Chapter Text

St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Fourth Floor, Spell Damage Ward.

The air was perpetually filled with the clean yet slightly bitter scent of antiseptic potions and Dittany. Outside the window, London offered a rare clear sky, a blue washed clean by rain, as pure as a gemstone. Sunlight streamed through the spotless glass panes, casting warm, bright blocks of gold upon the white floor tiles.

It was so quiet here it felt secluded from the world, a completely different reality from the cold, damp underground cavern of a few days ago, which had been filled with despair and madness.

Draco was unconscious most of the time.

The Healers said his body had sustained no permanent trauma, but his magical and mental fortitude had been nearly drained dry by the forcibly activated ritual. He was now like a being depleted of all its magic, in need of a long and quiet convalescence to gather his energy back, drop by drop.

Harry hardly ever left his bedside.

He watched Draco. He watched his pale face against the stark white pillow, the fine shadows cast by his thick, long platinum-blond lashes beneath his eyelids, and the hand not connected to an intravenous drip resting peacefully atop the covers—its fingers long and slender, with well-defined knuckles. Harry always found himself unable to resist reaching out, gently touching that cool skin with his fingertips, or tucking the corner of the blanket in more tightly.

His heart was calmer than it had ever been.

The dark fragment that had been lodged in his forehead, a shadow that had followed him for as long as he could remember, the piece of Voldemort's soul he had once believed he would have to coexist with until death, was completely gone. In the dazzling golden light that had consumed Thaddeus Thorne, it had been purified and stripped away along with him, leaving not a single trace. For the first time, he was wholly and completely Harry Potter. Just Harry Potter.

But the sense of relief that came with this completeness was far less significant than the other emotion welling up in his heart.

It was the profound, grounding sense of having him back.

He was here. He was still here. That was enough.

Kingsley Shacklebolt came to visit them on the afternoon of the third day, bringing a small bouquet of sunflowers that sang to themselves. He dismissed all the nurses and the Aurors standing guard at the door, casting several of the highest-level privacy charms on the ward.

"The Shadows of Retrospection are no longer a major concern," the Minister for Magic's voice was composed and powerful. "After losing both of their leaders, the core members of the organization almost all chose to flee immediately. We have already apprehended most of them. In a few weeks, the Wizengamot will give them a fair trial."

"And Isolda?" Harry asked quietly, his gaze never leaving Draco's face.

"...Her whereabouts are unknown." Kingsley's expression grew serious. "After confirming her true identity, we immediately searched Valerius Manor, but her family claims that Isolda severed most ties with them years ago due to ideological differences. She's like a top-tier spy, having erased most traces of her past. We've issued a highest-level red alert to all Ministries of Magic worldwide, but... to be honest, Harry, a witch like her, if she wants to hide, will be very, very difficult to find."

Harry nodded in understanding.

"As for Thaddeus Thorne..." Kingsley sighed. "The Curse-Breakers from the Department of Mysteries have studied the residual energy at the ritual site. We cannot determine if he is alive or dead; the only thing we can be sure of is that he is no longer in our dimension of space and time. That mirror... the Soul-crossing Mirror, its transportation is bound to the user's deepest, unique soul. This means that even if someone could activate it again, they could not go to the same place as Thaddeus."

He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully.

"Based on the clues he left behind, we've reverse-engineered some of his magical theories. Harry, we have some preliminary hypotheses about his motives, possibly related to a tragedy in his family's past. If you'd like to know..."

"Kingsley," Harry interrupted softly, turning his gaze to him. "Thank you. But the rest... I don't want to know for now."

Kingsley looked at him with some surprise.

Harry offered no explanation, merely turning his gaze back. He raised his hand and gently caressed the back of Draco's hand with his thumb; the skin there was still cool. He looked at Draco's sleeping profile and thought to himself:

Why... it doesn't matter anymore. No reason, no tragic past, could ever be an excuse for him to hurt Draco. Perhaps many, many years from now, when Draco's hair has turned grey, when Scorpius has children of his own, when all the wounds have healed, I might listen to that man's story on some winter afternoon, as if hearing an ancient legend that has nothing to do with me.

But not now. Not when Draco has yet to truly smile at me.

From those emerald-green eyes, Kingsley understood this silent, unshakeable resolve. He nodded, placed the bouquet of sunflowers on the bedside table, and left quietly.

The ward returned to its tranquil state.

And yet, Harry did end up finding out everything—

A few hours later, feeling thirsty, he leaned down to press a gentle kiss on Draco's forehead, then rose to get a glass of water from the tea-trolley.

As he softly closed the ward door behind him and reached the corner of the corridor, he heard two familiar voices.

It was Ron and Hermione.

He was about to step forward and greet them when the content of their conversation made him stop instinctively, hiding himself in the shadows of the wall.

"...Its backlash, it must be!" Hermione's tone was filled with the excitement and certainty of someone who had just solved a complex puzzle. "I've compared all the records on soul magic and ancient artifacts! The essence of the Soul-crossing Mirror isn't a wish-granting machine, but a tribunal!"

"Speak English, Hermione," Ron said, rubbing his temples with a note of exasperation.

"What I mean is," Hermione lowered her voice, but every word reached Harry's ears with perfect clarity, "when a user tries to activate the mirror with impure intentions, the mirror doesn't simply refuse. It sends the user's soul to where their 'soul most needs to go,' not where they 'claim they most want to go'!"

Harry's heart skipped a beat.

"So for Thaddeus," Hermione continued her analysis, "he wanted to go back to before his mother's death to 'save' her, but his entire theory and motivation were built upon the tragedy of her death. That's a paradox in itself! Deep in his soul, he had long ceased to believe in true love and was unable to face his own trauma. So the mirror didn't send him to the past. It sent him to the truth he most needed to confront—pure love. For someone who had twisted love into a tool, that place would be like hell, burning his soul to ashes."

There was a silence in the corridor, broken only by the sound of Ron sharply inhaling.

"Then... what about Harry?" Ron's voice was a bit dry. "That... that thing inside him, why is it gone too?"

"Because it's the same principle!" Hermione's voice grew more excited. "Voldemort's soul... if I'm not mistaken, beneath all his pursuit of power, his deepest desire—one even he himself was unaware of—was probably also love... the one thing he never received in the orphanage! So when Draco activated the mirror with pure love, and Harry was so close, the Soul-crossing Mirror’s powerful spiritual pull yanked that Horcrux fragment—desperate for love—right out of Harry and purified it at the same time!"

Harry leaned against the cold wall, motionless.

So... that's how it was.

He thought of himself... the Mirror of Erised, a happy family, Dumbledore's warning.

To think that in this world, three souls, across different experiences and different times, were all seeking the same thing.

Perhaps there were many more souls like them in the world.

Hermione and Ron were still talking, but he just silently turned and walked back to the ward.

Over the next few days, Draco's condition improved daily. He was awake for longer periods, and the pallor in his face was gradually replaced by a healthy colour. He would quietly watch Harry peel an apple for him or listen to Harry read out the boring reports on Ministry personnel changes from the Daily Prophet.

He didn't speak much most of the time, but his eyes—those silver-grey eyes like a sky after rain—followed Harry's every move without blinking.

There was so much complexity in that gaze. The exhaustion of a survivor, the confusion as his memories returned in full, the shame for the hurtful things he had once said and done to Harry, and also a deep love, suppressed for too long, that he finally dared to let show.

They were both waiting.

Waiting for the right moment, for a time when he would have the strength to say the first word.

That day finally came—

It was one evening, as Harry was getting up to draw the curtains, when a cool hand suddenly gripped his wrist.

Harry turned his head and met Draco's eyes, which were now fully lucid and startlingly bright.

"Harry."

Draco spoke. His voice was a little hoarse from disuse, but that familiar tone—tinged with a hint of mockery and languor—had not changed at all.

Seven Years Later.

Dawn in Godric's Hollow was always this serene—morning dew still clung to the leaves of the singing violet on the windowsill, and a gentle breeze drifted through the orchard, carrying the fresh scent of grass and wild roses. The distant church bells chimed melodiously, and the occasional early owl flapped its wings as it swooped past the eaves.

Inside the Potter cottage, on the Persian rug before the living room fireplace, a few enchanted building blocks were yawning lazily, one of them changing colours. Hanging on the brass railing of the oak staircase was a small, pink velvet cloak that clearly didn't belong to any adult, its cuffs embroidered with tiny silver stars.

Time was truly the gentlest of Healers. Seven full years had passed since that harrowing event, and Harry and Draco's life finally possessed the luxury they had once thought unattainable—ordinary happiness.

Eleven-year-old Scorpius Draco Potter had grown into a devastatingly handsome boy. He had inherited the Potter family's trademark jet-black hair, which held a deep, ebony-like lustre in the sunlight. His eyes, however, were the pure Malfoy silver-grey, as clear as a winter lake, carrying a unique spark of intelligence. That summer, he had already received his acceptance letter from Hogwarts, and at being sorted into Ravenclaw—a house entirely different from his two fathers'—the young boy had shown a composure beyond his years.

And the youngest member of this warm family was the daughter Harry and Draco had adopted together three years ago—they named her Lily.

Lily Joanne Malfoy.

She was like a gentle joke played by fate—a head of soft, curly red hair paired with clear blue eyes. Though not born of magic, she was the sweetest fruit borne of this deep affection.

In the days after Draco woke up, his magical channels were extremely unstable, and he stumbled over even the most basic cleaning spells. Having witnessed that vulnerability, Harry was unwilling to let Draco bear any more risks. This family was already complete; he would never again gamble with the most precious person in his life.

It was a typically radiant Saturday.

"Scorpius!" Harry's voice, tinged with a familiar, amused exasperation, drifted from the kitchen, which smelled of cinnamon and honey. "Help watch your sister! Your Papa and I have to deal with this flock of crazy owls! They're about to turn our house into a branch of the Eeylops Owl Emporium!"

Scorpius, who was in the living room conducting his enchanted blocks in an elegant dance with his wand, immediately dropped his smile upon being summoned. He exaggeratedly mimicked Draco's expression, sighed deeply, and complained in the pompous tone of a little adult, "Oh, Merlin's beard, why is it always me? Looking after this little troublemaker is more tiring than watering all the Venomous Tentacula in the greenhouse with diluted dragon dung."

Despite his words, when three-year-old Lily came toddling towards him, clutching a fluffy Golden Snitch plush toy, Scorpius quickly put away his wand and squatted down to catch her steadily. The little girl always smelled faintly of lavender soap.

"Scopi, fly fly!" Lily cried with her still-clumsy tongue, her chubby little hand pointing at the antique crystal chandelier on the ceiling.

"Nope, no flying indoors, that's a firm rule," Scorpius said, putting on a stern little face, but he still stealthily drew his wand and cast a gentle Levitation Charm on the Snitch toy. The small golden toy immediately rose lightly into the air, its soft wings beating as it drew slow circles above Lily's head.

"Wow! Shiny!" Lily clapped her hands in excitement, giggling nonstop.

"Now," Scorpius cleared his throat, adopting the air of a young professor, "we shall conduct a preliminary lesson in magical theory." He felt it was his brotherly duty to provide his sister with a proper magical initiation. He held his wand out to Lily, its tip pointing towards the ceiling. "Repeat after me, Lily—Lumos."

"Lumos!" Lily mimicked him, shouting with all her might.

However, the tip of Scorpius's wand remained stubbornly unlit.

"No, no, you have to concentrate, feel the flow of magic," Scorpius corrected patiently, frowning for effect.

Lily nodded with a semblance of understanding. She puffed up her rosy cheeks and yelled at the wand with all her strength, "Luuuumooosss!!!"

This time, a miracle did happen—just not in the way Scorpius had anticipated.

Click! Bang! Flicker-flicker-flick!

In an instant, every light fixture in the living room—from the priceless Victorian crystal chandelier on the ceiling to the antique floor lamp with the bronze base by the fireplace, and even the few gently glowing light crystals on the bookshelf—all began to flash erratically as if hit by a Confundus Charm. Red, blue, green, and purple lights danced and intertwined, instantly turning the entire room into a fantastical world of light and shadow.

Scorpius stared wide-eyed at this festival of lights, while Lily was so delighted by the spectacular sight that she danced on the spot, giggling uncontrollably.

"What happened?!" Draco and Harry rushed in from the kitchen almost simultaneously, then froze in their tracks, stunned by the bizarre scene before them.

"I... I was just trying to teach her the most basic Wand-Lighting Charm..." Scorpius's voice was laced with palpable guilt.

Draco pressed a hand to his temple and, with an elegant wave of his other hand, calmed all the lights. He walked over, lifted the still-giggling Lily from the arms of a stunned Scorpius, and gently pinched her rosy cheek. "It seems the future magical genius of our family nearly demolished the house in her very first lesson," he said dryly.

Harry, however, walked over with a smile and ruffled Scorpius's hair. "Don't listen to your father. The first time he successfully cast a Levitation Charm, he shattered half the china in the kitchen. Since you two have so much energy, why don't you go fly in the back garden for a while."

The golden afternoon sun bathed Godric's Hollow, dyeing the neatly trimmed lawn a warm honey colour.

Ron, Hermione, and their twelve-year-old daughter, Rose, along with Neville, Hannah, and Luna, and even Pansy and Blaise, arrived that afternoon as planned. It was a traditional monthly gathering for their families that had been going on for several years.

The back garden was a scene of vibrant chaos.

Harry, on his trusty Firebolt, was chasing Scorpius at a height of about ten metres. The boy's flying skills were already quite impressive; riding a child-sized Nimbus 2001, he nimbly dodged the Slowing-Charm-enchanted Quaffles that Harry occasionally threw his way. Every time he successfully evaded one, Scorpius would do a triumphant somersault in the air.

On the ground was another heartwarming scene. Draco was using a Levitation Charm to very carefully support Lily's ridiculously small pink toy broomstick, keeping it just half a metre off the ground—a height that satisfied the little girl's desire to fly without making the ever-cautious Draco too worried.

"Higher! Papa, Lily wanna fly high-high!" the little girl exclaimed, kicking her legs excitedly on the broom, her small light-blue boots glinting in the sun.

"Don't push your luck, you little tyrant," Draco grumbled, but still raised the broom just a tiny bit higher. "Any higher and you'll fly into next door's chimney, Mrs. Bagshot's."

Not far away, Ron and Rose were cheering for Scorpius, both their faces flushed with excitement. Hermione sat in a wicker chair at the edge of the garden, flipping through Transfiguration Today while occasionally glancing up to confirm that the safety charms on each child were still functioning correctly—a maternal instinct she had developed over the years.

Neville and Hannah sat side-by-side on a white-painted wooden bench, quietly enjoying the lively scene. Although Hannah had fully recovered, she still tired easily at times. Neville naturally held her hand, periodically bringing a steaming cup of lemon and honey tea to her lips. There were no grand declarations between them, only this kind of gentle care, as natural as breathing, like a quietly flowing stream.

And at the other end of the lawn, near a manicured flowerbed overflowing with purple delphiniums, was a scene both serene and fantastical—Luna Lovegood lay lazily on the soft grass, letting the golden afternoon sun spill over her flowing, pale-gold hair. Three-year-old little Alessandro Zabini lay beside her in a similar fashion, mimicking her by making a crooked viewfinder with his chubby hands, both of them gazing up at the clear, washed-blue sky.

"You see, Alex," Luna's voice was as soft as a summer breeze rustling through a wheat field, "on the edge of that cloud, there's a Crumple-Horned Snorkack stretching, and its horn is shimmering with the colours of the rainbow."

"Really? Auntie Luna!" little Alessandro asked excitedly in his childish voice, squinting his deep black eyes, inherited from his father, as if he could truly see some magical creature. "What's it doing?"

"Right there," Luna nodded gently, her face blooming with that unique, dreamlike, knowing smile. "It's saying that today's sunlight tastes like honey-sweetened lemon fizz with a hint of mint. Now it wants to fly higher to look for rainbow fruit."

Although the little boy didn't quite understand these whimsical imaginings, he could feel their gentle magic and began to giggle, rolling gleefully on the grass and covering himself in its fresh scent. He suddenly sat up and asked seriously, "Can I see it too?"

"Of course, you can," Luna blinked, "as long as you believe, and you look with your heart."

For a three-year-old, Luna's world of wonders was perhaps easier to understand and accept than the rule-bound reality of adults.

In stark contrast to Luna's flights of fancy, Pansy had chosen a refined stone-paved terrace, a good distance from the lawn. She sat elegantly on a wrought-iron chair, dressed in a perfectly tailored, deep emerald-green velvet robe, its hand-sewn pearl buttons glinting in the sun.

Clearly, she had no intention of letting her Italian leather shoes get sullied with the slightest bit of dirt. In her hand, she held a glass of iced tea with silver mint leaves, specially prepared by Draco, her posture like that of a queen surveying her domain.

"Alessandro, don't roll around on the grass too much," Pansy advised softly. Though her tone held a mother's characteristic concern, her eyes twinkled with undisguised affection. "You'll need a bath and a change of clothes when we get home. And your new robes were custom-made in Florence."

"It's okay, Mama!" little Alessandro replied without looking up, remaining focused on observing the magical creatures in the sky with Luna.

Blaise Zabini sat quietly beside his wife, his posture relaxed, his legs elegantly crossed. His deep-set black eyes lazily scanned the "Gryffindor-style" joyous chaos in the garden, a faint, sardonic smile playing on his lips. Seeing his son completely absorbed in Luna's whimsical world, he couldn't help but remark softly, "It seems our little prince has found himself an excellent tutor."

"Honestly, Granger's aesthetic sense is truly baffling at times," Pansy said, her volume just loud enough for Blaise to hear. She shook her head elegantly. "On such a lovely day, she chooses to bury her head in a book wearing that drab, utterly utilitarian robe, instead of changing into a silk gown from the latest season. Is there no room for a shred of aesthetic appreciation in a Gryffindor's head, besides pragmatism and reckless adventuring?"

Though her tone was teasing, there was no malice in her eyes, but rather a kind of affectionate exasperation for a dear friend.

Just then, Alessandro's clear laughter rang out from the lawn. The little boy was trying to imitate Luna, making some sort of mystical gesture towards the sky while muttering incantations only he could understand.

"Auntie Luna, I see it!" he suddenly shouted excitedly. "The Crumple-Horned Snorkack waved at me!"

Luna smiled gently, stroking the little boy's dark hair. "It must like you very much, Alex."

Blaise didn't immediately respond to his wife. He simply swirled the ice in his glass, watching Ron cheering loudly for a clever dodge by Scorpius in the distance, and the little boy showing off his flying skills triumphantly in the air. Finally, he concluded in his low, slightly magnetic voice:

"Don't set your standards too high, my dear. This pure, unreserved, almost naive... vitality. Isn't that the real reason we choose to come here today?"

He paused, his gaze shifting to his son, who was exploring a magical world with Luna on the grass, his voice tinged with a rare gentleness. "Besides, look at our little Alessandro. He seems to be thoroughly enjoying this... unconventional sort of fun. Perhaps this is exactly what he needs—a place where he can let his imagination run free."

Pansy followed her husband's gaze. Seeing her son completely engrossed in Luna's stories about creatures that existed only in imagination, his little face filled with pure curiosity and joy, the corners of her lips curved upwards. "Indeed... perhaps letting him experience this sort of Gryffindor freedom occasionally is good for his development. At least, he looks happy."

"And," Blaise added, a flicker of warmth in his eyes, "Lovegood has a special gift for making children believe in a world of greater possibilities. That might be more precious than any social etiquette we could ever teach him."

After tea time, everyone returned indoors. Hermione and Draco were soon deep in a scholarly discussion about the molecular structure of some newly discovered potion ingredient, gesticulating enthusiastically. Harry, on a whim, decided to prepare afternoon tea for everyone the "Muggle way."

"Merlin help us, Harry, do you really know how to use this strange contraption called an 'electric kettle'?" Neville asked, prodding the silver, corded kettle as if studying some sort of alien technology.

"Of course, it's one of the few useful skills I learned at the Dursleys'," Harry said proudly, but when he dropped the tea bags into the cups without tearing off the tags, he immediately earned a precise and elegant eye-roll from Draco.

The children were having a grand time on the other side of the living room, building a fantastical castle out of their enchanted blocks.

Harry looked around at the warm, bustling scene—Draco was tirelessly correcting Ron's "improper" tea-making technique, Hermione and Neville were discussing the medicinal properties of a certain herb, while Scorpius and Rose were arguing passionately over whether Chocolate Frogs were tastier or Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans were more interesting... a wave of warmth washed over him, almost overflowing.

He walked over to Neville, who was carefully passing a biscuit to Hannah, and asked softly, "Is everything alright lately?"

"Couldn't be better." Neville gazed at Hannah's gentle profile, his eyes filled with a love he couldn't hide. He leaned closer to Harry's ear and whispered in a voice trembling with both nerves and excitement, "Harry, I... I made a special trip to Gringotts last week. I took out the ancestral Longbottom engagement ring. I'm going to... I'm going to propose to her."

Harry's eyes widened in delight. He clapped his old friend firmly on the shoulder, genuinely happy for him. "That's the best news I've heard in ages, Neville. She'll definitely say yes, I'd bet my broomstick on it."

The sun began to set, painting the clouds on the horizon in brilliant shades of orange and gold. The warm light streamed through the blinds, casting a soft glow on every smiling face.

All the past traumas and nightmares seemed to have been completely dispelled by this ordinary yet precious daily happiness, leaving not a single trace behind.

Life, at last, had become what it was always meant to be—simple, warm, and full of love.

end

Chapter Text

It was on an early summer afternoon, in the second year after they had reconnected. Draco was twenty-two, as was Harry. They were in the prime of their youth, yet both had been prematurely matured by the shadow of war.

At three o'clock every Wednesday afternoon, they would appear on schedule at the unremarkable café in the alley behind the Leaky Cauldron—a small shop that didn't even have a sign, run by a taciturn middle-aged witch who never inquired about her customers' identities. Draco always ordered a black coffee, no sugar, while Harry was accustomed to a latte with honey. They would sit at the small table in the corner, touched by a slant of sunlight, and chat idly about work, the weather, or any other trivial topic.

When one of them was overwhelmed by work, the other would always appear at the right moment, silently passing over a cup of black tea with three sugar cubes—Draco remembered that Harry had liked sweet things since their school days, and Harry knew that Draco always needed more sugar to maintain that perfect mask when he was exhausted. They never said much, merely offering quiet companionship until the other had pulled himself together.

The most touching moments were those late at night. In Harry's modest flat at Grimmauld Place, or in Draco's redecorated cottage in Wiltshire, they would sit by the warm fireplace and argue endlessly over some trivial detail of magical history. Draco would flip through a heavy copy of Hogwarts: A History, pointing to a certain passage with his long, slender fingers, seriously correcting Harry's flawed memory of a particular headmaster's tenure. Harry would then retort that the version Draco was citing was too old and the data had long been updated. Their voices would intertwine in the night, like a dance only they could understand, until one of them drifted off to sleep in the warm glow of the fire, and the other would gently cover him with a blanket.

They were in love. This was a fact that neither had spoken aloud, but both knew in their hearts. The affection flowed in every casual touch, sparkled in every concerned glance, and spread with every seemingly ordinary greeting.

In Harry's opinion, it was time.

The invitation that day came from Narcissa Malfoy.

"Dear Mr. Potter," the letter began, "I take the liberty of inviting you to accompany Draco back to Malfoy Manor on the afternoon of the twenty-eighth of this month for a small family afternoon tea. As Draco's most important friend, I believe your presence will make this gathering all the more complete. I look forward to your visit. —Narcissa Malfoy"

When Harry received the letter, he was sitting at his desk in the Ministry of Magic, dealing with a pile of tedious documents. As he unfolded the faintly floral-scented stationery, the entire office seemed to fall silent. He knew what this meant.

This was Narcissa's formal acknowledgement of their relationship... but it was also, quite possibly, a test for him.

When Draco saw his mother's letter, a barely perceptible flicker of nervousness crossed his face. His fingers unconsciously stroked the edge of the paper.

"She wants to see you," Draco said softly, his voice tinged with a carefully concealed trepidation. "See you, formally."

Harry nodded, a warmth spreading through his chest. He understood what this meant for Draco, and what it meant for their relationship.

The twenty-eighth was a sunny Saturday afternoon. When Harry and Draco stepped out of the emerald green flames of the massive fireplace in Malfoy Manor, Harry still felt an uncontrollable chill, as if an icy hand had brushed against his spine.

Everything here was just as he remembered, perhaps even more so. The marble floors were polished to a mirror-like sheen, so bright they could almost reflect one's shadow, but the light was cold, devoid of any warmth, reflecting the pale glow cast by the enormous crystal chandelier overhead.

The portraits of generations of Malfoys hanging on the walls—men and women in opulent robes with haughty eyes—swept over him, their former enemy, with silent, scrutinizing, and critical gazes. The air was filled with the old scent of sandalwood mixed with some ancient magical aura, so quiet you could almost hear your own heartbeat echoing under the marble dome.

Harry couldn't help but think of that terrible night, of Bellatrix's crazed laughter, of Hermione's pained moans, of Dobby's sacrifice. This magnificent mansion was forever linked to fear and despair in his memory.

He noticed that the moment Draco stepped onto this familiar floor, his entire posture changed in a subtle but significant way. The Draco who would chuckle softly at a bad joke in the café disappeared, replaced by a perfect, unnervingly cold indifference.

He had become the heir of the House of Malfoy once more.

The afternoon tea was filled with a polite yet suffocating silence.

Narcissa was as elegant and beautiful as ever, her blond hair coiffed into a perfect bun, dressed in a pale blue silk robe. But Harry sensed a weariness in her eyes that nothing could fill. It was the look of someone who had witnessed too much pain and loss, like a deep well, calm on the surface but with endless darkness at the bottom.

She spoke with Harry about the weather—"Summer has arrived a bit earlier than usual this year, hasn't it?" Her voice was soft and proper. She inquired about the Ministry—"I hear the Auror Office has been very busy lately? Your work must be very demanding."

Every question was perfectly appropriate, every smile precisely executed, but it was very likely just a well-trained hostess performing her duties, rather than genuine concern.

Draco barely spoke throughout the entire process, only occasionally nodding or uttering a brief sound of agreement. He sat beside his mother, posture impeccable, his teacup never leaving its saucer, as if this were merely a well-rehearsed play.

The refreshments were exquisite—tiny macarons, scones with jam, and cucumber sandwiches sliced as thin as a cicada's wing, all arranged with extreme precision, like works of art rather than food.

After the tea break, Narcissa gracefully excused herself, citing the need to "rest." As she stood, her movement was as light as a bird's, her silk robe swaying and the pearl belt at her waist making a faint clink.

"Draco," she said softly, "why don't you take Mr. Potter for a walk in the garden? The weather is lovely today, and the white roses in the garden are in full bloom."

Her gaze shifted between Harry and Draco, and in that instant, Harry thought he saw the hope and worry of a mother in her eyes.

The gardens of Malfoy Manor were just like the mansion itself. Every tree was pruned into a perfect geometric shape—conical cypresses, spherical boxwoods, fan-shaped plane trees, standing like green sculptures on the neat lawn. The stone paths were lined with meticulously trimmed lavender, its purple spikes swaying gently in the breeze, releasing a faint fragrance.

Draco walked ahead, his footsteps making a soft crunching sound on the gravel path. He didn't speak, only pausing occasionally to pretend to admire a particular flower bush or statue.

Harry followed behind him, the small, dark blue velvet box in his pocket now feeling as if it weighed a ton.

He had bought it three nights ago from the most famous jewelry shop in Diagon Alley. The shopkeeper had looked at him with reverent eyes, carefully wrapping the custom-made ring. He could feel his palms sweating, his heart thumping erratically in his chest like a caged bird.

He rehearsed the words he had prepared over and over, telling himself: This is right. I have to do this. I have to let him know that the past is the past. I will use our future to cover all of his nightmares.

He felt it was an incredibly romantic and right decision—he imagined Draco's surprise upon seeing the ring, imagined them embracing in this place once filled with pain, using love to redefine its meaning.

In front of a white marble terrace that overlooked the entire garden, Harry finally summoned his courage and called out to him.

"Draco."

Draco stopped and turned around. In the slanting afternoon sun, his skin appeared almost translucent, his platinum-blond hair haloed with a faint glow. There was a hint of inquiry in his silver-grey eyes, his brow slightly furrowed. He looked like a young nobleman stepped out of a classical oil painting—beautiful and unreal.

Harry took a deep breath and walked forward until there was only an arm’s length between them.

"I know you don’t like it here," Harry began, his voice a bit dry from nervousness. "To be honest, I don’t like it either. There are too many bad memories here… yours, and mine."

Draco’s gaze flickered, his pupils seeming to contract slightly, but he didn’t speak, waiting quietly for Harry to continue.

"But I came back with you today," Harry said, looking into his eyes with all the sincerity he could summon, "to tell you that I want to be with you—here—to create a brand-new, good memory that belongs only to us. One good enough to cover all the shadows of the past."

From his pocket, he carefully took out the velvet box, now nearly soaked with sweat from his hand. His hand was trembling slightly, barely able to hold the tiny case. He clumsily opened it. The hinge gave a soft click as the box was presented to Draco.

Inside, a ring lay quietly. Its design was simple, with no unnecessary embellishments—just a smooth metal band that gleamed softly in the sunlight. But on the inside, Harry had asked the jeweler to inlay a tiny emerald, cut in the shape of a lightning bolt: green for Slytherin, and the lightning bolt for himself.

"So, Draco Malfoy," Harry's voice shook without him realizing it, "will you marry me? Let the Potter name become a part of this manor’s history, and change it forever."

The air seemed to freeze in that moment—even the wind stopped.

Draco stared at the ring, eyes wide, pupils dilated in shock. In those silver-grey eyes, Harry saw raw astonishment and a flash of something close to joy—pure, unfiltered longing and hope.

Harry’s heart soared at that flicker of light. A warmth surged through his chest like sunlight breaking through cloud.

He wants it. He really wants it.

But the light lasted less than a second.

In the next moment, as if someone had flipped a switch, it vanished completely. The crack in Draco’s expression sealed shut, replaced by a coldness deeper than before. His gaze turned sharp, like a drawn blade catching the light.

Then he let out a short, strange, quiet laugh. There wasn’t a shred of joy in it—only razor-edged mockery, like glass shards scraping metal.

"Change it?" he repeated Harry’s words slowly, each syllable squeezed out like ice, every word chilling. "With what? Your status as the Saviour? Or that absurdly overflowing Gryffindor pity of yours?"

Harry reeled like he’d been punched in the chest. "I’m not—Draco, I just want—"

"You want to save me, don’t you, Potter?" Draco’s gaze snapped from the ring to Harry’s eyes, sharp as a poisoned dagger. "You want to use marriage to redeem me, the failed former Death Eater? Do you think this gesture of yours is noble? Touching?"

His voice rose, though still controlled, each word clean and cutting.

"I don’t!" Harry burst out, helpless anger rising in his throat. "I just love you! I just want to be with you!"

"Love?" Draco laughed again, harsher this time. He stepped back, widening the distance between them, as if Harry were something contagious and deadly. "You call this love? Potter, are you trying to prove how worthless I am by offering me your mercy?"

Every sentence cut into Harry like a blade.

He opened his mouth to explain, to deny, but no words came out. His mind was blank. He had never imagined Draco would see it this way. Never thought that something meant to bring joy could be twisted into—

He had only wanted to make him happy. To give him a future. To prove they could move forward.

Draco cast one last glance at the open ring box. His expression was unreadable—some complex mixture of pain, resolve, and a faint, buried trace of longing.

"Pack up your hero complex, Potter," he said, voice back to icy calm. "I don’t need your salvation."

And with that, without a backward glance, he turned and walked away—back along the gravel path, toward the cold, grand manor. His posture was flawless. His steps were steady. As if nothing had happened at all.

Harry stood alone in the manicured garden. He looked down at the softly gleaming ring in his hand. The tiny green emerald now seemed like a mocking eye, staring up at him, reflecting his own wounded face.

tbc

Chapter Text

For the two years following his first failed proposal, Mr. Harry Potter acted like a model gentleman—he never once mentioned that evening, which had been so awkward it made one wish the ground would swallow them whole.

And that pitiful ring was tossed into a safe at Grimmauld Place, left to keep company with the other “glorious traditions” of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

He even began to believe that perhaps they didn’t really need that damned certificate or a wedding. After all, they were already living like an old married couple—sharing breakfast, bickering over who forgot to turn off the fireplace, and fighting for the duvet in the same bed.

How harmonious, how mature.

How self-deceiving.

Then Scorpius was born, and everything changed.

It was a September morning in a high-end private room at St. Mungo’s, and Harry was experiencing the second time in his life that his brain had completely short-circuited.

He hadn’t slept for nearly a day and a night, yet he was in a state of euphoria akin to drinking a nearly-expired Pepper-Up Potion.

Draco was lying on a ridiculously white bed. The man who usually had every strand of hair fixed at the perfect angle with a charm now had hair so messy it looked as if a Thestral had trampled on it. He was wearing the standard-issue light blue patient robes from St. Mungo’s—probably one of the cheapest garments he had ever worn in his life.

But—

In his arms, he was holding a tiny, wrinkled baby that looked almost like a grumpy little old man. The little one was sleeping peacefully in his swaddling clothes, probably dreaming he was still in that warm, comfortable place, and not in this world full of strange noises and harsh lights.

Draco’s posture as he held the child was a bit clumsy, like a magical apprentice holding a new broomstick for the first time, utterly careful. But the way he looked at Scorpius… Merlin, those silver-grey eyes were now filled with a tenderness that could make one’s heart stop.

And so, Harry Potter’s brain once again ceased to function.

He looked at the scene—an exhausted but beautiful Draco, holding a little angel in his arms, the gentle morning light streaming through the window—and the fool he thought he had locked away broke down the door and burst out again.

“Draco…” Harry stood up, his voice as hoarse as if it had been scorched by a dragon. “Are you alright?”

Draco didn’t answer, just looked up at him.

And then, Harry’s mouth once again betrayed his reason:

“Marry me, Draco.”

The air instantly froze.

Harry knelt on one knee, his mind clouded by emotion, only able to continue digging his own grave: “Look at us, look at him… You’ve given me everything, Draco. Let’s make it official, eternal, alright?”

He looked at Draco anxiously, hoping the other man would shyly agree, or at least offer an, “You’re an idiot, but I will.”

Perhaps their long life together had given him a keen intuition, but he couldn’t have fully understood the tragedy unfolding in Draco’s mind at that moment.

He saw me like this, a voice screamed inside Draco’s head. Sweaty, weak, as pathetic as a third-year who just fell off his broom during a Quidditch match. He thinks he has to take responsibility. Bloody Gryffindors and their bloody sense of responsibility…

This twisted sense of shame corroded his reason like Basilisk venom.

“…Don’t be ridiculous, Potter.” Draco’s voice was soft, yet as cold as ice. “I… I’m tired. Stop with this nonsense, what if you wake Scorpius…”

Harry felt as if he’d been clubbed over the head by a troll—Draco hadn’t called him ‘Potter’ in a very long time.

All his passion instantly cooled. He stood there, stunned, looking at Draco’s profile, his eyes tightly shut, at the knuckles that had turned white from clenching his fist. He suddenly realised this was slightly different from the rejection two years ago—this was a deeper, almost desperate, pushing away.

Harry opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but in the end, could only sit back down in his chair in silence.

A long time later, just when Harry thought Draco had fallen fast asleep, he saw him, still holding Scorpius, shift almost imperceptibly towards Harry’s direction. The movement was minuscule, but it was enough to bring himself and little Scorpius in his swaddling clothes just a bit closer to Harry.

And so Harry understood that although Draco might have wanted him to get lost, he didn’t want him to go too far away.

After his proposal failed yet again, Harry acted like a model student—he never again brought up the sensitive word beginning with ‘M’.

Their life together was like two old trees rooted in the same patch of earth; seemingly independent, but their roots had long since become inextricably entangled beneath the soil. They raised Scorpius together, sharing all the daily trials that made new parents break down—like rock-paper-scissors battles over who had to change the nappies in the middle of the night, and arguments about “who forgot to sterilise the baby bottle.”

Draco’s magic, which had been affected by the birth, soon returned to its full strength. For Scorpius’s sake, he even started a regular exercise routine, his body becoming even stronger than before. His confidence and signature arrogance returned to his very bones, like a bespoke suit that had been freshly pressed.

Everything was wonderful, so wonderful that Harry began to believe they might really live out their entire lives just like this.

How harmonious, how modern.

It was the autumn after Scorpius’s second birthday.

Professor McGonagall invited Harry back to Hogwarts to give a guest lecture on Defence Against the Dark Arts to the seventh-year students. Harry brought Draco and little Scorpius back to the castle that had witnessed them transform from mortal enemies to beloved partners.

On the afternoon after the lecture, the sky was a blue so clear it seemed to have been magically scoured. Harry suddenly had a whim to use the Quidditch pitch.

“Of course, Potter,” Professor McGonagall said, looking at him over her square-rimmed spectacles with a knowing look in her eyes. “Take your family, have a good time.”

She clearly understood the situation better than the parties involved.

When they stood once again on that Quidditch pitch, fragrant with the scent of fresh grass, a long-lost, genuinely heart-wrenching smile appeared on Draco’s face.

“What’s this, Scarhead,” he raised an eyebrow, speaking in that lazy drawl Harry knew so well, the one that always reminded him of a cat stretching. “Want to challenge me to a match? I must remind you, you haven’t had any systematic training for many years. I won’t go easy on you just because you’re a great Auror now.”

“Anytime, Malfoy. I’m not afraid of you,” Harry replied with a grin, mimicking his tone from their school days. He temporarily settled little Scorpius on the stands, in a magical child’s seat that had been enchanted with a safety charm strong enough to withstand dragon fire, and then mounted his Firebolt.

Two twenty-five-year-old men shot into the sky like two children who had just gotten new toys.

It had been too long since they had flown together like this. The wind roared in their ears, the familiar slight vibration of the broom beneath them, and that pure joy, unadulterated by any complex emotions, returned to them. They were no longer two teenage rivals fighting to the death for House glory, but two adult wizards who had rediscovered the passion of their youth.

Draco’s flying style was still like the man himself—elegant, precise, every move a show of flair. Harry’s flying was full of wild instinct, like a hawk hunting by its nature alone. They chased, dived, and swerved in the air, like two great fools who had turned back into little boys in the sky.

Draco’s laughter was clear and unrestrained, echoing across the empty pitch.

This, Harry thought, was probably the most beautiful sound he had ever heard, more wonderful than a nightingale’s song.

After what felt like an age, following a series of dazzling aerial stunts, Harry suddenly raised his hand to signal a pause.

He hovered in the centre of the pitch, the golden goalposts gleaming behind him, his entire being gilded by the warm light of the setting sun.

Draco flew towards him on his broom, a hint of confusion on his face.

“What’s wrong, Harry?” Draco stopped in front of him, his cheeks flushed a healthy pink from the exercise, his silver-grey eyes shining as if under a Lumos charm. “Can’t keep up? Admit it, I’m still better than you.”

“Yes, you’ve always been the more talented Seeker,” Harry said, unexpectedly.

Draco was stunned, clearly not expecting Harry to say that.

Then, Harry pulled something out from his robes.

It wasn’t a traditional velvet ring box—that thing had already proven itself to be the chief culprit of his failed proposals.

It was a silver, exquisitely crafted replica of a Snitch, so fine one might suspect it was Goblin-made. It was the same size as a real Golden Snitch, its surface polished to a mirror-like sheen, reflecting the dazzling sunlight. But it had no wings—perhaps because the contents were too important, and he worried it might damage the treasure within if it were allowed to fly about.

“What’s this?” Draco frowned. “A Snitch that can’t fly? A cheap knock-off for Scorpius to play with?”

Even at a time like this, his sharp tongue hadn’t deserted him.

“Open it and see,” Harry said, his voice holding a gentle certainty that Draco had never heard before.

Draco reached out—his hands, calloused from brewing potions, touched the cool metal surface. The silver Snitch made a crisp click and sprang open.

Inside, nestled on a dark green velvet cushion, lay a ring.

It was the very same band that had been rejected again and again, with the small, lightning-bolt-shaped emerald set on the inside—the hapless gem that had witnessed both of Harry’s failed proposals.

Draco’s breath caught in his throat.

He snapped his head up to look at Harry. Harry was looking back at him, the smile gone from his face, replaced by an unprecedented seriousness—a mixture of deep affection, nervousness, and a do-or-die determination. Those emerald green eyes were like a deep lake, seemingly capable of pulling one’s very soul inside.

“We were rivals for seven years, Draco,” Harry began, his voice trembling slightly with emotion. “And maybe you were right. You’ve always been a more talented Seeker than me. I admit it.”

He flew a little closer, close enough to see his own clear reflection in Draco’s eyes.

“But…”

“In the most important, and the longest, chase of my life—”

“I caught you.”

Time stood still.

The sound of the wind, the shadows of the clouds, the silhouette of the distant castle—it all disappeared. In Draco’s world, there were only those green eyes and those words, which struck his soul like the most powerful of Unforgivable Curses.

“I caught you.”

It was like the declaration of a victory—the final victory in a game of chase that had lasted their entire youth. And Draco Malfoy was not some pitiful loser who had been saved.

He was the Golden Snitch—the one-of-a-kind prize that the Saviour had spent a lifetime chasing, finally held tight in the palm of his hand.

Draco stared hard at Harry, a surging tide of emotion welling up from the depths of his heart, threatening to overwhelm his vaunted reason. It took all his strength not to let the tears fall.

He looked at Harry’s stupid face, filled with nervousness and expectation, and then, in the most vicious tone he could manage, squeezed out a sentence through clenched teeth:

“…You should have caught me long ago, Potter.”

“…You slow, bloody, out-and-out Gryffindor.”

With that, he snatched the silver Snitch from Harry’s hand, snapped it shut with a click, clutched it tightly to his chest, and then kissed Harry’s lips fiercely, with a force that was almost brutal.

end

Chapter Text

That night, the last vestiges of late-summer warmth still lingered in the London air.

In the fireplace of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, green flames flared up with a whoosh and then died down. Harry Potter staggered out, a mixture of the sharp scent of Firewhisky and the smoky smell of some unknown bonfire clinging to him—he smelled as if he were wearing the entire pub.

He leaned against the cold wall, panting, his heart thumping wildly in his chest.

And it wasn’t all thanks to the alcohol.

Just an hour ago, he and Draco Malfoy had been at loggerheads in the noisiest corner of the Leaky Cauldron. The cause of the argument was ridiculously stupid—escalating from whether the latest fireworks from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes were toeing the line of Dark Magic all the way to the incredibly childish topic of who was the best Seeker of their year.

In the end, Draco’s disdainful, mocking eye-roll completely set Harry off. He didn’t know what possessed him, but he grabbed Draco’s wrist and, with a Side-Along Apparition, dragged him to a deserted Quidditch practice pitch on the outskirts of London.

Then, like two sixteen-year-old idiots bursting with hormones, they had a completely lawless flying race under the moonlight.

No Golden Snitch, no points, not even a referee. Just pure speed, skill, and an adrenaline rush. They chased each other, collided with each other, and sabotaged each other with ridiculously childish jinxes, finally collapsing onto the soft grass in a fit of foolish laughter, utterly exhausted.

It had been a very, very long time since Harry had been this happy.

In the years after the war, wearing the hat of “the Saviour,” he had entered the Ministry of Magic like a well-controlled puppet, become an Auror, and served as the epitome of justice day in and day out. Everyone said he was doing a great job, but he knew in his heart that a part of him had died in that damned war.

Until tonight.

Until he saw Draco’s face—usually as pale as a vampire’s—flushed from the exertion under the moonlight; until he heard Draco let out, not a sneer, but a genuinely bright, clear laugh.

Harry lay on the hard single bed in Grimmauld Place, the drowsiness from the alcohol and the night breeze gradually washing over him, but his heart still couldn’t settle.

He was twenty years old now, no longer a greenhorn who would lose a whole night’s sleep over a small flutter of emotion. He knew exactly what this feeling meant.

To be honest, he hadn’t hated Malfoy for a long time. During those days when they were forced to tidy up the post-war mess together, during those mornings when they ran into each other in the same coffee shop, a certain indescribable sentiment had already quietly sprouted in a corner he hadn’t noticed.

And tonight, that damned seed—nourished by moonlight, alcohol, and sweat—had finally broken through the soil.

He had completely and hopelessly fallen for Draco Malfoy.

Harry turned over, using his arm as a pillow, and stared at the ceiling in the darkness.

I can’t drag this out any longer, he thought. I’ve already missed too much.

This time, he would take the initiative.

He made up his mind. The next time they met—no, as soon as he sobered up, he would go and find Draco. He would pursue him with the most sincere, direct, and clumsy Gryffindor method possible.

With this belated but firm resolve, Harry fell into a deep sleep.

He felt as if he slept for a very, very long time, like sinking into a warm, viscous, boundless sea.

After an unknown span, a persistent, excruciating headache—like an ice pick—drove into his skull, determined to drag him out of that darkness.

He groaned, his eyelids as heavy as lead. After tremendous effort, he forced them open a crack.

Everything before him was a blur, light and colour smeared into a shaky water-colour painting.

Merlin, where am I… wait… glasses. Where are my glasses?

Harry groped along the bedside, his movements as slow as a rusty robot. Finally, his fingertips brushed familiar cool frames, and he fumbled them on.

The world snapped into focus—

—and instantly became… completely unfamiliar.

This was definitely not his bedroom in Grimmauld Place. Above him was a glaring white ceiling, and the air reeked of disinfectant. He was lying on a stiff hospital bed, covered with a ghastly white blanket.

Someone was sitting by the bed.

He squinted, trying to see clearly.

It was the person he most wanted to see at this moment, yet the person who should least be here.

Draco Malfoy.

He was dressed in impeccably tailored black robes, his platinum-blond hair flawlessly combed. He was just sitting there quietly, but Harry sensed something was wrong. Draco’s silver-grey eyes—usually cold as ice—were red and swollen. It was obvious he had been crying not long ago.

Yet beneath the lingering sorrow burned a sharper emotion. He just stared at Harry expressionlessly, his gaze so cold it could freeze water.

Harry’s heart unhelpfully skipped a beat.

“Malfoy?” He began, his own voice so hoarse it startled him. “I… where is this?”

Draco’s reddened eyes bored into him; he didn’t answer at once.

“St Mungo’s,” he said at last.

“…St Mungo’s?” Harry’s head throbbed even harder. “But—how did I end up in hospital? I remember clearly falling asleep at home last night…” He tried to sit up; his skull felt like it would split. “What happened to me? Am I ill? Injured?”

“It seems they were right. You really don’t remember,” Draco said, his tone unreadable.

“Remember what?” Harry shook his head in confusion, immediately regretting it—he could almost feel his brain sloshing. “I only remember… last night we were drinking at the Leaky Cauldron, then we went to that abandoned Quidditch pitch… and then I went home to sleep…”

“Last night?” Draco finally spoke again, voice even rougher. “You remember last night? Then do you know what day it is today, Potter?”

“What day?” Harry was baffled. He thought for a moment. “June… twenty-third? Maybe the twenty-fourth? I’m not sure, but it should be June 2000…”

Draco stared at him for a long time, an extremely complex expression slowly surfacing—a mix of sarcasm, pain, and something else.

“It’s 2010, Potter,” he said, enunciating each word. “September 22nd, 2010.”

“What?” Harry thought he’d misheard and let out a shaky laugh. “2010? Are you joking, Malfoy? It’s clearly 2000; I just turned twenty—”

“Indeed,” Draco nodded, expression unchanging. “We’re both thirty. And you, Harry Potter, lost the memory of the entire past decade this morning in an unexpected magical explosion.”

The smile froze on Harry’s face.

A chill shot from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. He tried to sit up fully despite the pain.

“Ten years? Amnesia?” His voice rose. “Impossible! What about my job? My friends? Ron and Hermione—where are they?”

“Weasley’s tied up with a difficult case, and Granger is abroad at a conference,” Draco replied coolly. “As for your job… you’re still an Auror. You have been for the past ten years.”

“Then… what have I been doing these ten years?” Harry’s voice trembled. “Where do I live? Do I still stay at Grimmauld Place? Do I have… a girlfriend? Or a boyfriend? Do I—”

He stopped, because Draco’s face had gone even paler.

“None of that matters,” Draco cut him off, voice like ice. “What matters is you forgot. You’ve erased the last three-thousand-plus days and nights.”

Harry reeled. A whole decade—gone.

He scrabbled for memories, but found nothing but pain. The last clear image was of him in bed at Grimmauld Place, deciding to pursue Draco—and then nothing.

Wait. Draco.

He looked at the blond man beside the bed, a flicker of hope kindling in his green eyes. If Draco was here, looking this miserable…

“Malfoy—no, Draco,” he ventured, hope bleeding into his tone. “What… what are we now?”

Draco was silent for a long time.

Just when Harry couldn’t bear the quiet any longer, Draco spoke. Each word was a blade of ice.

“You and me?” He curved his mouth into a bitter smirk. “We’re friends, Potter. Nothing more.”

Harry’s eyes widened, disbelief creeping in.

“Is… is that true?” The doubt slipped out before he could stop it.

“Why shouldn’t it be?” Draco sneered. “Do you want the details? Fine—during the decade you forgot, I got married.”

Harry’s ears rang.

“Not only married,” Draco went on mercilessly, “I also have a son. My son with my husband.”

Harry could hardly breathe.

“As for why I’m here,” Draco added, twisting the knife, “when the Ministry couldn’t reach your relatives, Weasley was tied up, Granger was abroad, so the Healers rang your emergency contacts—me.”

“I’m just here, as your friend, to break the bad news.”

Harry frowned; the blinding white walls, the stench of disinfectant, and Draco’s face—so close yet separated by a whole galaxy—twisted before his eyes into dizzying swirls of colour.

Married. A son. Just friends.

Each word was a hammer, smashing to pieces the hopeful, courageous resolve he’d made the night before.

Only a few hours ago—or so it felt—he’d been lying in bed like a fool, tossing and turning over a belated crush at twenty, naively plotting how to pursue the prat.

Now reality had slapped him hard—three-thousand-plus days and nights. Enough time for someone to fall in love, marry, have a child, build an entire family.

A nauseating bitterness surged from his throat to his stomach; he nearly vomited on the spot.

He’d lost—utterly and cluelessly, without even a consolation prize.

But…

Wait.

Harry forced himself to yank a shred of reason—his Auror’s instinct—out of the rubbish heap of emotion.

Something was off.

If they were really “just friends,” why were Draco’s eyes that red? That was no mere friendly sympathy.

Harry had seen true sympathy—Ron and Hermione had shown him enough of it for a lifetime.

Whatever was on Draco’s face now was clearly not that.

And his tone… the anger lurking in it wasn’t aimed at the amnesia but at Harry himself.

It felt like… like a betrayed lover lashing out.

A completely mad notion streaked through his muddled mind: in the ten forgotten years, had they been… something? Then split? Was that why Draco hated him? Or had Harry chased him for a decade, driving him to marry and have a child, and now Draco had finally had enough?

Each possibility was more humiliating than the last, making him want to sink into the floor.

“…You,” Draco’s frosty voice cut through his thoughts, “what do you intend to do? Stay here and let the Healers treat you like a guinea-pig, or be discharged?”

Discharged.

Harry grabbed the lifeline at once. He didn’t want another minute here. He needed to get back to his own place—12 Grimmauld Place—lick his wounds in private, then figure out what idiocy he’d got up to over the past decade.

“I’m leaving,” he croaked, voice as dry as sandpaper.

Draco seemed unsurprised. He merely nodded and stood. “I’ll handle the paperwork.” Without a backward glance he strode away.

A thirty-year-old Draco worked with terrifying efficiency.

In less than half an hour Harry was dressed and standing before the St Mungo’s fireplace.

Draco handed him a pinch of Floo powder, curt as ever. “Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.”

Harry took it, looked at Draco’s impassive face, and couldn’t stop himself: “Aren’t you… going home? Your… husband and child…”

Draco’s gaze turned razor-sharp. He stared at Harry, each word cold enough to drop icicles. “My private life is none of your concern, friend, Potter.”

With that, he flung a handful of Floo powder and vanished in emerald flames.

Harry felt another stab of pain. He drew a deep breath and stepped into the hearth after him.

When he tumbled out of the familiar grate at Grimmauld Place, he was stunned.

Was this really Grimmauld Place?

In his memory it was forever gloomy: portraits of mad Blacks, dust thick as fog, a lingering scent of despair. After Sirius’s death it had felt like a tomb he merely slept in.

But before him lay an entirely different world.

The walls were warm cream; ancient dark-wood floors gleamed mirror-bright, reflecting sunlight pouring through windows that had been magically enlarged. The ghastly portraits were gone, replaced by vivid landscapes. The air held no dust, only a faint, familiar fragrance—high-grade potions mixed with lemongrass: Draco’s scent.

A tiny toy broom lay abandoned beside the sofa.

This wasn’t a tomb. It was a… home.

Still reeling, Harry barely noticed Draco striding over, instinctively slipping a steadying hand beneath his arm.

“Your room’s upstairs. The Healer said you need rest.” The voice remained cold, yet the grip was steady.

Half-supported, half-dragged up the stairs, Harry saw that even the snarling snake-heads on the banister were draped with sparkling star ornaments.

Who did all this?

Draco pushed open the master bedroom door and eased him onto a large bed made with dark-green sheets, then began tidying with unnerving competence.

A flick of his wand set the jug on the bedside table to pour perfectly warm water; he adjusted the curtains to admit gentle light and dimmed the bedside lamp to a soft glow.

Every movement spoke of bone-deep familiarity with the room—and with Harry.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Harry felt questions pile up to bursting.

Was this really something “just friends” did?

But he dared not ask.

Right now Draco was a ticking bomb, and Harry refused to touch the fuse.

He could only watch as Draco finished, then settled into the single armchair by the window, opened a book, and read silently.

Time slipped by; the golden sunlight shifted to warm orange-red.

Dusk arrived.

Draco still hadn’t left.

Harry finally broke. He needed to be alone to process.

“…Malfoy,” he ventured, terrified of treading on a mine, “it’s getting dark. Don’t you… need to go home? I’ll manage.”

Draco slowly lifted his gaze.

He didn’t answer at once, just stared, silver-grey eyes deep as the sea, unreadable.

At last he spoke.

“Home?” he echoed softly, then, in a frighteningly calm voice, “This is my home, Potter.”

Harry’s brain crashed.

“Wh-what do you mean?”

Draco closed his book and stepped to the bedside. Looking down at Harry’s stunned face, he extended a long finger and pointed to the neat, empty half of the bed.

“It means,” he said, voice eerily steady, “I sleep here.”

Harry followed the finger, then snapped his gaze back up.

An absurd, bizarre, terrifying yet all-explaining thought struck like lightning.

Draco was married, had a child—yet lived with him, his friend, sleeping in the same bed?

In a flash of dreadful clarity, Harry Potter—Saviour, top Auror—finally put the scrambled pieces together and reached a conclusion that made him wish the floor would swallow him whole—

He was the other man.

tbc