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Chapter Text

The black-tiled corridors of the Ministry narrowed to a single wooden door with a silver handle. The tiles gleamed faintly under the flicker of enchanted lamps, their light sickly and uneven, casting long, restless shadows that crawled across the floor. The air was heavy with the scent of old parchment and damp stone, the kind that clung to your throat no matter how shallowly you breathed. Every step echoed - sharp, hollow - as if the walls themselves were listening.

Behind that door, one must wait until an Auror opens it from the inside and calls a name to the stand. The door creaks every time it moves, its hinges groaning like something ancient and tired. Names echo down the corridor every few minutes; some hearings drag for hours, others end before one can blink. Between each, silence settles again - thick and watchful. You wait until the door opens for you. No other way.

The hearing had already been rescheduled three times in the last week. That was why mother and son had arrived at the Ministry before dawn, when the hallways were still steeped in a blue-grey gloom and the only sound was the soft buzz of the lamps awakening. They stood waiting in the dim corridor in case fate decided to move things again.

The air around them felt colder than it should have been, the kind of chill that creeps through robes and into bone. Somewhere far above, the faint metallic clang of enchanted gears echoed - the Ministry's timekeepers turning over another uncertain hour.

The mother had not once hunched from tiredness, although standing on her feet for four hours, she kept her chin up and her hand not once leaving her child's. The faint ache in her back does not show on her face; the lines around her eyes are soft, not weary. Her skin carries the pale sheen of sleepless nights, but her poise is unbroken. The dim corridor light flickers against the smooth fabric of her robes, black as midnight, absorbing the weak glow of the sconces. Wearing black as a sign of modesty and no jewellery apart from the heirloom ring on her middle finger, one from her ladyhood family, she stands out from how she was once perceived. The ring glints when the light catches it - the last trace of a vanished world. Now stripped of favours and glaze, she is bare. She came here today as a mother, not as a dark witch, nor the wife of a Death Eater.

The hand she holds is paler than hers, the skin cool and dry. Around his wrist a thin silver-streaked bracelet, and a ring with his family's crescent and initials carved in it, one repurposed from a silver metal wax seal. The edges are worn smooth from years of fidgeting, a habit he hasn't shaken from his restless fingers. Alike his mother, he stands straight, chin up, and in modesty, fashioning a completely black suit and, as always, neatly styled white-blonde hair. Beneath the placid surface, a pulse beats in his throat - a betraying rhythm of nerves.

The silence between them is thick, broken only by the echo of distant footsteps and the slow hum of the enchanted lamps above. While they wait there forever for Theodore Nott's trials to finish, a loud crowd can be heard approaching the corridor next to theirs. The sound rises - shoes clattering, voices blending in a swarm of agitation. Quills scratch against parchment, camera shutters click like mechanical insects, and the sudden flare of flash powder briefly paints the walls white. Mother and son both lift their heads, though neither speaks, as the noise rolls closer - a storm gathering behind stone walls.

"Mr. Potter, any words for The Daily Prophet regarding the trials of the upcoming pureblood families scheduled for today?"-One reporter asks while a bunch of others follow at his tail through the narrow corridors and, in a cacophony, ask their own questions.

"Please, Mr. Potter, is there anything to the public about these trials to be conducted for The Weekly newspaper?"-A woman with a thin voice said from behind him, while the unweavering man managed to get away and disappear behind the other door without giving even a look at them.

Two Unspeakables appear through the same door he went through to urge them away.-"This is no place for rogue reporters."

Mother and son witness this moment and are soon the target of the reporters, who take quick action and steal a picture or two from them before the two Unspeakables drag them away with force. The flashes sting the boy's eyes, leaving white ghosts swimming in his vision. The scent of burning powder and inked parchment lingers in the air, acrid and heavy, while shouted questions blur together into meaningless noise. The mother's fingers tighten slightly on her son's hand, her composure unbroken even under the glare of a dozen enchanted lenses.

The boy sighs and checks the timekeeper. The hearing was supposed to begin by now. The clock's thin silver hand ticks in a slow, merciless rhythm, echoing through the corridor like a heartbeat that refuses to hurry.

The door opens just as he thinks that.-"Narcissa Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, present?"-An Auror peeks his head through the door.

"Here."-She voices, slowly letting go of her son's hand and walking inside the round hearing room first.

"Here."-Says the boy and walks inside behind his mother.

Theodore Nott is being escorted out by two Aurors, and he is screaming and yelling to be freed. His voice bounces off the marble walls before fading down the corridor. A final echo, then silence. He is no longer in earshot and has passed through the red door - the door to Azkaban. The sound of it closing rings heavy, like a sentence sealing shut. Two chairs are conjured for them to sit, their legs scraping faintly against the stone floor.

Amelia Bones stands in the higher-position chair, rearranging her paperwork on the mother and son. She pauses, taking a steadying breath before the next trial. The parchment rustles crisply under her fingers. Between one accused and the next, she allows herself a moment of weariness. John Dawlish, the Auror beside her, leans in and whispers something low, his voice a soft vibration against the murmur of the courtroom.

She then quickly, without hiding, looks across the room, and her eyes in the crowd of jurors meet those of Harry Potter. The faint lamplight catches the edge of his glasses as he lifts his gaze toward her. There's no signal, no gesture, just that one measured glance, a shared understanding between two people who have seen too much.

Draco sees them from his seated position in the middle of the room. He notices them exchange looks and nod at each other from afar. A quiet understanding between them. The sight stirs something he can't name - confusion, maybe, or resentment - though his face gives nothing away.

An enchanted typewriter sits a few steps beneath the stand from which Amelia Bones speaks. It ticks faintly, waiting. The moment she begins to talk, it springs to life, clacking out every word, every pause, every note of judgment. Its keys strike with sharp precision, echoing through the chamber like the heartbeat of the law itself.

"The Defendant Narcissa Malfoy."-Ms. Bones calls out, and the chamber goes silent from all the small chatter being made from the audience to the reporters, jury, and the judges.

"That is me, yes."-Narcissa bows her head in acknowledgement. Her eyes quickly glance at those of Harry Potters on the jury stands. He nods at her, not looking at Draco Malfoy yet. He has not glanced at him once upon arrival.

"The prosecutor on your case today is going to be a close family source that has presented us with some files to look through and debunk together."-Ms. Bones announces to everyone.-"Mr. Harry Potter themselves will be your Defence and Witness."

This is the first time since the war ended that Draco sees Harry in person. A year has passed, yet the sight of him feels both distant and startlingly familiar. He is now an Auror in training - all grown up, though not quite twenty, the crisp uniform adds years to his frame, lending him an air of quiet authority that seems almost unnatural for someone who once stood in school robes across a battlefield.

Harry stands up for a curtsy to the room, and then sits back down. The movement is controlled, practised. His unbroken character holds perfectly, every inch of him composed. But his eyes tell another story - tired, ringed with sleeplessness, shadows like bruises beneath them. His skin is pale, almost translucent under the enchanted lights, and it throws the red lightning scar on his forehead into sharp contrast. His hair remains the same - untamed, refusing order no matter how he tries - and his expression, though polite, is quietly exhausted.

He offers a soft smile to the room, the kind that carries no joy but enough civility to keep others at ease.-"Thank you, Ms. Bones."-He thanks and sits. The sound of his voice, though steady, feels different to Draco now - lower, more measured - the voice of someone who has seen far too much for his years.

"Let this hearing begin."-She announces, and the typing machine has already finished the first page of the introduction.-"Narcissa Malfoy-Black, a British pure-blood witch and a member of the noble House of Black. She is the youngest daughter of Cygnus and Druella Black and the younger sister of the convicted Bellatrix Lestrange and innocent witch Andromeda Tonks. She married Lucius Malfoy and they had a son: Draco Malfoy."-She speaks, reading from the files on hand, glasses held low on the bridge of her nose.

Narcissa confirms.

"Although never officially a Death Eater herself, Narcissa believed in the importance of blood purity and supported her husband in following Lord Voldemort during the First and Second Wizarding Wars. This changed, however, when her husband was incarcerated in Azkaban and her son's life was put in jeopardy by Voldemort. Is that correct?"-She asks at the end of the statement.

"Yes."-Narcissa confirms with her head held up.

"Your stance on blood purity has sparked controversy many times."-She starts her other claim again.-"Mrs. Malfoy was described to us as a staunch supporter of blood purity. She is a member of the 'Sacred Twenty-Eight', and for all those unfamiliar with it, it's a list of pure-blood wizarding families, and she held zealous beliefs in the Death Eater ideology. Like many in her family, Narcissa had no affection for those deemed 'blood traitors' who did not uphold the same prejudiced values."

"Objection, your honour."-Harry Potter lifts a hand to indicate a counterpoint.

"Yes, Mr. Potter, you may answer."-Amelia agrees as the typewriter writes everything beneath her.

"The phrasing is designed to provoke a negative emotional reaction rather than establish a fact. You can't testify about what she feels unless you have direct evidence."-Harry defends in a firm tone, it sounds almost rehearsed, like something he read from a card Hermione would prepare for him.

'Good job, Potter, you have done your amateur law reading.'- Draco thinks, a faint curl of disdain ghosting at the corner of his mouth. The words sound rehearsed, something plucked from a book rather than lived experience. Yet beneath his annoyance, a reluctant spark of hope lingers. Ms. Bones had been pressing harshly, but Potter - the golden boy, the Ministry's new favourite - had cut through her accusations with poise and calm authority.

He studies him from across the chamber. The uniform fits him too well, the quiet confidence in his voice commanding even the hardest faces in the jury. It's infuriating, how naturally it comes to him, this ability to win people over - even now, even here, defending his mother. Still, Draco cannot deny the relief tightening his chest. If anyone could make them listen, it would be Harry Potter, the saviour everyone still adored. And for once, Draco is grateful that the world does.

"Alright, moving on."-Ms. Bones continued.-"You have claimed that under your husband's orders, you have accepted in your manor a certain group of people, current residence on Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire - Registered ancestral estate of the Malfoy family since the late 11th century. This set of people includes Voldemort himself, his right hand, Peter Pettigrew, Antonin Dolohov, Yaxley, a high-ranked Death Eater, Alecto & Amycus Carrow, and your Death Eater sister, Bellatrix Lestrange. Do you confirm?"

"Yes, for which crimes my husband has already confessed as one-sided."-Narcissa defends herself, her confidence regained.

"Correct, on a previous statement, Lucius Malfoy has already admitted to his crimes, which have not included you in any of his statements."-Ms. Bones admits.-"Last statements, in fear of future evil doing and plotting against the wizarding society to harm and to tarnish our society, to prove your innocence Mr. Harry Potter has presented us a statement completed with a pensive memory from your encounter at the Forbidden Forest of Hogwarts, at the time of the Second battle last year, where you came to his defense at a very crucial moment, for not only him, but the entire wizarding world..."-She now has a smile of gratitude, different from the previous stern look during statements.-"A noble sacrifice as a mother, as Harry Potter has called it on his statement."-She looks at him across from her proudly.

The chamber falls into a reverent silence. The soft hum of the enchanted typewriter is the only sound as the memory begins to play, flickering like light through smoke. Draco Malfoy looks at his mother, the flicker of the memory reflecting in her pale eyes. He had not known - until now - that it had been her quiet defiance, her whispered lie, that had saved the Boy Who Lived. That her choice to save him, had also saved the world.

He feels something twist in his chest, a mix of pride and guilt. His mother, always the picture of composure, sits perfectly still, her hands folded neatly in her lap. To anyone else, she looks serene, but Draco can see the faint tremor in her fingers. She has always been a secretive woman, calm like a lake on a midsummer night - deep, still, hiding storms beneath the surface.

He glances across the room toward Harry Potter, who sits on the jury stand with his head slightly bowed, the faintest furrow between his brows. Potter hasn't looked his way once. Not once since the trial began. His face is unreadable - stoic, distant - but Draco wonders if he feels anything at all while watching this unfold. The hero and the condemned, bound again by something neither of them had chosen.

Draco lowers his gaze, unsure whether to thank him - or resent him all over again.

"With that being said. The jury will decide in favour."-She gives a moment for the jury to deliberate. The chamber holds its breath, the soft rustle of robes and the faint scratch of quills the only sounds.

"Those in favour."-She lifts her hand alongside most of the hall. A wave of assent washes over the room, murmurs of quiet agreement rolling like gentle wind through the benches.

"Those not in favour."-Very few hands rise, hesitant, trembling. Witches and wizards still angered by purebloods, their resentment worn like armour, now turning themselves into the classicists they once despised.

Amelia Bones slams her gavel with a resonant crack.-"The verdict has been concluded. Narcissa Malfoy has been dropped of all charges and is deemed a free witch."

Relief blooms in Draco's chest, brief and fleeting. His gaze meets his mother's, and for the first time today, he allows himself the smallest smile. But it fades as he realises what comes next - he is now the defendant, poised before Amelia and her towering mountain of paperwork, with no defence or witness to shield him.

"Order."-She calls, her voice slicing through the murmurs like a knife.-"Without further delay, we must begin our second trial on the defendant, former Death Eater, Draco Lucius Malfoy."

A collective gasp ripples through the room, as though everyone has just noticed him for the first time. Not a good start, he thinks, a faint weight settling in his chest.

He straightens by command, shoulders back, chin raised. On the surface, he looks calm and relaxed; every movement measured. One would think he has nothing to fear. But beneath the controlled exterior, his heart hammers, and the air in the chamber feels heavier with each tick of the enchanted typewriter.

"Correct, that is me."-Draco responds in a polite tone, bowing his head in a curtsy. It does not matter what his verdict is; his mother has been cleared of her name, and that is all he had wanted.

Amelia sighs, while the typewriter pauses for a moment, its familiar clicking silence almost deafening in the courtroom.-"Prosecutors are a close source to your family, who have presented us with a hefty file. Unfortunately, a defendant or witness has not been acquired from you...and...-"

Just as she is about to continue, Harry Potter rises from his seat. The light in the room seems to shift subtly, falling over him as if drawn by some unseen hand. His posture is straight, commanding yet tranquil, a subtle aura of authority and protection surrounding him. He carries the file with steady hands, the motion smooth and deliberate, almost ceremonial. There is a saviour's weight in the tilt of his shoulders, the lift of his chin, the quiet certainty in his gaze.

"I would like to present a file as defendant and witness for Draco Malfoy."-He states clearly, voice quiet but resolute, as the file is summoned from Amelia to her stand. The courtroom erupts into gasps and murmurs, the collective shock of the jury, spectators, and Aurors vibrating through the hall.

"Thank you."-He adds, sitting back down with quiet dignity, never once looking at Draco Malfoy, yet carrying the unmistakable sense that he alone could shift the entire trial in Draco's favour.

Draco is stunned, frozen mid-breath, his mind struggling to process what just happened. His mother's eyes glimmer with hope and awe. She leans slightly toward him, whispering more to herself than to her son.-"He saves my son one more time."

"Thank you, Mr. Potter."-Ms. Bones takes a careful look through the paperwork.-"This is a serious job, Mr. Potter. Thanks again. Let the hearing begin."

Draco, from time to time, glances back at Harry Potter, searching for even a flicker of acknowledgement, a brief exchange of eyes - but he never does. Harry sits composed, poised, and impenetrable, as if the weight of the trial itself bends to his composure.

The words start to hit him as the accusations are read aloud.

"Draco Lucius Malfoy, born on 5 June, is a British pure-blood wizard and the only son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy-Black. The son of a Death Eater, Draco was raised to strongly believe in the importance of blood purity. He looked down on half-bloods and Muggle-borns."-The voice cuts through the air, each syllable like ink spilt over the parchment of his life.

Draco swallows hard. My life, he thinks, condensed into a few simple lines on a sheet of paper. His childhood, his fears, his mistakes, his small rebellions - all reduced to sentences, sterile and flat, as if the weight of memory and experience could be measured in bullet points. The laughter of his youth, the hidden panic of his first encounters with the Dark Lord, the secret choices he made - all distilled into something someone else can read and judge.

Harry rises.-"Objection, your honor."-He says firmly, breaking Draco's spiralling thoughts.

Amelia nods as the typewriter pauses its mechanical scratching.

"The statement seems aimed at stirring emotions rather than presenting clear facts. It's important to remember that without concrete evidence, we cannot judge a young man's character or assume he hasn't changed. Everyone deserves the opportunity to demonstrate growth and prove who they truly are today, at this moment."-Harry's words are measured, kind yet unwavering, a shield against the weight of the written accusation.

Amelia nods approvingly.-"Thank you, Mr. Potter, moving on. Draco attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He was sorted into Slytherin House. During his years at Hogwarts, he became friends with Vincent from the Death Eater family of Crabbe, Gregory of the Death Eater family of Goyle, and other fellow Slytherins, unconfirmed of whose alliances."-She pauses, glancing at Harry as if expecting another objection. When none comes, she continues.-"The Malfoys were very proud of their Pure-blood and social status; until 1996, they were able to maintain a respectable public image while being allied with Lord Voldemort. Lucius was a Death Eater who avoided imprisonment in Azkaban following the First Wizarding War by claiming that he had been under the Imperius Curse, while Narcissa merely agreed with the ideology of pure-blood supremacy. Can you confirm so far?"

"Correct."-Draco says, voice steady, though inside, a storm of resentment, relief, and uncertainty churns. Every word feels like both a trap and a lifeline.

"Thanks."-The whole place has gone silent once she stops.-"In his childhood, Draco Malfoy associated mainly with the pure-blood children of his father's ex-Death Eater cronies and therefore arrived at Hogwarts with a small gang of friends already made, including Theodore Nott, who was just sentenced to life imprisonment, and Vincent Crabbe, also facing charges for his family's involvement with the dark side. Can you...-"-Before she can end her sentence, Harry's hand is up again in objection.

"Sorry, your honour, objection. Irrelevance."-He says all in one breath.

"Sure, please, go ahead."-She states, now clearly annoyed.

"One's true character and nature cannot be accurately judged solely based on the individuals with whom they are associated, as personal identity is shaped by a multitude of factors beyond mere companionship or association."-Harry states and sits back down once again.

Draco Malfoy has imagined every outcome today, yet this one has not been in any of them. The courtroom's air feels heavier, charged with disbelief and anticipation. He had not imagined Harry rising, file in hand, standing like a silent saviour under the pale glow of enchanted lamps, light seeming to shine only upon him. He had not imagined the jury's gasps, the murmured astonishment, or the collective tension that turns breath to stone.

Amelia now understands that Harry Potter will not back down on this case, and proceeds a bit lighter.-"Draco Malfoy resonated as a good student in school on top of each class. Later, he was made a Prefect of his house and was a member of the Inquisitorial Squad during his fifth year. At the end of which, his father was imprisoned in Azkaban following the Battle of the Department of Mysteries. Lord Voldemort charged Draco with making up for Lucius's failure, and he became a Death Eater and was given a task of killing the headmaster of the school at age sixteen, but quickly became disillusioned and uncomfortable with the lifestyle."

The typewriter clicks long after she has stopped to catch a breath.

"During the summer break between his fifth and sixth year, Draco questioned Borgin, the owner of Borgin and Burkes, on repairing the Vanishing cabinet and ordered him to keep the other one safe. As proof of his allegiance to Lord Voldemort, Draco showed Borgin the Dark Mark now branded on his arm whilst threatening to set Fenrir Greyback to attack the shop-owner, should he disobey his commands. This evidence has been sighted by the owner of the shop, and a memory was provided by Borgins."-She reads out the memory detail by detail for the jury.

Harry's hand is immediately up.-"I witness."-He declares out loud.-"A moment of hesitation."

The jury went silent. Draco looked at his mother, and she had a just as confused look on her face.

"Mr. Potter..."-Amelia asks, concerned, removing her glasses.-"Were you there?"

"Yes, your honour, I was following him out of curiosity."-He explains calmly and hands out a vile with a memory inside to her.

She quickly summons one of the officers.-"Take this to Laurel County, and bring us back the reading from the pensive memory."-She quickly orders him.-"Tell us about this encounter, Mr. Potter."

Harry keeps his eyes on Amelia.-"I noticed something was off with Draco Malfoy on the day before we departed for Hogwarts at Diagon Alley, so I followed him to Borgin and Burkes, where he was shown a black cabinet, and he ordered them to fix it. He does not whatsoever ever threaten anyone or order Fenrir Greyback to attack anyone. It was Fenrir who insisted that Draco show them the Death Mark to intimidate the owner, and later, he himself offers to attack them if they do not assist him. I suggest that the owner has changed the memory to resonate with what he was feeling rather than what he had seen that day. This is a common misconception when it comes to pensive memories during trials."

Just as Harry finishes his explanation, a short silence follows, and then the officer from the Laurels office comes back with the sheet of readings.

Amelia reads through them aloud, and it is word-for-word what Harry had claimed.-"Thank you, Mr. Potter, again. We may continue."

Draco has not had to defend himself, not even once yet. Every accusation, every insinuation, every thinly veiled judgment has been intercepted, addressed, and dismantled by Harry Potter before it could even reach him.

He sits rigid in his chair, a curious mix of relief and disbelief twisting in his chest. The trial unfolds around him, voices rising and falling, the typewriter's rhythmic clicking punctuating each statement, yet he feels almost removed from it all.

"Eventually, Draco managed to repair the Vanishing Cabinet and used it to let at least six Death Eaters into the castle: Corban Yaxley, Alecto Carrow, Amycus Carrow, Gibbon, Thorfinn Rowle, and the vicious werewolf Fenrir Greyback. Proceeding to the top of the Astronomy Tower, Draco was able to corner a significantly weaker Dumbledore, disarming the latter the same instant he had, unknown to Draco, bound Harry Potter with a Full Body-Bind Curse, and witnessing the moment. It was also at the moment when he disarmed Dumbledore that he unknowingly gained the allegiance of the Elder Wand, one of the three Deathly Hallows. This is what Mr. Potter has signed on his claim, his prepared file. Do we have proof of hesitation on killing Albus Dumbledore?"

The audience gasps again when the artefacts are mentioned, and so does the jury. Draco was unaware of the last fact about the Deathly Hollows.

Harry Potter gets up again, and Amelia takes her glasses off.-"I can provide proof of hesitation, as I was there to witness the crime that took place, alongside with the plan that was made behind his back, where Serverus Snape was asked by none other then Albus Dumbledore themselves, who had only a few months left to live, to be killed by him and save the boy."-Harry provides two viles of memories to Amelia this time.

She gives them back to the officer to take them to Laurel for readings.

Draco has not been able to catch a glance at Harry Potter yet. This trial is purely his duty, it seems like.

The readings come back, and the last of his information has been debunked. Amelia reads it aloud, and it matches the description.-"Moving on, last accused. Draco Malfoy attended his seventh year of Hogwarts. During the Easter holidays, Draco was seen at home in Malfoy Manor. He was called upon by his parents and Aunt Bellatrix Lestrange to confirm the identities of Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who were caught by a group of Snatchers led by Fenrir Greyback, but Draco showed great hesitation in doing so. Can Harry Potter confirm?"-Amelia no longer asked Draco but referred directly to Harry.

Harry sits up.-"Yes, he not only showed hesitation but also covered up on my behalf. Stating it was not me."-He provides her with yet another vile memory.

"Thank you, Harry."-She speaks, now tired, giving it to the officer who had still not caught his breath from the last run to Laurel County's office.

As always, they wait for the readings to come back, and they are once again positive. She reads them out loud.-"One more tarnishing thing has been left to be mentioned, and I am afraid Mr. Potter cannot help you here...this concerns your activity as a Death Eater in torturing and killing. When Thorfinn Rowle and Antonin Dolohov failed to capture Harry, you were tasked to torture them using the unforgivable curse: Cruciatus."

The room was silent - so still that even the enchanted candles seemed to hesitate in their flicker. Draco's heartbeat filled the void between breaths. 'Maybe this is where my luck ends.' - He thought. 'It was nice while it lasted - to hear him try so restlessly to rescue me.' A weary stillness settled over him as he lowered his head, ready to face whatever sentence would follow.

But just as his gaze met the cold marble floor, a familiar voice broke through the stillness.

"Objection."-Harry's tone was sharp, unwavering, cutting through the tension like a blade.

Narcissa gasped softly, her hands clutching each other until her knuckles whitened. Then, a slow, trembling exhale escaped her lips - the kind one gives after holding their breath for far too long. Relief flickered in her eyes, fragile but real.

Amelia Bones blinked, then reached up to remove her glasses completely, folding them into their case with deliberate care.-"Yes, Mr. Potter, you may defend."

"I may witness."-Harry corrected gently, his subdued defiance echoing in the stunned silence that followed.

Gasps rippled through the courtroom. Even Draco's composure cracked - his eyes widened, disbelief painted clear across his pale face. How? The question whispered from every corner of the room, carried on the hush of astonished breath.

Harry stepped forward slightly, the faint light catching his face, outlining the scar that seemed to burn brighter in the charged air. His voice remained steady, resonant with conviction.

"Voldemort forced Draco to torture them with the Cruciatus Curse as punishment, under threat of his wrath if Draco failed to comply. I - who saw this scene via our mental link with Voldemort, which I have explained earlier in many interviews and trials - was disgusted by what the Dark Lord was forcing the young Death Eater to commit. But there had been no other choice left for him."

He paused, the silence returning, heavier than before. Then, softer but firm, he added.-"One cannot be judged from what one is forced to do."

The typewriter hesitated mid-sentence, its gears clicking once, as if even magic itself paused to absorb his words.

Amelia exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose.-"A memory, Mr. Potter?"

"Yes, here."-He replies calmly, though his eyes flicker briefly with the quick calculation of someone unprepared. He fills the vile then and there, the crystal catching the light as if aware of the weight it now carries. Despite the surprise, he had already anticipated this moment, preemptively preparing to steer the trial in Draco's favour once more.

Amelia hands the vial to the waiting officer, who bows slightly before Apparating to Laurel County with it. The seconds stretch, taut with suspense, as the courtroom waits for the return of the readings. When the officer reappears, the air seems to hum with the tension of unspoken questions, and the moment the parchment is handed back, it is almost ceremonial, the weight of proof settling like dust across the room.

"Positive."-Amelia states, reading out loud the readings to the jury just as Harry had described them.-"This concludes all charges we had to discuss. I will allow the jury to make a decision."

Draco leans slightly forward in his seat, heart hammering against his ribs. His eyes flicker toward Harry again and again, searching for even the briefest acknowledgement, a flicker of recognition, something that says 'I see you.' Just a look - one glance, one small nod, would be enough to steady him in the storm of accusations and memories laid bare in the courtroom, but it never came. Harry stood cold in the stands, to the world and to him.

"Verdict will take place. Votes of those in favour of Draco Malfoy."-Just as many hands as were raised for Narcissa were counted again. Draco's breath caught - he looked around in disbelief, the weight of the moment pressing into his ribs. He could hardly fathom what Harry Potter had just done, how effortlessly he had turned judgment into mercy.

"Those who are not in favour."-The same hands as before were raised.

Amelia hit the gavel on the desk.-"The verdict has been made, Draco Malfoy has been dropped of all charges and is now a free wizard."-She announces.-"To both of you. You have been given a second chance today. Thank you for your time."

The enchanted typewriter clattered one last time, gathering pages and sealing them into a thick, neat binder. The air in the courtroom shifted - lighter, freer, yet oddly hollow.

Harry rushes to make his way to the stands, where Amelia has already prepared Narcissa's wand to hand back to her.

Draco follows him curiously, not sure what just happened in this courtroom. His mother is holding back happy tears, and her lips are pursed into a thin line.-"My free boy."-She expresses in happiness.

At Amelia's side, Harry reached into his uniform and pulled out another wand, holding it out quietly.-"This is Draco Malfoy's. You may return it to him."-His voice was low, almost private, carrying no triumph, only calm resolve.

The wand was placed gently beside Narcissa's, a symbol of restoration, of closure. As the final signatures were made and the last parchments packed away, Harry turned to leave. A familiar fizz of hair, Hermione Granger, dressed formally, met him at the door, her hand on his arm, leading him out into the corridor.

He did not look back.

Draco watched him go, a cold ache spreading in his chest where gratitude and something unnameable twisted together. When Amelia handed him his wand, he accepted it with a quiet "Thank you" then turned to take his mother's hand. Together, they stepped toward the exit, their footsteps echoing softly on the black tile floor.

Outside, the corridor hummed with new sounds - voices, the shifting of cloaks, and somewhere nearby, Harry's voice drifting faintly from the opposite hall, caught between duty and the life that awaited beyond this trial.

"-cries kept me up all night. The trial is over, thank Merlin, she was not brought up, but as we assumed, they had something up their sleeve. Antonin Dolohov ran his mouth from Azkaban."-Harry's voice was low and strained, the exhaustion seeping through even as he tried to maintain his composure. His steps were brisk beside Hermione, who walked with her arms crossed, worry etched deep in her brow.

"As long as she does not give a statement..."-She whispered, her tone soft but sharp with caution. Her gaze lingered on him, concern softening her voice.-"When is the last time you slept, Harry? These trials are consuming you."-Her hand brushed his arm gently, a quiet gesture of grounding.

Harry exhaled through his nose, eyes shadowed beneath dark circles.-"I have four more to attend today. Had to prepare speeches and everything in a short time. These hearing dates keep changing every day."-His words carried both fatigue and resolve, the sound of someone running on sheer will.

As he turned the corner, he froze - Draco stood by the second exit, his pale figure still as marble, eyes fixed on him with a strange intensity. For a brief moment, their gazes locked.

"Potter."-Draco called, the name leaving his lips half in disbelief, half in longing.

Harry only nodded, offering a faint, polite smile toward Narcissa. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away - his stride steady, cloak trailing like a shadow of all he had carried for too long.

Granger gave a small, cordial wave toward them both before following after him, her heels tapping lightly on the polished floor.

Silence fell. Draco stood there, the echo of his own voice fading into the cold corridor. Pride fractured into confusion, gratitude twisted with something more hollow. He looked down at the wand now resting in his hand - his old wand, returned to him as if it were a memory. Why? The question lingered without answer, heavy in his chest.

"One cannot be judged from what one is forced to do."-His soft voice echoes in his mind.

Beside him, Narcissa's voice came soft and steady, the only warmth in the chill air.-"We will have time to talk once all this mess is sorted, my son."

He turned toward the corridor where Harry had gone, footsteps fading into silence...

Chapter Text

12 Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, England.

Tucked away in northwestern London, a twenty-minute walk from King's Cross Station, lies number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

Harry walks the streets in total darkness, having Apparated here a moment ago. When he has time, he enjoys taking the train back home, but tonight he is tired and late. The house is situated in a Muggle neighbourhood in London, specifically in the Borough of Islington. He has come to love the neighbourhood; from the window, all he can see are peaceful, harmless Muggles enjoying their lives.

Grimmauld is protected by a Fidelius Charm, making it invisible and inaccessible to those who don't know its location. It was originally the ancestral home of the Black family.-"It's ideal for Headquarters, of course. My father put every security measure known to wizardkind on it when he lived here. It's unplottable, so Muggles could never come and call - as if they'd ever have wanted to - and now Dumbledore's added his protection, you'd be hard put to find a safer house anywhere."- Sirius had told Harry when he came here for the first time. At this memory, he misses the old man deeply.

On the door was a silver knocker in the shape of a twisted serpent, but it had no keyhole, handle, or any other feature that would indicate it was a door, as it opened only by magic. Harry takes out his wand and taps it on the door. It opens, and a dimly lit hall is revealed.

The house that was once dark, old, and mysterious, with peeling wallpaper, threadbare carpets, and numerous portraits of Black family members, some of whom which were quite unpleasant and talk back in their intolerable ways... The halls and long staircase which also featured a chandelier, a troll leg umbrella stand, and shrunken heads of house-elves on the shelves... It has now been cleaned up for good and none of those dark and gloomy things are part of the house anymore.

The hallways are filled with boxes of things to be thrown out, the painting frames have been removed and are now sitting in the attic with the rest of the ornaments that have value but are not useful to Harry anymore.

A challenge had been to remove one of the paintings from the main entrance... Walburga Black, Sirius's mother, made her disgust of having anyone less than pureblood in her home very clear through the hostile shrieks of her portrait, which was affixed to the wall with a Permanent Sticking Charm.

He, Ron, and Hermione had had a whole day trying to figure out a way to remove the painting. Had tried every spell, had tried muggle tools, such as drills, pliers, and knives, but nothing had worked until Hermione worked out a potion to remove and melt down the entire wall alongside the painting's frame... There was now a huge hole leaking with cement dirt in the place the painting used to be... Harry has not come around to fixing it yet, nor the bathroom that stood behind the wall. Now unrecognisable for its initial purpose.

On the first floor, there are three rooms: a bedroom, now being reconstructed into a nursery; a bathroom, which still bears the hole from the melted wall; a kitchen; and, of the most significance, the drawing room, where many important conversations were held during the days the house served as Order headquarters.

The drawing room has now been restored to its former glory after a deep clean. Large windows overlook the quiet street in front of the house, letting in the soft glow of the London evening. A grand fireplace dominates the room, flanked by two ornate glass-fronted cabinets, their surfaces gleaming under the faint magical light. On the mantlepiece, pictures of the Order of the Phoenix are carefully displayed, each one holding weight beyond memory. One shows the Order gathered together during the First War and te other is more recent from before the Second War, faces tired but resolute, a testament to courage and sacrifice. Beside them is a photograph of Dumbledore’s Army, young wizards and witches standing together, some grinning, others nervous, all bound by loyalty and bravery. And there is one of Harry with Teddy, the godfather’s protective arms around the baby, a quiet emblem of family and trust in a world still healing.

The entire wall is covered with a tapestry of the Black family tree. Harry had used intricate magic to repair it, but also to add to it. Nymphadora Tonks appears in one branch, recently added to the tapestry, and under her, a baby, Edward Tonks-Lupin. Teddy was named in honour of his maternal grandfather, Edward Tonks, who had been murdered shortly before his birth. Harry Potter was named as his godfather by Remus himself. Teddy, like his mother, is a Metamorphmagus, and he did not inherit his father’s lycanthropy.

After the battle of Hogwarts, Teddy was being raised by his maternal grandmother, Andromeda, with help from his godfather, Harry, who, apart from his duties at the Ministry of Magic, had taken the role of a father very seriously. A Floo-Network connection between his house and Andromeda's has made it possible for them to share this duty easily.

Though the room mostly just needed a thorough cleaning - the curtains once crawling with doxies had been banished, fluttering faintly as if lingering in memory - the writing desk still housed a Boggart, a shadowy reminder of fears confronted long ago. In the cabinets, dark items that had belonged to Regulus Blacks intresting collection - cursed medallions, rune-carved objects, snakeskins, bottles of blood, and boxes of Wartcap powder - now rested inside glass cases, carefully displayed alongside some new, less sinister artifacts that shimmered softly in the lamplight.

Even contained, traces of the old dark magic lingered like a whisper in the corners of the room. On silver stands, five items were given prominence: a broken green locket, its edges jagged from the magic that had destroyed it; a fractured wand, once wielded in desperation; a ring missing its stone, hollow like the void it had once carried; a golden snitch, dulled from countless battles yet still gleaming faintly I open at the close; and a diary with a hole in it, empty of the malice that had once written through it.

They were displayed like trophies, each object a testament to sacrifice, courage, and the cost of victory. Once beautiful, now scarred and hollowed, they carried memories of darkness that had been conquered, a silent story of pain turned into hard-earned triumph. Even in stillness, the room spoke of battles fought, lives lost, and the fragile but enduring light that had survived them.

Harry is yet to go back and find the remains of the Ravenclaw diadem and golden Hufflepuff cup, for safekeeping purposes only.

The second floor held only a grand bedroom. Once outfitted with two twin beds and a wardrobe, the room, like the rest of the house, had been gloomy, its lofty ceilings casting shadows over corners that had not seen warmth in decades. A doorknob shaped like a serpent glinted faintly in the dim light, a remnant of the Black family’s pride. On the wall hung a portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black, though Hermione had carefully removed it, sparing the room his ever-critical gaze.

Now, under Harry’s direction, the room had been transformed into his own sanctuary. The twin beds had been removed, replaced with a single, large bed at the center of the room, its frame polished and sturdy. Though the space was still under construction in places - the floorboards creaked slightly, and patches of unfinished paint hinted at repairs still needed - it already carried a sense of home, a safe place amidst the chaos of the world outside.

The third floor told a quieter story. A mouldy cupboard, once overflowing with old broomsticks and long-forgotten appliances, had been cleared during the war by Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Now it held only Harry’s old Quidditch gear: a Nimbus Two Thousand, a battered broomstick, a few scratched Quaffles, and his worn leather gloves. Three empty bedrooms on this floor remained under renovation, silent witnesses to a household slowly waking from decades of neglect and darkness.

The topmost landing led to the fourth floor, where an attic hatch punctuated the ceiling like a small promise of hidden treasures. Only two doors interrupted the space: one leading to Sirius’s room, the other to Regulus’s. Harry could not bring himself to alter these rooms yet, and perhaps never would. With Kreacher’s help, the rooms had been straightened, dust and cobwebs banished, leaving spaces that, while empty of their former occupants, still radiated the warmth of lives once lived and memories preserved. The rooms were silent but vigilant, like old guardians, patiently waiting for the living to return and give them new purpose.

On the first floor, a bedroomhad been transformed into a small nursery. Though still missing key items such as wardrobes and cabinets, it now served as a cozy space for tiny Teddy. Soft blankets were piled neatly on a small bed, and a mobile of stars and moons hung above, swaying slightly with the draft from the open window. Kreacher had shown an unusual warmth toward the boy, his old loyalty rekindled by the continuation of the family bloodline. Though still wary and resentful of outsiders, with Andromeda’s constant presence, he had softened, becoming a surprisingly attentive servant to the household once more.

Harry looks at the time, nine o'clock, and sighs in tiredness.-"Where to begin?"-He says to himself. An hour from now, Andromeda would Floo in to drop Teddy off for the night, and he needed to get the room ready - tidying up the scattered toys, blankets, and remnants of his hurried attempts to set it right the night before. Time, as always, seemed to slip faster than he could keep up.

Having finished seven hearings at the Ministry that day, serving as both witness and defendant, and after turning his bedroom upside down the night before - books scattered across the floor, his desk overflowing with files from the day’s proceedings - Harry was bone-tired. He silently thanked Merlin that tomorrow would bring a reprieve; Mrs. Bones was out of the country on urgent matters in the United States, and no hearings were scheduled.

He first made his way to the kitchen, where the aroma of a warm meal met him. Not from Molly this time, nor from his own recent, often disastrous attempts at cooking - Kreacher had prepared it again. Harry couldn’t say he was pleased. He had tried repeatedly to free the house-elf from such duties, but Kreacher stubbornly refused, pretending not to hear, insisting he belonged to the house, not to Harry. A corner of the kitchen had been turned into a makeshift potions station, with glass vials, cauldrons, and strips of parchment stuck to the wall - Hermione’s neat handwriting outlining experiments Harry sometimes attempted when he had time. The faint smell of herbs and sizzling ingredients reminded him that even in exhaustion, the magical world never stopped buzzing around him.

Resigned, Harry ate quickly, flicking his wand to clean the dishes and left them to dry besides the sink.

When he climbed the stairs to his bedroom, his exhaustion deepened - the mess still awaited him, a chaotic reminder of yesterday’s scramble and the weight of endless responsibility pressing down on him.

"Kreacher!"-Harry calls, and he appears with a feather duster in his hand.-"Did you try to fix my room?"

He hesitates.-"I did, removed the peeling wallpaper like you had wanted, master."

"Great, please leave this to me next time, the work in the kitchen is all you may do for me."-Harry says for the millionth time to him.

Kreacher pretends not to hear and vanishes with a fake agreement.

Harry then cleans away the dust with a sweep of his wand and enchants the paint rollers. As a fan of his style at the Gryffindor dorm, he is painting the walls a deep red, with golden lines going around the room to form a simple drawing of a lion just above the missing bed frame and many other swirls and sunlike shapes throughout the room, all inspired by the dormitories he once called home.

While the walls paint themselves, Harry goes to the other side of the grand room, where a floor-to-ceiling bookcase was installed days ago, made out of oak wood with the help of Ron. A rolling ladder, having been added later for convenience, a fireplace embedded in the walls in the middle of the bookcase and in front of it, imitating the common rooms at Hogwarts, a red sofa and two armchairs the same colour have been added. When Ron and Hermione come over, they sit there, and sometimes it feels like they are back at Hogwarts, laughing without a care in the world, hearts still yearning for adventures.

There are boxes of books that Harry has boxed up when he did not have the bookcase. Now that it has been installed, he flicks his wand to open them and casts a levitation spell to move the books around.

He sits on the sofa and, one by one, unboxes each book, putting it on the respective shelf. The banned and restricted books on the far top, and his old textbooks on the bottom, everything else in between. He separates them like Hermione would, by title and category. Spells, charms, potions, biographies, herbs and plants, history, art, etc.

Having had more books than he had thought, Harry finds himself sitting on the sofa opposite the fireplace and bookcase for almost half an hour, sorting through books. Unwanted books formed a small, chaotic pile at his feet, remnants of a life no longer needed. With a final flick, he levitated the pile into a box and carried it to the corridor, feeling the quiet satisfaction of having tamed a small corner of his world.

Near the library, a wall-mounted cabinet opened to reveal a pensive—a glass-covered memory pond. It shimmered softly, the memory suspended like a small, restless creature swimming through weightless fluid. Harry knelt slightly, feeling the quiet hum of magic that lingered in the air, a trace of the frantic work from last night. With a steady hand, he guided the memory into a small vial, its label carefully inscribed: Draco Malfoy. The liquid inside pulsed faintly, holding a fragment of a life condensed into a moment, delicate and precious. He placed the vial on the mini shelves alongside the others, a small archive of living memories, and closed the cabinet with a tap of his wand, sealing it securely.

The walls had finished painting themselves, rich red streaked with gold swirls, and the brushes and rollers had been moved to another room for repairs. Dust motes danced in the soft light filtering through the windows as Harry lifted the protective covers from the bed. The floor, swept clean, gleamed under his enchantments, and the tiles squeaked faintly with the ghost of past footsteps.

He set a quill to move on its own, scratching a short, practical list onto a notepad:

Curtains
Rugs
Bedframe
Pillows
Nursery equipment

He paused, imagining Teddy’s tiny hands exploring the room, eyes wide at colors and shapes. What would catch his attention? What would make him smile, laugh, or stare in wonder? Harry let his gaze drift over the walls, the freshly polished floor, the little nook where he had begun sorting books, and he felt a quiet warmth settle in his chest. Every choice, every enchanted touch, was for this small life. He wanted to give Teddy the things he himself had missed as a child, the comfort, the play, the small joys.

A smile tugged at his lips. There was pride here, yes - but more than that, a deep, steady love. Being a guardian, a mentor, a father - he felt the weight of it, and yet it was lighter than any burden he had known. This was purpose. This was hope.

He sets out a few galleons in a leather pouch and attaches the list to it. He will later owl the list to Molly, so that she can get them when she has spare time. He even puts a couple extra, and a note to spend them on whatever she wants as a well-deserved treat.

Once done with the list, the only messy corner left was opposite his bed, where a large oak desk stood. Its surface bore the soft patina of use, and the cushioned chair tucked beneath it was where Harry often fell asleep after long days, the night-lamp flickering faintly with oil, awaiting a spark of magic to illuminate his work. A tray held his writing implements and wax stamp, organized yet chaotic, the compartments spilling over with files and paperwork that slipped through cracks, threatening to tumble at the slightest nudge.

On the desktop, two files remained prominently displayed: a motion picture of Narcissa Malfoy, composed and regal, with her file neatly labeled beneath, and another of Draco, his pale features stern and guarded, his corresponding file resting beside him.

With a flick of his wand, Harry swept the remaining papers from last night into a less crowded drawer, muttering a quiet charm to keep them in place. The Malfoy files he left deliberately aside, along with a couple more he had deemed essential, the weight of their significance pressing in the dim light. One single file remained on the desk. This trial - this particular case - was the one he could not let slip from his focus. It was urgent, heavy with responsibility, and above all else, it demanded his attention.

The warm, flickering glow of the oil lamp revealed a motion picture leaning slightly to the side: Madam Rosmerta, her caramel curls bouncing as she smiled brightly, radiating a comforting cheerfulness that made Harry’s chest tighten with nostalgia. He allowed himself a brief pause, imagining the bustling inn, the clink of mugs, the whispered secrets in shadowed corners, and the quiet kindness hidden beneath the façade.

He moved to the wardrobe, the enchanted interior expanding magically to house every item of clothing, shoes, and boxes transported from the Burrow. Harry sifted through them, finally straightening his attire, The trainee Auror uniform damp with sweat from the day’s exertions clinging uncomfortably. He changed into a simple grey T-shirt and black pants, soft and loose, promising himself a proper shower before sleep - a luxury he had been deferring for far too long. The worn garments he tossed haphazardly into a basket by the door, aware that Kreacher would handle the laundry in secret, pretending ignorance of Harry’s knowledge. Harry let it be; there simply wasn’t time to tend to such matters himself with everything else demanding attention.

Harry leaves the room and checks the huge grandfather clock in the hallway. Mrs. Tonks will drop by anytime with the baby.

He heads back downstairs, ignoring the hole in the wall and the dirt still leaking from it. He would not deal with it today either - he had been postponing that chore for almost a month.

He settles onto the black leather, black wood couch opposite the fireplace, letting the quiet of the restored drawing room surround him. The faint crackle of the fire and the soft tick of the grandfather clock fill the space, his mind half on the upcoming evening with Teddy.

Then, with a sudden shimmer of green flames and a soft whoosh, Andromeda Floos into the room. She lands gracefully, as if stepping onto a stage, every movement deliberate and poised. Her long black cloak swirls elegantly around her, perfectly framing her tall, slender figure. Pale skin glows subtly under the warm firelight, her light brown hair cascading in gentle curls over her shoulders. Her eyes, sharp and discerning, sweep over the room before resting on Harry with an effortless, commanding presence.

Even the small bundle cradled in her arms seems to bow in deference to her aura of authority and elegance. Teddy wriggles slightly, but Andromeda’s calm, star-like composure immediately settles him, as though her very presence commands comfort. She steps forward with practiced grace, every motion precise, and the air seems to carry a subtle, magnetic energy - the kind that draws attention and admiration without effort.

Harry watches, a small smile tugging at his lips, as if witnessing a familiar celebrity gliding into his home.

Head held high, her pale skin a signature of her family's genes, light brown hair slightly curled on her shoulders, and her brown eyes fixed on Harry. She is the woman who resisted torture without revealing any vital information or losing her sanity... She is the best out of the three sisters. As Harry studied her, he finally understood why Sirius had always spoken of her with such reverence - Andromeda carried a presence that commanded attention, demanded respect, and yet offered a warmth reserved only for those she trusted. She was, in every way, the star among her sisters.

"Well, good evening, Potter."-Her voice flows as she steps away from the fireplace, she reveals a small, wiggling one from under her cloak. Small Teddy curls up on her arms with ease, eyes wide awake, undisturbed by the magical transposition technique he just went through.

Harry sits up and helps Andromeda take the baby from her arms.-"Good evening, Mrs. Tonks."-He looks down at Teddy as hair quickly changes from light brown to raven black upon being handed to him. He has noticed he likes to match his hair unknowingly with the people who care for him. Ron held him once during dinner at the Burrow, and his hair became deep ginger-ish.

"Oh, for the thousandth time, Harry, no formalities."-She says as she sets down the bag with Teddy's belongings.-"Have you cleaned up a room for the nursery yet?"-She says immediately after sitting down on the couch and lighting the fireplace for warmth.

Harry also sits down carefully, holding the child and gently putting him on his lap.-"I emptied it all out...however, he will sleep in my room again tonight. I have sent out a list of things to be purchased for the room to Molly, they have yet to arrive..."-He kissed Teddy's forehead.-"I fear not being able to hear him at night, and was thinking of postponing him sleeping alone to a later age."

Andromeda laughs politely.-"Young parents."-She teases, touching Harry's arm.-"Not to worry, Harry, he can sleep wherever you like. Did he keep you up last night, naughty bundle of joy?"

Harry scoffs and gently passes a hand through Teddy's raven hair.-"Other than a bundle of joy, he is also very loud."-He jokes lightly.-"I promised not to use any calming charms, so I stayed up and nursed him back to sleep, fed him a warm bottle, read him stories, took him outside at the balcony for fresh air, I even tried putting some music on the gramophone; this last one seemed to help a lot, we danced the night away in the drawing room to an old vinyl."

Teddy cooed softly, small syllables forming - “ba, da, ba” - his tiny hands reaching toward the rhythm, kicking lightly as if marking the beat. Harry smiled down at him, letting the gentle sounds fill the quiet night, a soft harmony to the crackling of the fireplace.

Andromeda nods.-"You can also try singing a lullaby to him. Babies love music, my daughter used to love sleeping to lullabies...But overall, you are doing very well, Potter. As always, let me know if you ever need a break. You have been taking care of him every single night for months."

There is a silent pause between them for a moment. Kreacher has appeared on a corner of the room, serves them tea, and goes back to the corner. He looks happy to have Andromeda back in the mansion.

"Those are the worst, and I don't want you to have the worst all by yourself."-Harry explains as he sets the tea down to hold Teddy better.-"The wounds are fresh, and the tiredness is yet to go away..."

She looks away from Harry, her gaze softening as it meets the fire. The flames dance in her eyes, flickering over the fine lines time has traced there. She lifts her teacup and takes a slow sip - sweet, just as she liked it in her youth. A small, knowing smile crosses her lips as her eyes meet Kreacher’s for a moment, then return to Harry.

“Teddy is all we have.”-She says quietly, the warmth in her voice touched with sorrow.-“He’s what keeps us from falling apart. My daughter left something behind for us… Something so pure.”

She pauses, her hand resting lightly on the cup.-“A child means sacrifice. At first, I thought you would back out.”-She admits softly.-“But you’ve proven me wrong. Your heart, Harry… it’s vast in love.”

Harry adjusts the baby, and he lets out a babble.-"He is the only family I have left. I would go against the world for him."

Silence follows.-"How did the trial go?"-Andromeda asks, looking at the fire, a look of anger boiling deep within her.

Harry knows which trial she is referring to.-"It went well. She is a free witch once again."-He informs her.

"Oh, Cissy."-She whispers to herself.-"You know, Harry, what hurts most... She was on her side, always on Bella's side."

Tears have now formed in her eyes, and they shine from the warm light of the fireplace, but they do not fall; she is a strong-willed woman.-"Always covering up for her. I thought once she saw Bella's psychopathic tendencies, she would distance herself... But she never did, she covered up for her. And now Bella kills my daughter, and Sirius and countless other innocents...an she - she doesn't even write, nor reach out... nor regret."

Harry takes her hand and squeezes it.-"Maybe you should try... Give her a chance."

She shakes her head.-"Don't be fooled by her caring looks. She helped you, yes... But the Malfoys, they only love each other. She did it for her son, her spoiled baby, and I will never forgive her; she housed the woman who killed mine... She should have ended Bella long ago, she belonged in a mental hospital, not free in society. Molly, bless her soul, finished what Cissy should have done. She saved her own daughter from the fate of mine."

Harry feels Teddy stir in discomfort, so he changes the position he is holding him in.-"She was her sister too. She was a Death Eater, and her manor had been turned into one of their bases. Regardless of her wish, she would have been there anyway. Ever since Lucius failed his mission at the Ministry the night Sirius was killed... Bellatrix was tasked with keeping a close eye on the Malfoys in case any of them... attempted, well, rebellion."-He informs, with what he knows.

"It does not make the pain any better, does it... No, no amount of explaining and justification can mend what once was broken. You fixed the family tapestry, but the hole that my mother burned on this heart will always remain an invisible separation between me and them... For the best, I do not align with their rotten beliefs and ideologies, and cannot stand their betrayal to humanity itself."-She is physically dreaded by this topic, many times she has discussed it with Harry, in a silent cry for closure after her daughter's death.

Harry wished he had something to offer to her, to ease the pain, a piece of advice, a word, anything... He could only offer silence...

"You helped her, and for what. She will go back to that grand mansion of hers, no gratitude, no thankfulness, no nothing... She and her spoiled Death Eater son, happy again. And I go back to an empty house, Edward gone, my baby girl gone..."-She does not allow herself to cry in front of Harry, her chin held high, but from her tone it is visible that she is hurting inside.-"Sister dear can do a favour to all of us, and never set foot outside that mansion, she and her fruit. Stay loyal to that awful coward husband of hers."

"The pain is still fresh."-Harry states, gently rocking Teddy in his arms.-"Time will heal all wounds."

The faint wrinkles that have formed from age show on the corners of her eyes when she gives a faint smile.-"We have got Teddy, my dear boy...oh, how dear."-She caressed Teddy's face, a familiar ring on her finger. It was the same ring Narcissa had been wearing during the trials.

"That ring..."-Harry points out.

Andromeda looks down at it.-"Oh, this old thing."-She says with a sad look.-"It's a ladyhood ring, all the women of our family wore it till they married. I never took it off, even when I married; however, tradition is that once you marry, you must remove the ring and wear your husband's."-She explains and rotates it gently on her finger.-"It is the only thing I kept from this family."

"Mrs. Malfoy was wearing something similar today at the hearing... If she stood loyal to Mr.Malfoy, wouldn't she have worn his ring?"-Harry asks out of curiosity and mainly trying to understand the dynamics of these sisters.

Andromeda stood shocked for a split second, processing this information.-"She did?"

"Yes, except here had a more polished look, like it had not been worn in a long time, as if it was new."-He further points out.

Andromeda shakes her head in disbelief, finishing her tea in one go.-"It doesn't mean anything, Harry, don't worry yourself with that."-She then sits up, giving Teddy one more kiss on his forehead before departure.-"Take good care of him. I will be here tomorrow morning as usual to pick him up for the day."

"Tomorrow I'm free till midday, drop off anytime."-Harry says, reaching for his wand and extinguishing the fire from the fireplace. Andromeda takes a handful of Floo powder from the golden vase on top of the fireplace.

"Goodnight, Harry, goodnight baby."-She says and then drops the powder.-"Tonks Manor!"-Like that, she is gone with a green flame, leaving behind her burned, glittering powder.

Harry stands up, gently rocking Teddy in his arms.-"Did you miss me, small one? Have you been behaving?"-He says in a playful tone.-"Let me warm you a bottle and help you to sleep."

Harry says, putting him back on the couch and arranging some pillows around him for support. He walks over to the bag Andromeda has prepared for him, takes out a clean diaper as well as the powder container, and sets aside a prepared formula bottle.

With some gentle magic, he warms up the bottle and gives it to the babbling baby. Now that he is distracted, Harry removes the diaper and cleans him up with magic, applying some of the powder from the container, which has the baby giggling. He readjusts his milk bottle and goes back to applying the new diaper. He does most of it by magic, something that both Molly and Andromeda taught very patiently, alongside many other parenthood tips. On the other hand, Hermione came up with a powder that Muggles use and mixed with some magical ingredients for a perfect baby solution, to treat rashes and odour.

Once clean, he dresses Teddy in his night pyjama and takes him and the bag upstairs.

His room, now clean, is perfect for a night of good sleep. He adjusts Teddy with pillows on the unoccupied side of the bed, the baby tightly grips his bottle, and is not letting go of it anytime soon.

Harry then takes a few more pillows and baby proofs the floor, in case somehow the baby finds a way to roll over the 2 pillows 3 times his size, which he has put to guard him.

Harry sits on his side of the bed, a book in hand. He is ready to bore Teddy to sleep with his fairy tale readings. Recently came to realise that the baby would listen to anything he reads, and it doesn't always have to be fairy tales. He once read him the newspaper, even read him some Auror reports on Azkaban escapings, and he listened to all of it till he slept. Harry flips the book to the bookmark from last night and starts reading a wizarding tale that even he himself had never read before.

While drinking his warm bottle and listening to Harry read him a story about frogs and fairies, Teddy's hair took on a whiter colour, almost milk-like.

Harry stares at him, pausing his reading. A familiar face of confusion was taking over him.-"Well, that's new."-He says, pushing a hand through the milky hair. They had grown past his ears and had the same texture as Lupins.

Teddy soon grows tired, his tiny eyelids heavy, the bottle slipping gently from his grasp. Harry’s soft voice, reading the fairy tale, weaves a steady rhythm that lulls him further, each word a gentle cadence against the quiet of the room. His little fingers curl around the blanket, yawns escaping as the story carries him into a deep, peaceful sleep. Harry watches him for a moment, smiling softly, letting the warmth of the fire and the quiet of the night fill the room.

He gently pulls a sheet around him, tucking him in place, kissing him on the forehead, and he can't help but smile.-"Nox."-He says, and the lights go off in Grimmauld Place.

Chapter Text

"STOP! The Dark Lord wants him alive.-"-His concerned but urging voice rings through the room.

Vincent Crabbe cuts him off, tired of taking orders from him.-"So? I'm not killing him, am I? But if I can, I will, the Dark Lord wants him dead anyway, what's the difference?"

Feeling the power slip away, he urges one last time before physically lashing out at him.-"Don't kill him! DON'T KILL HIM!"

And before he can even react, there is fire everywhere, and it's spreading fast, and it's deadly once it touches flesh...it consumes fast, whatever it catches onto.

Harry sees him giving up, barely holding on; no one would save him, he doesn't deserve saving. His face says it all, it accepts the end that has been bestowed upon him by himself...-"Catch my hand!"-But his hand slips...fingers slip to nothingness.

The scene shifts and turns into long, black tiled hallways from the Ministry.-"Potter!"-Before it is swallowed by flames again.

"Draco."-Harry sits upright to catch his breath. He can feel his heart tighten in his chest; it's one of those nights where his mind twists reality to hurt him in his sleep. These are not nightmares; these are guilt trapped in the dark corners of his mind. Unlike the others after the war, Harry had refused to get checked by a specialist for the trauma and pain he had suffered. Yesterday's trials had evoked some buried memories in him.

Accidentally, he has awakened Teddy, who is now crying. When his mind returns to this world, Harry puts his glasses on from the bedside table and takes Teddy in his arms. Checking the time, it is almost 8 in the morning. He rocks him gently back and forth, whispering reassuring words to him. Calming him down won't be easy; he has startled the poor boy awake.

Harry goes through the bag Andromeda gave him with one hand, holding the baby. He reaches a prepared formula and quickly warms it with a wandless enchantment, holding the bottle firmly against his palm and with great concentration. He tests it on the palm of his hand and then feeds it to him.

Teddy drinks it through cries, and to help him, Harry softly hums a tune that Andromeda has taught him, a lullaby without words, just humming, and he must rock the baby in his arms to that rhythm. So far, it has always worked, and Andromeda had told him that Nymphadora used to sing it to him while still in the womb and upon birth every night till she died.

The cries slowly die down. Only the gentle hum can be heard in the grand room. Harry just realised he did not shower last night. He promises to shower once he is done with Teddy. He changes his diaper and dresses him in a white, comfortable onesie. He is now all fed and powdered, ready to go play in the drawing room while Harry takes a shower.

Harry descends from his room, downstairs. He sets Teddy down on the soft moss-coloured carpet with his toys, a stuffed Hippogriff plush, a set of Self-Stacking Blocks, and his most favourite toy at the moment, a rattle wand. These, he thinks, should be enough to keep him entertained till he comes back from his shower. Once he makes sure Teddy is all secure in the room alone, he summons Kreacher on nanny duties to only keep an eye on the baby and not bother him during playtime.

"Be a good boy."-Harry says, setting everything right on the floor.-"Be right back."-He then advises Kreacher, who, without bother, bows in understanding.

Once Harry is gone, Teddy is crawling across the dark, elegant floors of Black Manor, and while ignoring the toys in front of him, he stumbles over a slightly raised floorboard.

Baby Teddy gurgles happily, and with his little tiny fingers manages to take the small piece of floorboard and lifts it to his mouth to gnaw on it, Kreacher stops him by making the floorboard hover away, Teddy not pleased by his piece of wood floating away, looks down on the hole that he has created on the floor, with his tiny hand he reaches inside the hole where the light from the huge windows of the drawing room has reflected into something shiny, he is fascinated by the small objects inside, unaware of what they were.

His laughs fill the hallways, giving life to the house in a way that cannot be replicated. Harry takes his sweet time bathing in one of the top-floor bathrooms. Here, he has not changed anything about the bathrooms; he loves the resemblance they have to the Prefect's private bathrooms back at Hogwarts, where he loved sneaking to, with big bathing tubs, tiled walls, and stained glass windows.

Once bathed, he wraps himself in fluffy bath towels and heads down to his room, wearing a shirt and sweatpants with fluffy socks. He will spend the morning playing with Teddy, maybe grab a bite, and then head to the Ministry for his Auror Training at the enchanted office.

The file stays still on the top of his desk. Madam Rosmerta...the case he is yet to crack. He takes the file with him to study it downstairs; it's hefty and voluminous and haunts him like the Bogart in the drawing room's desk.

When Harry comes back, he notices the loose floorboard that is floating in the air. Concerned, he looks at Kreacher, who just shrugs, and then at Teddy, who is gnawing on a wooden sword-like object...

He safely sets the file on the black wooden desk, sits opposite the happy baby, legs crossed on the floor, hair still wet, and drips onto his shirt faintly.-"What have you done, Teddy? I told you to behave."-He jokes, ruffling his raven colored hair.

Teddy gaggles happily, holding onto his wooden toy. Harry does not take it away from him. Instead, he focuses on the hole in the floor, and he removes two other floorboards.

"A secret time capsule, it seems like."-He says to Kreacher.-"Did you know about it?"

Kreacher crosses his arms.-"Many little masters have used this room as a playroom; I could not know specifically which one."

Harry smiles.-"Could have been Sirius?"-He hopes as he touches the items inside. Kreacher does not answer; he instead shivers at the mention of his name.

First thing he notices is a broken broomstick, it's snapped right down the middle, it is made of good wood, and it has good quality carvings that trace along the shaft. Something you would find in rich people's houses, which is exactly what the Blacks were.

At plain sight, upon lifting more wood from the floor, he uncovered a feather from a barn owl, a crumpled candy wrapper from Honeydukes, a sketchbook, and while lifting those, more objects underneath are revealed.

Teddy tries to chew on the corner of the sketchbook that Harry put aside upon excavating it from the floor, while Harry is looking through the hole, leaving small teeth marks, completely unaware of its sentimental value, it may have.

There is a rock inside, shapeless, a shiny muggle coin - a penny to be exact, a handwritten note, and a Chocolate Frogs card with the name of Albus Dumbledore inside.

The note says:

Today I made a feather fly on its own, it was like the magic mom and dad do. I waved my hand, and it went high in the sky. I will not tell anyone for now; this has to be our secret.
Tomorrow I will make it fly higher and higher, till I can show my mom what I can do!

Harry looks at the barn owl feather. He waves his hand at it and makes it fly. Teddy seems amazed by it, so he lets it hover over him.

"Can you identify this rock?"-Harry says, giving it to Kreacher.

He takes it thoughtfully, turning it in his hand.-"Oh. This is the rock from Malfoy's manor, from the water fountain in their backyard."-He says and gives it back to Harry.

"Malfoy Manor?"-Harry echoes.-"How weird, what is it doing here?"

"Malfoy's used to come around here a lot when the masters were alive. Mainly for the young master to see his grandparents."-Kreacher says informatively.

Harry, piecing the puzzle together, takes away the sketchbook and wooden sword from Teddy. The baby grabs the owl feather instead, waving it around like a wand, laughing happily.

He opens the sketchbook to find it covered from front to back in childish doodles. It looked like all the steps of a child learning to use a quilt and learn how to write...and kids learn to write their name as the first thing.

DRACO MALFOY

It is written in childish cursive writing.

I am Draco Malfoy.

It says beneath it. A page is filled with the same quote several times. He could see the writing of a different person on top of the page, his mother possibly, writing him phrases that he later tried to replicate.

I am Draco Malfoy. I am learning how to write.

It says on the next few pages.

A doodle of a Barn Owl takes up two pages in the middle. Another doodle consists of a house elf that does freakishly resemble Dobby. There's a tree, a bird, a garden, and some flowers. Towards the end of the sketchbook, there are more writings than doodles.

"It's Draco Malfoy's."-He announces to Kreacher.

"I can deliver those to the young master if you need."-Kreacher offers bowing.

Harry shakes his head, looking at the Muggle penny that faintly shines in his hand. It stands out from everything else in this pile, so odd.-"There will be no need...these lost things are...long forgotten."

Kreacher looks angry.-"They belong to the young master."

"I shall find an appropriate moment to bring them up...now it may not be the moment."-Harry says as a final warning for Kreacher to drop the subject.

Harry picks up the wooden sword.

"It's an athame."-Kreacher comments.-"Young wizards play with those, and it's a tradition passed down by generations; it holds great sentiment for the young master."

The wooden athame has Draco's name carved on it, which fascinates him the most; the carvings are handmade.

Teddy holds it tightly, perhaps mistaking it for a wand or a little sword, as if claiming it as his own special treasure.

"Ted loves it."-Harry mentions and lets him have it while he collects the other items and takes them to his desk in the drawing room.

In one of the drawers, he lays them all safely, taking a moment too long looking at the sketchbook.-"Just an innocent child."-He murmurs as he closes the drawer. On this very desk, there is a drawer that houses a small Bogart; it has been sealed with a charm by Hermione, and Harry was unable to get rid of it yet.

He sits on the desk while Teddy continues to play on the moss-like carpet with his newfound athame, having long forgotten about the Self-Stacking blocks and his stuffed Hippogryph.

He thinks of Buckbeak, hiding away at Luna's farmhouse, probably feasting on juicy ferrets or dead birds. He makes a note to visit them soon. Taking out a piece of paper and his quilt, he writes a quick message.

Serene Luna,

Hope you and your dad are all well.
Can I come around this late afternoon for some fresh tea and a ride by the lake?
I am missing the breeze and silver waters, but mostly your acquaintance...

Yours, Harry

P.S.: The nightmares persist, and I need advice.

Harry wraps the letter and seals it in a plain envelope. He puts it aside for now, in the absence of a new owl (Harry could not bring himself to replace Hedwig) he will have to take if to the ministry owlery and mail it there alongside the list of purchases to Molly and a forgotten letter from yesterday for Quibblers new editor Rolf Scamander who had asked for his thoughts on a few topics regarding the next edition articles that concerned his intesrests. He is debating whether to put his name on the article he will write or not

The stack of letters sat accusingly on his desk. Once, Hedwig would have been perched on the back of his chair, snowy feathers ruffling, amber eyes sharp as if she already knew the flight ahead. The thought twisted at him in the quiet of the room. He could never quite bring himself to replace her.

Once done with the letters, he returns all his attention to the file in front of him.

Madam Rosmerta...

Just yesterday, he was notified that her trial was pushed back by a week, and he could not have been happier. He was nowhere near ready to face the court for the case tied to Dumbledore's assassination.

He stares at it blankly. There will be witnesses who will testify against her, he has been told, and they have a crucial piece of information.

Imperius Curse...if someone knows, if someone testifies...he has to prepare for the worst.

He flips through the file for the millionth time. Hoping to find something...anything...he flips and flips and nothing happens.

He will discuss this later with Hermione and Ron at the Burrow, where they are staying. In such cases, he always needs the help of his best friends and some proper and smart advice. He is confident that Ron will give him an insensate solution to the case, while Hermione will give him a rational solution instead. Either way, an outside thought could always help.

He closes the file and leaves it for now, joining Teddy on the floor for a quick playtime. Teddy waves the athame, challenging Harry to a duel, and Harry politely accepts, quickly tickling him in counterattack.

For hours, laughs fill the halls of the Black Manor. The drawing room was shaking with childish laughter and occasionally Harry's laughter. It suits him well. Happiness.

He almost does not notice when Andromeda drops by at midday from the Floo network. Her eyes immediately light up when he sees them playing together, Harry holding him in the air, making aeroplane noises and waving him around the room, while the baby can't help but giggle in awe.

"Good day Potter."-Andromeda says, closing her shade umbrella. Harry could not help but admire the chic atmosphere that she emits when she enters the room. Her hair is collected in a bun today, only a few strands of curls having escaped.-"Small one has made a mess."-She says, pointing at the floor, missing a few boards.

Harry flies Teddy all the way to Andromeda's arms. He is still giggling and waving his hands when she catches him with a wide smile.

"Welcome, Mrs.Tonks. Teddy explored the secrets of the Black family. Found himself a new toy."-Harry says while he packs Teddy's bag, making sure to include the athame with the rest of his toys.

Andromeda smiles proudly while Teddy's hair turns a sweet caramel colour like hers.-"Mischievous you!"-She coo-es him.

"Did you come from outside?"-Harry asks her, pointing at the shade umbrella.

Andromeda nods.-"From Diagon Alley, was running some early errands, Flooed here from a random fireplace."-She twirls with Teddy and kisses him on the forehead.-"All good last night, you look beaten?"-She says, bringing her attention to Harry.

Harry shakes his head, hair pointing in all directions, and eyes with dark circles underneath.-"Restless sleep, maybe it would be better for Teddy to sleep in his own room soon, I keep waking him up from my nightmares...I know he can't understand, but they might distress him."

Andromeda nods in understanding.-"Oh, Potter, the past will never stop haunting you...remembering is the second worst thing, right after forgetting."

"During the day, it does not affect me at all, it's only the sleep which brings out the worst in my head...It scares me, what the mind can spin falsely."-Harry shakes his head.-"It will get better."

She looks at him, concerned.-"I say this to you like a son...let go of it."-And kisses him on the cheek, ready to leave.

Harry stares at her, confused but bright red in his face from having been assumed as her son.-"Of what?"-He stutters.

Andromeda places Teddy gently under her cloak and takes a handful of Floo powder.-"Of the weight of the world..."-And with that, she makes a big exit, leaving behind a cloud of glittering ash.

"The weight of the world."-He repeats to himself, still amazed by her stylish entrances and exits. He must admit - She has got Style.

He quickly flicks his wand to fix the hole on the floor before darting upstairs to get changed and take the train to the Ministry.

Once upstairs, he enters his wardrobe, and his uniform lies there cleaned and ironed. Must have been Kreacher who did his laundry again.

Harry quickly changes into an Auror Training uniform. Upon wearing it, it is clear that Kreacher has done something to it.-"Kreacher!"-Harry calls halfway through his clothes.

He appears in a poof.-"Yes, master."-He says innocently.

Harry is fuming, struggling to get into his clothes.-"Did you shrink my uniform?!"-He half yells.

Kreacher, happy with himself, half smirks.-"I tailored your clothes to actually fit you, master. You see, you must represent yourself and the family with dignity and must look clean, ironed, and well-tailored at all times. Cannot allow the family name to get tarnished by creases and oversized clothing."

"When did you measure me?"-He asks, even angrier.

"While you slept."-He answers while preparing his long overcoat. Polishing the golden badge-pin of the Auror Office.

Harry finally gets his arms through the sleeves and buttons the jacket over his white shirt, his pants now hugging his thighs and calves so tightly he might lose circulation.-"I look...groomed."

Kreacher helps him put on his boots, not failing to shine the leather with his hands.-"Do not hunch."-He advises, and Harry stands straight up.-"All can be fixed except your hair."-Kreacher says, defeated.-"I tried all I could while you slept, unruly."-He says in disgust.

Harry rolls his eyes.-"Please, leave me alone! For the millionth time, I do not need tailoring or polishing...I do not need the spotlight."

Kreacher pretends not to understand and vanishes into thin air.

Harry puts on his coat, adjusting the badge. He must admit that for once, clothes are his size, and he looks actually good in them; he doesn't float in his own skin, he wears it tightly, and when he straightens up, he looks almighty, and his hair, unruly, gives him a more mature-like feel. They fall right under the scar, and past his ears, neatly cut around the neck, they point upwards instead of lying flat in his head. His glasses have always been his signature touch, round and black. He grabs his wand and heads downstairs to pack his bag with the files he needs, the letters he will later post, and the books he is learning about at Training.

Walking outside Grimmauld Place in his cloaked attire, he catches the look of many muggles who eye his fashion choices. He does not pay mind to them and walks the 10-minute walk to King's Cross Train Station. He takes the first train to Central London and sits in an empty cabin.

There are many memories he has made since the end of the war, out in the Muggle side, he has met someone special there, and although their worlds were quite different, he found his young self in there; life felt like when he was a little kid and unaware of the wizardry world. Muggles are the closest thing he can get to normal conversations. No one is pointing out his scar and questioning him about the war, and praising him for his heroism, referring to him as the chosen one, Harry Potter, the boy who saved the world...Quite differently, the boy he met there...saw him as normal, as just Harry, a boy who dresses weird, has a niche and weird sense of humour, and can kiss just as well. He dreads people seeing him as him; he dreads the normal affection...the slow but eventful life.

The ride is short, and he is jolted out of his daydreaming by the train stopping at the final station. He walks like a shadow through heavy crowds of people.

He enters the Ministry from the underground station, where he needs to swipe his card to enter. Many people already recognise him and wish him good morning. As always, he is considerably early as he plans to mail his letters upon arrival. Harry gathered the three envelopes from his bag, tucking them into the inside pocket of his robes. He made his way down the polished Ministry corridor, footsteps echoing faintly off the enchanted brass fixtures. Few people paid the Owlery much mind - it wasn't glamorous work, but someone had to keep the post flowing.

From the corner of his eye, he notices a lean man by the fountain in the middle of the Ministry. He has deep brown hair, a stern face, and a very distinguishable bright black overcoat. He is there every day, has been here for weeks, just observing people; he does not quite know who he is, maybe one of the Unspeakables, but each day he follows Harry with his eyes while he enters the Ministry and away to the Auror floor. He takes the route nearest to him on purpose, and there it is, the familiar scent of sweet but sour, decayed-fruit smell, Stewed Lacewing Flies. Harry instinctively straightens up, his wand tightly clenched in his hand, and he nods and greets him good morning since he is openly staring, but the man does not reciprocate. Even as the hero he is, some people seem to dislike him. He makes a mental note to ask Hermione later if he is in her department.

Once away from his gaze, he enters the elevator and presses the top floor button with his wand. The Owlery itself was high in one of the older towers, its wide windows always open to the near autumn air. The place smelled of parchment and feathers. Dozens of owls shifted and hooted in the rafters, some large and imperious, others small and brisk. A witch in ink-stained robes gave Harry a quick nod as she tied up a bundle of scrolls to a great grey owl.

Harry stepped forward to the perch, drawing the first letter - Molly's - from his pocket. "Just the Burrow." he murmured to the waiting tawny owl. It clicked its beak and bent forward patiently as he secured the envelope to its leg.

The second owl, a barn owl with pale wings, received the sealed Luna's letter. "The Rookery. " - he tells the owl. It took off almost immediately, as though eager to be rid of bureaucracy. He hopes it will not bite Luna's fingers again.

Harry saved Rolf Scamander's letter for last. A mottled brown owl blinked at him expectantly. He tied the envelope with care, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. "Quibbler office, don't dawdle, all right? He'll probably try to write me back before you've even landed."

The owl gave a soft hoot, as if in agreement, and spread its wings wide. One by one, the birds launched into the open air, circling once before vanishing into the city beyond. Harry lingered at the window for a moment, watching the last of them disappear.

For a heartbeat, he could almost imagine Hedwig among them - white against the London sky.

Harry descended from the Owlery, the echo of wings still in his ears, and followed the familiar path back to Level Two. The Auror Office was quieter than usual, most of the squad having not arrived yet for training, the atmosphere carrying that charged, expectant hush that never really lifted from the place. He is greeted by the few people present there.

On his desk, however, something broke the monotony: a barn owl - tall, sleek, and magnificent - perched as if it owned the space. Its white, heart-shaped face turned toward him with dignified calm, amber eyes unblinking. A pale ribbon was tied neatly around its leg, securing an envelope of thick, expensive parchment.

Harry blinked, setting down his black robes, revealing the tightly fit training uniform below. -"Well, you're no Ministry owl." - He muttered.

The bird extended its leg at once, aristocratic as a house-elf presenting a calling card. Harry untied the envelope, and the owl, satisfied, took a stately hop onto the back of his chair, settling there as if to supervise his reading.

The handwriting on the envelope was fine, elegant, almost old-fashioned: Narcissa Malfoy.

Harry paused a moment before breaking the seal. The parchment smelled faintly of lavender and something sharper, like polished wood.

Mr. Potter,

I trust this letter finds you well. I would be most gratified if you might take tea with me this afternoon at my residence. It is long overdue that I thank you properly for the assistance you rendered - both to myself and to my son - during those difficult days following the war and the trials that ensued.

Yours sincerely,

Narcissa Malfoy

Harry set the letter down slowly. It wasn't what he had expected to face upon returning to his desk. An invitation from Narcissa Malfoy - courteous, formal, and yet, in its way, earnest.

The barn owl gave a low, patient hoot, as though reminding him that a response was expected.

Harry leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. Afternoon tea with Narcissa Malfoy. Of all the things he thought his day might hold, that certainly hadn't been on the list.

Dear Mrs. Malfoy,

Thank you for your kind invitation. I will be glad to join you for tea this afternoon. I agree it is important that we have the chance to speak properly, and I welcome the opportunity to express my gratitude as well.

Yours sincerely,
Harry Potter

He approaches the owl with much care to tie his letter back to its leg. Upon a closer look, he notices the resemblance of his feathers to those Teddy had uncovered that day. Once tied, the barn owl glided out through the open window once it was clear its duty was done.

The summons for training came not long after - a low chime from the enchanted hourglass above the Auror Office doors. One by one, his colleagues began to rise, fastening uniform buttons and boots and checking wands. Harry fell into step among them, the practised shuffle of boots in the corridor oddly grounding.

The Ministry of Magic is a sprawling place, and the Auror Department is on Level Two, while the Enchanted Training Chamber is on the opposite end of the floor, deeper underground, like a secured vault.

At the sharp call of their instructor, the trainees formed up in two lines, boots striking the polished stone floor in rhythm as they set off down the Ministry's wide corridor toward the Enchanted Chamber.

Harry fell in step beside Susan Bones and Ernie Macmillan, their robes swaying in time with the march, while behind him, Parvati Patil whispered something under her breath that made Callum O'Dwyer snort softly before being silenced by a glare from Terry Boot.

Ministry clerks and witches with floating stacks of parchment paused to watch them pass - some with open approval, others with guarded suspicion, as though still unsure whether this new generation could shoulder the burdens left by the war.

The lean man continues to stand in the same place by the fountain, glare fixed on Harry. Those who keep their composure, military-like march their way through.

Harry felt their eyes linger on him longest of all, that mixture of recognition and expectation he had never grown used to, and though he kept his gaze fixed ahead, the folded weight of Narcissa Malfoy's letter pressed against his ribs like a secret no one else could see.

But his thoughts kept circling back to the invitation.

Narcissa Malfoy. Tea. Gratitude.

It wasn't that he doubted her sincerity - he remembered with piercing clarity the feel of her hand on his wrist in the Forbidden Forest, the whispered lie that had spared his life and turned the tide of the war. But there was something about the formality of it, the careful parchment and the wording that tiptoed around the past, that tugged at him.

The Aurors marched in pairs, their reflections ghosting across the mirrored brass walls as they neared the Enchanted Training Chamber. The place always smelled faintly of ozone, the magic woven into its walls crackling just below perception. Someone behind Harry muttered a joke about dodging hexes before lunch, and a ripple of laughter broke the tension.

Harry smiled faintly but said nothing. His mind was elsewhere. He wondered if this tea was truly about thanks - or if there was something else Narcissa wished to say, something she couldn't put in writing. Draco, perhaps. Or the remnants of old alliances that still clung to the Malfoy name.

As the great doors of the Chamber swung open and the Aurors filed inside, Harry rolled his shoulders, wand in hand. Training first. Tea later. And then meet Luna. Still, a question nagged at him: was he walking into a polite afternoon visit, or the first step into another shadow cast by the war?

Chapter Text

Harry appeared with the familiar snap and hiss of apparition, landing softly on the gravel path before the Malfoy Manor gates. The wrought-iron gates loomed before him, massive and forbidding, darkly lacquered and etched with curling serpentine motifs that seemed almost alive in the afternoon light. Their grandeur carried a chill of old wealth and quiet menace, and for a moment, Harry's memory tugged him back to darker days—the echo of war, the tense nights spent tracking Death Eaters, and the terror that had once emanated from this very place.

He felt a chill go down his spine at the look of the memory-filled place. He remembers the uncertainty he felt the first time coming here after the Snatchers caught them. The fear he felt for his friends was more than for himself.

Beyond the gates, the long driveway stretched toward the Manor itself, flanked by tall, perfectly manicured hedges. The winter sun glinted on frost-tipped branches, the still air heavy with both elegance and something more ominous, a faint reminder of how carefully the Malfoys had always controlled every inch of their estate.

Harry's steps crunched softly on the gravel as he approached the house, his mind flickering to the final days of the war: the tense encounters in the drawing room where they took after the Snatchers caught them, the uneasy alliance with Draco and his help, and the relief when the war finally ended.

The Manor rose ahead of him in all its pale stone grandeur, tall windows glinting like watchful eyes, the architecture intricate and severe, yet undeniably stately. A faint curl of smoke drifted from the chimneys, promising warmth and a quiet domesticity that contrasted sharply with his memories. The heavy wooden door opened almost immediately, as if by anticipation, maybe with magic, and he stepped inside.

The interior still bore the hallmarks of aristocratic refinement: polished floors, ornate rugs, and walls lined with ancestral portraits whose eyes seemed to follow him, judging and curious in equal measure. But today, the atmosphere was softer, gentler—the ghosts of wartime fear replaced with calm civility.

Narcissa Malfoy awaited in the drawing room, seated with a poised elegance at a small tea table near the fire. Her brunette-silver hair caught the light, and her expression was warm, gracious, and sincere, a quiet contrast to the austere memories Harry carried of this place. She rose smoothly as he entered, her voice carrying a soft, inviting tone.

"Harry, thank you for coming."-She said, gesturing toward the chair opposite her.-"I wanted to thank you properly- for everything you did during the trials yesterday. It means a great deal to me...to us."

"Thank you for having me, Ms.Malfoy."-Harry took the seat, glancing around, noting the familiar but transformed surroundings: the Manor still bore its cold elegance, but today it radiated hospitality. As the tea was poured and the faint aroma of baked goods mingled with the smoke of the fire, he allowed himself a quiet moment of reflection - how much had changed, how far they had all come, and how even places once marked by fear could hold gentleness now.

He inclined his head slightly and sat, careful, reserved. After a moment, he spoke, his voice quiet but steady.-"Mrs. Malfoy... how are you holding up? Since the war ended. How is the family? Are there any enemies you should worry about, people still plotting or lingering, I can take care of at the ministry if needed?"

Narcissa set down her teacup, her expression thoughtful.-"I am managing."-She said after a pause, measured and calm.-"The Manor...the family...it is not the same as before. We have rebuilt what we could, fortified where necessary, and taken care to... realign with those who mean no harm. But, as always, vigilance is required. Some old loyalties die hard."-She let the words linger, then added quietly.-"The world has shifted. Some families have faded, others persisted in ways we would not have predicted. But nothing immediate threatens us now. At least... not that I directly know of."

Harry nodded, his gaze steady. He is assured now that she is not aware of the danger that someone is posing to their family, the upcoming trial with Madam Rosmerta, or that he has been secretly using Kreacher to avoid them getting any letters about this trial delivered to them. He is relieved.-"And personally?"-He asked, softer now.-"How have you... held up?"

A faint sigh escaped her, almost imperceptible.-"Yes. Scattered but fine."-She admitted, her voice tight but not unkind.-"We survived. That is what matters. We adjust, we protect what is ours...and we try to guide those we care about away from old darkness."

Harry's lips pressed together in acknowledgement. He did not probe further, sensing her measured control over the conversation.

She eyed him and his Auror outfit.-"The job and uniform suit you."-She compliments.

Harry could not help but smile faintly and nod.-"It has grown on me."

After a moment of polite silence, Narcissa's gaze softened, almost imperceptibly.

"Draco...he has grown, over this year."-She said quietly, stirring her tea, and Harry did the same, mimicking her movement.-"He has always been... difficult to protect, in his own way."-Her lips pressed together, and her voice dropped slightly.-"You know...saving him...saving you..." She paused, measuring her words.-"It was...complicated, and dangerous if not calculated well enough."

Harry's posture tightened slightly, his expression neutral but attentive.-"I know."-He said quietly.-"I... understand why you acted as you did."

She gave a faint, almost imperceptible nod.-"He is all I have..."-She said softly.-"Even in the darkest times...that guided my choices."

Harry said nothing further, letting her words hang. His own memories of that night - the tension, the fear, the moment she chose to protect him for Draco's sake - were still vivid, but he kept them contained.

She poured more tea with practised elegance, offering a biscuit, her eyes briefly observing him.-"I hear...You are now looking after the Black Manor?"-She asked, voice calm but probing.

Harry's response was measured, almost clipped; he took the biscuit and the freshly poured tea.-"Yes. It needed care."

She nodded, then her expression softened slightly, a trace of past grief surfacing.-"It must have been... difficult. Your godfather, my cousin... Sirius."-She did not look away, but her look carried shame.-"He was... brave, but his end... it was... messy. Bellatrix and my husband fought you, him...I will never forgive them for it, I cannot. All I can remember is, us as kids...we were the same age, I looked up to them, and Bella she did not think-..."-Her voice faltered just enough to carry the weight of history.

Harry's lips pressed together, but he kept his voice calm.-"I know. Sirius fought well...and the consequences were... severe. I was proud to have met him. But everyone got what they deserved afterwards."

There was a pause. Narcissa's eyes flickered toward him, not accusing, but curious.-"And the war... our family... it left many wounds. Some of us survived, but...not all. I feel like none is left. I suppose you know better than most."

Harry inclined his head slightly.-"I do."-He said no more, the words measured, leaving the emotional weight unspoken.

Narcissa's expression tightened ever so slightly, curiosity flickering in her pale eyes.-"And... Andromeda?"-She asked softly.-"Do you know? Is she well?"

Harry's lips pressed into a thin line.-"She is. I've been in touch...often."-He kept his tone neutral, leaving out any mention of Teddy or his involvement.

At that moment, Narcissa's posture shifted, subtle but noticeable - her attention sharpened.-"I see."-She said slowly.-"So... you've been seeing her directly."

"Yes."-Harry confirmed, keeping his expression steady, hands playing with the mug.

There was a pause, filled with the gentle hiss and cracking of the fire. Narcissa's gaze lingered on him, and then, almost on impulse, she rose.-"Wait here."-She said quietly, heading toward the staircase. Harry watched her go, his brows slightly drawn, curious but not surprised.

Moments later, she returned carrying a small, polished keepsake box. She placed it carefully on the table in front of him.

"For Andromeda."-She said, her voice soft, almost hesitant.-"Items she should have...things she left long ago. I cannot deliver them myself, you may know, we do not really talk these days. I thought... You might take them to her."

Harry regarded the box calmly, his expression neutral.-"I will."-He said simply. He did not reveal the depth of his connection to her or Teddy, only accepted the trust in her gesture.

They resumed their tea in silence for a few moments, exchanging only polite words about the Manor and minor matters. The air was quiet but layered - an acknowledgement of the past, tempered by civility, and a small, unexpected bridge toward reconciliation.

As Harry rose to leave, Narcissa's gaze held him for a long moment.-"Harry... before you go..."-She said softly, her tone measured but firm.-"Keep a far eye on Draco for me."

Harry paused, attentive.

"He is preparing for an exam at the Ministry... for the Unspeakables position that was opened after the war. His mind is set."-She continued.-"He is working harder than I've ever seen, barely leaving the library at your Ministry, sometimes sleeping there, only taking short breaks for water or a fruit. He is determined, but...he is still young. He needs... good to surround him. Light, stability. It is hard to maintain, so that he does not lose himself to old shadows or temptations."

Harry inclined his head slowly, the weight of her request settling across his shoulders.-"I will."-He said quietly, controlled, but his mind was already cataloguing what that might entail.

Narcissa gave a faint, almost imperceptible nod, a touch of relief passing across her expression.-"I trust you, Harry. He is all I have, and I... cannot always be there. Watch him, guide him, and keep him away from darkness."

Harry reluctantly agreed.-"I understand. I'll watch over him, for as long as he needs."

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips.-"Thank you, Harry. That is...more than I could ask for."

Narcissa's eyes followed him for a long moment, a mixture of relief and something softer - unspoken gratitude - flickering across her face.

"Harry..."-She said quietly, voice catching ever so slightly. Before he could respond, she stepped forward and, almost impulsively, drew him into a brief hug. It was uncharacteristic, quick but firm, her arms holding him just long enough to convey the depth of her thanks.

When she released him, her composure returned almost immediately, though her eyes lingered on him a moment longer.-"Thank you."-She whispered, almost to herself.-"For him... for everything."

Harry nodded silently, understanding without comment, his expression reserved as always. The hug had said what words could not, and he allowed it to stand as a quiet acknowledgement of trust and gratitude.-"Write to me for anything you may need."-He added, and she nodded in understanding.

He turned toward the door, keepsake box in hand, and left the Manor, carrying both the responsibility she had placed on him and the rare, tangible weight of her gratitude.

Outside, the frost sparkled in the autumn's sunlight, and in his hands rested both the trust of a mother and the small, polished keepsake box he would carry to Andromeda - symbols of responsibility, loyalty, and the delicate threads of care connecting them all.

He Disapparate to another location once outside the front gates.

The Rookery appears before him as soon as he Reaparates. The sun is going down behind the hills, giving the entire place a warm glow. Harry trudged up the hill toward the Lovegood house, squinting against the afternoon sun. From a distance, it looked like a giant black chess rook, strangely out of place but somehow magical, with a stream gurgling at its base.

Crab apple trees flanked the path, their branches dotted with tiny, white-headed mistletoe, and Harry noticed a little owl perched in one of them, tilting its head at him like it knew something he didn't. The front gate sagged on its hinges, with crooked signs declaring "Editor of the Quibbler" and "Pick Your Own Mistletoe" which made him grin despite himself.

The path zigzagged up the hill, lined with peculiar plants - some with bulbous roots, others with orange, radish-like fruits that looked almost alive. Harry couldn't help glancing from one strange specimen to another, wondering if any of them might bite - or worse, explode. The front door itself was thick, black, and studded with iron nails, an eagle-shaped knocker staring down at him as though daring him to enter.

Xenophilius appeared at the second knock with an apron around his waist.-"Harry boy!"-He squeaked in happiness.-"LUNA, Harry is here!"-He said and brought Harry into a hug, pulling him inside.

Harry let out a laugh in surprise, almost dropping the keepsakes box in his hands.-"Good evening, Mr. Lovegood."

Inside, Harry found himself in a circular kitchen, bright and chaotic. Stoves, cupboards, and sinks curved with the walls, all painted in startling primary colours, covered in flowers, insects, and birds that seemed almost too vivid, too alive. He felt a little dizzy as his eyes traced the spiral wrought-iron staircase at the centre of the room, leading upward.-"Go upstairs, Luna must be writing."-Xenophilius told him.-"Don't leave without trying my cookies. I made the recipe myself with Pumpkin skin and apple pieces."

Harry agreed, sceptically going up the spiral staircase. The next floor was smaller, more cluttered, a tangle of books, papers, and strange little models hanging from the ceiling - creatures that could flap their wings or snap their jaws if you looked at them the wrong way. The air smelled faintly of ink and paper. In one corner, Harry spotted the printing press, and nearby, a stone bust of Rowena Ravenclaw with a peculiar headdress made him suppress a laugh. This was clearly Xenophilius's domain, a chaotic hive of ideas and inventions.

Finally, Harry climbed another flight to Luna's room. It was gentler than the chaos below, pale blue and calm, though her ceiling held an unexpected spectacle: pictures of Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Neville with the word "friends" written in golden ink, circling and connecting each of them like some kind of magical constellation. The images seemed almost alive, breathing softly above him. By her bed, a picture of Luna with her mother radiated quiet warmth. The wardrobe in the corner completed the room, simple compared to the eccentricities below, yet distinctly Luna - her world contained, peaceful, and a little dreamlike.

Harry stood in the doorway looking at Luna deep in her writing, for a moment, taking it all in, realising that despite the strangeness, the Lovegood house was a place of comfort, imagination, and above all, Luna.

"Lunalight."-Harry called from the doorstep.

"Harry!"-She squeaked, same as her father, getting up immediately and running to hug him.-"Ginny just left an hour ago, I just heard. I am sorry for your breakup!"

Harry hugged her back and gave her a soft smile, and put the keepsakes box down on her bed.-"It was mutually requested long ago. Our lives are going separate ways. She is with Quidditch, and I am with the Ministry. We are still friends, though, after all."

Luna smiled, calming down.-"I think it's strange how people can still be friends even when their paths split. But sometimes... the heart notices things the mind doesn't. You'll both find your own stars to follow, Harry. And the brightest ones often come from the places we least expect."

Harry found her advice very thoughtful. Luna has always known how to give him the best advice.-"She sends me postcards from all the places she is visiting, thinks she is doing way better than me. I'm with Teddy and everything going on, and I'm stuck in one place."

"Travelling isn't the only way to discover new worlds."-Luna said, her voice soft and distant, as if she were speaking to the air itself.-"Some worlds exist right where you are, hidden in the everyday, in the people you care for, in the things you do. You just need to notice them. Staying in one place can be an adventure too - especially when you have a clever little boy like Teddy to keep things interesting."

Harry finds her words rooting him, keeping him grounded. He listened quietly, letting her words sink in. A small, tired smile tugged at his lips, and he shook his head softly, almost in disbelief. -"You always know exactly what to say, Luna."-He murmured.-"Makes me feel...lighter, somehow."

Luna glanced at him, her fingers brushing the air above his shoulders as if she could lift invisible burdens.-"It seems like you hold the weight of the world here."-She said softly, her voice calm and distant, yet somehow comforting.-"Perhaps it isn't yours to carry alone, Harry."

He looked around her room, taking in the soft blue carpet, the ceiling alive with golden "friends" circling above. For a moment, the weight of his worries felt a little less heavy.-"I suppose you're right. You are not the first to tell me."-He said, more to himself than her.-"There's more to life than moving from place to place. I just...forget sometimes."

He gave her a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.-"But I guess I'll keep trying to notice those hidden worlds you mentioned. Starting here, with you."

Luna sits down on her desk to fish something out of a drawer, and Harry sits on her bed opposite her. It is so soft it almost swallows him.

Harry had been fiddling with the keepsakes box, trying to figure out how it worked, on Luna's bed, when she suddenly held up a thin, delicate bracelet. She closes the box where he can clearly see another faintly shining bracelet. It shimmered faintly in the afternoon light, threads of silver-white twisting together like mist over water.

"I made this for you."-Luna said softly, tilting her head. Her large, silvery eyes studied him carefully, as though weighing how much to explain.-"It's made from unicorn hair, found some strands stuck in a branch one day while walking through the forest back at Hogwarts."-She added, letting her fingers trace the smooth, almost ethereal thread.-"And... I added a single strand of my hair, too. So it's a friendship bracelet."

Harry blinked, a little startled by the quiet seriousness in her tone.-"Friendship bracelet?"-He repeated, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Luna nodded, her voice serene as if she were stating a fact rather than giving a gift.-"It's to remind you that even when things are difficult, you're not alone. And unicorn hair... well, it has a sort of protective magic. Not the obvious kind that may curse you, but the quiet kind, the healing kind. The kind that can help you when you don't even realise you need it."

Harry felt his chest tighten slightly. He reached out, taking the bracelet from her, feeling the strange warmth and subtle hum of magic along its length.-"Thank you, Lunalight."-He said softly, almost lost for words.-"I... I'll keep it with me."-He extends his hand and she ties it around his wrist.

Luna smiled, as calm and otherworldly as ever, and reached out to adjust it gently around his wrist.-"It's small, but it's stronger than it looks. Just like you."

Harry laughed, straightening up and patting his chest.-"I'm quite big, alright!"-He said, giving a small, proud nod and letting his Auror badge catch the light.-"See? Big and important!"

Luna stifled a quiet laugh, tilting her head at him.-"All I see."-She said softly.- "Is a lost boy who just realised Thestrals are real."

Harry couldn't help but grin, a little lighter than before, feeling that quiet, peculiar kind of reassurance only Luna could give.-"You keep me modest."

Luna is now wearing her boots, tightening them up.-"Let's go see Buckbeak, he must be lonely, waiting to stretch his wings."

Harry follows her to the farm, where Xenophilius keeps his Mooncalves. They roam freely during the day, and at night they come back to sleep under fine and secure shelter.

At the end of it, Buckbeak used to stay with a rope tied to his back leg. They keep him tied so he does not go bothering the Mooncalves again. Somehow, he has escaped tonight, explaining why all the mooncalves have gathered together in one corner, quite comically traumatised. He follows Luna since she knows where he usually runs to.

Buckbeak stood by the edge of the lake, his proud head lifted high as he calmly crunched on a dried bird, feathers scattering in the grass. His amber eyes gleamed beneath a crown of steel-grey feathers, sharp and unblinking, the light catching on the curve of his beak as though it were forged from metal. His forelegs, scaled like a great eagle's, dug into the soil with quiet strength, while his hindquarters - sleek and storm-grey like a stallion's - shifted with a restless, coiled energy. Even at rest, Buckbeak radiated dignity, every movement measured, every glance full of watchful intelligence.

Harry felt a familiar surge of respect tighten in his chest. He stopped a few feet away and inclined his body into a deep bow, keeping his gaze steady. Luna mirrored him, dipping forward gracefully, her pale hair falling over her shoulder as she bent low.

For a heartbeat, Buckbeak only chewed, feathers drifting down. Then, with a slow, regal motion, he lowered his head in return, acknowledging them both.

Harry smiled, relief flooding him, and stepped forward carefully, resting a hand against Buckbeak's strong neck.-"Good to see you again, old friend."- He murmured.

Luna's voice was soft, almost dreamy.-"He remembers. He was waiting for you."-Buckbeak sniffs his pockets; he used to do this since that was where he usually kept the treats he would bring him.

With calm, deliberate movements, Harry swung himself onto Buckbeak's back, the familiar mix of nerves and exhilaration quickening his pulse. He stretched his hand out and helped Luna climb on behind him, her hands light as she settled in. Buckbeak spread his vast, powerful wings, the air rushing around them, and Harry braced himself for the surge of sky that was about to come.

Buckbeak launched forward with a sudden bound, his talons digging into the earth before he surged upward in a sweep of enormous wings. The air rushed around them, cool and sharp, and Harry felt that familiar lurch in his stomach as the ground fell away. The lake spread out beneath them like a sheet of shifting glass, glimmering with ripples that caught the fading sunlight.

The rush of wind tangled Harry's hair, stung his face, and filled his chest with a wild exhilaration he hadn't felt in years. He leaned into Buckbeak's rhythm, his body remembering the motion instinctively - the steady beat of wings, the powerful lift with every stroke.

Behind him, Luna laughed softly, not a sound of excitement so much as delight, as though she were listening to some secret melody only she could hear.-"Doesn't it feel as if the sky has been waiting for us?"-She said dreamily, her voice carried thinly by the wind.

Harry couldn't help grinning.-"I'd forgotten how much I missed this."-He shouted back, though the wind almost tore the words away.

Buckbeak tilted his wings, banking in a wide, sweeping arc. The world reeled beneath them - fields patchworked with colour, the black silhouette of the Lovegood house on its hill, the stream glinting like a ribbon of silver. Then the Hippogriff levelled out, gliding smoothly and steadily, the reflection of their shadows skimming the mirrored lake below.

For a moment, it was as if time itself had slowed: the steady beat of wings, the sparkle of water, the vast openness of sky. Harry drew in a deep breath that seemed to reach farther than his lungs, filling something in him that had felt empty for too long.

Luna's hand rested lightly on his shoulder.-"See?"-She murmured.-"The world is wider than the weight you carry."

Harry didn't answer right away. He just closed his eyes briefly, letting the wind rush past him, and for the first time in months, he felt free. He hugs Buckbeak and lies there for a good while.

By the lake, Harry and Luna sit for a moment, catching their breath.

Harry takes a deep breath and confesses.-"I have been having dreams again...I can't...sleep at night without nightmares and attacks..."

Luna looks at him, all worried.-"Oh, I thought you would. I can prepare you some Dreamless Sleeping Draught..."

"Unauthorised Potion making...an auror would refuse."-Harry laughed, but he was, of course, just joking; he really needed it and did not want to get the prescription from a healer that would go straight to the Daily Prophet with the information.-"I, however, am the Chosen one."-He added, and Luna nudged him on the ribs.

"I shall have it ready in a few nights then."-She agreed, resting her head on his shoulder.

Going back home has him feeling much lighter in his burden. He uses Floo powder from the Rookery to go to his house, not without Xenophilius giving him a warm batch of rock-hard cookies, promising to send him more once he makes them in the future, and not to forget the keepsake box in his other hand.

Harry sank deeper into the drawing-room couch, the fire crackling low before him, its warmth barely cutting the chill of the evening air still clinging to his face. His eyes flicked to the empty grate, half-expecting at any moment the rush of green flames and the familiar whirl of Floo powder. He let out a quiet laugh at himself, shaking his head. What a day it had been.

A sudden whoosh of emerald fire announced Andromeda's arrival, her robes shimmering faintly with protective charms, a squirming Teddy clutched firmly in her arm. The boy's hair was a shock of turquoise today, eyes wide and curious as he reached for the air.

"Evening, Potter."-Andromeda said briskly, though her tired eyes softened when they met his.

"Evening!"-Harry stood, the wooden box heavy in his hand.-"I visited the Malfoys today...they wanted to thank me. Your sister gave me this..."-He said, offering it to her. "Some keepsakes. For you. She didn't really give me a key."

Andromeda hesitated, then accepted it carefully, as though afraid it might vanish at her touch. Her lips parted, her breath catching in her throat.

For a moment, she said nothing, looked at it with trembling fingers. When she finally spoke, her voice was taut.-"Thank you, Harry."

She turned her face slightly, and in the firelight Harry caught a fleeting shadow in her expression - an old bitterness that had not dulled with time. Her jaw tightened. "No need for a key, it opens at the tune of a lullaby...My sister would have mocked these."-She said, her tone sharp but low, as though the words were poisonous. "Narcissa stood by Bellatrix even as she destroyed everything. She may have turned her back at the last moment to save her son, but I..."-Her voice faltered, then hardened again.-"I cannot forgive her. Not when she chose blood over what was right, time and time again."

Teddy wriggled in her arms then, giggling as though to break the heaviness in the room. Andromeda glanced down at him, her expression softening again, though the hard line of her mouth did not fully ease. She pulled him closer, brushing her cheek against his bright hair.

Harry, watching her, felt the weight of her grief and her anger both, and for once he did not try to fill the silence. He simply sat back down, letting the fire speak for them, and watched Teddy reach for the flickering light with chubby fingers. She took him from her arms and invited her to sit, Kreacher, instead of tea brought them Firewhiskey...maybe having listened to them.

They sat there in silence for a long while, drinking from their glasses, while Teddy roamed free on the moss-like carpet. It was confronting having them here, like a family, broken, but a family nonetheless.-"Do you mind if I stay tonight?"

Harry smiled as Teddy played with his favourite toy, the wooden athame.-"Not at all. I will get your old room ready at once."

Chapter Text

Journal Entry - Date: Blank*

I've shut the lights, drawn the curtains tight, and left the window slightly open. The storm presses in - rain on stone, wind against glass, the faint chill crawling across my face. It is summer here still, though autumn strains at the edges, restless. Back at Hogwarts, storms were constant, so frequent they became lullabies to me. But here they are rare, and I find myself listening as though I've been starved of them.

I miss them. I miss... more than I can name. Things that no longer belong to me, perhaps never did. The sound of safety. The weight of love. The quiet one feels when someone else is awake to watch over you. I hear the thunder now, feel the house tremble faintly beneath it, and for a moment I imagine arms strong enough to hold me steady through the noise. I imagine a voice soft enough to carry me through the dark. But the storm outside fades in comparison to the storm within.

Forgetting - that, at least, I've always excelled at. I wear detachment like armour. But even armour rusts. Tonight, I am left as I was on the battlefield: a heart exposed, raw, and not where it belongs. It was taken from me long ago, and I search for it without knowing what shape it should take if I ever find it. In the faces I meet. In places I pass through. In the silence between words. Always searching, never finding.

And so, I will let this storm take its place tonight. Let the rain fall for me, let the wind grieve for me, let the thunder say what I will not. Perhaps when the lightning fades, I will believe I am lighter too. But I know better.

This storm is quieter than the one within me.

~D. M.

He shuts the journal with a soft thud, the light of his Neverending-Burning Candle flickering from the force. He sets his quilt down and draws a deep breath...already feeling lighter. Writing has always helped him process his feelings.

A blue moon envelope sits on his desk; it steals his whole attention.-"She is late again."-He mumbles to himself.-"Wonder if it is the Nargles stuck in her shoelaces again."-A deep sigh can be heard fading away into nothingness. He presses the buttons on the watch on his wrist, sending an enchanted signal through it.

Lately, he has found himself amazed by forms of communication that use Protean Charms. He had dissected an old coin that he had confiscated as a Prefect back in the days, which used to belong to no other than Dumbledore's self-named army. He believes Granger was the mastermind behind it; who else could it be? Not so bright the rest of them, Gryffindors.

Upon dissecting it, it became clear to him that a well-known charm was used for it; it bound multiple objects together and allowed them to change accordingly to the order the holder gives.

With a slithering twist, he had created something of his own...a compass disguised as a common watch, and a necklace for the other holder that functioned as tracker compasses and also messengers.

Well, tonight the other holder seems to have found herself late again; it is not uncharacteristic, quite different from him, who prefers to be always on time; she is always fashionably late. He has learned to accept this about her and also to take it as a lesson in patience.

It doesn't take long for the watch to show that she was not very far at that moment - apologetically too - she is approaching at high speed.

He collected some books and notebooks in a leather bag and put on his coat, ready to escape unnoticed. He keeps his hood up so that the rain does not mess with his hair and quietly slithers out of his room through the second-floor window.

Once outside, he quickly gets to the edge of the window and jumps down. He lands on soaking wet grass, much to his disgust. He cleans his robes quickly and runs from shadow to shadow through the backyard, the fountain in the back serving as his shield from his mother's window.

He sprints to the edge of the garden and climbs the long wall from missing bricks on it, which he has made through countless attempts to sneak out.

Rain is pouring today, and he can barely see the full moon. The sound of footsteps over grass broke the stillness of the quiet night around him. He emerged from the shadows, his cloak pulled tightly around him. He looked out of place against the natural serenity of the vast field behind his house, his pale hair catching the moonlight like cold steel through the hood.

His watch brings him a final message.

I am here!

He looks around and that's when he notices her, in her askew blue cloak, on top of a Thestral, hair shining like silver strands in the night's faint moon glow.

His face immediately lights up when he sees her, an unconscious smile forming softly on his lips.-"Moony."-He calls out from a distance, walking faster towards her as she lands.

He has been able to see Thestrals for a while; many could after the war...It hurts to think about all the attention Thestrals are getting after the war, having been almost invisible all this time.

"Draco!"-Luna calls out, dismounting the Thestral with grace, running to him for a hug.

She wetly hugs him, and Draco protects her from the rain with his hand. It is obvious she did not use any charm to avoid getting washed in the rain, nor did she put up a hood.-"You are soaking."-He points out, regaining his usual composure.

Luna stares up dreamily, letting go of him and softly holding his hand.-"Yes, the ocean has sent us tiny kisses, in the form of rain, and I could not miss out. Sorry if I was late, tried to enjoy all of this."-She said, twirling in the rain.

Draco shook his head in disbelief.-"Oh, Moony, let's go before you get us both sick."

"I dislike Apparition."-She said, although Draco had already taken her hand again and pulled out his wand, fixing his leather bag in front of him.

"Not the night for a long ride, Moony, we have a ritual to do."-He said and advised her to close her eyes if she got too scared.

Luna closed her eyes and held his hand with both of hers. Before she could open her eyes again, they were by the lake, back at her farm.-"Now open them."-He said softly.

Luna let go of him, displeased.-"The Thestral will get lonely."

Draco actually laughed at that.-"He will find his way back for some apples, not to worry about that."-He cast a spell to dry both of them out. Thankfully, it was not raining in this part of England yet. Some faraway clouds were threatening to cover the moon.

The place by the lake is in its usual form: the tall trees that were connected by a hammock, the stools made out of wood, the low table where Luna usually puts her potions book, the jars of herbs and ingredients, and the usual brewing pot that is most of the time filled with all sorts of experimental potions.

"What are you brewing today?"-Draco says, sitting in one of the wooden stools, removing his coat and leather bag, hanging the coat on a branch with his wand, and leaving the bag on the floor.

The lake was calm that evening, the surface catching the pale shimmer of the rising moon. Luna knelt on a flat stone at the water's edge, her wand hovering over a small cauldron whose contents glowed faintly lilac in the half-light.

The air smelled faintly of mint and valerian, soft and sweet, carrying an almost drowsy weight of its own. Luna's pale hair fell loose around her face as she leaned forward, stirring the potion clockwise, then counter-clockwise, in a rhythm that seemed more like a lullaby than an instruction.

Her gaze never wavered, dreamy but focused, as if she could see more in the steam than simple vapours.-"It has to be perfect."-She murmured to him, voice carrying on the breeze.-"One wrong measure and it could trap someone in sleep instead of setting them free from dreams."

Beside him on the wooden table, laid out on a clean cloth, were the easier finds: valerian root, peppermint sprigs, dried chamomile. But at the centre of the cloth was an empty vial - waiting. The potion would never take its final form without one rare ingredient: powdered moonstone infused with sopophorous essence.

"It's the best Dreamless Sleeping Draught."-She says softly.-"Did you bring the ingredient?"

It was nearly impossible to obtain legally, especially for unauthorised potion makers, the Ministry having restricted it years ago due to its misuse in certain darker draughts.

Draco rummaged through his leather bag. In his hand was a small, stoppered jar, the contents faintly iridescent even in the low light.

"You've no idea how ridiculous it is to find this."-He muttered, passing it to her without ceremony.-"Half of Knockturn Alley thinks I'm brewing something unspeakable."-His lips twitched faintly, though his eyes were serious.-"Do try not to poison yourself."

Luna accepted the jar with both hands, cradling it as though it were something alive.-"Thank you, Draco," she said softly, meeting his gaze with that unblinking, otherworldly calm that always seemed to unsettle him.-"It isn't poison. Not if you're careful. It's hope for someone who can't rest."-She tilted the jar slightly, watching the silvery dust shift within.-"And hope is always worth the trouble."

Draco looked at her for a moment, as though wanting to argue, then exhaled sharply and turned his gaze to the lake. The water lapped gently against the stone, reflecting their pale silhouettes. Luna carefully unstoppered the jar, letting the powdered moonstone fall like stardust into the cauldron. The potion deepened instantly to a rich indigo, glowing faintly as if it had swallowed a piece of the sky itself.

Luna smiled, satisfied.-"There."-She whispered.-"A dreamless sleep. A quiet night, I now need to let it stir for a few nights."-She glanced at Draco, who still stood silently by her side.-"Even the most restless minds deserve that, don't you think?"

For a moment, neither spoke. The cauldron hissed softly, steam curling upward, carrying with it the faint scent of peppermint.

"Is anything bothering you, Moony?"-Draco asks, looking at the potion, rolling up the sleeves of his white button-down shirt, ready to help her with crushing some of the other ingredients. He crushed a few and handed them to her.-"I did not know you had nightmares."

Luna shook her head, laughing softly as she added the last of the ingredients.-"Not for me, silly, this is for Harry."-She whispered, stirring the potion.

Draco froze mid-cut when Luna finally told him. For Harry.

For a heartbeat, something old stirred in his chest - a reflexive bitterness, the echo of schoolyard rivalries, of years spent sneering at the Boy Who Lived to hide his own fear and envy. But it flickered and died almost at once, leaving behind a hollowness he had grown familiar with in recent years.

Of course, it was for Harry.

Who else carried shadows so heavy they invaded his sleep? Who else deserved a night of peace more than the man who had shouldered a war for everyone else?

Draco's jaw tightened, not from anger, but from a strange knot of emotions he wasn't certain how to name. There was resentment there - but not at Harry. At himself, at the way his own choices had fed into the nightmare that haunted Potter's nights. And beneath it, something sharper, almost like admiration.

He would never say it aloud, but there was a part of him that understood Harry's burden better than most: the crushing expectations, the isolation, the way people mistook survival for strength.

"I see."-He said finally, his voice carefully neutral, though his hand lingered a moment too long on the empty vial. He didn't need to ask why. He didn't need to pretend surprise.

When Luna only smiled at him, calm and knowing as ever, Draco turned his gaze toward the dark line of the horizon.

If it's Potter, he thought grimly, then it's worth it. He deserves at least one night of quiet.

And though he hated himself for it, Draco realised there was a small, almost reluctant relief in the thought. That perhaps, in some small way, he had helped give it to him.

Draco sat up, taking out the books he had collected from the ministry without permission.-"These are for the ritual."-He told her as he set up a blanket by the lakeshore.

Luna put a spell on the potion for it to stir itself and went to the blanket where he lay, taking a book in her hand.-"Brilliant."-Her eyes glimmered as she read the silver words on the book with unforeseen emotion.-"These can help us understand better...and if it does not work again, we can use any tip we can find here for next month."-She announced positively.

The lake was quiet, its surface smooth enough to catch the moon's reflection like glass. Draco skipped a stone across it, the ripple breaking the silver light before it vanished. Another stone followed. Then another. He had grown impatient with waiting, though he would never admit it aloud. His movements were sharp, deliberate, as though he could throw the time away along with the stones.

Luna sat a few paces back on a folded blanket, the heavy Animagus text resting on her knees. She turned the pages slowly, each one rustling like dry leaves, and read more to the air than to Draco.-"It says here that if you swallow the mandrake leaf even once, you must start all over again. Can you imagine? A whole month gone, only because you sneezed at the wrong moment."

Draco snorted but didn't look back, another pebble flying from his fingers.-"Trust me, I've imagined it every night since this ridiculous ritual began."

Luna smiled faintly and let her eyes linger on the diagrams inked across the parchment - the careful sketches of chrysalises, moon phases, the curling script of the incantation.-"We've been preparing for months now."-She said softly, as if speaking to the lake itself.-"Dawn and dusk, over and over, until the words no longer feel like words but like heartbeats. I can almost hear them when it's quiet enough."

Draco glanced over his shoulder at her then, his expression half exasperation, half something else he wouldn't name.-"You make it sound poetic. It's miserable. A leaf stuck in your cheek for weeks on end. Not to mention, I got bitten by baby mandrakes three times. Dew we have to crawl about collecting before sunrise? Whispering the same spell twice a day like schoolchildren."

Luna looked up from the book, laughing at the mandrake incidents, her pale eyes glinting with moonlight.-"Yes. Miserable. Beautiful. Both."-She tapped a finger gently against the open page.-"That's how magic knows we mean it."

Another stone skipped across the water, three perfect bounces before it sank. Draco's lips curved in the faintest smirk.-"Or maybe magic just enjoys watching us suffer."

"Then it must be laughing."-Luna replied serenely, turning another page.-"But we'll laugh too, when it works."

And the lake kept its secrets, the ripples folding into silence once more. The moon hung swollen and perfect over the lake, its reflection broken only by the soft lap of water against the reeds. The air was cool, the kind that clung to skin and carried every sound farther than it should.

She took out the other ingredients from the table and set them in front of both.

Luna had her pale hair loose and drifting like threads of silver in the breeze. She held the crystal phial between her palms, turning it gently so that the dew within caught the light. Inside, the chrysalis of the death's-head hawk moth lay perfectly still, as if it too were waiting.

Draco sat close enough to see his reflection mirrored in the glass of the phial when she tilted it. He leaned back on his hands, pretending ease, though the mandrake leaf beneath his tongue was bitter and sharp.

His jaw worked against it, and when he spoke, his words were faintly slurred.-"Half a year of this. Half a year of tasting like dirt. If this doesn't work..."

"It will...One day."-Luna said simply, placing the phial carefully onto a flat stone so that it basked in the direct path of the moonlight. Her voice was light, dreamy, but steady.-"Magic is stubborn, but it rewards those who don't give up."

Draco gave a low huff of laughter.-"And here I thought you'd say it rewards those who believe in invisible beasts."

Luna's lips curved into a small smile.-"Belief is a kind of stubbornness, too."

Silence fell between them, filled only by the sounds of the night: the rhythmic sigh of the water, the rustle of grass along the shore, the occasional crack of a twig in the forest. Draco found himself listening to her quiet breathing, matching it with his own.

He lifted his wand, pressed it to his chest, and whispered.-"Amato Animo Animato Animagus."-The words were familiar now, etched into him after endless dawns and dusks. Beneath his ribs, the strange echo of a second heartbeat stirred, faint but undeniable. He swallowed, the leaf in his mouth bitterer still.

"It's stronger."-He murmured.

Luna mirrored him, wand tip grazing her sternum.-"Yes indeed."

Draco turned his head toward her, pale eyes catching the glint of moonlight.-"What do you think yours will be?"

She gazed at the water, where the reflection of the moon seemed to tremble.-"Something that soars. Something that sees what others overlook."

"And me?"-His tone carried that mixture he hated in himself: curiosity edged with self-doubt.

Luna looked at him then, her eyes calm, steady in the drifting light.-"Something proud."-She said softly.-"Something that weathers storms."

His chest tightened, though he said nothing. He looked away, toward the dark sweep of the lake, where the moon still burned in broken pieces across the water.

The phial glowed faintly on its stone, drinking in the night. Soon, when the storm came, when lightning tore the sky apart, their patience would be tested to its very end. But for now, there was only the lake, the moon, and the quiet company of two who had chosen to walk this strange and dangerous path together.

They started to glow, their bones felt heavy, and their breath became uneven. He could feel it was all about to go wrong again. It felt like last time.

The night broke into laughter instead of lightning.

They had done everything by the book - the mandrake leaves, the dew, the endless incantations at dawn and dusk. Tonight, the potion shimmered red in its phial, trembling in the moonlight as though alive. They had drunk, whispered the words, waited for the surge, the vision, the fire in the veins that meant success.

Instead, Luna blinked down at her hand and tilted it curiously in the silver light. A patch of soft white fur sprouted along the back of her knuckles, glinting like frost. She stroked it once, as though admiring a new glove.-"Oh."-She said dreamily.-"That's rather nice."

Draco, however, swore under his breath. He was staring at his own left hand, where the skin had gone bone-pale and sharp claws now tipped each finger. He flexed them once, the nails scraping faintly against each other.-"Bloody brilliant."-He muttered, holding it up as though the moon might take pity on him.-"I look like a half-baked werewolf."

Luna's laughter was loud now, a sound like bells caught in the wind. She reached for the heavy book lying open on the blanket, her furred hand flipping through its well-thumbed pages with calm precision.-"It says here."-She murmured, tracing the ink with one finger.-"That minor mutations are perfectly ordinary when the alignment isn't quite right. They fade after a few days."-She glanced at him, her pale eyes wide and luminous.-"You'll have your proper hand back before you know it."

Draco dropped back onto the blanket with a theatrical groan, his clawed hand flung across his forehead.-"Six months of leaves and dew, and I end up with talons. Mother would be proud."-He says sarcastically.

"Better than feathers coming out of your ears."-Luna offered serenely, still flipping through the book.-"That happened to a wizard in Minsk. He never minded, though. He said it improved his hearing."

That drew an unwilling laugh from Draco, sharp but real. He curled his clawed hand into a fist and shook his head.-"Only you, Moony, could make this sound like a triumph."

Luna closed the book, laying it gently aside. Her furred soft fingers gleamed faintly in the moonlight as she leaned back beside him, her gaze fixed on the shimmering lake.-"It isn't a failure, this is the closest we ever came."-She said softly.-"It's a step. Magic is just reminding us we're not ready yet."-She then went to her bag and pulled out a shining liquid-like bracelet that shone through her fingers as she brought it to Draco.-"I have something that can help your hand heal faster..."-She said with a smile.

Draco was caught off guard when Luna started tying a silver bracelet around his left wrist, where the pale, clawed hand softly touched her soft, fluffy one.-"What is this..."-He said, mesmerised at the shine.

"It's unicorn hair, and I also included a strand of my hair...for friendship."-She said dreamily.-"It has strong healing powers and would come in handy for any minor wounds, and it's mainly gold energy."

Draco touched the bracelet with his normal hand and could already feel her words flow through his body.-"Thanks, Moony."-Is all he can mutter, still in disbelief.-"Your heart is just as pure as a unicorn's..."

The moonlight lingered on their strange hands - his pale and clawed wrapped in a thin silver line, hers soft and dusted with white fur - as they sat together on the lakeshore, two almost-Animagi laughing under the stars, patient enough to try again next month.

Ever since the war, their nights by the lake, the whispered plans and stolen moments in shadowed corridors, had taken on a rhythm all their own.

It had begun in the cold, damp cells of the underground prison at the Malfoy manor where Luna had been held, her silver hair catching the meager torchlight like a beacon, and Draco - unexpectedly - slipping scraps of bread and cheese under the guard's nose, lingering just long enough to share a few words, or perhaps to hear them spoken aloud in safety.

At first, it had been necessity that bound them: he, seeking some measure of solace from his own guilt and fear; she, hoping for comfort and someone to believe in her when no one else dared. He had confided in her, just a little, about his regrets, his hatred of the legacy left by his family. And she had listened, offered the kind of calm understanding that no one else could, and even helped her plan small escapes, impossibly precise, for her alone.

Over the months that followed the war, that fragile alliance had blossomed into a friendship, improbable but true. And from that friendship came trust, and from trust came laughter, and eventually - quietly, like moonlight spilling across the lake - something more. Not romantic, at least not in the way others might expect; it was deeper, steadier. They had grown into each other's confidence, sharing secrets and fears, comforting each other in ways that bordered on familial.

Almost a year later, their bond was almost sibling-like: teasing, protective, insistent that the other take care, yet knowing when to give space.

The Animagus ritual had become their shared obsession - a test of patience, discipline, and magic that mirrored the care and faith they had cultivated in one another. It was impossible to do alone, not fully, not for them. Every dawn and dusk incantation, every mandrake leaf, every drop of dew, was as much a testament to their bond as it was a step toward transformation. Each failure was not disappointment but a playful acknowledgement that they were in this together, that the magic would only respond to two hearts aligned in patience, respect, and understanding.

By the lake, preparing again, Luna would often explain the ritual to the night itself, her soft voice recounting its dangers and mysteries, while Draco - restless and sceptical - skipped stones along the water, laughing at the absurdity of swallowing leaves and whispering spells day after day.

But they did it, not for glory, not for power, but for themselves, for the strange, unwavering friendship that had survived imprisonment, war, and guilt.

For them, becoming Animagi was never just about magic; it was about proving that they could trust, rely on, and endure alongside each other - a bond forged in shadow and strengthened in quiet devotion.

And so, even as the months stretched on, even as the ritual punished them with failed transformations and odd mutations, they persisted - two wizards shaped by the past, united in the present, and quietly, unmistakably, inseparable in the gentle rhythms of their shared determination.

Chapter Text

The morning at Grimmauld Place was unusually noisy. Somewhere upstairs, Molly's voice carried through the halls, instructing Andromeda about fabric swatches for the nursery curtains. Teddy's faint babbling punctuated her words like tiny squeaks of punctuation. The house, once so haunted, now felt almost too alive.

Andromeda has extended her stay at the Grimmauld Place, mainly to help clean up, and since it was weekends sends sometime with both Harry and Teddy.

Harry sat at the kitchen table after he was thrown out of the room, a pot of tea steaming at his elbow, the Daily Prophet spread open before him. The bold headline caught the light as the paper crinkled under his tense grip.

CARROW SIBLINGS ESCAPE AZKABAN

He skimmed the article again, though he knew it nearly by heart already. He, as well as the rest of the Auror division, was aware of the escaping's that had happened since the security changes in Azkaban, where they no longer used dementors; he had Ministry files there with him, but something about seeing it splashed across the Prophet made his stomach knot. The moving photograph of Amycus and Alecto sneered at him every time he glanced up, their faces taunting even from ink.

The file provided to the Aurors on these escaping's lies beside him; he takes it in his hands and compares what the Prophet is saying.

Ministry of Magic

Department of Magical Law Enforcement Confidential

Case File - DO NOT DISTRIBUTE

Subjects
Alecto Carrow
Amycus Carrow

Known AffiliationsInner
Circle of Lord Voldemort ("Death Eaters")
Direct enforcers at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry during the regime

Documented Crimes

Alecto Carrow

Appointed as Professor of Muggle Studies under Voldemort's control; used the position to spread anti-Muggle propaganda.
-Participated in the torture, humiliation, and intimidation of students who resisted the Dark Lord's authority.
-Attempted to breach Ravenclaw Tower during the Battle of Hogwarts.

Amycus Carrow

-Appointed as Professor of the Dark Arts; encouraged and supervised the use of the Unforgivable Curses on students.
-Perpetrated physical and magical abuse, including repeated use of the Cruciatus Curse.
-Directly assaulted Professor Minerva McGonagall during the Battle of Hogwarts.

Capture & Sentencing

Both siblings were captured during the Battle of Hogwarts. Sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban for crimes against the wizarding community.
Initial imprisonment confirmed; security records verify routine monitoring for the first 10 months post-war.

Escape
Date of Escape: Estimated between August and September.
Method: Undetermined. Evidence suggests possible inside assistance from surviving loyalists of the Dark Lord.
Status: Both fugitives remain at large. Considered armed and extremely dangerous.

Current Threat Assessment
The Carrow siblings possess considerable knowledge of Dark Arts practices. Though not skilled tacticians, their cruelty and blind obedience render them dangerous to vulnerable targets.
Intelligence suggests they are attempting to reorganise small Death Eater cells that continue to evade Ministry detection.

Auror Division Notes

Subjects are siblings and are rarely separated; high co-dependence is observed in operational behaviour.

Known to exhibit cowardice when confronted by superior force, but extreme brutality toward weaker opponents.

Capture Priority: Class B - High Risk, Repeat Offenders.

Extreme caution is recommended during pursuit and apprehension.

Filed by: Auror Office,
Department of Magical Law Enforcement
Status: Sealed - For Ministerial Review Only

"Harry?"-Hermione's voice floated in from the hallway. A moment later, she entered, tugging off her gloves, Ron at her side.-"We came straight over. We saw the Prophet."

Harry exhaled through his nose, tossing the paper onto the table beside the top security file.-"Of course you did. Half of London's probably in a panic by now, and it's for nothing, we have things under control."

Ron leaned over, eyes narrowing at the headline.-"Bloody hell. They didn't waste time, did they?"-He pulled out a chair and dropped into it, grabbing a slice of toast without waiting for permission.-"Suppose they want to make it sound like the Ministry's already lost control."

"It's not helping."-Harry muttered. He pinched the bridge of his nose.-"We knew about this for a while now, no one batted an eye when the other escaping's happened. There was no need to feed it to the press, like we cannot handle a few rogue Death Eaters."

Hermione set her satchel on the chair beside her, her face sharp with concern but calm in its clarity.-"My division is already on alert. The Unspeakables are prepared to assist, should the Auror Office request coordination."

Harry gave her a tired smile. Trust Hermione to have contingencies lined up before breakfast. -"Thanks. We might need it. Kingsley's already talking about expanding surveillance teams."

Ron, who had taken an enormous bite of toast, swallowed and frowned.-"And what about me?"

Harry blinked.-"What about you..."

"Yeah, me."-Ron gestured vaguely between the two of them. Ron shifted in his chair.-"I know I'm not Ministry anymore."-He said, a note of defiance under his tone.-"Zonko's doesn't exactly hand out duelling practice, but don't think for a second I'll sit this out. We're still a team."

Hermione gave him a look somewhere between exasperation and fondness. "Ron..."

"No, don't Ron me. We're a team, right?"-His ears went slightly pink, but his voice was firm.-"If those gits are crawling back out of their holes, you'll need all the help you can get. And you know I'm not half-bad in a duel."

Harry's chest loosened despite the knot of dread. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.-"You're more than half-bad. I'll give you that. But this is a matter for the Ministry. You are always well informed on these matters; we will always include you, of course."

Ron smirked and reached for another slice of toast, not fighting any further.

Harry sighs.-"I visited Narcissa Malfoy days ago."-He says, changing the subject.

Ron chokes on his toast, and Hermione gives him a scolding look.-"You did what? Alone!"-Ron half yells.

Hermione, unlike Ron, has a more understanding look.-"How did it go? Did you ask her about Rosmerta's case?"

Ron looks at them, confused.-"Rosmerta, from the Three Broomstricks?"

Harry and Hermione nod.-"She is not aware, as anticipated, I have been trying to keep the case away from them, just last week I testified to set them free...Their involvement would bring chaos. I know she would want to save her son and end up doing something worse."-Harry removes his glasses and puts them on the table.

"What does that have to do with us?"-Ron said, rebelling.-"You did your part already."

"But he did not finish it, Ron. Someone has asked the Rosmerta case to be reopened at the Ministry for a fair trial."-Hermione filled him in.-"Someone who wants to hurt the Malfoy family, take it down completely."

"She was under Imperius' curse; she should be fine."-Ron said as if he had cracked the case.

"Yes, precisely, and Draco was the one who cast the Imperius curse...Did you forget it was a forbidden curse?"-Hermione says, taking a sip from the tea Kreacher has set aside for them. He still does not like Hermione, but serves her tea every time she drops by.

Harry looks at his wand, with a golden line outlining where it was broken, and rotates it in his palms. He had gotten used to the old wand, Draco's wand.

Ron looked confused, as if he was missing some crucial information from his friends.-"Why are we helping him again?"

Harry shook his head, and Hermione slapped him on the arm.-"They are the reason Harry is still here with us, and the wizarding world is still intact. They were not evil by choice, or at least they were not that enthusiastic to endanger the world for their beliefs."

Ron snarled.-"To me, it seemed they did. Always rude and crude, their rotten beliefs will not change."

"Malfoy is studying for the Unspeakables position, there will be this testing at the Ministry...according to his mother, he is trying hard to undo his past."-He says, not looking up from his hand.-"She told me to keep an eye on him."

"On which grounds can she ask this of you! You don't have to do this, he is dangerous, he is a Death Eater."-Ron said, his appetite gone.

"Let's not forget that he came from a series of bad decisions, which does not make him an evil guy. If Harry thinks he has changed..."

"I don't know if he has changed. I am not confirming that."-Harry cut off Hermione immediately.-"All I am saying is...I will keep my promise to bail him out of this mess, Rosmerta included, keep an eye on him till the examination, and that's it, he's on his own after that."

Hermione took Harry's hand.-"It is fine, Harry, Ron is just worried, that's all."

"It's not like he did not save his behind too back when we got snatched by the Snatchers."-Harry said to Ron.

"Oi, do not come for my head now that I made fun of your little obsession."-Ron said, crossing his arms.

"It is not an obsession."-Harry said, defending himself.-"It's duty."

"If that helps you sleep at night, mate."-Ron shot back.

"Enough, both of you. Do we even have an idea how to help Harry with the Rosmerta case?"-Hermione said, breaking the banter off.

They both shook their heads.

Ron then took the newspaper, flipping through it in total silence while everyone looked at their own hands, thinking.-"Remember that guy you obliviated back at Tottenham café? Where Hermione Stunned, Petrified, and then Obliviated two Death Eaters, that was totally badass of you."

Both of them agreed.-"How does that help this case, Ron?"-Harry said, putting his wand through the mug handle, not knowing what to fiddle with.

"We can blame one of these blokes for the Imperius case, let's say they were sent from You Know Who to support Malfoy, since he had a feeling he would chicken out."-Ron said, pointing at a name from the last page of the newspaper.

Hermione took the newspaper from his hands.-"Brilliant, Ron. Thorfinn Rowle, this man was at Hogwarts the night Dumbledore was killed, too. And since I obliterated him a year after, he would not remember if he was ordered to do such a thing or not. He is totally nuts; he cannot testify."-She showed Harry the picture of him from the room in St. Mungo's Hospital where he was being held in a mentally weak state.

"How can we get Rosmerta to 'lie' for us?"-Harry said, looking at the back of his hand, where the fading words of I must not tell lies are still visible.

"Easy, you tell her the truth. She would not remember anyway, maybe she remembers a whisper, a soft voice...something that would not directly indicate it was Draco, but if she says the voice was harsh and demanding...they might believe this story."-Hermione said enthusiastically.

"Even if they don't believe 'that', they will believe the boy who saved the wizarding world. Question is, Harry, do you think what you are doing is worth it?"-Ron asked with his usually shielded demeanour.

Harry once again looked down at his hands.-"I will study the worth myself, thank you, Ron. Apparently, Malfoy is studying at the Ministry's library. I checked the records, and he was permitted to enter every afternoon after 6. His mother claims he does not leave till later. So I will pay a visit to the library later."

"Back to stalking him, aye."-Ron laughed at that.-"What will you even do at the library, you cannot just go and stare at Malfoy while he reads god knows what Unspeakables read."

Harry pursed his lips into a thin line.-"Good point..."

Hermione took matters into her own hands.-"I will give you a list of books, pick them up for me."-She took out a quill and paper and wrote down a long list of books.-"I need these for some independent readings."

Harry looked at the long list.-"Half of these are banned."

"Not at the Ministry, they are not silly."-She said in her all-knowing voice.-"I will come and check on you later in the afternoon. We can discuss the Rosmerta plans."

Ron, feeling left out again, butted in.-"I can also get a library pass at the ministry. Help you with the Rosmerta case. After all, it was my brilliant idea, was it not?"

Harry smiled at Hermione knowingly.-"Of course, we would not leave you out, would we, Hermione?"

She also laughed.-"No, never Ronald."-She said and hugged him.-"But till afternoon, you will promise to help Molly and Andromeda with the nursery."

"Bloody knew it, you would set me up."-He muttered.

From upstairs came another burst of Molly's voice - this time something about proper baby blankets - and Andromeda's softer reply. Teddy squealed with laughter, the sound cutting through the tension like sunlight through fog.

Harry leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking once more to the discarded Prophet headline. The world outside Grimmauld was bracing for panic, but here, in the clatter of breakfast and the warmth of voices, he felt the old certainty of the war years returning: they would face whatever came, together.

Harry and Hermione got ready to leave for work, leaving a displeased Ron to deal with Molly and Andromeda, who quickly became their handyman. They promise to meet later at the Ministry to discuss these new events.

The Floo directly to the Ministry instead of taking the long way today. They walk side by side on the mildly populated hallways of the Ministry. A power duo now at the Ministry, although working in different departments. Eyes follow them when they walk, cloaked, in neat uniforms and just as curated looks. The badges on their uniform shine as they walk through.

Harry fixes his glasses. He is holding the newspaper and the files in his hand, not having bothered with a suitcase today. Just as they near the fountain, there he notices him again, the weird middle-aged man who keeps staring at him every morning.

"Do you know that man?"-He whispers to Hermione.

"Which man, Harry?"-She says, looking around.

Harry discreetly gestures towards the fountain, and she immediately notices.-"No...I do not know, but I can find out if you want. Is there anything wrong?"

"Yes, there is. He has a staring problem."-Harry says, not elaborating any further.

Hermione laughs softly.-"You have gained that Auror pride already. I will let you know once I find out."

They walk by the man as if they did not notice him, even from behind, he can still feel the eyes on him.

The rest of the day goes by as normal, although his mind keeps going to the afternoon mission, he is able to perform training tasks at the enchanted chamber as normal, earning a pat on his shoulders from Kingsley. Telling him how proud of him he is.

The Ministry's library was hushed, charmed to muffle footsteps and whispers alike. Tall shelves rose in endless rows, their ladders gliding silently back and forth, guided by enchantments that seemed to notice need before a reader could.

The farthest section of the Ministry library was a quiet, almost forgotten corner, where the air seemed thicker with the scent of old parchment and faint traces of candle wax. Towering shelves rose in close, narrow rows, their spines etched with gold and silver lettering, containing tomes that most wizards would hesitate to touch without proper clearance. Dim enchanted lamps floated intermittently above the aisles, casting pools of warm, muted light on the polished wooden floors.

At the very back, a semicircular alcove hugged the stone wall, furnished with a cluster of high-backed chairs and small, sturdy tables. The windows were tall but often shuttered by heavy curtains, letting in only narrow streaks of natural light during the day. A single, well-worn reading rug softened the echo of footsteps, and faintly humming charms protected certain shelves from casual browsing, letting only authorised eyes near the most sensitive volumes.

Draco had claimed a favoured spot here: a chair tucked into a shadowed corner, angled so that he could see most of the aisle without being easily seen himself. From this vantage, he could observe passersby, the flicker of candlelight on nearby shelves, and the occasional flutter of a page in someone else's hands - all while remaining perfectly hidden in plain sight.

Now, as Harry began his mission to the library for his own purposes, he gravitated toward a table near the opposite wall. From there, he could keep a subtle line of sight on Draco's alcove without drawing attention, while still appearing absorbed in his own studies. Between them, the space felt private yet shared, a quiet battlefield of observation and unspoken understanding.

The entire far section had a hushed intimacy, the kind of place where secrets could linger between shelves, and where even a whispered thought seemed to resonate softly against the stone walls.

Harry carried Hermione's long list in one hand, a small mountain of books balanced in the other. He wasn't here for books - at least, not really.

He was here for Malfoy.

At the far alcove, Draco sat angled toward the lamp, its iron lattice shadowing his pale face as he read. He hadn't looked up once, even as Harry drifted past the shelves pretending to browse. His movements were sharp but focused, making neat notes in the margins, lips drawn in concentration. Malfoy looked nothing like the swaggering boy who had once strutted through the Hogwarts library, tossing smirks and insults like hexes.

Harry tore his gaze away and carried the heavy stack to a long mahogany table. Hermione and Ron just arrived there, waiting.

Hermione immediately relieved him of the books, flicking through the stack with the quick precision of a hawk.-"Good. You found most of them. I'll need the rest by tomorrow."

Harry gave her a look.-"Most? Hermione, I'm carrying half the Restricted Section."

"They're not restricted here."-She replied absently, already scanning an index.

Ron leaned forward, his voice low though his grin betrayed him.-"So. Our favourite ferret still buried in his corner?"

Harry shot him a sharp glance. Ron raised his palms innocently.-"Relax. I'm whispering, aren't I? No need to give us away. What's he on about tonight, dragon-blood genealogies or 'How to Look Gloomy in Six Easy Steps'?"

Harry's mouth twitched despite himself.-"...Didn't get close enough to see the cover. But yes. Still here, same time as always."

Hermione didn't even look up.-"Keep your voices down. We don't want him to know we're watching. And Harry, if you're going to sit here every night anyway, you may as well be useful."

She scrawled quickly on a slip of parchment and pushed it across the table.-"Here. A list. Collect these tomorrow evening. Some are locked, but you can request them if you're careful with your Auror credentials."

Harry unfolded it and groaned.-"Hermione, half of these are Class B materials."

"Not for me."-She said primly.-"And I'll meet you tomorrow after work so we can review them. We still need to discuss the Rosmerta plans."

Ron leaned closer, his voice even lower now, a conspiratorial glint in his eye.-"You will not want me in on the library watch. Malfoy sees three of us lurking about, he'll think he's being adored, not followed."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but Harry smirked into his sleeve. Ron might complain, but he was sharp enough when it mattered. Like he was before with the Rosmerta plan. He thinks about the first time they all met together and wonders if he was a bad influence on them...or if they all three were a bad influence on each other.

Harry glanced once more toward the alcove. Malfoy hadn't shifted, still folded into his book as though the world beyond the page didn't exist. Harry forced himself back to the table.

"All right."-He murmured. "You guys can go now, don't forget to pay me a visit from time to time."

Ron leaned back in his chair with a satisfied nod.-"Andromeda told me she will be staying at your house for a while, to look after Teddy."

"Yeah, that's fine, I think, will not be home till late now because of all this to look after Teddy...also, you know that house is the safest in London."-Harry agrees.-"Told her I might stay overtime and she agreed as long as I take Teddy for a stroll outside tomorrow morning."

"Father of the year this one."-Ron jokes.

Hermione cannot help but smirk.-"Teddy is lucky to have a father figure like you, Harry."

Hermione then turned to go to him again as if she had just remembered.-"Harry, I almost forgot to tell you. The trials for Rosmerta have been pushed again. Amelia Bones will not be available for two weeks; she will be out of state, in America. She will be there till the start of the school year for Ilvermorny School."

"Brilliant! More time for us to convince Rosmerta and gather our case."-Ron said and eyed Harry, who just nodded instead.

"Did you also research the guy at the fountain?"-Harry asked.

Hermione nodded.-"Anthony Markus, from the Department of Defence. He is a totally normal person that you would expect to find at the Ministry. Which also happens to have a fascination with you."

Ron snorted.-"These days, everyone has a fascination with Harry, the hero of the people. All gals and lads are head over heels for him."

"Nothing to worry then."- Harry smiled as he went through her list in his hand, trying to memorise what she needed.

Harry kept glancing up from time to time. He told himself it was only to make sure Malfoy hadn't left, only to confirm that Narcissa's reports were true - that he came here every evening and stayed late, absorbed in whatever studies drew him in.

He lingers longer watching his figure, wearing black clothes as ever, that draped over his figure loosely as if wanting to hide in them, a turtleneck and a thin jacket over it, no cloak, just formality. What caught his eye the most was a black glove he was wearing on his left arm. Who wears gloves inside? He points it out to Hermione, who shrugs it off as usual, Malfoy's weird behaviour and fashion sense.

But Harry remembers from the stolen glances at the hearings that he was not wearing it at the trials.

But the sixth time Harry's eyes strayed to the alcove, Malfoy's pale head lifted.

Steel-grey eyes caught him across the shelves.

Harry froze, guilt flushing through him even though he had every reason, every order, to be here. Malfoy didn't sneer, didn't scowl, didn't even look startled. His gaze lingered for a moment, sharp and cutting, before one corner of his mouth twitched - an echo of that old, infuriating smirk. Then he lowered his eyes again and turned another page, as if to say: I see you, Potter. And I don't mind making you sweat.

Harry stiffened.

Ron, noticing the change, muttered under his breath.-"Brilliant. He's clocked you."-He pushed his chair back, scraping softly against the marble floor.-"Well, that's my cue to leg it. If Malfoy comes over, it's better you face him than me."

Hermione gave Harry a meaningful look, her quill stilling mid-note.-"We'll leave you to it. Keep your head down. And Harry - don't overplay it. We don't want him thinking you're here on assignment."

She gathered her notes and stood, Ron in tow, both of them slipping quietly toward the exit without another word, holding hands as always.

Harry sat there, very still, listening as the muffled hush of the enchanted library swallowed their retreating footsteps.

Slowly, he drew one of the books from his stack. Its spine creaked with disuse - Advanced Auror Protocols: A Primer for Probationary Officers. He hadn't even gotten it from Hermione's list; he'd plucked it absentmindedly earlier, a cover in case anyone asked why he was loitering.

He set it on the table, opened it to a random chapter, and stared at the dense text without absorbing a word. His eyes slid again, almost against his will, toward Malfoy's corner. The blond boy was back to reading, unmoved, as if their silent exchange hadn't just lit the air between them like flint and steel.

Harry let out a slow breath and forced his gaze down to the page. His fingers tightened on the edges of the book until his knuckles whitened.

If Malfoy was going to sit there, night after night, absorbed in whatever he was chasing...Then Harry would be here too. Watching. Waiting. Pretending to study, if that's what it took.

But in the hollow quiet of the library, beneath the flicker of enchanted lantern-light, Harry couldn't shake the thought that maybe - just maybe - Malfoy knew exactly what game was being played the moment he saw him there.

Day after day till the nearing exam, he stood there in his chair.

Harry had taken to the farthest corner of the Ministry library as a quiet refuge. A place where he could pretend to focus on reports or obscure magical treatises while keeping an eye on the ebb and flow of activity around him. He thought he was careful, subtle - but lately, he couldn't shake the sense that he was noticing him for his true intentions.

It was the smallest things at first: a shadow moving just at the edge of his vision, the faint rustle of pages in a corner, a little too still. Harry caught himself glancing up, only to see a figure tucked into a shadowed alcove, scanning him with that unmistakable, calculating Malfoy look.

Some days, he found himself staring at a page for far too long, trying to appear absorbed in a treatise on magical law enforcement, all while feeling the weight of those eyes on him. He'd trace the lines of the text with his finger, tapping it almost nervously, as if the rhythm would convince the watcher he was merely studying.

One afternoon, another day, he caught the movement again. Draco had paused just a few feet away as Harry passed by the stacks to leave, letting his gaze linger in silence. Harry froze for a heartbeat, uncertain whether to acknowledge him, confront him, or pretend nothing had happened. Draco said nothing. Walked away. Harry exhaled slowly, heart still racing, trying to shake the strange, electric tension it left behind.

The tension between them had gotten so thick that one day, when Hermione and Ron came to visit him in the afternoon, they asked him if they had fought or bantered with each other, an open rivalry between them in the air. He had answered that no such thing had happened. Indeed, they hadn't even acknowledged each other's presence yet.

By the next day, Harry realised he was both aware and wary of every corner, every shadow, every flicker of movement Malfoy made. The library felt smaller, somehow, more charged. He found himself counting the seconds between page turns, noticing the subtle shifts in light, the faint tapping of Draco's quill as he observed. The intensity of being watched - and the odd pull it exerted on him - made him fidget more than he cared to admit.

It wasn't just that Draco was there. It was that Harry could feel the intent behind the gaze. There was something deliberate in the way Draco studied him, as though every movement, every expression was being noted, weighed, remembered. Harry didn't like it, exactly - not the feeling of scrutiny, not the unsettling awareness that the boy he had once duelled with in hallways and corridors now lingered in the periphery of his afternoons. And yet, a strange part of him found it...Compelling, even necessary.

It went on for days.

Every evening after six, Harry signed his name into the Ministry Library's logbook, took a pile of texts Hermione had marked for him - or else an Auror manual for cover - and sat in the same general section. Always within sight of the pale figure in the alcove.

Draco never approached him. Never said a word. But Harry knew he'd noticed. There were too many little tells: the deliberate turn of a page a bit too slowly, as though listening to Harry shift in his chair; the sharp tilt of his head when Harry coughed to cover a glance; the smirk that flickered once when Harry dropped his quill and cursed under his breath. Which was uncalled for, and it made Harry's face flush red.

Ron teased him mercilessly whenever he reported back. Hermione warned him he was going to blow his cover if he wasn't careful. Still, Harry returned, night after night. Because Narcissa Malfoy had asked, and because - if he was honest with himself - he was curious. So curious about him...

On the fifth night, the library was quieter than usual, the enchanted lanterns and candles dimmed to a soft golden glow as closing time neared. Harry had stayed longer than he intended. Ron and Hermione had left hours ago, leaving him alone at his usual table, staring at a page of dry Auror regulations without comprehension. He even wondered if anyone even read these sorts of books for the purpose they were made.

The sound of a chair scraping broke the hush.

Harry glanced up sharply. Draco Malfoy was standing, his book closed neatly under one arm. Instead of heading for the exit, he angled directly toward Harry's table. His footsteps were deliberate, echoing faintly on the polished floor to the beat of Harry's heart.

Harry's pulse jumped. He sat up straighter, hand resting near his wand out of habit.

Malfoy stopped opposite him, cool grey eyes sweeping over the stack of Auror texts. Then, in a low, silken drawl, he said:

"So. Tell me, Potter... do you actually enjoy reading about probationary Auror field protocols every night? Or is this just your very clumsy way of keeping an eye on me?"

Harry blinked, caught completely off guard.-"I—what?"-Trying to play it dumb.

Malfoy leaned forward slightly, placing his book on the table with a soft thud. He got so close he could almost hear Harry's pulse.-"Five nights in a row, Potter. Same chair. Same stack of books you're not actually reading. Even you aren't that boring."

Heat rose to Harry's face, and he cursed the flush.-"Maybe I just...like it here, dull little corner, reading boring rules."

"Of course you do."-Malfoy said smoothly, lips curling into a faint, knowing smile.-"And I suppose next you'll tell me it's pure coincidence you arrive at precisely six o'clock, just as I sit down?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably.-"You're imagining things, Malfoy."

"Am I?"-Malfoy tilted his head, studying him as though he were the one under observation. His fingers tapped idly against the table, but his voice had cooled.-"Funny. A week ago, in the Ministry corridor, I called your name. You gave me a nod - one miserable nod - and kept walking. I guess you are tired of thank yous. But now you can't seem to take your eyes off me."

Harry froze, the memory stirring - a pale figure outside the courtroom, blond head bowed slightly, speaking his name once. Harry had nodded, brusque, and moved on to the next trial, time being at his disadvantage to stop. At the time, it had seemed...easier. Cleaner. But now, under Malfoy's gaze, it felt like something else entirely.

Harry opened his mouth, then shut it again. The truth stuck in his throat.

Malfoy's smile sharpened.-"You're terrible at lying, you know. Always have been. Unlike your hand suggests."-He said, gesturing down at his scarred hand. He then picked up his book again and turned as though to leave. Then he glanced over his shoulder, voice softer, carrying just enough to reach Harry:-"Careful, Potter. If you're going to stalk me, at least try to be subtle about it."

And with that, he walked away, long robes whispering against the marble floor. The charm that surrounds him is like a grey cloud following him.

Harry sat frozen, looking at his hand, staring after him, heart pounding. His cover was blown. Completely. He had been deduced right then and there.

But beneath the sting of embarrassment, another thought sparked - Malfoy hadn't sounded angry. Amused, yes. Sharp, absolutely. But angry? Not even close.

It was here, among the old tomes and the dim floating lamps, that Draco and Harry could meet in silence, each aware of the other without ever needing to speak aloud.

And one thing Draco had missed...Harry could lie, and he was ready to lie for him. In the face of the whole jury, if needed. He just had to wait and prove him wrong.

Chapter Text

Draco had always preferred the shadows of the library's far alcove, tucked in his corner with a small stack of books that felt like his armour. He liked to watch, quietly, without drawing attention. And lately, he had begun to notice... him. Harry Potter.

Here is how it started.

He had almost begun to believe in the comfort of the routine he had established.

For seven nights so far, he had come to the Ministry's library just after six, when the main rush of staff had already cleared out and the corridors had grown hushed.

He signed his name in the logbook, offered the usual curt nod to the clerk, and vanished into the farthest alcove, the one softened by the library's muffling charms. There, the silence was perfect - quill to parchment, the slow shuffle of pages, the faint hiss of candle flames.

It was safer here than anywhere else. Safer than the echoing halls of the Manor, or the brittle quiet of his mother's company.

Here, he could be just another candidate preparing for the Unspeakables' examinations, not a Malfoy, not a former Death Eater - just a boy with ink-stained fingers and a desperate need to prove himself. Hoping his past would not get in his way, a huge disadvantage, that might cloud the talent and knowledge.

He would come and collect any book that Hermione Granger had not already put on her list of daily reading material. Many books he had to wait for days till she returned them. It had started to annoy him in a way.

However, he loved curses, and he had learned to love curse-breaking just as much. Independently wealthy without any need to work, Draco had inherited Malfoy Manor from his father, following his imprisonment after the war. Working is not something that he had to do; rather, it was something he needed for himself.

His hobbies so far had expanded - (without his fathers puppeteer control) - which included keeping the family's old collection of Dark artefacts (which he did not use and kept in glass cases that he had learned to put protective charms around), and studying alchemical manuscripts - are indications of his dual nature, and hint at a desire for something more than wealth.

That is how he came across original manuscripts of Nicolas Flamel...on the biggest secret of the wizarding world so far...the philosopher's ruby red stone. Just out of curiosity, no malicious intentions behind his studies. Purely academic, he had many experiments in mind, Luna being his number one supporter of his love for potions and alchemy.

Deep in his work, scribbling notes and learning incantations, his old runes book almost swallowing him whole, he is interrupted.

That evening, Draco's eyes flicked up from his neat notes, drawn by movement across the library's long expanse. At one of the central oak tables sat Potter, Weasley, and Granger, just as they had always been. Even at this distance, Draco could see it, the lean-in of Granger's hands as she gestured, the lazy sprawl of Weasley's arm across the back of his chair, and Potter sitting between them, head bent, still the natural centre of their little orbit.

He wonders how a trio like this comes to be...three totally different people, who managed to save the entire world. How did they make a hero out of Weasley, who, clumsy and sluggish as he was, would curse himself with a broken wand...Ganger with her know-it-all, annoying, self-absorbed wits, who was not even raised amongst wizards...and perfect Potter, who could do no wrong.

The charm that muted all noise made it worse somehow. They looked exactly as they had at Hogwarts: untouchable, unbreakable, bound together as though by spellcraft. Always the trio, always together, always a reminder.

Draco's stomach tightened. He forced his eyes down to his work, to the clean lines of his notes on magical law, the scrawl of a diagram he hadn't finished. Yet something in him - the smallest, most traitorous part - kept glancing back.

He watched Granger snap her book shut, Weasley stretch, Potter push his chair back. They rose as one, their silhouettes cutting through the golden lamplight, and drifted toward the door. Their lips moved, words Draco would never hear beneath the muffling charm, but he didn't need to. He knew them by heart.

And then they were gone.

Draco dragged his gaze back to his parchment with a flicker of irritation - at them, at himself. The muffling charm hummed faintly in the air, pressing silence into his ears. With deliberate precision, he dipped his quill back into the ink and bent low, forcing his hand to move. Line after line, word after word, as if he hadn't noticed at all.

The echo of their departure lingered longer than Draco liked.

He waited for the faint shift in the air that usually came when the doors closed and the last footsteps faded down the hall. But the silence didn't settle the way it normally did. It pressed instead - heavy, prickling, like the static before a storm.

Draco kept his eyes fixed on the neat columns of his notes, tracing the fine lines of an equation that tied memory magic to elemental law. He copied it once, then again, though his mind wasn't on the page. The sense of being watched clung to him, an itch beneath his skin.

He looked up. Slowly.

Across the library, one figure still sat. Potter.

He was alone now, no Granger muttering at his shoulder, no Weasley cracking some half-witted joke. Just Potter, hunched over a book, the lamplight catching in his raven dark hair, and round, typical Harry Potter glasses. Still in his Auror uniform, which clung to him like a second skin and made him look all high and mighty, he had now removed his cloak and gotten comfortable on his table. Draco frowned, his quill pausing mid-stroke.

Potter wasn't reading. Not really. His eyes lingered on the same page for far too long, his fingers tapping idly against the paper as though keeping time with a thought he couldn't place. It wasn't studying - it was waiting.

Draco's jaw tightened. He bent his head back to his parchment, forcing himself into the motions of work. He wrote three lines without seeing them, each letter cramped and sharp. He wasn't imagining this. Potter had lingered here. On purpose.

Minutes passed, maybe more, and the two of them suspended in that silence. Draco turned another page, though he couldn't have said what was on it. The candle beside him flared faintly, catching the edge of his vision. His quill scratched. Potter's quill scratched.

The weight of it was unbearable.

Later that evening, past midnight, Draco began packing up. Slowly, deliberately, he arranged each book into his satchel with care. His hands were steady, but inside, a flicker of unease stirred. Rising to his feet, he adjusted his collar, lifted his chin, and walked toward the door.

As he passed, he let himself glance sideways - just once. Potter's head was bent, but Draco felt the awareness roll between them like a current. For the briefest moment, he almost stopped, almost spoke, almost demanded an answer.

Thoughts of hexing him for spying on him grew impatient.

Instead, he walked on. The muffling charm swallowed the sound of the door closing behind him, leaving Potter alone in the silence.

And Draco hated how much of him stayed behind.

The next day, the issue persisted; he was there again, but he did not let it get into his head that much; instead, he was focusing on his daily ritual for the Animagus with Luna through owl correspondence. She had sent him some titles to look for, and he would later sneak the books out if possible. Always promising to return them once they finish their transformation.

He had collected his mail that morning. A card from Blaise, a letter from Luna, the usual mail from Azkaban, a desperate attempt for his father to reach out. He has stopped reading his letters. And, unusually, a letter from Hogwarts.

He froze and did not open it till later that afternoon when he arrived at the Ministry.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Headmistress's Office

The letter was on the envelope. He leaned on the library's comfortable chair. He ripped it open carefully and took the letter out.

Dear Mr. Malfoy,

I trust this letter finds you well. I write regarding a matter left over from darker times, which I believe you, perhaps more than anyone, will appreciate seeing properly resolved. As you are no doubt aware, the Vanishing Cabinet remains here at Hogwarts, unused but hardly forgotten. For the good of the school, and for your own peace of mind, I would ask that you come to collect it.

Furthermore, I must impress upon you the importance of retrieving its twin from Borgin and Burkes. While I do not question the safeguards now in place, such an object in the wrong hands has already proven dangerous enough. It would be best, for everyone's sake, if both pieces of that troublesome pair were removed and secured under your personal discretion.

I extend this request not as a reprimand, but as a gesture of trust. You have made considerable strides since those difficult days, and I believe ensuring the Cabinets are no longer a risk would be a meaningful step forward for us all.

For practical reasons, I would request that the Cabinet be collected before the start of the school year - preferably by accompanying the Hogwarts staff returning to the castle on the train, before the students arrive.

I have informed the Ministry of Magic of this arrangement. They have requested that a representative accompany you - a precaution I consider quite unnecessary, but one I must, regrettably, respect.

Once you have arrived, I would be glad if you would join me in my office for a brief chat. It would give us a chance to speak more openly, and I think it may be of some comfort to both of us to see one another again under more peaceful circumstances.

With kind regards,
Professor Minerva McGonagall
Headmistress

Draco unfolded the letter with a careful, almost reverent hand, the familiar crispness of Hogwarts stationery making his chest tighten. At first, his eyes skimmed the words in disbelief - the Vanishing Cabinet, Borgin and Burkes, responsibility handed back to him. A flicker of old guilt stirred, sharp and unwelcome, but it was quickly tempered by something he hadn't expected: trust.

Minerva McGonagall, of all people, trusted him. Not merely tolerated him, not cautiously observed, but trusted him with a task that mattered, a burden only he could bear. Relief spread through him like sunlight through clouds, warm and disarming. For the first time in years, Draco felt that perhaps the world wasn't still weighing his past mistakes against him - that someone saw the man he had become, not the boy he had been.

He lingered over the letter, reading it twice, savouring the quiet affirmation and the request for a chat. There was no lecture, no judgment, only expectation and faith. And in that, Draco felt a measure of peace. It was a responsibility, yes, but also a gesture: an invitation to step fully into the future, leaving the shadows behind.

With a final, measured exhale, he folded the letter and tucked it into his robes. The Cabinet would be retrieved. Borgin and Burkes' piece, too. And for the first time in a long time, he felt certain he would do it not out of fear, but because he could.

He was busy reading the letter, and had not noticed Harry, who stood there...taking all his attention again...like the elephant in the room. And he has started to notice things.

He read back through the letter, a representative from the Ministry would accompany him...If only McGonagall knew he was already facing the representative that they had put on his back. His rival, then, now and forever.

He knew he was spying on him. Had to be. At first, it was subtle. The way Harry's hand hovered over the edge of a page a second too long, the faint furrow of his brow as though he were lost in thought - or something more. Draco caught himself following that gaze across the parchment more often than he would admit, his mind noting the way Harry's eyes lingered, the tension in his shoulders, the slight tapping of his quill as if it were keeping time with some internal rhythm.

One afternoon, Draco glanced up from his sketchbook, catching Harry staring at the same page for what must have been the fifth minute in a row. The page itself was unremarkable - a treatise on magical forensics - but Harry's focus made it feel charged, as if he was intimidating the page to read itself out loud to him. Draco's curiosity twisted in a way he hadn't expected, and a faint prickle of irritation mingled with something sharper, almost like... recognition.

The next day, as Draco packed his books to leave, he noticed Harry moving toward the exit. Something compelled him, and he paused just a few feet away. He let his eyes linger on Harry without a word, studying the set of his jaw, the tilt of his head, the weight in his stride. Then, with the faintest tilt of his chin, Draco walked on, letting the silence say nothing while leaving an imprint of observation.

By the following afternoon, Draco found himself unsettled by Harry's presence.

It wasn't just curiosity anymore. It was something more, an uneasy acknowledgement that the boy he had once battled in corridors, duelling with curses and words alike, was quietly staking a claim in his periphery.

By the fifth evening, Draco was certain.

He had tried to ignore it at first - the prickle at the back of his neck, the sense of a shadow that lingered too long in the same aisle. But now the pattern was too neat to dismiss. Five nights in a row, and Potter was always there. Same chair. Same book. Same bloody chapter.

Draco had tested it in his own way. On the second night, he'd risen suddenly and stalked toward the reference shelves. Potter hadn't followed, but when Draco glanced back, there he was, head bowed over the same dog-eared page, quill resting untouched beside him. On the fourth night, Draco had purposely shuffled his notes louder than necessary, drawing the faintest flicker of Potter's gaze across the room.

It was enough.

Tonight, though, the air felt heavier. Potter was slouched lower in his chair, shadows under his eyes, the lamplight etching the fatigue into his features. He turned a page, then turned it back, then let it sit open again. Draco recognised that kind of weariness - the restless exhaustion that came when your body wanted sleep but your mind refused to obey.

And still, Potter sat there. Watching. Waiting. Pretending.

Draco's quill hovered above his parchment, ink beading at the tip. His Unspeakables practice exams were spread across the table before him - complex Arithmancy chains, branching diagrams of runes and wards - but he hadn't seen a single line in minutes. His focus was elsewhere.

Why?

That was the question that burned through him now. Why Potter? Why here? Why him?

A flicker of memory surfaced - his mother's quiet, strained voice after the trial. They will watch you, Draco. That is their way of keeping you in line.

Of course.

It settled over him all at once, cold and heavy. Potter wasn't here by coincidence. He wasn't curious, or studious, or bored. He was here because he had been told to be; he was probably another open case on the Ministry, still unsure if he was evil or good. And Harry, a guard dog with tired eyes, was watching the wolf they hadn't quite decided to trust. He could say...he was disappointed Harry took on such a "job".

Draco sat back in his chair, folding his arms as he studied the man across the library. Potter shifted uncomfortably, turning a page he hadn't read. The act was almost laughable.

Almost.

Because there was something else there, too. A sag in the shoulders, a slackness in the mouth, the look of a man who would rather be anywhere else than here. Potter didn't look like he wanted this task. He looked like he hated it. And even worse, he was so-so bad at it.

And for reasons Draco couldn't name, that detail cut sharper than the rest.

The scrape of his own chair seemed louder than usual as Draco rose, book tucked under his arm. He hadn't planned to do it - hadn't planned anything at all - but five nights of Potter's clumsy shadowing had frayed his patience past its limits. A hex to teach him a lesson could have helped.

He crossed the room deliberately, each step a quiet echo on the polished floor, and watched the way Potter's head snapped up, eyes wide, hand instinctively drifting toward his wand. Typical. Always braced for a fight, even when caught doing something as pitiful as spying.

Always his first response to everything he did, seeing him cry in a bathroom, oh yeah, let's fight Draco and turn him into a gutted fish...he thought to himself, chills going down his spine.

Draco stopped opposite him, looking down at the pathetic stack of Auror manuals spread before Potter. Not even open properly. Not even read or annotated. Quill so dry it was aching for a drop of ink.

"So..."-He said, letting the word linger like smoke.-"Tell me, Potter... do you actually enjoy reading probationary Auror field protocols every night? Or is this just your very clumsy way of keeping an eye on me?"

Potter blinked, thrown, the way he always was when the rules of engagement didn't fit.-"I - what?"-With that face that clearly said he was playing dumb.

Draco leaned forward slightly, setting his own book on the table with a measured thud. He let the silence stretch a moment too long before continuing, voice silken, deliberate.-"Five nights in a row. Same chair. Same stack of books you're not actually reading. Even you aren't that boring."

A flush crept up Potter's neck. Draco felt a grim sort of satisfaction at that.-"Maybe I just... like it here. Dull little corner. Reading boring rules."

As if, Draco thought.

"Of course you do."-Draco allowed himself a faint curl of a smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. -"And I suppose it's pure coincidence you arrive at precisely six o'clock. Just as I sit down."

Potter shifted, awkward, uncomfortable.-"You're imagining things, Malfoy."

And unicorns can fly.

"Am I?"-Draco tilted his head, intimidation written all over his face and posture, studying him now, taking in the way Potter's shoulders tensed, the restless way his fingers drummed against the wood just an inch away from his wand, he saw a crack now covered in gold right down his wand, he was sure it had not been there before. Then he remembered the corridor after the trial - the one time he had said Potter's name, the one time he had thought perhaps-perhaps - acknowledgement might feel like something other than disdain. But Potter had given him a nod. One brisk, dismissive nod, and he walked on.

His mouth tightened as he let the memory slip into his words.-"Funny. A week ago, I called your name. You gave me a nod - one miserable nod - and kept walking. I guess you are tired of thank yous. And now? Now you can't seem to take your eyes off me."

The words landed. Draco saw it in the flicker across Potter's face, the pause, the mouth opening and closing again without sound. It was almost enough. Almost.

He let the silence weigh before twisting the knife.-"You're terrible at lying, you know. Always have been. Unlike your hand suggests."-His gaze flicked briefly to Potter's scarred hand, I must not tell lies...the same hand that clenched the edge of the table too tightly.

He picked up his book again, straightening to leave. For a heartbeat, he considered letting it end there. But then he glanced back over his shoulder, his voice pitched just low enough to carry, soft as a warning and sharper than any curse.

"Careful, Potter. If you're going to stalk me, at least try to be subtle about it."

And then he walked away, robes brushing against the marble floor, his pulse quickening though his face betrayed nothing.

He didn't have to look back to know Potter was staring after him, rooted to the spot.

Because Draco knew now - without question - that Harry Potter had been watching him. And strangely enough... he didn't hate it. He wanted to know how far he would go...

Draco settled into his corner of the far library, quill idly tapping against the edge of his parchment. The familiarity of the alcove, tucked between stacks of Ministry records and forgotten tomes, had always been comforting. He liked its quiet, the muffled hum of others' footsteps and whispered pages. But lately, it had felt less like solitude and more like being observed.

He had noticed it at first only in flickers - a shadow lingering a fraction too long near the same aisle, the subtle creak of a chair, a movement in the corner of his eye. Five nights in a row now, Potter had been there. Same chair. Same general posture. But tonight... something was different.

Harry Potter had changed his routine. The boring Auror manuals were gone. Instead, there were thick books on dragons, scraps of parchment peeking from between pages, and a journal open to carefully sketched wings mid-flight. A copy of The Quibbler lay nearby, corners dog-eared. Ink stains on his fingers betrayed hours of writing, drawing, and note-taking - real work, real interest. He was here for himself now, not for some imagined surveillance.

Draco's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. It was infuriating and... unsettling. Potter wasn't pretending anymore, and yet he still drew Draco's attention, unwillingly or not. Draco watched him as he settled, quill scratching steadily, the slight furrow of concentration forming in the familiar way. For the first time, the boy seemed... content. Or at least engaged in something that mattered to him, something he chose.

The sensation of being watched pricked at Harry, as it always did. Draco allowed his gaze to linger just long enough to make its presence felt, then deliberately dropped it, folding his arms across his chest as if he hadn't noticed anything.

Later that night, after returning home through the Floo network of the Ministry, Draco imagined Harry in his own quarters. Wide awake, journal open, ink-stained fingers moving across parchment while the boy's mind replayed the library, the quiet exchange of glances, the weight of attention neither wanted to acknowledge fully. Draco's own heart gave a little tug, bitter and reluctant, as the memory replayed itself over and over.

The following evening, Draco arrived early, as usual, sliding into his seat with the practised posture of someone who had spent hours observing, analysing. He had learned by now to catch Potter's movements before the boy even fully settled. Journal under his arm, books already marked with scraps of parchment, Potter laid out his things with a careful precision, ink stains decorating the edges of his hands.

Draco watched him, noting the subtle shift: this was a man no longer driven by obligation or instruction, but by his own interests. And yet, the awareness of Draco's gaze remained. Harry's quill paused mid-stroke, eyes lifting briefly, and for a heartbeat, Draco allowed himself the satisfaction of that recognition. Then Potter's gaze dropped, pretending the moment had never existed.

Draco leaned back slightly, lips curling into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. He would watch. And for the first time, he thought, perhaps he wouldn't mind.

Draco remained in his corner long after Harry had settled into the quiet rhythm of his study. The ink scratches, the occasional fold of parchment, the tilt of his head - each movement was an irritant and a fascination all at once. Draco told himself it was professional curiosity; after all, Potter was still an Auror, still a man shaped by war. But the longer he watched, the less convincing the lie felt.

He noted the way Harry's brow furrowed in concentration as he sketched dragon wings, the way his fingers lingered over diagrams, erasing and redrawing with meticulous care. He'd never seen Potter like this - so intent, so unguarded in the presence of books rather than enemies. It was infuriating, yes, but also... strangely humanising.

Draco found himself remembering Hogwarts, the long afternoons in the corridors, duels that ended with shouted curses and pointed fingers. And now here they were, years later, across the polished floors of the Ministry library, the war and trials behind them, yet still caught in some unspoken orbit. What draws them together in the same vortex, time and time again, how did they get their lives so tangled together that everything and everywhere is his...

Every so often, Draco allowed his gaze to drift to Potter's hands, noting the ink smudges, the small tremor from fatigue, the deliberate movements that betrayed both focus and restraint. The boy had changed. The man had changed. And yet, Draco couldn't shake the nagging sensation that he was being studied in return - that every tilt of Potter's head, every pause in his work, was a silent countermeasure, a test in patience or perception.

Draco's thoughts wandered dangerously. He reminded himself that this wasn't curiosity for curiosity's sake; this was assessment. Observation. A record of behaviour. And yet, a quiet, stubborn part of him - a part he'd refused to acknowledge for months - wanted more than that. He wanted to understand the man who had haunted his peripheral vision for a week, who had nods, glances, and unreadable expressions that drove Draco's carefully measured patience to the edge.

By the time Harry rose to get another book from a nearby shelf, Draco felt the tension like a physical weight in his chest. Potter didn't notice him tracking the movement of the journal under his arm, didn't notice the slight slump in Draco's shoulders as he let his eyes linger just a moment too long. And when the door closed behind him, Draco exhaled silently, hands gripping the edge of the table.

He told himself it was nothing. Purely academic. He would focus on his exam materials. He would keep his distance. Yet, as he returned to the unspeakable runes and protocols scattered across his table, a small, stubborn part of him knew that the game had changed. Harry wasn't just a distraction anymore; he was an anchor, a quiet, infuriating presence that Draco could neither ignore nor fully understand.

And for the first time in weeks, Draco allowed himself to admit, just a little, that he was almost... anticipating the next evening, the next silent encounter, the next subtle challenge laid across the polished floors of the far library.

The library was quiet, too quiet. Outside, the night pressed against the tall windows with heavy London rain, the city lights muted beneath a heavy layer of clouds. Midnight had long since slipped past hours ago, but the marble floors reflected only the faint glow of the enchanted lamps and the flickering, eternal flame of the brass candlestick. Draco's head rested heavily on his arms, quill abandoned on scattered exam sheets, the lines of Arithmancy diagrams blurred beneath his eyelids.

He had stayed later than intended. The exam preparation was necessary, yes, but fatigue clung to him in stubborn, suffocating layers. Somewhere at the edge of his awareness, he felt it: a prickle of heat, the nearness of the Neverending Flame Candle beside him. His strands of hair brushed dangerously close, but he was too tired to lift them, too exhausted to care.

A muffled shift of air caught his attention, a presence bending near him. His eyes fluttered open just enough to sense the figure, tall and careful, but he couldn't quite see. There was a whisper, low and precise: "Finite." The flame winked out almost imperceptibly, the air cooling around him, and Draco felt the danger recede.

Before he could gather himself, a dark cloak draped over his shoulders, heavy but protective, warmth settling across him. It was there, a shield he didn't understand yet, pressing against him, and then the presence was gone. The library returned to stillness, the moonlight spilling faintly through the tall windows, casting muted patterns across the floor.

Draco stirred but didn't fully awaken, muscles too weary, mind too fogged. Somewhere in the back of his consciousness, he registered the heat that had been, the way it had vanished, the subtle weight of safety that had replaced it. His eyelids drooped again, and he surrendered to sleep, sinking into the quiet that enveloped him in the vast, shadowed stacks.

The night outside was cold and indifferent, the city silent beyond the high windows, yet inside the library, beneath the domed ceiling and the tall shelves of forgotten knowledge, Draco felt - without knowing why - that someone had watched over him, careful, unseen, and he allowed himself the barest comfort as the hours slipped into darkness.

As night turned into morning, Draco stirred, eyelids heavy and reluctant, and felt first the strange coolness on his shoulders. He blinked once, twice, and then the library's dim light settled over him.

His head was still close to the tall brass candlestick, the Neverending Flame Candlestick dancing just inches from his hair. Heat - or the lack of it - made him frown, and a shiver ran through him. Had he really been that close to burning himself? His heart thumped faintly in alarm, the near-miss lingering in the edges of his mind like a warning.

Brushing away imaginary ash from his robes, Draco became aware of the weight of a dark fabric draped across his shoulders. It was heavy and warm, surprisingly so, with a faint scent of rain, woodsmoke, and fresh grass clinging to the fibres. The texture was smooth, worn at the edges, as if it had been used and cared for repeatedly. He tugged at it, expecting it to slip off, but it stayed, settling comfortably around him.

His eyes flicked down and caught a subtle detail near the hem: a fine red line stitched delicately into the fabric, a badge nearly hidden but unmistakable to anyone who knew the insignia. Recognition crept in slowly, a quiet shock that made him sit a little straighter. A trainee Auror's cloak... Harry's. The realisation pressed against him in a strange, almost dizzying way: someone had been here, had seen him, and had been careful, silent, unseen.

Draco pressed his lips into a thin line, trying to smooth down the fluttering in his chest. He straightened the cloak around him, letting it fall neatly over his shoulders. The warmth seeped into him, comforting in an infuriatingly personal way. The near disaster with the candle, the soft weight of the cloak, the badge - it all formed a quiet, undeniable proof: Harry had been here, watching, guarding, without a word, without making himself known.

Guarding? or Spying? Which one was it?

Draco adjusted his books, hiding the stir of feeling in his chest. He didn't need to confront him, didn't need to thank him. Just knowing someone had noticed that someone had been vigilant enough to prevent him from harming himself was enough.

Even in silence, even without a word exchanged, it mattered.

Draco moved silently through the quiet aisles of the Ministry library, the cloak tucked carefully under his arm. Harry was nowhere to be seen, probably having gone home by now.

Draco paused, fingers brushing along the fabric. The weight and warmth of it felt oddly familiar, comforting in a way he hadn't expected. He folded the cloak with meticulous care, smoothing each edge until it sat neatly in his hands.

Crossing to Harry's usual chair, Draco unfolded the cloak and took his wand out. He laid the cloak flat across the desk, his wand gliding over the fabric with deliberate precision. Muttering under his breath, he traced the seams in silver light, fixing the magic to every fold.-"Papiliones Revelare."-He whispered, flicking his wrist sharply at the final stitch. The charm sank into the cloth, making it hum faintly beneath his hand, and it folded itself and was placed on the chair. He smiled, proud of having remembered this simple charm. He left no note, no explanation - just the cloak itself, a silent message that only Harry could understand once the cloak would be unfolded again.

For a brief moment, Draco lingered, watching how it settled into place. Then, without drawing attention, he slipped back into the shadowed stacks, leaving the library - and the quiet acknowledgement - behind him.

When Harry returned that afternoon to start the afternoon stalking, fatigue was evident in his steps; his gaze immediately fell on the chair. The cloak was there, folded and waiting. His eyes flicked to the badge, and a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at his lips. No words were needed. Draco had returned it, and the quiet, unspoken understanding between them was enough.

Harry took the cloak and unfolded it, and at once a flurry of shimmering blue butterflies burst free, spiralling through the air before dissolving into sparks that rained softly back onto the floor.

For a heartbeat, the library felt spellbound.

Harry gasped as the cloak unfurled and the butterflies burst forth, their wings catching the torchlight in dazzling flashes of blue. For a heartbeat, he couldn't move, his eyes tracking the delicate spiral of the creatures as though the air itself had been woven into silk. The fluttering shapes swirled upward, impossibly graceful, before dissolving into sparks that rained softly back to the floor. Alone in the hush of the moment, Harry felt as if he'd stumbled upon a secret spell meant for no one else, a fleeting wonder that vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared.

Dumbfounded and somehow pleased, impressed by the charm Draco had cast onto him, he dropped his journal on the table with a thud, sitting down still in a shock.

Anything, he could have predicted...but never this, never him.-"Ah, Draco...Why?"

Chapter Text

With Teddy cradled against his chest, Harry used one hand to open the letter, careful not to jostle his squirming godson.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Headmistress's Office

The letter read on its back, and he opened the top using one hand and his teeth.

My dear Harry,

I have read your request with great care, and you are, of course, quite right. The retrieval of the lost Diadem and Helga Hufflepuff's Cup from the chambers beneath the castle ought not to be left undone, and I can think of no one more fitting than you to see it through. Those relics have been bound to your story in ways no one else could understand, and it is only just that you should decide their final resting place.

There is, however, one further duty I must ask of you. You alone can open the way to the Chamber of Secrets, and I mean for that space to be put to better use. Once the basilisk has been removed and the pipes cleansed, it will serve as a safe and hidden practice hall for the students, a place for them to grow stronger together, rather than tremble at shadows.

For this to be possible, I will need you to prepare a simple map of the passageways and to leave with me the necessary passcode for the door. These will be guarded with the utmost care and shared with no one save those charged with their upkeep; this duty can only be taken by the Headmasters who are to come.

Harry, I hope you will not see this as another burden, but rather as an opportunity to help us transform what was once a chamber of fear into a chamber of learning. It is a strange kind of poetry, is it not? I would be very glad to speak more with you when you come - you may stop by my office, and we shall share a pot of tea.

Hagrid sends his regards and asks that you visit him at an important meeting at his hut. He will not tell me why.

With warmest regards,
Minerva McGonagall
Headmistress

Sleepless as he is, he mutters under his breath when he drops the baby formula bottle he was preparing. Almost wetting the letter. He is thankful that McGonagall has trusted him with this task, although the Chamber brings him many nightmares, he would love to see it being used for good purposes.

While he prepared another bottle of formula, Harry heard the telltale flutter of wings and the rush of air from the open kitchen window at Grimmauld Place. An owl swooped inside with no hesitation, dropping a small box squarely on the counter, right on top of another bottle he had been steadying after he dropped the first. The glass bottle tipped, milk sloshed, and Harry let out a weary sigh as the whole thing toppled over.

He really should close that damn window.

Wiping his hand on a rag, Harry glanced up and recognised the bird at once. Huge, moon-bright eyes blinked at him from a face half-buried in dusty feathers. It was unmistakably Lovegood's owl. The parcel it carried was wrapped in faded blue paper that caught the morning sunlight streaming through the kitchen window, not glittering but giving off the faintest shimmer, like frost on glass.

"Da-da."-The only word he had spoken so far, much to Harry's tears of joy; Teddy gave an impatient whine at being momentarily forgotten, his tiny hands grabbing at Harry's shirt. With a guilty smile, Harry lifted him and set him gently into the high chair. Teddy kicked his legs in protest, his face scrunching up as though the indignity of being left behind was the greatest injustice in the world. Harry brushed a hand over his godson's soft teal-ish hair in apology before turning back to the owl and the curious little box it had delivered.

Upon opening the meticulously packaged gift, he heard the faint click and clang of the vials inside. He lifted the top and immediately noticed the violet coloured vials. A letter pushed on the side of the box, as if waiting for him to notice.

Dearest Harry,

I hope this reaches you without too much trouble - my owl has a way of landing on things instead of beside them. Find in this box the bottle that I promised you. I do hope it helps. Only one drop before sleep should be enough, until...you are ready to move past what haunts you. Everyone deserves a night without dreams now and then, especially you, Harry.

Sleep well. May the night be quiet, and the morning kind.

With love,
Luna

P.S.: I loved your article on Quibbler. I hope you can share more of your writings and interests with me.

He tugs at his own sleeve to reveal the shining ethereal bracelet.-"I wonder how I gained such great friendship."-He smiles at himself, already planning what he will write back to her, and of course, before her owl returns, he attaches a brown box to his leg with instructions to deliver it back to Luna.

He attached the letter and box to his leg, and the owl took off from the kitchen window. Harry made sure to close it behind the owl.

The owl takes off with the box and letter on his feet, he carries them through the gloomy, cloudy sky and rain at certain parts of his road. Once away from London, the great fields of the faraway countryside stretch out into hills and forests, and after a long way drying in the sun of the countryside, the Rookery comes to sight and the owl starts his landing.

He finds an opening at the top of the Rookery and flies inside, dropping the box on top of a sleeping Luna, who stirs awake, slightly startled.

She did not expect the owl to return so soon, and not with a gift either.

My Dear Luna,

I've been trying my hand at something new, mainly out of curiosity - not quite what Slughorn would call textbook brewing, not even close. I know you love it when people come up with their own experiments and make great things out of them, and I hope you find it the same. The little vial I've sent is a perfume potion I managed to put together. It's loosely inspired by the principles of Amortentia, though you'll be glad to know it's harmless and has been tested several times by different people. Instead of stirring up obsession, it simply makes the one wearing it smell pleasing to everyone nearby, as well as to themselves. The curious part is that it smells different to each person, shifting to whatever they find most comforting.

I thought you might appreciate it - though, if I'm honest, you hardly need such a thing. Still, perhaps it could be useful on special occasions, or simply as an experiment to satisfy your curiosity. I'd advise not wasting it on Nargles, though.

Take care, Luna. I hope you like it.

Yours,
Harry

Upon reading this letter, Luna uncorked the heart-shaped lilac colored vial with delicate fingers, holding it beneath her nose as though it were a seashell she meant to listen to. At once, the air shimmered faintly with scent - not perfume exactly, but the softest trace of wildflowers after rain, and something warm that reminded her of summers at the edge of the orchard with her mother. She smiled, wide-eyed and thoughtful, tilting her head as if the fragrance had whispered a secret only she could hear.-"Oh, Harry."-She murmured, her voice full of wonder.-"You've bottled kindness."

She immediately took an envelope from her drawer and wrote him a quick letter. Attaching it to her owl's leg.

The owl takes off again and flies his way back to the grim London skies, not very happy this time. He stops to eat a rat, and then takes off again to complete his main task. Once at the Grimmauld Place, he notices the kitchen window is closed, so he circles around the building and finds an entry on the top bedroom, where Harry, wearing his uniform, happens to be getting ready for his work at the Ministry.

Harry only notices when he has entered in a wet fury, dropping the letter on top of his desk, toppling over candles and writing equipment. The owl does not wait around to get a response; instead, he takes off from the window he entered.

Harry muttered under his breath, as his desk got messy again, closing yet another window, fighting the clothes he was halfway through wearing, and cursing at Kreacher for having shrunken them as his daily routine now.

He opens the envelope, and a smile creeps on his face immediately.

Dear Harry,

I opened your little bottle as soon as it arrived, and it was like a memory I had almost forgotten - warm rain on the garden and the sound of bees humming in the orchard. I expect it smells different to everyone, but that is what it chose for me. Isn't it extraordinary, the way magic knows what we need even before we do?

You said it was only for special uses, but I think it is special enough just to have it. I may never wear it in a crowd at all - perhaps I will keep it for nights when the world feels too noisy, and I need a reminder that kindness can be carried in the air. You've given me something very rare, Harry: not a potion, but a piece of peace.

Thank you for thinking of me. The Nargles are very cross, they can't have any, but I shan't waste a drop.

With love,
Luna

Harry folds the letter and adds it to the box of correspondence. He is happy someone finds the perfume as good as he does, unlike Hermione, who almost had his head when he found him brewing what had looked to her Amortentia in his makeshift potions lab in his kitchen one morning. She disliked the idea of it, saying it might have side effects, such as getting people addicted to smelling it, since it may remind them of what they most desire, but to him, it had not been like that, and that is why he had only trusted it to a list of people.

Ginny had loved the idea and had mentioned using it on important occasions during her career on the postcards she sent, earning her many advantages as she climbed her way through the Quidditch world. That being their breaking point, when the perfume to her no longer smelled like Harry, and more like broomstick wood and clothes left out in the sun for too long, and to their mutual discussion, so had happened with Harry, who had completely forgotten what Ginny used to smell like and had been replaced with something undistinguishable.

He knew how powerful the perfume was...and as Luna had said...Isn't it extraordinary, the way magic knows what we need even before we do?

Harry had never thought of himself as a potioneer. If anything, Potions had always been the subject he approached with more dread than interest, a haze of scowls, sharp remarks, and the scent of burnt nettles lingering in his memory. Sixth year had been different - the borrowed Half-Blood Prince's book had given him a fleeting sense of ease, even enjoyment, as though he had stumbled into someone else's talent. But that, he knew, had not been his gift; it had been Snape's all along.

And yet, many months after the war, when the castle was still echoing with dust and the work of repair, Harry had wandered into the old Potions office. He hadn't meant to linger - the room was heavy with memories, darker than most - but the shelves had been left untouched, lined with Snape's meticulous hand. Among the neat rows of jars and rolls of parchment, Harry found something unexpected: a bundle of notes written in Snape's precise script, all centred on Amortentia. One line had caught his eye, almost idly written between more complex observations: "The scent itself can be extracted, independent of the potion." No further explanation followed. Just that one possibility, left dangling like an unfinished thought.

The idea had lodged itself stubbornly in Harry's mind. He hadn't been able to shake it. What would it mean to take something so dangerously powerful and twist it into something harmless, even kind? It wasn't his area - he knew that. He was no Snape, no Slughorn, no Hermione. Still, he had borrowed books from the library, surprised to find the shelves untouched by battle, their spines neat and patient as though waiting for someone to care again. And, for reasons he couldn't quite name - maybe to prove he could, maybe to wrestle something back from Snape's shadow, maybe to create something gentler than the war had left him with - Harry drowned himself in their pages.

It wasn't enthusiasm that drove him, not really. It was persistence. A quiet need to see if he could take the scraps Snape had left behind and make them into something different, something of his own. Wondering if he would ever be proud...

He takes a deep breath and finishes getting ready. Andromeda had just picked up Teddy, and she would be returning to her house today, after her stay at her childhood home for the past few weeks, having finished the nursery and cleaned out the giant hole-y mess on the ground floor where her aunt-in-law's portrait once stood, now fixed with a seamless brick wall.

He picks up his cloak and stares at it for a moment, his eyes almost burning holes into it. Yesterday, Harry encountered the most unexplainable thing happening to him, and when he told Hermione and Ron, they would not believe him. How butterflies flew out of his cloak and filled the library for a moment long enough for him to know they were true. Ron teased him for even giving him the cloak in the first place, and Hermione later found out the charm he had used and replicated it with ease. She gave him a book with whimsical spells, where this charm originated from, and Harry devoured it all last night while reading Teddy to sleep, making different shapes and magical sparks come out of the wand till the baby was lured asleep.

He must admit, he is slightly disappointed they do not teach you these at school. He promises to make sure and teach Teddy all these when the time comes. Impress his friends and a fine lady if he wants. But mainly learn that magic, as vile as it is, can be beautiful, and Harry is just learning this at 20 years old.

Harry took the train as usual, sitting by the window and watching the city go by. His mind far away, the feeling of returning to Hogwarts pressing on the ribs of his heart. He opens his journal, which he has started carrying with him ever since Malfoy called him out for his unskilled stalking.

Flipping through many pages of dragon scribbles and notes about different dragon species, he finally finds the page he is looking for to write down some notes.

Journal Entry - Date Blank*

Experiment #1: "Pleasant Scent Potion"
(Final draft - perfected)

Purpose: To create a perfume potion that is harmless but magically appealing. Inspired by Amortentia - smells different to everyone, but does not induce love. Only intended for special occasions.

Ingredients:
Neutral alcohol (carrier) – 2 oz
Purified spring water – 1 tsp, added drop-wise
Lavender flowers – 3 petals (calming, universal appeal)
Honeysuckle or chamomile – 2 petals (sweetness)
Crushed peppermint leaves – tiny pinch (freshness)
Optional: single hair of the wearer (for subtle personalisation, not required)
Small cauldron/flask for brewing
Wand for stirring / silver spoon

Instructions:
Ensure ventilation - and close windows if there's an owl about.
Pour alcohol into cauldron; gently warm over low flame (do not boil).
Add spring water slowly while stirring clockwise.
[Note: clockwise for blending, counter-clockwise makes smell 'sharp' - test!]
Add lavender, stir three times clockwise.
Add honeysuckle/chamomile, stir again.
Whisper intention: "Pleasing to all, unique to each nose." Add peppermint, stir carefully.
Observe vapours - should smell faintly floral.
Optional: Add a single hair of the wearer for a heartbeat, remove immediately.
Do not leave in long - otherwise potion begins approaching Amortentia-level intensity.
Let the potion cool.
Strain through a fine sieve or cheesecloth. Bottle immediately. Seal the vial tightly.
Label: For special use only.

Annotations: Colour: violet, very pale, almost clear. Slight shimmer in sunlight.

Aroma during brewing: faint, floral, fresh. Changes subtly depending on who smells it after it is made.

Application: 1–2 drops behind the ears or wrists.

Notes to self: Keep potion away from mischievous house-elves - they tend to sniff everything. Consider adding a tiny pinch of rose petals next time for added warmth, if desired.

He can finally claim this experiment as finalised. His clothes, while brewing the potion, would reek of the perfume for weeks. It was easily removable with a wash or two.

Harry entered the Ministry with his head held high, tired eyes scanning the surroundings, and there he was, Anthony Markus. Any other day, Harry would have ignored him, but today he decides to keep an eye on him. After avoiding his deep gaze, he takes a turn in one of the halls, opens his work suitcase, and picks out his invisibility cloak. He drapes it over himself and slightly ducks while walking back to where the weird man is.

It seems that once Harry left, he decided to head off for the day. So Harry follows him from a distance as he takes the hall on the left, taking the stairs that lead upstairs. The path is all too familiar, and it leads to the library. Anthony signs his name on the card and heads deeper inside the library. Harry is unable to continue inside the library with his cloak, the waiter at the library being a very skilled man who could hear even the faintest breath being drawn 2000 feet away.

Harry turns away, puzzled, and heads to his office, waiting for practice to start.

Training in the Enchanted Chamber is tiring, and every day feels like they are going to war and coming back victorious. They not only train their magical skills, but, upon Kingsley's request, they also train physically the most. This routine has caused Harry to build his physique in ways he did not imagine he would look. Or as the Daily Prophet likes to put it in their paper..."Harry Potter: Auror Extraordinaire or Body of a Champion?"

Harry had to admit, the headline made him smirk despite the exhaustion weighing on his shoulders. The Enchanted Chamber was gruelling - the walls enchanted to simulate battle conditions, curses flying from every direction, illusions of enemies springing up from shadows - but it was exactly what Kingsley wanted. Every day, Harry and the others were pushed to the limit: defensive spells, offensive strikes, duelling exercises, and, unexpectedly, physical training that rivalled even the most strenuous Quidditch drills.

He flexed his arms subconsciously, feeling the familiar burn in his muscles. The years of irregular sleep, unpredictable fights, and wartime vigilance had given him endurance, yes, but nothing prepared him for the sheer intensity of these sessions. The combination of spellwork and physical exertion forced him to move fluidly, with precision, his body responding almost instinctively to threats and attacks.

The Daily Prophet's quip might have exaggerated, but it wasn't entirely wrong. His chest had broadened, his shoulders carried a sharper line, and his arms were leaner and stronger than he had imagined; well, he was not a teenager fresh out of school anymore. He could feel it when raising his wand, when vaulting across the chamber, when deflecting simulated curses at impossible speeds.

And yet, despite the physical transformation and tactical improvement, Harry kept one eye on the other goals: mastery of new Auror techniques, wordless enchantments, and strategic improvisation. Strength without skill, Kingsley often reminded him, was meaningless.

Still, he couldn't help the small grin that tugged at his lips when he caught his reflection in the chamber's enchanted mirrors - a reminder that even amid exhaustion and relentless training, progress was visible, undeniable... and occasionally impressive enough to make the Daily Prophet swoon.

As Harry wiped sweat from his brow, Kingsley's calm, commanding presence filled the doorway of the Enchanted Chamber. Even in the midst of exhaustion, Harry straightened, anticipating the inevitable orders.

"Potter."-Kingsley began, voice low but firm.-"Wanted to inform you about tomorrow morning, you will be escorting Draco Malfoy to Hogwarts."

Harry blinked, momentarily caught off guard, still dusting his uniform.-"Hogwarts? Malfoy?"

Kingsley nodded once.-"Yes. He's collecting some personal items, agreed upon with the Headmistress. Your presence is required to ensure compliance and to observe. Nothing more."

Harry let out a long breath, trying to shake the fatigue from his limbs.-"I've asked for a day off two days from now, to also..."-He measured his words cautiously.-"To... visit Hogwarts myself. I could combine the trips?"

"Exactly."-Kingsley replied approvingly.-"You'll maintain strict observation. Nothing is to be left to chance. I want full compliance from Malfoy, but minimal interference. Your discretion is paramount. You understand the rules, Potter."

Harry nodded, already imagining the day ahead - the early ride to Hogwarts, the castle looming through the misty morning, Draco poised somewhere between caution and arrogance.-"Understood. I'll make sure it's uneventful."

Kingsley's eyes softened just slightly, betraying a flicker of something almost like reassurance.-"Good. Remember, Harry, Malfoy's past is still... delicate. Keep the situation contained, but be vigilant. Hogwarts can be chaotic, even without old habits resurfacing. I trust you to handle it."

Harry allowed himself a small, wry smile.-"Always, sir. I've got it under control."

Kingsley turned to leave, his long robes swishing with measured authority- "See that you do, Potter. And Harry..."

"Yes?"

"Report immediately if anything seems out of place. Hogwarts is safe, but we cannot assume anything."

Harry nodded again, already thinking through the route, the timing, and most importantly -how to keep his eyes on Malfoy without tipping off that he was... curious about more than just compliance. After that, he does not head home or to the library; he goes straight to the Burrow.

Harry sat hunched at the scrubbed wooden table in the Burrow's warm kitchen, his hands wrapped around a cooling mug of tea. The hum of chatter upstairs drifted faintly through the floorboards - Bill and Fleur's voices mingled with Mrs. Weasley's - but here, with Ron and Hermione leaning forward across the table, it felt like the world had narrowed to just the three of them again.

Ron frowned as Harry finished recounting Kingsley's orders.-"Malfoy? At Hogwarts? Sounds like a bad joke. What's he even need from there - some old Slytherin scarves?"

Hermione gave him a sharp look.-"Ron, he might have personal belongings—books, letters, family things. Headmistress would not accept it if it were not important."

"Still."-Ron crossed his arms, unconvinced.-"Feels dodgy to me. Sending you, of all people, to babysit him? Kingsley must be losing sleep about Draco Malfoy."

Harry managed a thin smile.-"It's not just about Malfoy. Kingsley knows I...Asked for the day off to go to Howarts too. Figured this would keep things tidy. Official, but convenient."

Hermione's eyes narrowed.-"Convenient how, exactly?"

Harry sighed.-"Because I need to go back anyway. There are things at Hogwarts I can't leave behind. The diadem... the Cup. What's left of them, at least. They're destroyed, but still pose a danger. I don't want them gathering dust in some forgotten place where people will go looking for them."

Hermione's face tightened with understanding. "You think someone might-"

"-try to study them, use them, maybe even piece them back together."-Harry finished grimly.-"I don't want to risk it. If I take them into my own keeping, then at least I'll know where they are."

Ron looked uneasy.-"So this isn't just a school trip with Malfoy. You're nicking back in for the leftovers of Voldemort's trash."

"And."-Harry added after a pause.-"I need to speak with Madam Rosmerta. About the trial scheduled for next week."

Ron's eyebrows shot up.-"You will just blurt it out, like ordering a Butterbeer? "

"I am.- Harry cut in, his voice firm but low.-"If she'd just soften her testimony - bend it a little - it might keep things from going too far. I have to try."

Hermione leaned back, eyes searching his.-"If she accepts, we will have to come up with a plan for the actual trial...after all, we do not know what they will even present there."

"If she accepts..."-Harry muttered, his jaw tightening.-"Sometimes saving someone means stepping into the grey. I've done it before; they barely resist the Saviour, the Chosen One."

For a long moment, silence hung heavy between them. The fire crackled in the hearth, shadows shifting across the kitchen walls.

Finally, Ron let out a breath, dragging a hand through his hair.-"Blimey. Malfoy, cursed relics, and dodgy backroom deals with Rosmerta. Just another normal day for you, then."

Hermione laughed, a young laugh that she could feel all the way to her core. All three of them were just another addicted to adventure trio for life.

Harry gave him a weary smile.-"Something like that. Oh, almost forgot, Hagrid had something important to discuss also, so I will be seeing him too."

"Something about Grawp again?"-Hermione asked softly.

Harry shook his head.

"Another one of his spiders died for sure."-Ron said, his arms filling with goosebumps.

Harry shook his head again.-"It must be important, he had McGonagall mention it in a letter for me to be there urgently."

"Are you forgetting that you are supposed to be glued to Malfoy's arse all day? When will you find the time to visit Hagrid and Rosmerta?"-Ron says, making a good point, earning a pleased glance from Hermione.

"Good one Ron."-Harry says as he fidgets with his wand.

Hermione tilts her head.-"Time turner?"

Ron and Harry gesture for her to lower her voice.-"No!"-They both say.

Harry shook his head.-"We said it would be kept only for life or death matters."

"Why did we even keep that thing? We were supposed to destroy all of them because they were dangerous."-Ron says his voice as low as possible.

Hermione sighted.-"With us, it's in safe hands. Does anyone have any better ideas?"

"Yes, just ask Malfoy to tag along, use Imperio or something."-Ron said as if he was saying the most normal thing ever.

"How about I just ask Malfoy calmly. No threats included, he would understand, since I am following him around, for his own good, he will have to also follow me around."-Harry said, actually solving the matter.

Ron and Hermione shrugged, not very convinced.

Hermione reached across the table, her hand brushing his.-"Just promise us you'll be careful. With Malfoy, with Rosmerta, with everything. We're past the war now - we don't need to start another one by accident."

Harry nodded, though in his chest he felt the familiar tug of duty - half burden, half anchor.-"I'll be careful. I promise."

But as the candlelight flickered against the windowpane, he couldn't shake the feeling that tomorrow would test him in ways even Kingsley hadn't anticipated.

"Anyone up for Wizards chess?"-Bill said, barging into the room holding a wooden box.

The trio relaxed and agreed on a few rounds before retiring for the night.

Chapter Text

The Ministry atrium felt hollow at early dawn, its cavernous ceiling echoing with every distant footstep. The usual jungle of witches and wizards hurrying to their offices was absent; only a few enchanted memos fluttered lazily overhead like restless birds. The fountain at the centre - rebuilt after the war, its figures now bound together in a tableau of equality and freedom - stood as the lone presence of grandeur in the empty hall.

Draco waited at its base, his posture rigid, black cloak and robes drawn close against the faint chill that lingered in the marble floor. His pale eyes were fixed on the monument, but not with admiration. There was a distance in his gaze, as though he were measuring it and finding it slightly haunting. His left hand is gloved, the claws still present, the pale, veiny fingers still there as a reminder of their last failed attempt with Luna; he has tucked the bracelet into the glove in the hope that the unicorn hair will heal it. His expression betrayed nothing beyond a faint curl at the mouth - half bitterness, half private amusement.

When Harry emerged from the green light of the Floo network, the sound of his boots carried unnaturally loud across the empty atrium. Draco did not turn at once, hearing and recognising the sound of his footsteps. He let Harry approach, only shifting his weight slightly, as if acknowledging the inevitability of company. His assumption was true: Harry Potter was promoted to his guard dog.

"Potter."-His voice was low, carefully measured, lacking any warmth yet free of open hostility.-"Of course it would be you. Who else?"

Harry slowed, taking in the pristine lines of Draco's robes, the studied way he refused to look directly at him, the usual glint in his eyes. Harry flushed slightly, raising his hand in a gesture of surrender.-"I didn't come to spy."-He said evenly, switching his satchel from one hand to another, though the faint humour in his voice betrayed him.-"Kingsley asked me to escort you. Hogwarts run. That's it."

Draco's lips twitched faintly, the ghost of a smirk that never quite formed.-"Naturally. Can't risk me pilfering a cursed quill on the way, I imagine."-His tone was airy, but the edge was there - a blade dulled but never blunted.

Harry gave a short shake of his head.-"It's not about that."

"No?"-Draco finally turned his gaze on him then, grey eyes cool, assessing.-"Strange. You wear duty on your face like a badge, Potter. Always have. And don't think this gives you carte blanche to stare."-Draco added lightly, his tone teasing,-"Even if it is your duty to do so."

Harry managed a small, rueful smile.-"Noted."

He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice.-"Though I must ask, Potter - why didn't you show up last night? The library, your favourite chair... You didn't even leave a hint of your usual shadow lingering over me."

Harry's expression tightened just slightly.-"I was in an important meeting."-He said, choosing his words carefully. There was no need to elaborate. He had been in the meeting with Ron and Hermione about today, discussing plans.

For a moment, neither spoke. The fountain gurgled softly behind them, the newly cast figures glinting gold and silver in the pale morning light. Draco glanced back at it, his jaw tightening. He has stared at this fountain for a long time now, and he still is somewhat bothered by it...

"They built this thing to convince themselves the war's over."-He said quietly, more to the air than to Harry.-"A monument to peace...or perhaps to forgetting. Depends on how charitable you feel."

Harry followed his gaze, the knot in his stomach tightening. His jaw tightened slightly as he watched the monument.-"Maybe it's not about convincing anyone."-He said quietly.-"Maybe it's about reminding them that surviving isn't enough - that living means remembering why we fought in the first place. To keep fighting."

Draco's expression flickered at that - something unreadable, caught between scorn and agreement - but he let it pass. With a faint tug of his robes, he straightened.-"Well. Let's get this over with, shall we? I've no particular desire to stand about waiting for the ghosts of good intentions."

Harry nodded, falling into step beside him as they moved toward the Floo network. The vast atrium remained empty around them, their footsteps the only sound, faint breaths that were let out once they were no longer looking at each other directly, as if they had been holding them in.

They stepped into the green flame, their silence carrying more weight than any words could.

The Floo spat them out into the Ministry's discreet exit chamber near Charing Cross, and from there they moved quickly through the waking streets.

London was still in its early hush, with only the occasional lorry rattling past or a newspaper boy calling out headlines. Harry walked with a deliberate stride, chin lifted, shoulders squared. Draco noticed it at once, and though he said nothing, the sight unsettled him. Potter - perpetual mess of a boy, half untucked, hair never obeying, glasses always broken for some reason - had adopted a soldier's bearing, one that did not seem borrowed but learned, practised. It was not bravado, Draco thought grimly, but a kind of armour.

At King's Cross, they joined the ordinary stream of Muggle commuters. Draco kept his eyes straight ahead, though he bristled faintly at brushing shoulders with strangers who had no inkling of who he was - or what he had been. Harry, by contrast, blended easily. Reserved, quiet, purposeful. Draco supposed he'd had practice. Unlike him, he didn't seem like an alien amidst them.

The barrier to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters loomed ahead, and without a word, Harry angled toward it. They passed through together in the blink of an eye, and the rush of scarlet greeted them - the gleaming Hogwarts Express, hissing steam into the vaulted air of the hidden platform.

A handful of teachers were waiting near the train, gathering their possessions and preparing their trunks. Recognition was immediate. Slughorn's sharp gaze found Harry first, his expression softening just a fraction. Flitwick waved warmly from beside him. Even Sprout gave him a kindly knowing nod. Their saviour...Draco lowered his head just slightly, and Harry noticed.

No eyes lingered on Draco. A few glanced his way, quickly turned aside again, as if politeness dictated silence where memory spoke too loudly. Draco said nothing, his mouth tightening. He fell into step behind Harry, who had paused at a small newsstand tucked against the platform wall.

"One Quibbler, please."-Harry said, fishing a few coins from his leather wallet. The cover of the magazine blazed with Luna's unmistakable oddities - something about star-born kelpies. Upon noticing Harry's silver gleaming friendship bracelet peaking out of his cloak, he knew...Luna had picked Harry, too, as one of the lucky unicorn hair bracelet bearers. It is not that he minded, not at all. Something about Harry's relaxed look compared to the other days told him that he had finally been using the draught she made for him.

Draco arched a brow but didn't comment on any of it. Instead, he reached past Harry, sliding a copy of the Daily Prophet free from its stack. The paper crinkled crisply in his hand.-"Someone here ought to keep in touch with reality."-He murmured dryly, though the faintest curve at his mouth softened the barb.

Harry smirked, slipping the Quibbler under his arm.-"We'll see which one holds more truth."

Together, they boarded the train. The corridors were hushed, the hour too early for bustle, and most compartments lay empty. Harry slid one door open, and the two of them stepped inside. The benches smelled faintly of leather and smoke, familiar yet oddly foreign after so much time away. Harry thought of the first time he came to Hogwarts...How everything was so foreign yet familiar.

Draco placed himself by the window, taking his coat off and neatly placing it overhead, revealing a black blazer and white button-up shirt underneath, his posture impeccable, eyes already scanning the platform as though expecting judgment from beyond the glass.

Harry dropped into the seat opposite him, putting his satchel on the compartment overhead and peeling off his coat to reveal a fitted black turtleneck and tailored black trousers tucked into polished boots. The shirt's seams were reinforced subtly at the shoulders and along the sleeves, a detail only someone very observant - or familiar with him - would notice. Even out of his Auror uniform, his style was precise, casual, practical, and controlled: every movement measured, shoulders squared, back straight. Draco couldn't help but notice how much he had changed...and yet, some things, the way he carried himself, remained exactly the same.

For a while, neither spoke. The whistle of the engine and the shuffle of footsteps outside filled the silence. Draco unfolded his Prophet; Harry opened his Quibbler. Two men, two papers, sitting opposite one another as though the war had never happened - yet everything in the quiet cabin told them it had.

The train lurched. Steam roared. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters began to slide past, bricked walls fading into the mist, and the two of them were carried forward together, uneasy companions bound for Hogwarts once more.

The train rattled into motion, the steady rhythm filling the silence between them. Harry pretended to skim the Quibbler, but his eyes flicked up, caught by something small yet oddly striking: Draco's right hand, resting on the newspaper, gloved in smooth black leather. He had noticed it at the library, but the glove persisted. It looked deliberate, almost too deliberate, against the parchment.

Harry's gaze lingered a second too long.

Draco's eyes flicked up, catching him. His mouth curved - not in amusement, but in warning.-"It's not a fashion statement, Potter."-He said evenly, his tone cool but not sharp.-"A failed experiment. Nothing more."

Harry blinked, then nodded quickly, heat creeping up his neck all the way to his face. He ducked back into his Quibbler, the page rustling as though louder paper could drown embarrassment.

For a moment, only the whistle of the train filled the space. Then Draco sighed, tilting his Prophet open with a theatrical flick.-"If you're going to keep staring, at least make yourself useful. Let's see what rubbish they've printed this week."

He cleared his throat, reading aloud in a clipped, almost bored tone:-"Carrow siblings escape custody; suspected of rebuilding networks in the North."

Harry lowered his Quibbler a fraction, his face hardening.-"True. Or close enough. Kingsley warned us they were stirring again."

Draco gave a faint hum, eyes skimming downward.-"Ministry sources claim several new recruits already pledged."

"Terror-inducing, but we do not know how true."- Harry admitted reluctantly.

Draco flipped the page.-"Head Auror insists on tightened patrols; critics say paranoia still governs the post-war Ministry."-His eyes flicked upward, mocking.-"That one smells of an editorial."

Harry snorted.-"Mostly true. And if paranoia keeps people alive, I'll take it."

Draco arched a brow, but let it pass. His gaze dropped lower, and a faint, sharper smile touched his mouth.-"Ah. Now for the real substance."-He leaned back, voice almost lazily drawling as he read:-"Harry Potter splits with childhood sweetheart Quidditch star Ginevra Weasley. Lately seen in the company of a mysterious brunette for lunch last week."

Harry groaned, dragging a hand over his face, his facade dropping almost immediately for a moment.-"True, but what does it have to do with people knowing. And false. Haven't even had time for lunch with friends lately, let alone go on..."-He broke off, scowling- "Merlin, where do they get this from?"

"Creative desperation."-Draco murmured, clearly enjoying himself now. He scanned again.-"Oh, this is good. Potter spotted at Madam Malkin's, ordering baby clothes - sources whisper the Boy Who Lived may soon become the Boy Who Fathers."

Harry gave an incredulous laugh despite himself.-"Partly true. I was there. But for...not... whatever they're implying."-He stutters on his own words. He had been ordering clothes for Teddy, his birthday is coming soon, and he is growing quite fast, but he cannot tell Draco all that.

"Pity."-Draco said lightly, eyes still on the page.-"I imagine Death Eaters are easier to handle than a tiny human demanding lullies at three in the morning."

Harry rolled his eyes, but his mouth betrayed the hint of a smile. He dropped the Quibbler on the seat beside him. -"Anything in there that isn't either propaganda or complete nonsense?"

"No, they seem to be focused on this Fathering narrative, there are three and a half pages of it."-Draco flipped the page, eyes scanning the headline before he spoke, voice clipped but amused.

"'Potter's Secret Life? Young Father at Twenty?'"-He let the words hang, tilting the paper so Harry could see, trying to torment him.-"'Rumours are circulating that Potter may be a father, despite being only twenty years old... No confirmations have been made, and sources remain anonymous... But whispers around the Ministry and Diagon Alley suggest that a child may exist under Potter's care.' Hum..."

Harry flushed, muttering under his breath, letting out a dry, amused chuckle.-"Well, what do we think of that?"-He said, voice light, almost teasing.

Draco's grey eyes flicked up sharply, catching the hint. He said nothing, but the faint quirk at the corner of his mouth betrayed his interest - and his amusement at Harry's casual deflection.

Draco smirked faintly, lowering the paper just enough to catch Harry's reaction. "Well, apparently, newsworthy. I do hope your...hypothetical child is better behaved than you were at that age."

Harry let out a dry laugh.-"Hypothetically, yes."

Draco smirked, folded the paper neatly, tapping it against his knee.-"Only one thing worth noting - that they'll never stop talking about you. Even when the world burns, they'll still be counting the freckles on your face."

Harry shifted uncomfortably under the weight of that observation, as if Draco was actually counting the freckles on his face. Outside the window, the countryside blurred by, green and gold under the morning light. The cabin held its silence again - but this time it felt less sharp, less cold.

Harry slumped a little lower in his seat, the Quibbler forgotten at his side. He stared out at the rushing fields, the blur of hedgerows sliding past.-"I wish they could just stop."-He mumbled, almost too low to hear.

Draco tilted his head, studying him like a puzzle.

Draco set the Prophet down on his knee, folding one gloved hand over the other. His tone, when it came, was not mocking - though the precision of it carried that same scalpel-edge.-"You really don't understand, do you? You spent years making yourself the centre of the story. Saving people. Defying death. Even dying, for Merlin's sake. And you expect them to simply... stop looking? Stop needing to look?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably.-"I didn't choose any of that."-Harry turned back toward the window, heat rising in his face.-"I don't want it."-He muttered.

Draco's lips curved, not in cruelty, but in a kind of dry recognition.-"Want has nothing to do with it. You're the boy they'll never stop writing about, Potter. Even when you're grey-haired and dull, some idiot will still be printing headlines about your shoelaces."

The silence that followed was heavier, thoughtful. The train rumbled on beneath them.

Finally, Draco looked back down at his paper, voice softer, almost an afterthought.-"If it bothers you so much, stop letting them see what they expect."

Harry frowned at that, turning just enough to catch Draco's profile - serene, unreadable, framed against the morning light. It was impossible to tell if it was advice, a barb, or both.

Harry turned sharply from the window, his voice low but edged.-"That's not fair, Malfoy. You think I wanted them staring at me? You think I asked to be the headline every week? To have people dissect my life like it's some kind of bloody entertainment?"

Draco didn't flinch. His gaze stayed steady, unreadable, the Prophet balanced in his lap like a shield.-"I didn't say you wanted it. I said you wore it."

Harry's eyes narrowed.-"Because I had to. Because people were dying. Because if I didn't step up, no one else would, Malfoy."

For the first time, something flickered across Draco's expression - something caught between disdain and reluctant acknowledgement. He shifted slightly in his seat, the black glove catching the morning light as he folded his hands together.-"And now? No Dark Lord. No war. Just Potter, carrying himself like he's still on a battlefield. Maybe you don't realise you've kept the costume on Potter."

The words stung because they weren't entirely wrong. Harry sat back, the corner of his jaw tightening.-"And what about you, then? Huh. You walk like you're still waiting for judgment. Every step, every glance - like you expect someone to spit at your feet."

That landed. Draco's mouth pressed into a thin line, his eyes flashing briefly before he dropped them back to the Prophet. He turned a page with unnecessary precision.

Silence stretched, sharp and fragile, until finally Draco exhaled through his nose, a long, resigned sigh.-"Touché, Potter."-His voice had lost its sting, carrying instead a weary undertone Harry hadn't expected.

For a few moments, only the train filled the air, clattering steadily northward. Then Draco, almost as if to smooth the crack left open, lifted the paper again and resumed reading aloud in his practised drawl:-"Potter seen leaving Flourish and Blotts after purchasing six Defence tomes - sign of renewed dark activity?"

Harry let out a sigh, tension still hanging over their heads.-"False. I bought them for Hermione."

Draco hummed, eyes still scanning.-"Of course you did."

Draco was halfway through another lurid headline - something about Potter secretly arming goblin insurgents - when Harry's hand shot out. In one sharp, unguarded motion, he yanked the Daily Prophet straight from Draco's grip.

Draco froze, grey eyes narrowing, startled more by the glint in Harry's than by the theft itself. There was a brightness there - something fevered, almost wild, like a crack in the careful mask Harry usually wore.

"Enough Malfoy."-Harry said flatly. He tossed the Prophet aside and shoved the Quibbler across the seat instead.-"Page seventeen. Dragons. Since you want to read out loud. Read us something worth my hearing"

Suspicion flickered across Draco's face, but curiosity won. He opened the garish magazine with exaggerated delicacy, as though it might stain his fingers. It's not that he does not like Quibbler; he reads it for Luna's sake, she likes to revise with him before publishing, so he already knows most of the headlines. His voice, dry and clipped, filled the cabin:-"'Dragon Training in Romania: A Case Study on the Ukrainian Ironbelly Dragon and Beyond.'"-His brow creased as he skimmed further.-"'A study on the temperament of the Common Welsh Green Dragon, evasive manoeuvres during close encounters with them, and observations on the nesting rituals of Chinese Fireballs...'"

The mocking lilt in his tone faltered. His eyes narrowed at the page as he read the first part of it in silence, then flicked up to Harry.-"This is... too meticulous. Almost academic. Who in Merlin's name fed this to the Quibbler?"

Harry's mouth quirked, but there was no humour in it.-"Me."

The word hung between them.

Draco blinked, momentarily robbed of his composure.-"You?"

Harry nodded, leaning back.-"During the war, we broke into Gringotts. There was a dragon, a Ukrainian Ironbelly dragon that had been used as security measures by the goblins. The one we rode out on, it was all over the news if you read them. It was half-dead from the chains, its scales cracked, half-blind and tortured to fear. Charlie Weasley and I sought it out. Took it to Romania, where it could finally live without pain, with his pack."

Draco stayed silent, the paper forgotten in his hands.

"I stayed there for a while."-Harry went on, his voice softening as if remembering something fragile.-"That's where I learned most of that. Watched them, learned from Charlie. I started sketching what I saw. Notes, diagrams... I even came across the same dragon I fought at the tournament. They were...magnificent. Terrifying but brilliant."- He hesitated, then gave a small shrug.-"Luna asked me for something for the Quibbler. So I sent her one of the drafts."

Draco's mind pulled threads together - the memory of Harry at the Ministry library days back, arms full of dragon books, notes spilling from their pages; the glimpse of parchment scattered across his desk, pages marked with ink-stained drawings of dragon wings. Things Draco had dismissed at the time as distractions, ways to look less suspicious when looking out for him. And now...He looked back down at the article, reading it again, slower this time. The detail was undeniable, the voice in the words almost startlingly earnest.

When he spoke, his tone had shifted, stripped of its usual poison.-"You wrote this."-He said quietly, almost to himself.-"You actually...care about them."

Harry's gaze was steady, unguarded in a way Draco had never seen.-"More than anyone realises."

For the first time in years, something like respect flickered in Draco's eyes - thin, reluctant, but real. Admiration, even though quickly smothered beneath his usual composure. He folded the magazine shut, fingers lingering on the page a moment longer than necessary.

"I'll admit, Potter."-He said at last, his voice carrying no mockery, only a rare honesty.-"This... I didn't expect."

Harry gave a faint, crooked smile.-"Good. For once."

The train clattered on, the silence that followed no longer brittle but weighted with a new, fragile understanding.

Harry tucked the paper away, a little embarrassed but oddly lighter.-"Better than the Prophet's version of me, at least."

Draco's eyes lingered on him, thoughtful in a way Harry wasn't used to.-"Infinitely better."-He said simply. Draco's fingers lingered on the closed Quibbler, tracing the spine as though reluctant to put it down. He studied Harry for a long moment, grey eyes sharp but softened by something rarer, quieter.

"You said sketches." -Remarked at last, his voice low, careful.-"You still have them?"

Harry shifted, caught off guard by the question.-"Some."-He admitted.-"A few are still at Grimmauld Place. The rest... Charlie kept. Said he wanted them for training manuals."-He gave a small, almost sheepish laugh.-"Didn't think anyone besides him would care."

Draco wanted to disagree, but he kept that to himself for now. He, for once, did not quite know what to say.

Harry then continued.-"I know you think of me as shallow...We aren't friends after all, not even rivals anymore...just strangers."

Drao did not like the sound of that, not one bit. He looked at him sidelong, voice low.-"Strangers. You wish. I'd wager I still know more about you than most of the idiots who cheer your name. As for knowing me...you've never bothered to look past what you wanted to see."

For a moment, silence held again, but it was different now - brittle. The steady clatter of the train filled the gap.

Harry did not answer that, his jaw tightening. His eyes looked beyond the window, away from Draco's harsh gaze.

Draco took that as a victory. His eyes stayed on the article, reading it again with more care, as though trying to find the Harry he thought he knew hidden between the lines.

Outside, the train carried them steadily north, toward Hogwarts, while inside the cabin something subtle but undeniable had shifted: the first fragile strands of understanding woven between them, delicate as smoke yet impossible to ignore.

Harry, having given away his Quibbler, which was now being read by Draco page by page, sat with a hand resting on the window, feeling the faint vibration of the train enter his bones. He did not ask for the magazine back. Draco seemed to enjoy it, having moved to the next pages, reading about starborn kelpies. He could not help but feel victorious, making the Malfoy read Quibbler.

Before long, the castle came into view, far behind the fog-filled fields. Harry felt his heart jump at the feeling; this felt like being young all over again. Once the train came to a stop, he stood up, making Draco look up from his magazine; he hadn't realised that they had arrived till then. They stood up and put on their coats.

Harry tugged his small satchel from the overhead rack. Draco leaned against the wall, coat buttoned neatly, hands tucked into his sleeves, expression perfectly composed as always.

Harry glanced sideways at him, a smirk tugging at his lips.-"Try not to break my nose this time."-He said, voice low, teasing but with just a hint of warning.

Draco's grey eyes flicked up, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.-"No promises, Potter."-He replied, dry as ever, though the edge was softened.

Harry slung the suitcase over his shoulder, and Draco adjusted his coat before moving toward the door. Side by side, they stepped into the cool morning air on the platform, mist curling around their feet as they made their way toward the waiting carriages away from the mingling teachers. Harry kept an eye out for Neville but did not notice him anywhere.

They stepped off the platform, their footsteps echoing in the early quiet as the mist curled low across the path. The walk to the waiting carriages stretched ahead, lined with lanterns that flickered in the damp air. Neither spoke at first, the silence between them carrying more weight than words. The castle loomed in the distance, dark against the grey sky.

At the row of carriages, Harry paused. The Thestrals stood harnessed and waiting, their skeletal wings folded tight, their milky eyes staring without truly seeing. Harry's gaze lingered on them - familiar, almost comforting in their strange, fragile way.

He glanced sideways. Draco's expression was unreadable, but the flicker in his eyes betrayed recognition. They both saw them. They both knew why.

Draco stopped to admire one of them, his gloved hand resting on the Thestral's head. Luna had told him that they liked it, being cared for like this.

Harry wondered, which was the death, the first death he witnessed...But he did not dare to ask...not after their last confrontation.

Without comment, they climbed in. The carriage jolted forward, wood creaking, and the muffled sound of hooves striking earth filled the space between them. It was a narrow, enclosed silence, almost suffocating. Draco leaned against the frame, grey eyes tracing the way, while Harry sat with that quiet alertness, posture straight, hands resting on his knees.

When the castle finally came into view, there was a short moment where it felt like deja vu. They stepped down together, the air colder here, sharper. The walk from the carriage to the great oak doors was shorter, but somehow heavier, every step bringing them closer to the weight of memory waiting inside those walls.

The gates of Hogwarts loomed tall and unyielding before them, wrought iron dark against the misty sky. The winged boars flanking the entrance seemed to watch silently, centuries of vigilance etched into stone. Harry and Draco paused for a moment, taking in the sight - so familiar, yet subtly changed by the war and its aftermath.

Draco's gaze swept over the rebuilt stone, neat and precise, the work of countless hands - and of Harry himself. He did not comment on it; he let the moment pass, focusing on the day ahead of him.

They walked on in silence, each step echoing faintly on the gravel. The familiar path wound upward toward the castle, now gleaming in its restored state, towers and spires rising proudly into the pale sky.

As they climbed the final stretch of stone steps, Harry caught the way Draco's posture tightened slightly, as if he were processing the sight, weighing it, but unwilling to say more. They stepped into the entrance together, the silence between them comfortable, but taunting.

Harry scratched his throat.-"Should we visit McGonagall first?"

Draco nods and follows him as he leads the way to the seventh floor of the castle. Harry has taken out a map of some sort from his satchel and is looking at it as he follows the corridors. Soon, they stand before the stone gargoyle statue.

"Treacle Toffee."-Harry speaks the password, and the statue moves. Harry puts the Marauders' map back in his pocket. He had checked it to make sure McGonagall would be there when they arrived. The little dot had shown her pacing around her office.

They follow the stairs going up. At the top, McGonagall's office door awaited. The emerald tapestry beside it rustled faintly as the fat cat portrait blinked. Harry knocked lightly on the door.

"Enter."-Came McGonagall's crisp voice.

Inside, the office smelled faintly of tea and parchment, warm and comforting. Professor McGonagall sat behind her desk, posture impeccable, spectacles perched on the end of her nose. She smiled - briefly, but warmly.

The boy's eyes immediately went to the portrait on the wall, Severus and Dumbledore side by side, watching...observing.

"Ah, Potter, Malfoy."-She said, voice carrying that mixture of authority and genuine welcome.-"Thank you for coming. Tea has been waiting for you both."-She added, motioning toward a small silver tray with two steaming cups.

Draco inclined his head, neutral as ever, though his eyes flicked with careful attention toward the cups and then to Harry, who gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. They stepped further into the office, each settling into their chairs, the silence now softened by the quiet hiss of steam rising from the tea.

They greet McGonagall as they sit down.

She now has a better look at both of them.-"How did you find the train ride here?"

They look at each other for a moment, still unsure what they had gone through, how they had gone through it.

McGonagall raised her eyebrows, anticipating an answer that came very silently through look exchanges only.-"When Kingsley insisted on having Malfoy come here with someone from the Ministry, I never thought he would choose you, Harry."

Harry fixed his glasses.-"As we talked, I had my own errands to run at Hogwarts, he thought this could be a thing on the side."

She did not press any further.-"I hope that still means...you will be able to go on with your duties, maybe Malfoy can accompany you, as a helping hand perhaps."

Draco did not know what he was agreeing to.-"I was not made aware of any other tasks."

"Well, you are now."-McGonagall waved her wand, and a map landed in front of Harry.-"You will add it to this personal enchanted paper."

Draco looked at them, still unsure what was going on.

"We will have you as guests tonight, the train does not leave till tomorrow morning, and for security reasons, we have closed all Disappearation sites all the way to Hogsmeade."-She continued to fill them with information.-"I have prepared your old dorm, Harry. Password is Parchment Inklings."

She then turned to Draco.-"Unfortunately, I was not able to prepare your dorm in the dungeons as I have a strict order for you to be together at all times. However, you will find that the tower of Gryffindor is just as inviting."

Harry sipped the warm tea.-"That sounds alright."

She then turned to Draco, who had confusion clearly written on his face.-"I hope this does not bother you, Draco."

He shook his head gently.-"No, all is fine. I did not mean to be a bother."

McGonagall actually smiled at that, a soft laugh following.-"No such thing, Draco, as I expressed in my letter to you, I find the measures unnecessary, you have been my student for 7 years. And Harry, too, should know, you do not pose a threat to us. I hope the two of you do not find this restriction, which the Ministry has put as a duty, and try to actually help each other."

Harry’s voice softened, almost reluctant.-“I know what it is to be watched, to have people waiting for you to slip. Draco doesn’t need that - not anymore. I’ll follow orders, but if I’m honest…I’d rather not play the Ministry’s leash.”

For a long beat, silence filled the office, broken only by the soft clink of china when McGonagall set her cup down. Her eyes, sharp as ever, searched Harry’s face, and for once, her sternness bent into something gentler.-“That is precisely why I trust you, Potter.”-She said quietly.-“You can see the difference.”

Across from him, Draco’s posture stiffened as though the words had caught him off guard, tea stuck halfway down his throat. He didn’t meet Harry’s gaze, instead hiding his expression behind the cup. But the faintest flicker passed across his expression, and he felt like the elephant in the room.

Draco lowered his cup, fingers tightening slightly on the porcelain before he set it down. He still didn’t quite meet their eyes, but his voice, when it came, was quieter than either of them expected.-“Then…I suppose I should be grateful. To be seen differently. Not everyone bothers.”

"Oh, and Harry, do not discard the remains of the basilisk when cleaning the Chamber. I will have a team take them away for studies."-McGonagall said after the short pause.

Harry blinked, then nodded, trying not to smile at Draco’s reaction when his eyes went wide in shock.-“Understood, Professor.”

Draco, however, couldn’t contain himself. He choked lightly on his tea, sputtering as he set the cup down.-“Basilisk? Cleaning the Chamber?”-His grey eyes darted between Harry and McGonagall, a mixture of disbelief and…something close to awe.

Harry gave a small, wry shrug, amusement flickering in his expression.-“Well… someone has to do it. I happen to be the only one around who can open it.” He said dryly, earning a faint, knowing smile from McGonagall.

Draco set his cup down carefully, still staring at Harry as if trying to reconcile the image in front of him with what he had thought he agreed to. His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, the usual edge in his expression softened, replaced by something quieter - surprise, and maybe a flicker of respect.

McGonagall’s gaze shifted to Harry, calm but firm.-“And Potter… since Mr. Malfoy is here to retrieve the Vanishing Cabinet, you will need to accompany him to the Room of Requirement.”

Harry blinked, the words sinking in.-“The… Cabinet?”-He said, voice low. He had thought it destroyed, a relic of old conflicts.-“I… I thought it was burned.”

“It seems.”-McGonagall said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.-“That the Room of Requirement is full of surprises. The Cabinet remains intact alongside most of its previous uses. You will find it there.”

"As promised in my letter to you."-Draco, seated across from them, remained composed, though a faint spark of satisfaction glimmered in his grey eyes. He reached into his coat pocket with a practised motion, muttering under his breath.-“Borgin & Burkes weren’t eager to part with it, of course. Took some… persuasion.”

With a precise flick of his wand, he revealed a miniature version of the Vanishing Cabinet - the twin, reduced through transfiguration into a pocket-sized replica. Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait…Is that its twin?”

Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line, a shadow of that sly Slytherin smirk appearing.-“Yes. Acquired it from Borgin & Burkes. They nearly refused to give it up, but a few…well-placed requests helped.”-He carefully rotated the tiny Cabinet in his gloved hand.-“Delicate piece. Must be kept from dangerous uses. I intend to ensure it stays that way.”

Even McGonagall allowed herself a small, approving smile.-“Impressive work, Mr. Malfoy. Your transfiguration skills have clearly progressed remarkably since your school years.”

Draco tucked the tiny Cabinet back into his pocket with deliberate care, posture immaculate. Harry, though masking it, felt the faintest flicker of respect - and the subtle, old reminder that Draco could still be cunning, clever, and determined when he chose.

McGonagall set her cup down, eyes moving between the two of them.-“Lunch will be served at noon, and dinner at six. I expect all duties to be completed before then.”-She leaned back slightly, hands folded neatly on her desk.-“Tomorrow, I would like both of you to join me for breakfast before your departure. There are a few matters to discuss before you leave the castle.”

Draco inclined his head slightly, expression neutral as ever, though the faintest crease appeared between his brows, registering the schedule. Harry nodded, already thinking ahead to the day’s tasks.

“With the castle currently quiet, you will have little to distract you from your work.”-McGonagall continued.-“Mr. Neville Longbottom will be joining the staff this year as Professor Sprout’s assistant - more of a helper than a full instructor, if you will. He’ll be here to support you if you may need assistance.”

Harry’s chest tightened slightly with anticipation. Neville - now working alongside the staff - was someone he had watched grow over the years, someone he respected, and he looked forward to seeing him step into this role. A small, quiet smile tugged at his lips.

Draco, meanwhile, merely raised an eyebrow, posture immaculate as always, though Harry could detect the faintest acknowledgement in the flicker of his gaze. The room held a brief, quiet lightness, punctuated only by the faint hiss of their cooling tea.

McGonagall stood, adjusting her robes, her gaze softening slightly at the two of them.-“That will be all for now. I expect you both to focus on your tasks. The castle will be quiet, and you will have what you need. Tomorrow will be your departure.”

McGonagall paused as she rose from her chair, adjusting her robes with her usual crisp precision.-“Ah, almost forgot...”-She said, glancing between them.-“Hagrid wishes to see you, Potter, regarding a matter he describes as… important. As I mentioned in my letter, he refuses to divulge the details.”-She gave a faint, knowing smile.-“You may see him this afternoon, once your duties are complete.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up, a mixture of curiosity and caution crossing his face.-“Refuses to tell you, it is that serious?”-He echoed, a faint edge of amusement in his tone.

Draco remained perfectly still, hands clasped neatly in his lap, grey eyes fixed on some point beyond Harry. A faint crease appeared between his brows, and the slightest tilt of his head hinted at both scepticism and quiet curiosity.

Harry’s gaze flicked toward him briefly, noting the subtle tension, then he turned back to McGonagall with a wry shrug.-“Mysterious, right… I suppose I should brace myself.”

McGonagall’s lips pressed together, a hint of a smile softening her usually stern expression.-“Enough chatter for now. Focus on your tasks. Hagrid will be waiting.”

Harry and Draco exchanged a quick glance - Harry’s curiosity barely contained, Draco’s expression unreadable, but the subtle shift in his posture suggested he, too, was aware that something unusual awaited.

Chapter Text

The seventh-floor corridor stretched before them, eerily quiet, lit only by torches flickering against the stone of the corridor walls. Harry slowed to a stop before the smooth expanse of wall across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and his troupe of dancing trolls.

Harry folded the Marauders map and turned to Draco, who was following him in silence.-"Right. So...You remember how this works?"

Draco rolled his eyes almost in disbelief.-"Walk past three times, thinking of what we need."

Harry stepped forward and began pacing, his voice low and steady.-"I need to find the Vanishing Cabinet. I need to see it. I need the room that hides it."

Nothing. Just smooth stone.

Draco sighed, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve.-"You've always been terrible at precision."

Harry scowled but walked back the other way, his shoulders straight, his boots heavy on the empty hallway, his coat billowing dramatically. He fixed his glasses and ran a hand through his hair, pushing it up away from his eyes.-"I need the Room of Requirement, where the Vanishing Cabinet is hidden. I need the place that holds all the lost things."

The wall stayed blank.

Draco gave a dry chuckle, watching him parade the entrance several times.-"I can't believe the great saviour of the wizarding world can't open a door that he has opened several times before. Move away."-He stepped forward with his usual calculated moves, his pace deliberate, he closed his eyes, softly taking a deep breath. No speaking, just wishing it from within.

A faint ripple of magic shimmered across the stone, but then faded.

Harry's brow furrowed.-"Close. You nearly had it."-Harry went by his side again.-Perhaps it would work if we tried together...- he thought.

They walked in silence for a moment, side by side, the rhythm of their footsteps echoing as their cloaks almost grazed the floor. Finally, Harry tried again, this time with a quieter, steadier voice. A mumble to himself as Draco did the same, but without voicing his need.

The wall shivered like water struck by the wind. A door etched itself into the stone, tall and arched, its handle gleaming faintly in the torchlight.

Harry let out a breath.-"There."

Draco gave him a sideways look as he followed him to the door.

Together, they pushed the heavy door open. Dusty air poured out, thick with the scent of old wood and magic. Beyond lay mountains of hidden things.

The Room of Requirement had remade itself once more - not as a battlefield, nor a blazing inferno, but as a vast warehouse of forgotten things. Dust lay thick over mountains of furniture, crates, and shattered relics of a century's worth of secrets. It's just as they remembered it.

Harry and Draco stood shoulder to shoulder before a teetering pile of junk, their wands raised as if expecting fire to break out any moment.

No initial idea on how to tackle all the work in front of them. They started walking through the maze of lost things at a slow, cautious pace.

They passed through a place filled with old textbooks of many generations that came before them, old equipment from potions classes and weirdly transfigured items from failed transfiguration classes. A melted cauldron, a pile of shattered vials, and more books on herbs and such.

Harry could not help but trace the objects with his hand, the dust filling the still air of the room. Draco sneezed and gave Harry a pointed look, slapping his hand with his wand away from the furniture. Harry only gave him a taunting smile. Enjoying making him miserable, feeling like teenagers again. He leaned against a dusty desk, taking a look around, almost nostalgic but mainly searching for the cabinet, which now stood in the middle of the room.

The cluttered space stretched endlessly around them, dust motes drifting in the shafts of light. Draco's gaze flicked to Harry, sharp as ever, but something softer lingered beneath it. His hand hovered over a pile of books, then drifted slowly to rest against the edge of a dusty desk where Harry was now leaning against, Harry held himself unusually important, filled with pride, Draco did not remember him like this, quite the contrary, Harry he knew was slouchy and arrogant, but now he stood in front of him like some headline saviour.

"Funny..."-Draco murmured, leaning in closer than usual towards Harry, so that his shoulder brushed lightly against Harry's. His grey eyes locked with Harry's green ones, unwavering.-"Can't believe I survived that night...That you of all people would have swooped in to save me, Potter."

Harry stumbled slightly backwards, pressing himself almost entirely against the dusty surface of the desk to keep his balance, wand loosely in hand. His voice was quiet but steady.-"I didn't exactly give you a choice. Someone had to make sure you didn't end up as a cautionary tale."

Draco's smirk softened, and he tilted his head, letting the faintest sigh escape, so close to Harry's untamed hair that it brushed against it.-"Lucky for me, I guess..."-His voice dropped, almost a whisper, and the edge of sarcasm was gone.-"I suppose...I should be thankful."

Harry met his gaze, eyes steady, lips curling into a small, knowing smile. -"Wouldn't have let you face it alone. Not then, not now."

"So much for being strangers."-Draco snarled at him, his turn to do the taunting. For a heartbeat, the dust and clutter of the room seemed to fade. They stayed there, eyes locked, the history of shared danger and unspoken trust hanging between them. Draco's shoulder brushed Harry's once more, almost imperceptibly, as though to anchor the acknowledgement, and Harry felt the weight of it - quiet, charged, and entirely mutual.

Draco leaned closer, his grey eyes narrowing as he peered over Harry's shoulder.-"Looks like it's buried deeper than I expected."

Harry's breath hitched, Draco's presence pressing closer than he anticipated, almost against him.-"What?"-He choked out, careful not to push him, hoping Draco would sense the subtle limit he was skirting.

Draco placed a finger under his chin, soft glove on his cheek, and slightly turned it to the left.-"The Vanishing Cabinet, Potter."

Harry's gaze followed Draco's hand, settling on the half-buried cabinet tangled beneath books, potion bottles, and scraps of parchment. The sight made his chest tighten slightly - familiar, foreboding, yet still intact.

"Right..."-Harry murmured, regaining his composure.-"We'll need to be careful getting it out. Some of this..."-He waved his wand over the nearest stack, sending a few books floating gently aside.-"...responds better to magic than brute force."

Draco's lips pressed into a thin line, though the edge of admiration flickered in his eyes like usual.-"Not surprising. You always did have a knack for this."-He took a step back, finally releasing him.

Harry straightened his posture, dusted his coat, straightened his leather bag, and looked at the mountain of rubble. With a swish and flick of his wand, he cast a wordless Wingardium Leviosa, levitating a toppled wardrobe to the side. Draco flicked his wand in tandem, sending a cluster of cracked tables skidding neatly against the far wall. Slowly, a hulking black cabinet emerged from beneath the debris. Taking shape...

"Makes you wonder if it was ever meant for anything but trouble."-Draco said softly, brushing dust off his glove.

Harry eyed the Vanishing Cabinet grimly.-"Not really, but people will always find a way to abuse good magic. During the First War, people used Cabinets like this to vanish when Death Eaters came knocking, Arthur Weasley told us."

Draco glanced at him sideways, curious. Harry crouched and cleared a pile of books with a lazy sweep of his wand.-"I nearly got stuck in one myself, once at Borgin and Burkes, the summer before the second year. I fell into Knockturn Alley through the Floo network and hid inside the Cabinet to keep away from Borgin...and your father."-He gave Draco a rueful smile.-"You were there too. You almost closed the door, but he called you away."

Draco huffed a short laugh.-"Always stalking me, Potter?"

Harry shook his head, lips twitching, continuing to tell his stories.-"Not long after that, Peeves smashed the Hogwarts Cabinet while chasing me. Nick put him up to helping me get rid of what we broke, trying to get me out of trouble with Filch. Worked to get me out of trouble, bringing it here, though it left this thing broken for years."

"Not completely broken."-Draco said, his voice quieter. He stepped closer, hand grazing the Cabinet's dark surface.-"Fred and George saw to that. They shoved Montague into it while fighting, you must know. By the time I found him again, he was babbling about corridors and voices. He'd been trapped between here and Borgin and Burkes. In a loop."-Draco's jaw tightened.-"That's when I realised what the Cabinet truly was. What it could do, and of course how broken it was."

Harry straightened, brushing dust from his hands.-"And you fixed it."

"Yes."-Draco said flatly.-"Day after day for months. Repaired it. Opened the door for Greyback and the others. That...well, that part, will always be mine to live with."

Silence stretched between them, thick with the ghosts of memory. Harry bit his lip not to talk back.

He flicked his wand again, sending a stack of trunks tumbling aside. As he did, one burst open with a puff of dust, and a slim, battered book slid free, its cover familiar in a way that stopped Harry cold.

He bent down quickly, brushing dirt from the spine. His chest tightened as he recognised Snape's careful handwriting inked along the inside cover - the old Potions book he and Ginny had hidden here years ago.

Harry tucked it under his arm, almost without thinking.

Draco, however, had noticed. His eyes flicked to the book, then back to Harry's face. A small, knowing smirk curved his lips.-"Find something worth keeping, Potter?"

Harry cleared his throat, straightening back up to his perfect soldier posture, a touch of colour rising in his cheeks.-"Just... something Ginny and I hid here a long time ago."

The name slipped out heavier than he intended.

Draco tilted his head, grey eyes glinting as his smirk spread slowly and sharply.-"Ah. The ex-girlfriend."-He stepped closer, voice smooth with mockery.-"What was it you were doing in the Room of Requirement? I gather you were not playing a game of hide-and-seek between classes?"

Harry's jaw tensed, but Draco wasn't done. He gave a little laugh under his breath.-"So that's it. All those nights I thought the Room was refusing me, denying me entry, and really it was just Potter in here...tangled up with his little girlfriend. Figures."

Harry slipped the book into his satchel, ignoring him.

But Draco pressed on, reading the name of the book, his lips curling in amusement. He paced around the mountain of piled trash, removing objects from it carefully with his wand.-"Snogging Weasley between Potions homework, I gather?"

Something in Harry snapped. Without looking up, he flicked his wand at Draco's shoes. Instantly, the laces knotted themselves together in a tight, tangled mess. Draco took one step forward, not paying any mind to him, and nearly toppled, catching himself on the edge of a dusty desk with an indignant glare.

"Potter."-He hissed, wand up in a flash. With a quick counter-curse, the laces untangled, falling neatly back into place. He straightened, brushing off his robes with exaggerated dignity.-"Really? Cursing the shoelaces of a curse-breaker in training?"

Harry smirked, finally meeting his gaze.-"Didn't do it to stop you. Just to shut you up."

Draco paused, then let out a short, unwilling laugh.-"Infuriating."-He muttered, though his smirk never faltered.-"Utterly infuriating."

Harry only shrugged, already turning back to the Vanishing Cabinet.-"Good. That was the point."

Draco leaned back slightly, a smirk tugging at his lips, grey eyes glinting with amusement.-"Well, well...seems I've finally found your soft spot, Potter."

He raised an eyebrow, voice low and teasing.-"Soft spot, huh? Funny...I thought you'd have learned by now not to mess with me."

Draco gave a small, amused shrug and turned back to the Cabinet, as if the teasing had passed for now. Together, they pushed through the final pile of debris until the Vanishing Cabinet emerged: tall, foreboding, yet completely intact.

Draco circled it once, then raised his wand.-"Time to take it to its rightful place. Reducio Praegrandis."-He murmured, wand tip tracing precise arcs through the air.

With a soft ripple, the massive Cabinet shimmered, warped, and shrank - folding in on itself until what remained was no larger than a cigarette case. Draco plucked it from the dusty floor and slipped it into his pocket with a practised motion.-"That's my outro."

Harry watched, eyebrows raised.-"You've gotten good at that."

Draco smirked faintly.-"Learned it for this occasion only. It's a useful skill when you'd rather not lug dangerous antiques down a flight of stairs."

Harry chuckled under his breath, but his gaze drifted over the endless piles around them. He felt the faint tug of memory - the diadem, glinting once atop that mountain of forgotten things, he had promised himself to at least look for it.

He cleared his throat.-"Listen, I'm going to keep looking around. There's...something else I need to check for. Mainly why I'm here."

"And here I thought I was your only task at the beginning of the day."-Draco shook his head, a sly grin tugging at his lips.

"I told you, Malfoy, you don't need a leash."-Harry said, fixing his clothes.

Draco turned, one eyebrow arched, mock curiosity in his tone.-"And what priceless relic has Potter come to rescue today? Another love trinket, perhaps?"

Harry shrugged, deliberately vague.-"Something that belonged to me. Don't wait for me - go have lunch or something. I'll catch you up with my map. Remember, I have an eye on you all the time."

Draco studied him for a beat, not knowing what he was talking about, then gave a careless wave.-"Suit yourself. I've no interest in sifting through mountains of junk. Try not to bury yourself alive in here."

Harry smiled thinly.-"I'll manage."

Draco strode toward the door, his figure soon swallowed by the shadows of the corridor beyond.

Harry reached into his cloak pocket and pulled out a worn scrap of parchment. With a whispered incantation, lines unfurled, ink flowing across the page until the labyrinth of Hogwarts appeared before him, alive with moving names. Draco's dot appeared as soon as he left the Room of Requirements, and could be seen slowly walking away in the far right corridor.

He folded the Map carefully and tucked it away for now.

For now, his eyes swept the endless towers of forgotten things. Somewhere in the dust and magic of this place, he would find the diadem's remains.

Harry moved deeper into the Room of Requirement, past stacks of broken desks and teetering towers of discarded cauldrons. Dust stirred at his footsteps, sparkling faintly in the shaft of light that leaked from the high, arched windows.

He almost missed it.

Half-buried beneath a pile of moth-eaten cloaks, the faint curve of silver caught his eye. Harry crouched, brushing the cloth aside, and his breath stilled.

The diadem of Ravenclaw.

Not whole - not gleaming as it once had, not a relic to inspire awe - but warped and wounded. The delicate circlet was cracked along one edge, and at its centre yawned a jagged hole, burned straight through as though by some living fire. Harry could almost feel the basilisk's venom lingering in the metal, mingled with the Fiendfyre's savage bite.

He reached for it carefully, fingertips grazing the cold silver. A chill swept up his arm, though whether from the diadem itself or the memories it carried, he couldn't tell. It was no longer dangerous - he knew that. The Horcrux was gone. Yet its scars made it seem more human than ever.

Harry slipped it gently into his satchel, beside Severus' hidden Potions book. Two ghosts of the past, both too important to leave behind.

With a soft sigh, he drew the Marauder's Map from his cloak.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."-He whispered.

Ink bloomed across the parchment, filling in the familiar labyrinth of Hogwarts. Dozens of names drifted across the corridors, but Harry's eyes fixed on one: Draco Malfoy, hovering near the second-floor girls' bathroom.

Harry chuckled to himself. Of all the places.

He tapped the parchment, erasing the ink, and tucked it away. Then, he left the Room of Requirement, the door melting silently into stone behind him.

The castle was hushed as he descended, the kind of quiet that felt less like emptiness and more like breath being held.

The second-floor bathroom smelled faintly of damp stone and mildew, the same as it always had. The flickering torchlight cast long, uneven shadows across the cracked tiles and pitted sinks.

Harry slowed at the threshold.

Draco was sitting on the floor, back against the base of one of the sinks, knees drawn up. His voice was low, softer than Harry remembered ever hearing it. Beside him, hovering just above the ground, was Myrtle. Her pale, spectral face tilted toward him, her expression strangely gentle.

"...it isn't the same anymore."-Draco was saying.-"But you know that, don't you? Things never go back to what they were."

Myrtle let out a watery sniff.-"Oh, Draco...They never listened to me either. Nobody ever really does."

He gave a small, crooked smile.-"You listened. Even if you enjoy the spectacle more than the story."

Her ghostly shoulders lifted in the faintest shrug.-"Maybe. But I still care."

Harry shifted his weight, and the creak of his boot against the tile made both of them look up. Myrtle brightened instantly.

"Oh! Harry Potter! How funny, you finding us here again!"-She said, drifting upward a little, her voice echoing off the bathroom walls.-"Just like old times. You two, always turning up when I least expect it. Please, no fighting this time."

Draco rolled his eyes faintly but didn't move from where he sat.-"He's got a knack for interrupting."

Harry stepped forward, his satchel heavy with the diadem and the book. His eyes flicked between them - the odd picture of Draco Malfoy and Moaning Myrtle, side by side, speaking like...friends.

"Didn't mean to intrude."-Harry said quietly.-"I just - finished what I needed to do."

Myrtle tilted her head, her translucent hair floating as if underwater.-"You always need something, don't you, Harry? Both of you. You come here when you're...lost."

Her words hung in the air. Draco looked away, his expression tightening, but he didn't deny it.

Harry cleared his throat.-"Well... I've found what I was looking for. Thought I'd check on you."-His gaze lingered on Draco. He seemed more relaxed here. His mind goes back to the last time they stood in this bathroom...the curses that flew overhead.

Draco pushed himself to his feet, brushing dust from his robes. He cast Myrtle one last glance, softer than Harry had expected.-"Thank you. For listening."

Myrtle beamed, almost shyly, at him.

Myrtle's pale eyes followed Harry as he adjusted the strap of his satchel. Her gaze sharpened, fixing on the outline of the battered circlet beneath the flap.

"Oh..."-She breathed, drifting closer.-"You've found it, haven't you? Ravenclaw's pretty diadem. I saw it once, you know. When he brought it here, he used my death to split his soul...Tom Riddle. He hid things, just like you're hiding it now."

Harry's hand closed around the satchel, pulling it tighter against his side.-"I am sorry you had to remember that Eliz."-He said it softly, deliberately using her middle name, as he had back in his school days. Draco found it strange, but he didn't question it. Myrtle's lips curled into a small, fleeting smile, though her eyes didn't leave the diadem.

Myrtle floated even nearer, her translucent hair waving around her face.-"Tell me, Harry... are you collecting them? Like he did? One by one, filling your pockets with secrets?"-Her voice lowered to a tremulous whisper.-"Are you turning into him?"

The words landed like stones in the silence. Draco straightened beside her, his grey eyes flicking sharply to Harry.

Harry exhaled slowly, letting the air carry the weight of her words. His voice was calm, deliberate, and measured.-"No, Eliz. I'm not collecting these for power. I'm not collecting them for myself. Memory. Evidence."-He gave a small smile.-"And you...You don't need to worry."

Myrtle floated silently, watching him, her expression unreadable, but Harry's certainty - calm, deliberate, and defiant - seemed to anchor the space; it seemed as if the air that hung around him had a much heavier density.

For a moment, Harry said nothing. Then he forced a thin smile, though it didn't reach his eyes.-"Come on, Malfoy. We've got work to finish. McGonagall wanted the Chamber cleared, remember."-He nodded toward the door.-"Let's get it done. We will come back up in a bit, Eliz."

Myrtle lingered, her wide eyes following Harry.-"I wait for you here."

Harry crouched near the sink that Draco had been resting against, wand in hand.-"Relax."-He said to himself, he then pressed his fingers against the tile and whispered under his breath, the familiar hissing syllables of Parseltongue sliding from his tongue:

"Open... reveal... I am here to enter."

He froze mid-step, eyes wide.-"Charming."-Draco muttered. He didn't understand a word, but the sound was mesmerising - smooth, precise, commanding.-"Interesting."-He admitted, voice half-whisper, half-awe. Draco stiffened, hair rising at the back of his neck.-"You never fail to make me question reality."

Harry pressed again, repeating the hiss:

"Sssslither... sssslide... ssshow the way..."

The tiles trembled, a faint grinding filling the room as the stone shifted. Slowly, almost reluctantly, a section of the wall peeled back like wet clay, revealing a narrow pipe spiralling downward into darkness.

A draft of cold, damp air rolled up, carrying the scent of the Chamber beneath. Harry removed his coat, putting it on a dry patch of the bathroom, keeping his bag on his shoulder only, and his wand clutched in his hand.

Draco stepped back instinctively.-"A pipe? Seriously?"

Harry grinned faintly.-"Trust me. Jump when I say."

Draco's jaw tightened.-"Trust you? After all this? Potter, the last time I trusted a pipe..."

"Three."-Harry said calmly, stepping onto the edge.-"One... two... three!"

He leapt, landing with a muffled thud inside the narrow shaft below, crouching and holding onto a rusted ledge.-"Your turn."-He called up.-"Don't be a coward, Malfoy!"

Draco swallowed hard, eyes darting down into the darkness below.-"I'm not exactly in the habit of free-falling into Merlin knows what."

Harry hissed again, softly, almost a chant:

"Follow... keep your grip... descend safely, I am here to catch you. Malisss..."

"In English, please. That sounded important."-Draco said, actually concerned, removing his cloak and leaving it on a dry patch of the bathroom like Harry had.

"I am here to catch you, Malfoy."-Harry repeated from within the pipe.

The pipe rattled under Draco's shoes as he inched forward. Finally, he bent his knees and jumped. The pipe wobbled violently beneath him, sending his heart hammering. A faint light came from the end of the pipe.

He braced himself for a hard impact with the ground, but instead, he landed awkwardly in Harry's arms, sliding a few inches before his hands caught a side ledge.

"Breathe, Malfoy."-Harry joked as he safely guided him down, strong arms holding him all the way down.

"Bloody hell."-Draco muttered all in a breath, releasing Harry, brushing dust from his robes, and bone-chilling goosebumps filled him when he noticed the amount of animal skeletons beneath his feet.-"This is - utterly ridiculous."

"Experience."-Harry replied, checking if he was alright.-"Keeps it interesting."

Harry's wand lit faintly, casting a pale green glow that flickered along the damp stone. He guided the way through the tunnel that had once collapsed, removing debris and putting it on the side for easier access in the future.

The enormous, round serpent-carved door loomed before them, cold and imposing. It was massive, carved from dark stone in the shape of a coiled serpent. Its fangs were bared, tongue forked, and eyes seemed to glow faintly, as if alive. The scales spiralled intricately, pulsing with ancient magic, and a faint hiss echoed from the stone itself. Only the right Parseltongue words could make the coils ripple and part, revealing the path into the Chamber's depths.

"Slither... open... show... secrets... reveal... I seek passage..."

Draco's eyes widened with each hiss, the sound foreign and uncanny, crawling along his skin.-"I don't know whether to admire you or call a healer."-He muttered.-"Hissing in the dark... charming, and lunatic."

Draco touched the round door, mesmerised, wondering what ancient magic held it together. He would have loved to study it, but he is here on a much different task, which he is not quite aware of yet.

Finally, the door opened with a hollow metallic clang. The Chamber of Secrets opened before them, vast and cavernous, Salazar's grim statue looming at the far end. They fell into the cold stone floor of the Chamber itself, dust and small pebbles bouncing around them. Draco, still catching his breath, staring wide-eyed at the vast cavern, noticed the pale skeleton of the basilisk still wrapped around the statue of Salazar Slytherin.

Draco swallowed, his voice trembling slightly.-"Merlin...you make it sound so simple in the stories, Potter."

Harry gave a faint smile, adjusting his bag yet again.-"The stories never include the thrill of nearly catching the chills from aesthetic amusement."

Draco's eyes swept the Chamber. The scale, the darkness, the history - it pressed on him. He followed, wands ready, as Harry whispered one last series of hisses to confirm their path:

"Safe... move... clear... follow... the way is ours."

At last, Draco spoke, his tone light but edged.-"This is The Chamber of Secrets, then?"

Harry nodded.-"Second task on McGonagall's list. Clear the rubble."

Draco's expression gave nothing away, but he kept pace beside him without another word. Their footsteps rang hollow against the wet stone floor as they passed beneath the arching, snake-lined corridor. Harry's wand lit the way, the glow spilling across the damp walls and broken rubble.

Harry swallowed, memories pressing in - Ginny's pale form crumpled on the floor, the basilisk's hiss, the rush of pain as fangs tore into his arm. He forced the images back.

Draco whistled softly under his breath, his eyes tracing the fanged skulls carved into the pillars.-"This...This is something else."

They set to work. Harry lifted chunks of collapsed stone with a flick of his wand, stacking them neatly at the edges of the chamber. Draco joined in, as McGonagall had told him to help Harry together. They cleared piles of rubble and unstable debris, their magic blending into the silent rhythm of labour.

The basilisk's skeleton stretched across the chamber floor, vast and pale, its fangs still sharp despite the years.

Draco stepped closer, his voice unsteady.-"Merlin...that thing...You killed this?"

Harry didn't look at him.-"With the Sword of Gryffindor. Didn't exactly have a choice. He was much scarier alive."-He flicked his wand, levitating another boulder away.-"And its venom destroyed more than one dark object."-He said with his cold Auror-like voice.

Draco fell silent, but his eyes lingered on the enormous bones.

Harry knelt on the damp stone, pulling the folded parchment McGonagall had given him from his satchel. He smoothed it flat on the floor, the inkless surface gleaming faintly under the torchlight.

Draco tilted his head, curious.

Harry didn't answer. He raised his wand, eyes narrowing with focus.-"Notatio Loci."-He whispered, touching the walls and floor in a slow circuit. Each time, a faint glow flared where his wand tip met stone, leaving behind invisible markers only he seemed to sense. Draco squinted but stayed quiet, watching.

Once he had set enough anchors, Harry returned to the parchment, wand poised above it.-"Colligo Chartam."

Draco startled as threads of pale light erupted from the walls, ceiling, all weaving together like strands of a spider's web. They snapped downward, converging on the parchment until the glow hissed into black ink, sketching the Chamber's towering columns, the great stone doors, and even the vast pool of water at its centre.

The map shimmered once, then stilled.

Draco stepped closer, lips parted despite himself.-"You're...mapping it."-His eyes darted to Harry's, sharp with realisation.-"This is what McGonagall set you to do?"

Harry gave a short nod, tracing the fresh ink with his finger.-"She wants every hidden space recorded."

Draco's gaze lingered on the parchment, then flicked back to Harry, suspicion and admiration warring in his expression.-"And here I thought the Chamber would stay a legend."

Harry lingered on the parchment a moment longer before tucking it carefully back into his satchel. Then, with a softer look, he drew out another folded map - older, worn, edges frayed from years of use.

Draco caught the movement.-"Another one? Merlin, how many maps are you hoarding, Potter?"

Ignoring him, Harry placed the Marauder's Map flat against the stone floor. He touched his wand to it, murmuring low, almost reverently.-"Colligo Chartam."

This time, the threads of light shot outward, but instead of settling onto blank parchment, they sank into the faded lines already there. New strokes of ink unfurled, curling across the paper until a neat little corridor appeared at the bottom corner. A label shimmered into being: The Chamber of Secrets.

Draco's eyes widened as he watched a second glow pulse across the map - two names appearing side by side. Harry Potter. Draco Malfoy.

Mischief has expanded; The map grows bolder with your name scrawled in it. A Marauder in all but ink. – Prongs: The map responded.

Harry smiled faintly, almost to himself.-"Thanks, Prongs."-He whispered, giving the map a soft tap of his wand.

Draco blinked, caught off guard.-"Prongs? Who is this? The map writes back to you?"

Harry chuckled under his breath, folding the parchment.-"Not exactly. That was my dad."

Draco stared at him, still trying to reconcile what he'd seen. His voice was low, edged with disbelief.-"Your father is answering you from that scrap of parchment?"

Harry's expression softened, a wry smile tugging at his lips.-"In a way."

"Sorry to burst your bubble, but I think your father is dead...as far as I know."-Draco studied him, his usual smirk nowhere to be found. His voice dropped, low and almost hesitant.-"You sound mad when you say it like that, Potter. As if you can't tell the difference."

Harry's grip tightened on the folded map.-"I can tell the difference."-He exhaled slowly, then added, more gently.-"But sometimes...It's enough to feel like I'm not alone."

Draco leaned closer, watching the parchment reading his name and Harry's.-"And you're telling me this because...?"

"Because I trust you not to ask a hundred questions."-Harry said, carefully tapping the wand against the Marauder's Map to show him.-"Now we can both be on the same page. Literally."

The Chamber seemed colder in the silence that followed. Draco glanced once more at the glowing names on the map before Harry tucked it away.

Harry walked away, and stopped before the collapsed alcove where he knew, with grim certainty, the cup would be. He had read, remembered, and calculated - the Hufflepuff Cup, destroyed in the past by Ron and Hermione, had somehow survived enough to leave traces. He knelt, feeling the faint imprint of magic in the stone. With a wave of his wand, rocks lifted and the cup appeared before him, cleaned of debris but still scarred by its history.

He crouched slowly, reaching for it with careful fingers. It was cool to the touch, empty of the seething malice it once carried, but the weight of it in his palm was undeniable.

Draco's eyes narrowed.-"Another one?"

Harry straightened, slipping the cup into his satchel beside the diadem. His expression was unreadable.-"Probably ended up here during the collapse."

Draco gave a short laugh, though there was no humour in it.-"You do realise how this looks, don't you? First the crown, now the cup. Myrtle wasn't far off the mark."

Harry looked at him sharply, but Draco pressed on, voice low and deliberate.-"Tell me, Potter... this is purely for fun, right? No other reason for collecting these things?"

For a moment, the silence stretched between them, heavy as stone.

Then Harry exhaled, his grip tightening on the satchel strap.-"Yes. Purely out of duty. And memory."-His voice was calm.

He shook his head, turning back toward the tunnel.-"Merlin help me, Potter, but you've got the strangest idea of souvenirs."

Draco lingered a step behind, watching the motionless skeleton of the basilisk. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on Harry. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and deliberate.

"Do you realise what you're doing, Potter?"

Harry looked up, wand still hovering over the map.-"I'm marking what McGonagall asked me to."

Draco shook his head, a shadow crossing his features.-"I mean... really. You're walking along a razor's edge. Darkness is born out of darkness, Potter. And you have not been the brightest, living with 2 souls for your entire life. Have you spoken to a healer about this?"

Harry stiffened, but his posture and stone-cold attitude gave away nothing-"You sound like Hermione right now."

"So what if I am? She is the smartest of all of you; she was probably right."-Draco's eyes darkened, and his voice took on an edge that made even the Chamber feel heavier.

For a moment, silence hung between them - heavy with memory, fear, and the faintest glimmer of trust. Draco finally shook his head, though the shadow of concern lingered in his eyes.

And together, they turned back to the basilisk. He climbs over the statue of Salazar and reaches for the basilisk's fans, snatching two from his mouth.-"These can be used for countless potions, here have one."-He says and throws a tooth at a very worried Draco, who carefully catches it.-"Very rare to find."

He studies it for a moment.-"Thanks, feels honouring. Woeful."-He carefully placed it in one of his pockets.

Harry climbs back down, marching to his bag and putting the fang inside his satchel alongside the other objects he collected that day.

Once done with the maps, they go back, leaving the chamber spotless.

At the base of the vertical pipe, Harry craned his neck upward, wandlight stretching into the hollow shaft above.-"Right."-He muttered.-"Back up we go."

Draco tilted his head back, unimpressed.-"Crawl our way out like sewer rats? Very dignified, Potter."

Harry gave him a dry look before setting his wand between his teeth and hauling himself onto the lip of the pipe.-"Unless you've got a better idea, Malisss..."

Draco muttered something under his breath - decidedly unflattering - before following suit.

By the time they reached the bathroom grate, both were dusty and flushed, Draco breathing unevenly, while Harry did not quite feel the exhaustion, his training every day at the Enchanted Chamber with Kingsley having helped build his stamina. Draco could not help but find it fitting for Harry. Harry pushed the cover aside and hauled himself onto the cracked tiles, offering Draco a hand up.

Draco brushed himself off with as much dignity as he could muster, though the sour look on his face betrayed him.-"Charming excursion, Potter. If I'd known 'heroics' involved crawling through pipes, I might've stayed with Myrtle."

Harry snorted, straightening and glancing back toward the pipe.-"First thing I'm telling McGonagall - we need proper stairs. Or a ladder at the very least. Hogwarts shouldn't make anyone crawl through plumbing to reach its secrets."

Draco's mouth quirked, half a smirk, half genuine relief that the ordeal was behind them.-"Yes, do that."

Harry slung his satchel on the ground, sitting on a dry spot near the sinks, Myrtle showing up as soon as Draco drops beside him.

"Mischief Managed."- Harry hissed to himself in Parseltongue as he opened the bag and took out the map McGonagall gave him. He took out of his bag a quill and quickly wrote the words needed for the opening of the chamber. He writes: "Open, reveal, the way is clear, let us in.' in hissing syllables so that a normal person can read them.

Draco blinked, then slowly smiled, the expression a mixture of disbelief and admiration as he spoke and wrote it, trying to get the punctuation right.-"You're... somehow making Parseltongue sound like a dying snake."-He said, chuckling despite himself.

Harry groaned softly.-"You have no idea how much effort it takes to sound elegant while trying not to spit everywhere."

Draco leaned closer, curiosity winning over caution.-"Translate it. Tell me what you're saying, because I'm not even pretending to know what this...hiss-fiasco is."

Harry smirked, motioning for Draco to read the lines on the map.-"Fine. Basically... I'm saying: 'Open, reveal, the way is clear, let us in.' Simple enough."-He puts the map away and rests for a moment on the bathroom floor.-"Here's a fun tidbit. Your last name...if a snake were to say it to you...would sound something like 'Malisss.'"

Draco's eyes widened.-"Malisss? Is that what you called me earlier?"- He repeated it slowly, curling the hiss in his mouth like Harry had demonstrated. A strange thrill passed over him - the sound was alien yet beautiful, and the accuracy was uncanny.

Harry nodded, grinning.-"Trust me, it's impressive. I've been practising a long time to get it just right."

Draco shook his head, still trying to wrap his tongue around the sibilant version of his name.-"Your tongue is more articulated, I guess."

"With a bit of practice, sure."-Harry closes his eyes, feeling the cold tiles on his back chill the warmth and adrenaline out of him.

The old, water-stained bathroom hadn't changed much since sixth year. The cracked mirrors, the broken sinks, Myrtle's soft sighing echoing in the pipes, as she comes and goes - it all brought a weight Harry hadn't expected. He stood in the middle of the tiles, looking toward the stall where it had all happened.

Draco leaned against the wall too, arms folded. His reflection in the shattered glass was older, sharper - but his eyes weren't so hard anymore.

"So this is it."-Draco said, looking around.-"Our... battleground."

Harry gave a faint smile.-"Yeah. Not my proudest memory."-He hesitated, then added, quieter.-"I didn't mean to hurt you that badly. Sectumsempra...I didn't even know what it did. I'm sorry."

His hand slipped into his satchel, pulling free the worn book he'd uncovered earlier in the Room of Requirement. He flipped carefully through the ink-stained pages until he found the familiar scrawl. There, written in cramped, sharp handwriting across the margin:

"Sectumsempra — for enemies."

Harry stared at the words, jaw tightening.-"That's all it said. Nothing more. Just two words... and I was reckless enough to use them."

Harry's jaw tightened as he met Draco's grey eyes.-"If I had known what it did... I never would have used it. Never. Out of all the spells and hexes I know, never this one."

Draco's expression darkened, hurt flickering across his features. He repeated softly, almost to himself.-"For enemies...that was enough for you to use it."

Harry swallowed, voice earnest.-"I didn't. I just read the words and acted without knowing. I never meant it for you."

Draco shook his head, shoulders tense, voice clipped.-"You didn't know. And yet..."-The old sting lingered, the memory of pain still sharp despite the years, he is reminded each time he sees himself in the mirror.

Harry's eyes softened.-"I know. I can't undo it, but I'm sorry. Truly."

Draco's gaze stayed on him a moment longer, conflicted, before he looked away to the bathrooms' low glow, the weight of history settling quietly between them.

For a moment, Draco studied him, sitting up from where he had been leaning beside Harry, wand in hand, expression unreadable. Then, to Harry's surprise, he let out a short, sharp laugh.

"Potter."-He said, voice light but edged with mischief.-"If we're dredging up apologies, we'll be here all night. Besides..."-His grey eyes glinted, narrowing in challenge.-"...you said you had other spells and hexes you could have used against me, didn't you?"

Harry blinked, caught off guard.

Draco's smirk widened.-"Defend yourself."

"What?"-Harry whispered, confused, hand reaching for his wand.

But Draco was already poised, wand raised.-"Expulso!"

A crack of force shot toward Harry, and he barely rolled to the side, heart thudding as the duel ignited in the bathrooms again.

Harry barely had time to throw up a shield before the tiles beside him cracked from the force of the hex. He spun, instinct taking over, blocking another streak of light.

"Draco - what the - "

"Come on, Potter!"-Draco barked, ducking behind a row of sinks.-"What's the point of visiting if we can't give Myrtle a proper show?"

From the pipes above, Myrtle squealed with laughter.-"Oh, this again! Do not kill each other, boys!"

Harry couldn't help it - adrenaline rushed through him, but so did amusement. With a shake of his head, he dove for cover and fired back a silent disarming charm. Draco deflected smoothly.

A familiar, sharp glint of mischief entered Draco's grey eyes. He pushed himself off the sink, tapping his hawthorn wand against his palm.-"I hear Auror training is all about blunt force. Stunning spells, shield charms, the occasional brute-force blasting curse. No real...finesse."

Harry raised an eyebrow.-"Is that so? And I suppose curse-breaking is all about poking at dusty runes for six months before realising the door was just stuck."

Draco's lips curved into a genuine smirk.-"Curse-breaking requires a precision and intellect you Ministry grunts could never appreciate."-He raised his wand, the tip glowing faintly.-"Why don't you show me some of that famous Auror finesse?"-He challenged.

Before Harry could retort, Draco was already moving.-"Expulso!"

The spell was a focused blast of kinetic force. Harry's Auror training took over. He dropped and rolled as the tile where he'd been standing exploded upwards. He came up in a crouch, wand forward, and barked.-"Glacius Duo!"-A wave of intense cold shot across the floor, turning the puddles into a treacherous sheet of ice.

Draco slid but recovered with a dancer's grace, his wand tracing an intricate pattern.-"Speculum Sectis!"-The large mirror behind Harry imploded into a thousand glittering knives of glass that swirled towards him. It was a classic curse-breaker's trick: deconstructing an object and weaponising its components.

"Protego Maxima!"-Harry roared, a shimmering dome deflecting the shards. While shielded, Draco summoned a jet of water from a broken pipe with a silent "Aqua Eructo", toppling a marble sink and forcing Harry to dive. The duel had begun in earnest.

Myrtle squealed with delight from the pipes above.-"Oh, the chaos! The beautiful, beautiful chaos!"

The initial exchange over, the pace quickened. Harry went on the offensive, his movements economical and aggressive. He fired a volley of silent Stunning Spells, crimson bolts that flew straight and true, designed to incapacitate quickly.

Draco didn't just block them. With a sweep of his wand, he shouted.-"Repello Saxum!"-And a section of the marble wall bulged outwards, forming a solid, curved shield that absorbed the stunners. Then, with a vicious twist, he sent the marble shield flying at Harry.

Harry didn't even blink.-"Duro!"-he yelled, and the flying slab of marble transfigured into solid, unmoving granite mid-air, crashing to the floor with a deafening boom. The entire bathroom shook.

"Getting serious, are we?"-Draco taunted, vaulting over the wreckage. He pointed his wand at the ceiling.-"Verberare!"-A heavy copper pipe ripped free from its moorings and swung down like a club.

Harry countered instantly. A flick of his wrist and a non-verbal charm turned the pipe into a thick, writhing snake that hissed and lunged at Draco. Draco yelped, blasting the transfigured reptile into a shower of harmless green sparks.

The playful jabs were gone. They were now in a constant, fluid dance of destruction and creation, a grim La Bayadère ballet of spells.

Act I or The Confrontation...

Every attack was met with an equally clever defence. Every attempt to control the environment was thwarted by a brilliant countermove. The room was an absolute disaster zone of shattered porcelain, splintered wood, ice, and groaning plumbing. Both men were breathing heavily, their faces flushed with exertion and adrenaline.

The fierce, mutual focus in their eyes was a reflection of years of pent-up resentment. Draco saw Harry as the golden boy who got everything handed to him, a symbol of the world that had always viewed him as a villain. Harry saw Draco as the bully who represented the very darkness he had spent his life fighting. Every spell was a word they couldn't say, every deflection a hurt they couldn't voice.

Harry, an Auror, moved with the calculated precision of a predator, his every step designed to cut off an escape route, his eyes scanning for an opening. He fired off a series of stinging hexes that ricocheted off the remaining basins, a flurry of rapid-fire strikes designed to overwhelm. He wanted to push Draco to his breaking point, to see if the old bully was still lurking beneath the polished surface.

But Draco, a trained curse-breaker, wasn't just a bully anymore. He was a master of magical theory, and his movements were fluid, graceful, and defensive. He didn't fight with brute force; he fought with cunning. He used the very destruction Harry was creating against him, turning a shattered mirror into a wall of reflective surfaces to deflect the curses back, and sending a jet of water from a broken pipe to douse Harry's hexes before they could connect.

Act II or The Dance of Destruction...

As the duel wore on, something shifted. The anger didn't vanish, but it began to feel... productive. They weren't just fighting each other; they were fighting their shared past. With every parried hex, with every narrow dodge, a layer of the old animosity peeled away. The fight was a painful, cathartic release.

Myrtle hovered above them, her usual glee tempered by a quiet awe.-"They're not even fighting anymore."-She whispered to no one.-"They're just...talking."

Finally, a particularly powerful blast from Harry sent a shower of porcelain shards scattering across the floor. Draco, gasping for breath, found himself leaning against a wall, his wand hanging loosely in his hand. Harry stood across from him, equally exhausted, his own wand lowered.

A long silence settled between them, punctuated only by their ragged breathing and the soft, dripping sound of a broken pipe. Then, in the quiet, a different kind of emotion began to surface- not anger or resentment, but something closer to thankfulness.

Draco saw not just Harry Potter, the boy who lived, but Harry Potter, the man who had pushed him to his absolute limit, forced him to be better, and given him a real, honest fight. For the first time, he felt grateful.

Harry looked at Draco, at the exhaustion and the sweat and the sheer skill in his eyes. He realised that this was not the same person who had cowered in this very bathroom years ago. He had become something else, something powerful. And for that, Harry was thankful too.

Finally, they both skidded to a halt on opposite sides of the central wreckage, the air thick with ozone and the smell of wet stone. They locked eyes, a silent acknowledgement passing between them: tactics alone would not win this.

"Alright, Potter, no more dancing round the clock..."-Draco panted, straightening his stance.-"No more tricks."

"Fine by me, Malfoy, I find dancing second worst to duelling."-Harry breathed, planting his feet firmly on the slick floor.

They raised their wands simultaneously. There were no incantations. There was only raw will.

A jet of furious, concentrated crimson light erupted from Harry's wand. From Draco's, a bolt of piercing, brilliant white shot forth to meet it. The two beams connected in the dead centre of the room with a deafening crackle.

A sphere of incandescent energy bloomed where they met, growing rapidly into a large, blinding ball of golden light. It hovered in the air, roaring like a miniature sun, casting their strained faces in stark, dramatic relief. The floor beneath the orb began to crack and splinter under the immense pressure. The remaining shards of glass in the room vibrated, then shattered into dust.

Draco gritted his teeth, his entire body trembling with the effort of pouring his magic into the beam. He pushed with everything he had, his knuckles white, sweat beading on his forehead. He was holding his own against the Boy-Who-Lived, and a fierce pride burned in his chest.

Harry was braced, his feet sliding slightly on the wet tiles as he fought the incredible force. But inside, a different battle was being waged. He could feel the vast reservoir of his power, the well of magic forged in a war against the darkest of wizards, begging to be unleashed. It would be so easy to push, to let it surge forward and overwhelm Draco in a single, crushing instant.

But he held it back.

He gritted his teeth not just against Draco's power, but against his own. He deliberately throttled his magic, letting out just enough to perfectly match Draco's, to keep the golden sphere stable. This wasn't a real battle. This wasn't about dominance. It was about respect. He was giving Draco a true measure of his skill, not a show of brute strength. That was Harry showing his finesse.

The roaring sphere grew brighter, hotter. Myrtle shrieked and hid completely within a toilet. The strain was becoming unbearable. Both wizards knew they couldn't hold it for much longer before the raw power they'd summoned tore the room, and possibly them, apart.

Through the blinding light, their eyes met again. A shared, unspoken understanding passed between them.

Enough.

As one, they broke the connection.

The golden sphere didn't explode. It imploded with a deep, resonating thump, sending out a silent shockwave that blasted the water on the floor outwards and kicked up a cloud of dust and steam.

Act III of The Quiet Aftermath...

The sudden release of pressure sent both men staggering back. Harry fell to one knee, chest heaving. Draco collapsed against a wall, his wand clattering from his nerveless fingers. For a full minute, the only sound was their ragged gasps for air.

Finally, Draco pushed himself up, wiping his face with a trembling hand. He looked at Harry, his expression a mixture of exhaustion, disbelief, and something akin to awe.

The duel in the bathroom served as their own version of a tragic ballet, one that ended not in death, but in a shared resurrection. The final moments, finding a fragile peace amidst the wreckage, were their curtain call, completing their La Bayadère as the long and painful dance of their rivalry came to an end.

Silence and heavy breaths followed...

"Merlin's beard, Potter."-Draco breathed.-"Where in Salazar's name do you keep all that?"

Harry looked up, a tired, wry grin touching his lips.-"Years of practice."-He panted.-"And a seriously unhealthy upbringing."

They sat in the ruins of their battlefield, the air slowly clearing around them. A new quiet settled, not of tension, but of mutual depletion and earned respect.

Draco retrieved his wand and leaned back, a genuine, tired smile on his face.-"Call it a draw, Potter?"

Harry's grin widened.-"You wish, Malfoy."

Draco's lips curved into the faintest grin.-"Then I'll be generous and call it one anyway."

Draco slid down against the wall, collapsing onto the cold tiles. Harry followed suit, dropping beside him with a groan.

The bathroom smelled of damp stone, wet tiles, and the faint acrid tang of lingering magic as Draco and Harry lay sprawled on the floor, backs pressed against opposite stalls, chests heaving, hair sticking up in every direction, and robes soaked and filthy.

"Well."-Draco said between breaths.-"I'd say that was more fun than nearly bleeding to death."

Harry laughed, leaning his head back against the wall.-"Yeah. Much better ending this time."

Myrtle drifted above them, beaming down.-"Oh, you two... you've grown up so nicely. I do love a good rematch."

Harry and Draco shared a look, both of them too tired to roll their eyes. For once, they simply sat together in the wreckage of their shared past - rivals, survivors, and, perhaps, something closer to friends than either would admit aloud.

The old, water-stained bathroom hadn't changed much since sixth year. The cracked mirrors, the broken sinks, Myrtle's soft sighing echoing in the pipes - it all brought a weight Harry hadn't expected. He stood in the middle of the tiles, looking toward the stall where it had all happened.

Draco leaned against the wall, arms folded. His reflection in the shattered glass was older, sharper - but his eyes weren't so hard anymore.

He shook his head, still smiling, and let the silence settle again - the tension of the past washed out, replaced with something lighter, almost comfortable. They sat for a moment more, catching their breath, when Myrtle floated down lower, circling them like an eager spectator. Her eyes, wide and dreamy, fixed not on Harry this time - but on Draco.

"Ohhh."-She cooed, her voice echoing in the quiet.-"You were magnificent, Draco. So fast, so clever with your spells! And that look of concentration when you held that spell! Oooh, it was just wicked!"

Harry pressed his lips together, trying - and failing - not to let a laugh escape. Draco's pale face, already flushed from exertion, went a shade redder as he turned toward the ghost.-"Myrtle, please."

She swooped closer, her misty form twirling in delight.-"But you looked so handsome when you fought!"-Myrtle gushed, looping around his head.-"Not at all like last time. Last time you were bleeding everywhere and Harry was shouting and - oh, but now you're heroic! Like a knight!"

Harry finally burst out laughing properly, the sound sharp and clear in the wrecked room.-"A knight! Malfoy!"

"Shut it, Potter."-Draco muttered, dragging himself to his feet. His ears were still pink.-"Come on, before she writes us a ballad."

Myrtle clasped her hands and sighed dramatically.-"Oh, I will... 'The Duel of the Dashing Knight and the Boy Who—'"

"What on earth is going on in here?!"

The laughter died in their throats. Harry and Draco froze. Professor McGonagall stood at the entrance, wand out, her lips a thin, furious line. She swept her gaze over the shattered tiles, the deep cracks in the floor, the toppled basins, and the lingering smell of ozone.

"Honestly, I should not be surprised."-She said, her voice dangerously sharp.-"I leave you alone for one hour. One hour. Mr. Kingsley, of all people, assured me that pairing you two together for this assignment would be a sign of your newfound maturity."-Her gaze was piercing.-"It seems he was mistaken."

Harry and Draco scrambled to look presentable, an impossible task given their soaked, dishevelled state. Flushed faces, shoulders straight, but their heads slightly down, still a sliver of fear towards McGonagall, like when they were schoolboys.

"If you were still my students."-McGonagall continued, stepping over a fallen pipe, her robe getting drenched.-"I would be taking five hundred points from both Gryffindor and Slytherin and assigning you detention for the rest of the term. And your clothes! Simply unacceptable. You are Aurors and Ministry specialists, not errant third-years! Clean this mess up. Now. Hagrid has been waiting for you, Mister Potter."

"Yes, Professor."-They chorused, the old instinct kicking in.

Draco, recovering first, waved his wand with a practised, sweeping flourish.-"Restituo Maxima!" With a great groaning and grinding, the bathroom began to reassemble itself. Tiles snapped back into place, broken mirrors mended seamlessly, and water drained away.

While the room repaired itself, Harry took off his glasses to wipe them, noticing a fine crack splintering across one lens from a deflected shard. Before he could pull his own wand, Draco stepped in front of him.-"Hold still."-He tapped the lens with his wand tip.-"Reparo!"

The crack vanished. Harry put them back on, the world snapping back into perfect focus.-"Thanks...Malfoy."

Draco just shrugged, a ghost of a smirk returning.-"Don't get sentimental, Potter. We're still in trouble."

Within a minute, the bathroom was pristine, the only evidence of the duel their damp robes and lingering exhaustion. McGonagall watched them, her expression softening just a fraction.

"See that you proceed directly to Hagrid's hut."-She ordered, her tone final.-"And remember—Hogwarts is not your personal duelling arena!"

With a last, sharp look, she turned and swept away down the corridor.

Myrtle floated above them, squealing softly.-"Oh! I knew it would be a fun visit!"

Draco groaned and stalked toward the door. Harry followed, catching his eye just before they left.-"Don't worry, Sir Malfoy."-He whispered, grinning.-"I won't tell Kingsley you're still a menace."

Draco rolled his eyes but couldn't quite hide the twitch of a smile.-"You're insufferable."

What a dance...

Chapter Text

The sun was dipping low, streaking the castle grounds in copper and gold as Harry and Draco made their way down the slope toward Hagrid's hut. They looked half-cleaned, half-wrecked - as though they'd gone through battle and only half bothered to tidy up.

Harry's black turtleneck was ripped just across the chest, the fabric showing faint tears from grazing rubble. His tailored trousers, once neat, were now marred with stains - rust from the pipes, chalky smears of cement from bathroom walls. His cloak hung folded over his arm, the edges still damp, and his leather bag was haphazardly thrown across one shoulder.

Harry breathed in the familiar meadow scent and cold breeze, and all his worries went away.

Draco hadn't bothered with his black jacket at all; it was draped carelessly across the crook of his arm. He wore only a white button-up shirt now, sleeves rolled - a faint death mark visible just above his left hand - fabric clinging faintly from damp patches that were slowly drying off. His blond hair pointed in every direction, untamable even by wandwork after the duel. Together, they looked like a mismatched pair of duelists who had crawled through half of Hogwarts and lived to tell about it.

Draco drew a shaky breath, having not realised how tense his whole body had been feeling all day.

Down by his hut, Hagrid sat on a stool outside, a massive shape in the soft light, his dog Fang snoring at his feet. A reed flute rested in his hands, the notes carrying lazily across the grass. The melody stopped the moment Hagrid spotted them.

He squinted, his broad shoulders stiffening, and in a blink, he had his pink umbrella clutched like a wand, pointing it squarely at Draco. Fang gave a sharp bark at the sudden motion.

"Malfoy!"-Hagrid growled, rising to his full, towering height.-"Don' you think for a second you're welcome here-"

But Harry stepped forward, planting himself firmly between the umbrella's tip and Draco. His voice was calm, certain.-"He's with me, Hagrid."

Hagrid frowned, his eyes narrowing as they flicked from Harry to Draco, clearly unconvinced. The umbrella didn't lower.-"You're sayin' you brought him along? After everythin'?"

Harry nodded, unflinching.-"Yeah. He's here with me."

For a long moment, Hagrid studied them both - their dishevelled clothes, the faint traces of mischief still clinging to them, and the strange ease with which they stood side by side. At last, with a grumble deep in his chest, he lowered the umbrella.

"Well."-He muttered, turning back toward his stool.-"Any friend of Harry's...is welcome. S'pose that means you, too, Malfoy. Come on then."

Draco loves how no one doubts Harry's decisions, seeing as they should.

Draco gave Harry the smallest sideways glance - equal parts surprise and disbelief - but said nothing. Harry simply smiled faintly, relieved. Together, they followed Hagrid into the warm glow of the hut, signs of their chaos still written on their clothes, but their footing in this new truce steadied with each step.

The hut was thick with the smell of woodsmoke and boiling beans, a comforting if somewhat overwhelming warmth after the cool autumnal air outside. Fang immediately bounded up, planting his massive paws on Harry's chest and nearly knocking him backwards onto a chair. He caught himself before toppling.

"Down, Fang, down!"-Hagrid boomed, swatting at the dog before ushering the two men to sit at the rough-hewn table. He lumbered toward the hearth and returned with two mugs so large they looked more like buckets. Steam curled lazily from their rims.

"Tea."-Hagrid announced proudly, placing one in front of Harry and one before Draco.

Harry lifted his mug carefully, taking a cautious sip. The taste hit him instantly - bitter, earthy, and so strong it made his eyes sting. He forced himself to swallow, setting the mug back down with what he hoped was a polite smile.

Beside him, Draco attempted the same. His face barely shifted, but the faint pinch of his mouth betrayed him. He lowered the mug without another word, pale fingers curling loosely around the handle as though to convince Hagrid he hadn't just tasted swamp water.

Hagrid, oblivious, poured himself a mug that he downed in one go.-"Good, innit?"

"Brilliant."- Harry lied smoothly, earning a side glance from Draco that was half disbelief, half amusement.

Hagrid caught it anyway.-"Ah, no need ter pretend. Most folk can't stomach it."-He chuckled, rummaging behind him.-"Got somethin' better, though."

From a shelf, he pulled a squat bottle of amber liquid and set it down with a thump.-"Little something fer the nerves. Warms the bones faster than tea ever will."-He looked at their clothes and then said.-"Looks like yeh need it."

Harry grinned, watching Draco's raised brow as Hagrid sloshed the liquor generously into their mugs. The burn was sharp, but mercifully chased away the memory of the tea.

"Better."-Harry coughed, wiping his mouth, pretty sure what he just drank was pure alcohol.

Draco merely gave a polite nod, still trying to take in the room, his posture too straight for the rickety chair. He didn't look disdainful - not anymore - but discomfort lingered on his face, like someone learning a new language with only half the words.

"Now then."-Hagrid said brightly, stirring the pot over the fire.-"Made meself a proper meal. Nothin' fancy, just beans. Plenty for all."-He ladled steaming helpings into bowls and set them down with a clatter.

Harry dug in without hesitation, spoon clinking against the bowl as he ate hungrily. The beans were odd, heavy with a metallic tang, but he didn't let it stop him. All that duelling made him quite hungry.

Draco, however, merely poked his portion once with his spoon. He didn't sneer, but the slight tightening around his eyes said enough. He lifted the spoon halfway, reconsidered, then set it back down.

Hagrid noticed, frowning.-"Not to your likin', Malfoy?"

Draco straightened, smoothing his expression.-"I... don't usually eat beans."-He said diplomatically, though his discomfort still showed.

Harry hid a grin behind his spoon.

"Ah, well."-Hagrid said with a shrug, unbothered.-"More for Harry, then."

And Harry, still chewing despite the odd taste, gave a little shrug and a crooked smile as if to say: someone's got to fit in here. Draco found it quite funny, the dorky way he did it.

The fire popped in the hearth, filling the quiet as Harry polished off his beans. Draco sat straighter in his chair, spoon untouched, eyes flicking occasionally toward the shelves lined with odd crossbows, cages, and a suspiciously large teapot.

Hagrid leaned back with a satisfied sigh, massive mug in hand.-"Yeh know, sittin' here reminds me of the old days. Harry'd come down 'ere after every sort o' scrape. Trolls in the dungeon, basilisks, Ministry messes...raids, massive attacks, I always knew when yeh were up ter trouble, Harry. Yeh wore the look."

Harry grinned sheepishly into his mug.-"Not sure I ever stopped wearing it. Trouble keeps finding me because of it."

Draco snorted under his breath, earning himself a sideways glance from Harry.

"And you, Malfoy."-Hagrid rumbled, turning his gaze.-"Don't think I don't remember you lurkin' about either. Always stirrin' things up. Reckon if you two weren't hexin' each other, you were up to no good in your own ways."

Draco blinked, caught off guard.-"I... well-"

Hagrid chuckled, the sound booming through the hut.-"Aye, yeh both gave me grey hairs. Whole school, come ter think of it. Never a dull year with the two o' you around."

Draco's lips twitched, though he tried to suppress it. The warmth of the hut, the ridiculous tea, the lumbering dog nudging at his leg - it was all so far from where he thought he belonged, yet somehow he was sitting here, included in stories he never expected to be part of.

Hagrid clapped a hand on the table, making the mugs jump.-"Any friend o' Harry's is welcome at my table. Even if he doesn't like my beans."

Draco inclined his head faintly, a touch of colour rising in his cheeks.-"Generous of you."

Harry caught the moment - the unease, the reluctant amusement, the almost-smile, and nudged Draco's arm under the table. Draco shot him a sharp look, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

For the first time all day, the silence between them wasn't heavy. It was simply there, a thing shared.

Fang had flopped onto Draco's boots, snoring loudly. He shifted uncomfortably, staring down at the massive boarhound before clearing his throat.

"Look."-Draco muttered, fingers drumming against his mug.-"About... Beaky..."-He incorrectly called it as Luna usually calls it; he was too quick to correct himself.-"Buckbeak. Whatever you call it. I wasn't exactly-..."-He stopped, rolled his eyes, and tried again.-"I was... dramatic. I shouldn't have..."-He gestured vaguely, as if the memory itself was embarrassing to hold onto.-"Anyway. I'm glad the creature didn't...die."

Hagrid's brows shot up. His face softened in a way that made Draco wish he hadn't said anything.-"Well now. That's somethin' I never thought I'd hear from yeh, Malfoy."-He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if it were some great secret.-"Would've broken my heart, yeh know. But truth is..."-He grinned at Harry and then looked at Draco with amusement.-"Harry an' Hermione saved him. Used Dumbledore's time-turner, went back and set Beaky free right under the Ministry's nose!"

Harry's eyes widened.-"Hagrid!"-He gave him a sharp look. Hagrid always with the big mouth.

But the half-giant was already chuckling, oblivious.-"Oh, it was brilliant. Yeh should've seen 'em. Malfoy, yeh were rantin' in the pumpkin patch at the time - stompin' about, makin' all sorts o' noise. They slipped right past yeh and yeh father."

Draco blinked, then gave a soft snort, shaking his head with a crooked smile.-"Of course you did. Who else would break half a dozen school rules and meddle with time itself just to save a hippogriff?"-He sipped his tea, grimacing at the taste, but his tone was almost amused.-"Typical Potter."

Harry huffed a laugh, ducking his head.-"Yeah, well. Wouldn't change it."

Draco's smirk lingered, lighter than before, as if he expected nothing less.

Hagrid leaned back in his massive chair, the mug in his hand looking like a teacup by comparison.-"So tell me, what's it like now? At the Ministry? Kingsley's got yeh runnin' 'round like proper Aurors already, I'll wager."

Harry gave a rueful grin. The warmth from Hagrid's "special" addition to the tea, whatever it was, was already settling in his chest.-"Something like that. I'm still technically a trainee, but Kingsley doesn't seem to care much about titles. One week, it's shadowing a senior Auror or training in the chamber, the next it's being shoved into a raid or dragged into some mission halfway across the country. 'Good for the experience,' he calls it."

"Blimey."-Hagrid chuckled, eyes shining with pride.-"I knew yeh'd go far, Harry. Just like yer mum an' dad, brave through an' through."

Harry ducked his head, half-smiling into his mug.

Then Hagrid turned his great head toward Draco, peering at him with the same direct curiosity -"An' what about you, Malfoy? What're yeh up ter these days? Not just followin' Harry 'round in his adventures, I hope."

Draco, cheeks faintly flushed from the spiked tea, raised a brow.-"Hardly. I've got an examination coming up for an Unspeakable post. The sort of test where failing once means you don't bother showing your face again."

Hagrid's thick brows knitted.-"Unspeakable? Tha's dangerous work, tha is."

Draco shrugged, his usual stiffness softened by the fire and drink.-"Danger doesn't bother me. Failure does."-He sipped, grimaced at the taste, and muttered under his breath "Merlin save me from Hagrid's tea." But then, with a faint smirk, he added.-"If that falls through, I'll look at curse-breaking. Gringotts is always desperate for someone who can outsmart old wards and hexes."

Harry was about to comment, but Draco beat him to it, grey eyes flicking sideways.-"At least until Potter decides to escape on another bloody dragon and ruins the day for all of us."

Harry snorted into his mug.-"That was one time."

"One is enough, Potter."

Even Hagrid roared with laughter at that, the sound rattling the plates on the table. Fang stirred at Draco's boots, sighed, and flopped back down.

The alcohol or liquor that Hagrid used seemed to nudge Draco into unfamiliar territory - he didn't stop there. When Hagrid began reminiscing about Norbert, Draco actually leaned forward, his hands animated as he swapped family tales of Ridgebacks and ward-breakers dealing with hoarded dragon gold. Harry watched, startled but strangely charmed, as Draco fit in. No sneering, no cutting remarks - just a sharp mind softened into conversation, laughing more freely than Harry could ever remember seeing him at Hogwarts.

For once, Draco Malfoy didn't look out of place in Hagrid's hut.

The light outside was shifting, golden streaks of late afternoon bleeding into the horizon. The air inside Hagrid's hut had grown thick with the warmth of the fire and the sharp edge of the spiked tea. Harry, staring into the dregs at the bottom of his mug, finally cleared his throat once their laughter had died down a bit.

"Hagrid...you said you needed me here today. What's it about?"

The half-giant set down his enormous cup with a weighty clunk. His dark eyes softened, then narrowed with a hint of sadness.-"Aye, I did. But it ain't somethin' I can just tell yeh, Harry. Yeh need ter see it fer yerself."

Harry leaned forward, curious.-"See what?"

Hagrid's massive frame shifted as he stood, grabbing his crossbow from its hook on the wall.-"The forest'll explain better than I ever could. Come on, the sun's not down yet. We'll be back afore it sets completely."

Harry was already pushing back his chair, eager to know and ready to enter any danger if needed. That Auror determination in his posture, that 'Harry's up to no good' look on his face. Draco realises it has always been like this, him diving headfirst into whatever danger lies ahead.

Draco, however, froze halfway to standing.-"The Forbidden Forest?"-His voice dripped with scepticism.-"You mean the same forest with the man-eating spiders, hostile centaurs, and Merlin-knows-what else crawling in the dark? That forest?"

Hagrid gave him a hearty clap on the shoulder that nearly sent him staggering forward.-"Tha's the one. Don't worry, Malfoy. I know every path, every tree. Yeh stick with me, yeh'll be fine."

Draco shot Harry a look, equal parts disbelief and exasperation.-"You're already agreeing to this?"

Harry only adjusted his satchel, tucked his coat under his arm and grinned faintly.-"Wouldn't be the first time."

"Wonderful."-Draco muttered, buttoning his cuffs with unnecessary sharpness.-"Because the last time I was dragged in there for detention, I very nearly became an entrée for an acromantula."

As Hagrid opened the door, Fang trotted to the threshold, tail wagging nervously. The dog paused, staring at the tree line, then gave a low whine. Harry couldn't help the grin tugging at his mouth when he caught Draco wearing almost the exact same look - hesitant, distinctly unwilling. Fang and Draco even glanced at each other, an unspoken exchange of shared dread.

Harry shook his head.

But Draco didn't need Harry to say anything to convince him; he followed anyway. It wasn't loyalty, not really - it was simply that leaving wasn't an option.

"Spiders only come out after the dark, if that makes you feel better."-Harry said lightly as he stepped into the cooling evening air.

Draco sighed, tugging his jacket over one arm.-"One of these days, Potter, you'll be the death of me."

"Not today."-Harry replied, a touch of humour and threat in his voice.

And with Hagrid leading the way, the three of them - and Fang, reluctant as his new pale-haired companion - set off toward the shadowed edge of the Forbidden Forest.

The trees closed around them like a living wall, their trunks thick and gnarled, branches clawing at the last rays of sunlight. The air smelled of damp earth, moss, and something faintly metallic that made Harry wrinkle his nose. Fang padded close to Harry, ears twitching nervously, nose low to the ground.

Hagrid held his bow ready for anything.-"Now, listen up. Strange things've been happenin' again in here. Creatures actin'... odd, misbehaving. Don't take it lightly."

Harry gave a wry shrug, hands tucked into his pockets.-"Aren't they always?"

Draco actually smirked at that, his usual cockiness in Harry's words.

Fang growled softly at a snapping twig nearby, and Harry glanced down, noticing Draco flinch. The blond's pale face had a faint flush from the earlier tea; still tipsy, he gathers, eyes sharper than normal in the dim light. His jaw was tight, and his hands unconsciously flexed at his sides. The gloved hand holding his wand was half-ready for anything.

"Odd, you say?"-Draco muttered, voice low, a trace of paranoia threading through his usual drawl.-"Odd how? We talking angry centaurs again? Or...spiders the size of-" He paused, eyes narrowing at a rustle in the underbrush.

Fang barked. Draco jumped, nearly colliding with Harry, who almost lost his footing from the sudden weight on him. Harry straightened up immediately, helping him. Draco muttered something under his breath that sounded like a curse, though slurred, and Harry suppressed a grin.

"You okay there, Malfoy?"-Harry asked, eyes twinkling.-"Looks like the forest's got you spooked."

Draco has not changed a bit since the first year at Hogwarts, when it came to courage, he thinks to himself.

"I-It's fine."-Draco said quickly, waving a hand as if that would erase the tension. Gripping his wand so that he has it on standby.

Harry chuckled softly.-"Relax. Hagrid knows these woods better than anyone."

Draco let out a groan.-"Remember where that got us last time, Potter."

Hagrid grinned behind them, voice booming.-"Yeh just keep close, an' remember: stay on the path I know, an' nothin''ll get yeh."

Draco's shoulders relaxed a fraction, though his eyes still darted side to side. Harry noticed the almost imperceptible shift - the way the alcohol had loosened Draco just enough to talk, yet left a spark of caution and curiosity flickering underneath.

With careful, crunching steps on the leaf-strewn floor, the trio pressed deeper into the Forbidden Forest, the sun dipping lower, shadows lengthening, and the air thick with anticipation.

Hagrid led them down a narrow, moss-covered path, the forest around them thickening with every step. Shafts of the almost-setting sun pierced through the canopy, catching dust and pollen in the air, creating a delicate circle of sparkling, fairy-like light over the uneven stones beneath their feet. The air felt almost sacred, hushed in a way that made every crunch of leaves seem impossibly loud.

"See here."-Hagrid murmured, fidgeting with the strap of his crossbow. His voice was low, wary.-"Small...small piles o' blood."

Harry bent closer, eyebrows furrowing. The liquid shimmered unnaturally, like silver puddles in the dim light.-"Unicorn?"-He asked softly, the word barely leaving his lips.

Draco felt a shiver run down his spine. He crouched down, touching it with his gloved hand, from within it, the faint shimmer of the friendship bracelet peeking through. He could imagine Luna's terrified look if she'd ever encountered such a thing on her own.-"It's inhumane to kill a unicorn."-He muttered.

Hagrid's head shook, eyes darkening.-"Aye... that's what I fear. Cause it's no ordinary wound. There was a mother here - her younglings too. One's gone."-He drew a deep, trembling breath.-"I couldn't find it. Not a single body. And she - sheh cries every night, the mother. Piercing. Makes yer blood run cold. It has been a week."

Harry's chest tightened.-"So...someone took it from its mother?"

Hagrid's shoulders slumped further.-"Aye. Captured, I think. And no one seems ter care. I sent letters to the Ministry... not even a reply. They say it's natural causes, part o' the forest, life. But I know better. Someone's got her young, and the mother - she suffers every night."

Draco, pale and uneasy, let his eyes wander over the sparkling pools of blood, every instinct screaming.-"Captured... a unicorn youngling."-He murmured.-"That's... horrific."

Harry placed a hand on Hagrid's arm, firm but quiet.-"We'll figure it out."-He said, voice steady.-"We won't let this just slide."

Hagrid nodded, though the worry didn't leave his face.-"I don't want yeh both in danger. But... It's time someone did somethin'."

The forest held its breath around them, the silver blood glinting faintly in the dying light, fairy-like sparkles hovering just above it, as though mourning with them.

As Hagrid spoke, Draco's gaze lingered on one of the shimmering puddles. His hand slid into his pocket and produced a tiny vial, already uncorked. With careful, almost reverent movements, he knelt just enough to tip a small amount of the silvery blood inside, the vial catching the last rays of sun so that it sparkled as if it contained liquid starlight.

He held it against the sun; the consistency was a bit thick. Unicorn blood takes forever to dry out. This should have more than a week out here.

Harry's eyes narrowed as he watched him.-"Malfoy... now's not the time for potion ingredients."-He muttered, voice edged with caution.

Draco glanced up, grey eyes faintly wary.-"Might help with research."-He said softly, as if that explained everything.

Harry exhaled slowly, shaking his head.-"You're impossible sometimes."

"I mean it."-Draco sat up and went up to Harry, holding the vial toward the setting sun.-"Look at the consistency, Hagrid says the unicorn has been missing for a week, this blood is too thick, it has been here for longer. How are we to know how many unicorns have been taken so far under your noses, if it wasn't for that mother to whine for her child?"-He secured the cork with a delicate twist, slipping the vial back into his pocket.

Harry tried to reason.-"And what do you know about unicorns?"

"More than you apparently."-Draco said and turned to Hagrid.-"I can check this in my studio, I don't have any equipment right now to see if it's a young or old unicorn's blood. With the amount of blood lying around here...If it was a young one, well, you know better than me what that means."

Hagrid almost let out a sob; he sat on a rock nearby, bow slipping from his hand.-"Thank yah boy. Both o ya."

Harry looked for footsteps or any clues that could determine what happened to the snatched creature. But I was unable to find any since the moss acted as a soft padding that hid every secret of the forest floor. He went to another puddle, and that's when he saw it...a piece of clothing stuck in a branch just above it. It looks like nothing Hagrid would wear. He takes it out and rotates it in his fingers; he dares not show Hagrid, risking the man's sanity, but Draco notices him slide the piece into his satchel.

Hagrid, meanwhile, shifted uneasily back in his feet, muttering about the mother unicorn and the dangers of whoever had taken her young. Harry, watching Draco, realised just how much the blond's calm, precise motions - half curiosity, half practicality - belied the unease creeping through the forest.

The forest grew quieter as they followed the moss-covered path, the silver shimmer of the unicorn blood still glinting faintly beneath the fading sunlight. Hagrid's grip on his crossbow remained tense, but he didn't speak much, letting Harry and Draco take in the scene themselves.

Harry stopped, crouching near one of the puddles, fingers brushing lightly over the glimmering liquid.-"I'll bring this up at the Ministry again."-He said firmly.-"I won't stop looking. Maybe even get a team down here to investigate. This...this isn't right."

Hagrid nodded slowly, lips pressed tight.-"Aye, can't trust the Ministry ter move quick on things like this. Yeh've got the right mind, Harry. Jus'... be careful."

Draco, lingering a few steps behind, eyes still flicking nervously over the forest floor, said nothing, but his hands flexed at his sides. He had half a mind to comment, but the weight of the place silenced him.

They began retracing their steps toward the edge of the clearing when movement caught their attention. A massive figure stepped from between the trees: a centaur, coat dappled, golden eyes glinting in the dim light. Fang growled low, but stayed close.

Hagrid greets him cautiously, knowing he has not overstepped the forest line. The boys nod in respect. Draco instinctively gets a step behind Harry.

To their surprise, the centaur's voice rumbled, deep and measured.-"Even we are honoured to meet you, bearer of scars. You who have faced the dark and lived...the forest knows you."

Harry straightened, heart tightening at the acknowledgement.-"Uh... thank you."-He said cautiously, wand lowering slightly.

The centaur's gaze sharpened, locking onto him.-"But hear this, child of lightning: a darkness stirs within. Not yet full, yet rising. Bound to forces unseen, it waits within you and beyond... Beware the shadow that knows you as kin."

Draco's grey eyes widened imperceptibly, jaw tightening. The words echoed like a chill through his chest, and immediately, his mind flashed back to Myrtle's question - whether he was becoming like Riddle. The half-formed prophecy of the centaur struck him as uncannily similar, the forest and the words aligning into a warning he could not ignore.

He swallowed, glancing at Harry. His calmness stood in stark contrast to the storm of unease swirling in Draco's own mind. No words passed between them, but Draco understood without speaking: the warning was both personal and unavoidable, and the shadow within could not be underestimated.

The centaur's golden eyes held Harry's for a moment longer before he turned and melted back into the shadows of the forest. A heavy silence fell, broken only by Fang's low whine. Before Hagrid could offer any reassurance, a sharp voice cut through the cold air.

"Potter."

Harry turned. Draco's expression was unnervingly serious, his grey eyes narrowed with analytical intensity.

"That 'darkness stirring within'..."-Draco began, his tone low and clipped.-"Are you having visions again? Headaches?"-Before Harry could answer, he pressed on.-"Because Granger was right. You need to see a specialist about this mental ordeal of yours. A proper Mind-Healer."

Beside them, Hagrid made a low, rumbling sound of protest, his expression thunderous, but Draco ignored him, his gaze locked on Harry.

"You're a walking connection to every dark thing you've ever touched."-He stated, his voice devoid of malice, like a simple, terrifying fact.

The weight of his words, so cold and logical, hung in the chilled air. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife until Harry finally broke it with a short, incredulous laugh.

"A Mind-Healer..."-Harry said, shaking his head.-"You'd love that, wouldn't you? Having me carted off to St. Mungo's because you think I'm some sort of demented person."-He met Draco's serious gaze with a wry, challenging grin.-"Don't worry, Malfoy. I'm quite fine, alright? My head is perfectly sealed, thanks."

Draco's expression didn't soften.-"Your definition of 'fine' has always been dangerously broad, Potter. That's the issue."

The challenge in Harry's grin died instantly. A jolt of cold truth shot through him, his posture stiffening as if struck by an invisible hex. He knew the words were meant to be a jab, a reminder of their past rivalry, but they landed with the precise weight of an accusation he couldn't deflect.

The countless near-death encounters, the reckless decisions, the years of living on the knife's edge - Draco's observation was not a taunt, but a clinical analysis of a fact Harry himself was tired of denying. For a moment, the heavy silence hung between them, a tangible weight of all their history, and Harry had no witty retort, no sarcastic comeback.

He took his wand out, making Draco take a step back.

Harry sensed it. Fear...

Draco fears him.

It changed something in him.-"Lumos."-He whispered, and turned away from Draco, going up front and leading them out of the forest, towards the castle lights. The heavy moment had been deflected, but Draco's cold, logical words lingered in his mind, an unwelcome echo beneath the forced humour.

Fang nudged Draco's leg, breaking his reverie. Draco shook his head lightly, muttering under his breath.-"Right... focus. Eyes open. Don't get caught by the dark."

Hagrid, still towering and unworried.-"Come on now. Yeh've seen enough ter know somethin' isn't right. Let's get back before the forest swallows the last o' the sun."

Draco stayed close to Harry as they walked, half-forced, half-protective, his mind lingering on the words, on Myrtle's warning, and on the forest's unspoken prophecy.

Evening had fully fallen by the time they emerged from the dense trees, the last hints of gold fading into a cool indigo twilight. The forest behind them seemed quieter now, almost holding its breath, and the shimmer of the unicorn's blood had vanished into the shadows.

Hagrid stretched, rubbing his massive hands together.-"Aye, well done, both o' yeh. Yeh've seen somethin' important today. Come back to the hut and have some dinner. Can't let yeh go off starvin'."

Harry shook his head, adjusting the strap of his satchel.-"I'll have to pass, Hogsmeade first. Got some personal business to take care of."

Draco, still catching his breath and brushing stray leaves from his hair, bent down to retrieve his discarded cloak from the hut.-"And what about me?"-He asked quietly, grey eyes flicking toward Harry.

"You're coming along, off course."-Harry said firmly.

Draco let out a tired sigh and slung the cloak over one arm. The earlier tipsiness had faded, leaving a sober clarity in its place. As they walked toward the edge of the forest path, he kept a slight distance from Harry, his steps measured. The centaur's warning lingered in his mind, a cold thread of unease he couldn't quite shake. He wasn't frightened - exactly - but thoughtful, cautious. The shadow the centaur had mentioned, the darkness Harry carried so naturally...It was something Draco now recognised.

The cobblestones of Hogsmeade glistened faintly under the evening lamplight as Harry guided Draco toward the familiar sign of the Three Broomsticks. Draco's steps faltered the moment he caught sight of the cosy tavern; his jaw tightened, and his pale hand hovered near the doorframe.

"I - probably shouldn't..."-He began, then paused, memories of his sixth-year mishaps crowding his mind.

"I need to speak to the owner about Ministry...stuff."-Harry said, keeping his tone firm but casual.-"It's important...You'll be fine?"

Draco hesitated another heartbeat, then, with a grudging nod, stepped inside. He had to face his actions at some point, and he could not hide forever.

The warm, amber glow of the tavern hit him immediately, and the rich smell of roasted meats and butterbeer made him shift uncomfortably. Harry's eyes scanned the room before settling on Rosmerta, who stood behind the bar, polishing a glass. She smiled warmly at Harry - but the instant her gaze caught Draco, the glass slipped from her hands and shattered across the floor.

"Oh!"-She exclaimed, he caramel curls falling on her face, flustered, crouching quickly to gather the shards. Harry stepped forward instinctively, helping her sweep up the mess. Draco lingered by the door, silent, his grey eyes fixed on the broken glass.

He didn't speak, didn't move; even the usual flicker of his sarcasm was absent. He softly muttered a sorry that was not quite voiced out loud.

Harry crouched briefly beside Rosmerta, whispering.-"Don't worry, it's just glass. Everything's fine."-He gave Draco a small nod, then stood.-"I'll be right back."-He told Draco before moving toward the staircase leading to the private room above the bar with Rosmerta on his tail.

Upstairs, the room was quiet, lit only by a single lantern. Harry leaned on the table, studying Rosmerta's expression.

"How are you?"-He asked gently.

Rosmerta hesitated, then gave a small, tired smile.-"I'm... managing."-She said.-"The trial has been... difficult, the date got changed 7 times already. And the whispers..."-Her voice trailed off.

Harry nodded-"I can imagine. And you've done well so far."

She glanced at him, brow furrowed.-"Harry...what's happening? Why are we here? Why is he, here?"

Harry drew a deep breath.-"I need your help. It's about Draco Malfoy, as you may assume."

There was a pause, she fixed her apron and gestured for him to sit down.

Harry then continued.-"The statement you will give - that Draco was the one who Imperiused you - we need to adjust it. Just slightly."

Rosmerta's eyes widened.-"I... I don't know, Harry. I mean...he's been in trouble before, but... this feels...risky. I can't lie."

"You're not lying. Well..."-Harry said firmly.-"We're only clarifying what really happened. Draco was forced into this. He wasn't in control. If we don't act, this could ruin his life - even send him to Azkaban alongside his father for life. You know how the Wizengamot works. And you care about doing what's right."

Rosmerta's hands twisted nervously, but she nodded slightly.-"I... You know how good a friend I've been to Dumbledore. He helped me with the tavern, the license, and Ministry matters. I... I want to do right by him."

Harry leaned closer.-"That's all I ask. The last thing Dumbledore was doing, was trying to get him to reflect, to save him from certain fate...This needs to be done."

Rosmerta looked down at her hands.-"How..."

"By changing the way you remember the one thing you know about the person who put the curse on you, his voice."

"Soft, choked, almost fearful."-She said softly.

"That...you can say the voice that commanded you wasn't Draco's, that it was harsh, cruel - not the soft, hesitant voice Draco always had when he visited the tavern, for example. That's all you need to say. The court will understand he wasn't responsible."

Rosmerta hesitated, then drew a deep breath.-"And you're sure you want to do this?"

Harry nodded, his voice steady.-"I am. This is the chance to give him a second chance - a real one. You help me, you help him. And it's the right thing."

She studied him for a long moment, then a faint, resolute smile crossed her lips.-"Alright, Harry. I trust you."

Harry gave her a small nod, satisfied.-"Good. Now, let's go back downstairs. Draco's waiting, and he must not suspect a thing."

Rosmerta hesitated, brow furrowed.-"He...knows about this, doesn't he?"

Harry shook his head gently.-"No. I've been keeping him - and his mother - away from all of this. He doesn't need to know. Not yet. This is about making sure he has a second chance without risking more harm."

Rosmerta studied him, her eyes searching his for a long moment. Then, softly, she asked:-"You care about this boy, don't you, Harry?"

Harry paused, then nodded almost unknowingly.-"I do. He's been through a lot. And right now, he needs someone to make sure he isn't punished for what he couldn't control."

Rosmerta's eyes softened, a flicker of understanding passing over her features.-"I see. That's... admirable. He's lucky to have you looking out for him."

Harry offered a faint, wry smile in return.-"He's lucky I know the truth, and that some things can be fixed quietly."

Rosmerta gave a small, approving nod, then drew a deep breath.-"Alright, Harry. Let's go back downstairs."

As they descended the stairs, the warm tavern light greeted them. Rosmerta's expression had softened completely. She approached Draco, who sat quietly by the window, his grey eyes fixed on the street outside.-"A butterbeer on the house."-She said, smiling warmly. Draco looked at her, his expression guarded but accepting the gesture, and carefully placed the mug on the table. Thanking her, in a half voice, ashamed almost.

Harry slid into the chair opposite him, also by the window. He had been so focused on Draco that he had set his small flat tin of mints on the table between them, its surface smooth and cold against the polished wood. The two of them sat in silence.

The tavern felt warm, but he remained reserved, the weight of past events still settling heavily on his shoulders. Silence stretched between them, thick and slightly awkward. The two of them sat in almost total silence, the warm glow of the tavern casting soft shadows across the table. Neither spoke at first, each waiting for the other to break the stillness.

At one point, their words collided, both beginning to speak at the same time. Draco caught himself and then gestured subtly with his hand, a sharp tilt of the wrist. You first, his gesture seemed to say.

Harry cleared his throat and leaned forward slightly.-"How have things been for you after...the war?"-He asked gently.

Draco's grey eyes shifted to his butterbeer, to his gloved mutated hand, thoughtful.-"As I said...Examinations are coming up, that's all I can think of right now."-He said slowly, voice low.-"I've been studying for such a long time...but it still feels like it's never enough. There's a thrill to it, though - the challenge, the pressure. Keeps me... motivated. Unlike you, of course. Aurors don't get that kind of academic excitement, do they?"

Harry let out a soft chuckle.-"Fair point..."-He admitted.-"I suppose my thrills come in a different form."

"Getting blasted across a chamber, typical."-They both fell silent again, sipping their butterbeer, the air between them awkward but steady. Draco's gaze lingered on the amber liquid for a moment before he finally broke the quiet. -"And you?"-He asked, voice careful.-"How have things been...for you? After the war?"

Harry's gaze shifted from his butterbeer to the small, flat mint tin on the table. He picked it up, his fingers tracing its smooth edges, and his eyes drifted to the window, watching the cobblestones of Hogsmeade.

Harry glanced at him, a faint smile tugging at his lips.-"After the war? Well..."-He began, letting the words settle into a casual rhythm.-"Hermione is leading a team of Unspeakables now - I knew she had it in her, but seeing her in action... It's something else. And Ron... he's stepping up with Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, keeping Zonkos running too. He's planning to propose to her, though he's still figuring out how. You know Ron."

Draco listened silently, sipping his butterbeer. He didn't interrupt, but the faintest corner of his mouth hinted at a small, reluctant smile.

Harry continued, warming to the storytelling.-"And the rest...they're finding their places, their own ways to make a difference. It's... reassuring, you know? To see people you care about and move forward after everything. Peaceful, gathered, a sweet little family."

Draco's grey eyes lifted from his mug.-"Sounds... perfect."-Draco nodded slowly, then leaned back, studying Harry with quiet curiosity, the word family lingering in the air.-"And what about you, Harry, not your friends?"-He asked cautiously.-"How's life for you?"

Harry's shoulders tensed slightly at the mention of his first name, so strange to hear it coming from Draco. He continued to watch the fog and the approaching rain clouds outside.-"Ah...uh...the usual."-He said carefully, forcing a light tone.-"Mostly work at the Ministry - overseeing construction projects at Grimmauld Place, fixing floors, organising rooms, making sure it doesn't fall apart. All the exciting stuff."-He jokes.

Draco raised an eyebrow, clearly seeing through the guardedness.-"Hmm. Sounds...tedious."-He remarked, a faint edge of amusement in his voice.

Harry chuckled softly, shrugging.-"It keeps me busy, that's all."

Draco's grey eyes flicked to Harry, a faint, mischievous smirk tugging at his lips.-"Wow."-He drawled, leaning back in his chair.-"So your thrilling life mostly consists of... organising floorboards and dusting old portraits, did I get that right?"

Harry raised an eyebrow, a wry smile forming.-"Pretty much. Exciting stuff, really."

Draco laughed softly, shaking his head.-"I have to say, Potter, for someone who's saved the wizarding world, you've really made yourself sound... dull. Impressively dull."

Harry's smile flickered, but he didn't respond. Silence returned, filled with sips of butterbeer and the quiet presence of two people who weren't quite used to this kind of conversation. There wasn't much in common between them, yet sitting there - awkward, mismatched, and silent at times - they found a fragile, unspoken companionship.

The tavern had grown quieter, the bustle of evening tapering off into a low hum. Firelight flickered against the beams, and the smell of butterbeer lingered in the air.

They sat in silence again, the weight of it pressing between them. Harry traced the rim of his glass, eyes distant, until Draco's voice cut through.

"So, tell me, Potter..."-Draco tilted his head, the smirk curling back.-"Do you ever get tired of being...so boring?"

Harry barked a laugh, short and surprised. -"Someone has to balance out your dramatics, Malfoy."

Draco raised a brow, leaning lazily on one elbow.-"Balance? Please. You're not balance. You're-..."-He gestured vaguely at Harry.-"...-polished oak furniture. Reliable, sturdy, completely uninspired."

Harry shook his head, grinning despite himself.-"Better that than a chandelier no one asked for, always swinging dangerously overhead."

Draco choked back a laugh, and the corner of his mouth twitched. Silence followed, but softer this time, like they'd both accidentally given too much away.

The tavern had thinned out, and only a few patrons were left murmuring in corners. Harry leaned back, staring at the ceiling beams.-"Ever think about what's next?"

Draco raised a brow.-"Next as in... ten years? Or next, as in whether Rosmerta will close before you stop brooding?"

Harry smirked.-"Either."

Draco thought for a moment.-"I'll pass my exams. Get a respectable job. Maybe fix what's left of my family's reputation."-He tilted his head at Harry.-"And you?"

Harry hesitated.-"Keep people safe. Full focus on something... lasting."-His voice dipped.-"My family, maybe."

Draco's gaze sharpened, but his smirk stayed in place.-"The Prophet will have a field day when they hear Potter's going domestic."

Harry rolled his eyes, though a faint smile tugged at his mouth.-"Let them. They've made up worse."

A while later, Draco glanced sideways at him, voice quieter.-"You hinted earlier. About family."

Harry's shoulders stiffened. He didn't answer right away, just sipped his butterbeer- "Yeah. I've got...people who matter. More than I ever thought I would."

Draco studied him.-"The Prophet wasn't far off then."

Harry frowned each time the newspaper was mentioned.-"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Their little predictions. About you secretly raising someone, having some hidden family tucked away."-Draco smirked faintly.-"I used to laugh at that. But-..."-He let the words trail, grey eyes sharp.

Harry exhaled through his nose, half amused, half wary.-"You really think you know me that well?"

"No."-Draco leaned back, satisfied.-"But I know when you're hiding something. And you, Potter..."-He smirked.- "...are a vault with legs."

Harry chuckled dryly.-"And you're still a pain in the arse."

Draco actually laughed at that.-"Thanks, I will take that as a compliment."-To which Harry rolled his eyes.

Another silence stretched, heavier this time. They both stared at the amber swirl of their drinks until Draco spoke again, casually, almost idly.

The fire crackled, filling the silence. Harry leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs under the table. Draco eyed him for a long moment before drawling,

“You know, Potter, you sit like someone who owns the place. It’s very… Gryffindor of you.”

Harry raised a brow, unimpressed.-“And you sit like someone with a broomstick permanently shoved-”

“Careful.”-Draco cut in smoothly, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

Harry smirked into his glass.-“Just saying. "-He set the glass down and rolled his eyes.-"You’ve still got the posture of a Prefect with a stick up his robes.”

The jab, meant only as a bit of their usual banter, hung in the air. Harry’s smirk lingered for a moment before it slowly faded, his gaze drifting past Draco to the dancing flames. The word "Prefect" had unexpectedly dredged up an image of them as boys, walking the cold corridors of Hogwarts in their different robes, on opposite sides of a war they hadn't yet understood.

Draco watched the change, his own expression becoming more serious as he played with his glove.-“You’re thinking about school.”

It wasn't a question. Harry blinked, his focus returning to the room.-“How did you know?”

“You get that stupid look.”-Draco said smoothly, swirling the contents of his glass.-“Half guilty, half nostalgic. Let me guess - Quidditch pitch, golden snitch in your hand, the crowd roaring your name. Your glory days.”

Harry let out a short, humourless laugh.-“Hardly. More like detentions in the Forbidden Forest and saving the castle while you were busy trying to fix a broken cabinet.”

Draco stiffened for a fraction of a second, the old wound pricked. Then, a faint, wry smile touched his lips.-“Fair. Though, to be precise, I was hiding from you for most of it.”

Harry’s expression softened.-“Could’ve been different, you know.”

Draco held his gaze for a long beat, the firelight flickering in his grey eyes, before he took a slow sip of his drink and looked away.-“But it wasn’t.”

The silence that followed was heavier, weighed down by the unspoken truth of that simple fact. What they could have been, but never were...Rivals, Friends, strangers.

Silence. They both drank.

"You miss it."

Harry's eyes flicked up.-"Miss what?"

Draco didn't look at him, clothes ripped and hair messy, glasses resting on his nose further lower than usual.-"The thrill. The rush. Fighting for something. You're not the type built for sitting still."

Harry's jaw tightened, his laugh a little too sharp.-"What, and you are?"

Draco's smirk was slow, deliberate.-"I never said that."

Harry's reply died in his throat, and the silence between them carried more weight than before.

The fire crackled. Draco watched Harry in silence before speaking again.-"So this is it, then? Potter, the Ministry man. Meetings, paperwork, noble little errands."

Harry rolled his eyes.-"It's a job, Malfoy. Someone has to keep things together."

Draco's lips curved.-"And you think you're the glue?"

"Better than being the crack."-Harry shot back.

That earned him a soft laugh.-"Touché."

Silence settled in again, and Harry fixed his glasses with his wand, as he used it to levitate the mint tin in front of himself out of boredom. Their conversation had dwindled again, silence stretching like a rope between them. Harry was half-lost in thought and half-focused on keeping the tin afloat, watching the tavern lights flicker, when Rosmerta appeared at their table.

She placed a small candle between them, its flame flickering warmly against the worn wood.-"For a bit of warmth."-She said with a knowing smile before slipping away.

Harry stared at the candle, then let out a low laugh- "Oh, brilliant. Now it looks like a date."

Draco froze, then pinched the bridge of his nose with an audible groan.-"Merlin, save me."

Harry grinned wider, leaning back.-"What's wrong, Malfoy? Embarrassed?"

Draco shot him a glare, though his ears flushed faintly pink. -"Embarrassed isn't the word, Potter. Appalled, maybe."

Harry chuckled, shaking his head, the flame casting a soft glow across both their faces.-"Relax, Malisss. I don't think anyone's buying it."

Draco muttered into his butterbeer something that quite resembled a bad curse:-"Go fuck yourself."

Harry genuinely laughed at that bad joke he made, noting the way Draco's mouth slowly curled into a smirk.

The candle burned steadily between them, the air thick with smoke, warmth, and something neither of them dared to name.

Harry leaned back slightly, eyes flicking to Draco, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.-"You know."-He began, voice casual.-"I was thinking about your dating life."

Draco's head snapped toward him, expression wary.-"My... what?"

"You know, your romantic exploits."-Harry continued, mock-serious.-"Lacklustre, really. Didn't improve after Pansy either."

Draco's lip curled, faintly defensive.-"Pansy wasn't-..."

Harry cut him off, smirking wider.-"Right, wasn't your girlfriend. She was...well, let's just say she was around because you were a Death Eater. Charming, she used to love playing with your hair tho."

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing audibly.-"You have an awful memory, Potter. For the worst reasons possible."

Harry's grin didn't fade.-"I remember the things that matter. Like how your love life has the subtlety of a bludger to the shin."

Draco's grey eyes flicked to him, a flash of annoyance there.-"And yours is...perfect? Right, and unicorns can fly."

Harry chuckled, eyes glinting.-"Better than yours. At least I don't need a badge of terror to get someone to notice me."

Draco bristled, leaning forward, voice sharp but edges curling with amusement.-"You're insufferable. Picking the low-hanging fruit. Everyone got with you because you were the chosen one anyway."

"Oh, come on, that was also low of you."-Harry said, leaning closer, tone teasing, ready for a comeback.-"I mean, really. No one could possibly confuse you with a Casanova. Pansey wasn't even interested in you. She was...curious about your connections."

Draco's jaw tightened.-"Connections, Potter. Not me. There's a difference."

Harry raised an eyebrow.-"Was there?"-He tapped his glass lightly.-"You've got that look, the one that says, 'I could be so much more...' but somehow, you settle for mediocrity."

Draco shook his head, lips pressed into a thin line.-"You think you're funny. You think you know everything."

"I do know a few things."-Harry replied, leaning back with a smirk.-"Like the way you throw yourself into everything but can't seem to throw yourself into... You know... a real relationship."

Draco groaned softly, rubbing at his temple.-"Merlin, Potter. You sound like my mother. Are you done yet?"

"Not even close."-Harry's eyes danced.-"I mean, it's fascinating. You, Draco Malfoy - the great Death Eater heir - and yet, your love life is... tragicomedy material."

Draco snorted, though the faint smirk on his lips betrayed him.-"Tragicomedy. How poetic, might make a show out of it."

Harry shook his head, laughing quietly.-"Honestly, you make it too easy. Every little twitch, every sarcastic eyebrow raise...I see right through you."

"Right through me, Potter? With your glasses on or off?"-Draco's voice was low, teasing, and cautious all at once. "You're really enjoying this way too much."

"I am."-Harry admitted, grinning.-"But don't worry. I won't tell anyone. Your secret of... underwhelming charm is safe with me."

Draco pinched his nose again, muttering under his breath.-"Merlin, help me."

Harry leaned back, taking a slow sip of butterbeer.-"See? You're laughing. Admit it. I'm having the best time."

Draco glared, though his mouth twitched.-"You are insufferable. I will get up and leave if you carry on."

"And yet, here you are, drinking with me, answering back. Says more about you than you'd like."

Another pause settled between them, heavy and warm, lit by the flickering candle Rosmerta had brought over. The tension softened for just a moment - enough for Harry's smirk to linger and Draco's reluctant amusement to show.

Harry tilted his head, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.-"Honestly... someday, someone's going to have to put up with all this. And I'm...I'm genuinely curious who'll survive it."

Draco shook his head, smirk lingering.-"Anyone who signs up better be brave...or slightly insane then."

Harry chuckled, leaning back.-"I'd watch the first volunteer closely. Bet they'll fail spectacularly."

He tilted his head, a smirk lingering.-"Watch all you want. Just don't put your nose where it doesn't belong, Potter. You might end up part of the act yourself."

Harry smirked, but his eyes flicked away.-"Careful, Malfoy. You sound like you almost want me to."

Draco's grey eyes glittered, unblinking, and for a moment the smirk softened into something sharper, more deliberate.-"Want you? Please, Potter. If you were in the act, you'd be the one dropping props and tripping over your lines."

Harry arched a brow, a slow grin tugging at his lips.-"Your castmates - they never seem to last long, do they?"

Draco's smirk faltered just enough to betray the jab before sliding back into place.-"Quality control, Potter. Not everyone's cut out for the spotlight."

Harry leaned forward a fraction, tone dry but eyes glinting.-"Or maybe the lead actor's just impossible to work with."

Draco's eyes glittered with mischief.-"Impossible, maybe. But at least I don't bore my audience to tears. Merlin, Potter, you'd probably turn a love scene into a lecture, or worse, a sob-show."

Harry's ears flushed as he scoffed.-"And you'd turn it into a duel."

Seeing how far they had gotten with their metaphors, they chill down a bit. A laugh goes around the table.

The laughter died down between them, leaving a comfortable quiet in its wake. The banter had run its course, a familiar sparring match that had ended in a mutual draw again. Draco leaned back in his chair, a satisfied glint in his grey eyes as he glanced at the window. Duelling with words is better than physical duelling.

Harry, still a little flushed, took a long sip of his butterbeer. He placed the mug back on the table with a soft clink, his hand coming to rest near the small, flat tin of mints. He didn't pick it up, but his fingers traced its smooth, cold edge, a quiet, unconscious gesture.

Draco's gaze fell to the tin. His expression shifted, the amusement in his eyes fading into something sharper, more analytical. He reached out and tapped it lightly with a single finger.

"That..."-Draco said, his voice low.-"That's not from around here."

Harry's hand froze on the tin. He didn't look at Draco, his gaze fixed on the rainy street outside.-"No."-He said, his voice barely a murmur.-"It's not."

"It's a Muggle thing?"-Draco stated, not as a question, but a quiet, almost unsettling observation. He was still watching Harry, looking for a reaction.

Harry shrugged, his hand moving to flip the tin over. He still didn't meet Draco's eyes.-"So what? I keep around a lot of Muggle things."

Draco's smirk was a thin, knowing line. Without warning, he reached out and plucked the tin from Harry's hand, feeling its cold, solid weight. His eyes scanned the embossed metal, and he read the name aloud, the syllables sounding alien on his tongue.

-"Barkleys."-

"You are spelling it wrong."-Harry's breath caught, and he took the tin back from him, protectively. He finally looked at Draco, his expression no longer defiant but open and vulnerable. Draco's gaze, filled with a sudden, cold insight, flicked from the tin to Harry's face.

Harry's guarded expression softened. He carefully flipped the tin open, the lid clicking softly, revealing a dozen small, white mints. He pushed the tin across the table, offering one to Draco.

Draco's eyes flickered to the tin. He didn't move, his lip curling almost imperceptibly as he stared at the plain, non-magical sweet.

"I don't want one."-Draco said, the old aristocratic disdain creeping back into his voice.

Harry's gaze was quiet, sincere. He pulled one out for himself, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. -"It's not just a tin, not just any mint..."-He said, his voice low and a little raw. -"A special person introduced these to me. Muggle or not. He...says they make him feel centred and that the world stops."

He...-Draco's eyebrows shot up as he watched him, the hint of an unspoken question in his eyes. After a moment that stretched into an eternity, he slowly reached out and took the mint, his fingers brushing Harry's. The contact was a jolt, a current that seemed to pass through their skin, an electric spark in the quiet, warm tavern.

He popped the mint into his mouth, its flavour a strange, sharp contrast to the familiar sweetness of the butterbeer.

"He?"-Draco asked, his voice low, his question a single, carefully chosen word.-"A special person? You talk like you're trying to hide him."

Harry's posture stiffened.-"Mhm."-He shook his head slowly, a non-committal gesture that said more than any words could. His eyes, fixed on some point in the distance, took on a sudden, profound longing. It wasn't sadness, but a kind of achingly quiet remembrance.

Draco saw it. He recognised that look. It was the same expression he'd glimpsed on Harry's face, the same yearning he'd seen when Harry found that old potions book he and Ginny had hidden. He had seen that look before, but never so raw, so completely unguarded.

As the candle flickered between them, casting warm light across their faces, Draco's eyes flicked to the window.

"A flash outside."-He murmured, frowning slightly.-"Some photographer, no doubt. Tomorrow's front page, I'd bet."

Harry followed his gaze, stepping out of his lost world, shrugging.-"They'll probably make it sound like some scandalous little rendezvous. Over-interpreted as usual."

Draco's lips twitched in a smirk.-"Perfect. The Chosen One and Death Eater Draco Malfoy, sharing butterbeer like nothing happened. Front-page sensation."

Harry chuckled softly, unconcerned.-"Let them. Kindsley will know I did my job at least."

Draco raised an eyebrow.-"You really don't care what anyone else thinks?"

Harry shook his head, a faint, wry smile tugging at his lips.-"Not at all. I'm here on a job - keeping an eye on you, making sure things stay... under control. The rest is irrelevant."

Draco let out a low whistle, half admiration, half exasperation.-"Impossible, Potter. Always on duty."-Him being here was his duty; he had to remember that part.

Harry lifted his glass toward him.-"And yet here you are, still drinking with me."

Draco rolled his eyes, but the smirk stayed.-"Don't get used to it. I don't even know how I got here...One moment I am on a task to pick up a cabinet, and next I am shoved into chambers and forests...I wonder, truly, how your friends keep up with you."

Harry fixes his glasses again, a gesture that he is slightly nervous.-"I wonder that myself..."

They left the warm glow of the Three Broomsticks behind, stepping out into the cool, crisp Hogsmeade night. The cobblestone streets, slick with a recent rain, reflected the distant glow of the castle lights. Neither spoke a word. The silence that had once been heavy and awkward between them was now different, settled and comfortable, a new language they had just discovered.

Harry's gaze was fixed on the sky, his eyes lost among the vast spray of stars that glittered in the inky blackness. His mind was miles away, wandering through the memories that had been stirred up tonight - the quiet sincerity of a voice, the small taste of a Muggle mint, the feeling of a world he had fought for, but had never truly belonged to. He was no longer just the hero who had saved them all; he was just Harry, a man carrying the weight of his past and the fragility of his present.

Draco walked a few paces behind him, his hands in his pockets, his grey eyes on the ground. He didn't look at Harry, but he was keenly aware of him, of the space he occupied and the silence he held. He was trying to figure out the expression on Harry's face as they'd talked about his life, a look of profound longing he had seen before, and he knew it was a secret he was not meant to know.

They passed the last row of shops and began the long ascent up the path to Hogwarts. The castle loomed above them, its ancient stones lit from within, a beacon of safety and a silent witness to their shared history. At the main doors, they stopped. They stood there, under the silent gaze of the moon and stars, two very different men who had somehow managed to find common ground in the space between the light and the dark.

The night is yet to end.

Chapter Text

By the time they returned to Hogwarts, the sky was midnight blue-dark, the windows of the castle glowing warmly against the chill air of near September, a few days away from the return of students to Hogwarts.

The long walk back from Hogsmeade had left them weary, their cloaks slung over their arms, slightly damp from the soft September rain, the day's dust and forest grime still clinging faintly to their clothes. The smell was also present, soft, lingering...natural.

The heavy doors creaked open, and at once Argus Filch appeared from the shadows, Mrs. Norris padding at his heels. Both man and cat regarded them with the same sour disdain, eyes narrowing as though they were intruders rather than guests.

Harry ignored them entirely, stepping past without so much as a glance. Draco, however, arched a brow, muttering just loudly enough for Harry to hear.-"What a charming welcome committee."

Mrs. Norris hissed softly, tail twitching. Filch gave a suspicious grunt, but did not follow as they mounted the staircases toward the Gryffindor tower.

They face the moving staircases with tiredness, its stone steps groaning under their weight. Halfway up, the whole flight shuddered, swung sideways with a jolt, and began sliding toward a completely different landing. Draco grabbed the bannister, muttering a curse under his breath.

"Merlin's sake, does this castle ever stop trying to kill its students?"-He snapped.

Harry steadied himself, barely suppressing a laugh.-"This is tame compared to some of the staircases. Gryffindors usually just jump when the gaps open up - it's faster than waiting."

Draco shot him a look that could have frozen fire.-"Jumping across drifting staircases. Very Gryffindor. No sense, no patience, just throwing yourselves into danger for the thrill of it.

"That's what makes us Gryffindors."-Harry smirked.-"Better than tiptoeing around like Slytherins, waiting until someone else clears the danger for you. Just a bunch of damsels in distress...Always."

"Or..."-Draco said smoothly, ignoring his comment about his previous sorted house.-"Better than ending up splattered on the flagstones, take the other way around. Honestly, it's a wonder half your house survived to graduate."

"Not everyone did with all their limbs intact."-Harry said quietly, the grin slipping for a beat. Then, with a small shrug, he added.-"Still - beats hiding in the dungeons."

Draco suppressed the urge to talk back at him in disagreement.

They finally reached the portrait hole, where the Fat Lady was lounging in a high-backed chair inside her frame, fanning herself. She leaned forward the moment she spotted Draco, her plump features puckering in disapproval.

"Oh, him?"-She said with dramatic disdain, pointing a painted finger at Draco as though he might smudge her canvas.-"Slytherin boys don't belong in here."

Draco folded his arms, chin tilting upward.-"Charming. Do you say that to all who pass, or only to the poor souls you wish you'd rendered less... generously?"

The Fat Lady gasped, scandalised.-"Well, I never!"

Harry cut in before she could start screeching.-"He's with me. McGonagall arranged it. Password's Parchment Inklings."

The Fat Lady sniffed, fanning herself furiously.-"If the Headmistress insists...but don't think I won't be keeping an eye on you."-She said, giving Draco one last glare.

Draco smirked faintly at Harry as the portrait swung open.-"See? Even your portraits hate me."

Harry ducked through the hole first.-"Get used to it. Gryffindor Tower doesn't exactly roll out the red carpet for snakes."

"And yet."-Draco said as he followed, brushing dust off his sleeve.-"Somehow, here I am."

The portrait swung shut behind them, and the warmth of Gryffindor Tower pressed in at once. The common room was just as Harry remembered: the fire in the grate burned high and cheerful, throwing golden light across the round room; squashy armchairs and couches crowded close together; rugs and hangings in deep scarlet softened every surface. Even the shadows felt warm, welcoming, threaded with that peculiar cosiness that clung to Gryffindor Tower like an enchantment.

Draco stopped dead just inside the threshold, his lip curling faintly as his eyes swept the room.-"Honestly."-He muttered.-"I think I might choke to death. It's - what - even the air feels sentimental. All this...love and cosiness radiating off the walls."

Harry laughed, the sound echoing brighter in the firelit space than he expected.-"That's the point. It's supposed to feel like home."

"Too much like it."-Draco said, wrinkling his nose as they passed the roaring hearth.-"If you bottled this atmosphere, it'd be marketed as liquid sugar."

Up the spiral staircase, the dormitory lay waiting, freshly tidied as though the years hadn't touched it. Five familiar four-poster beds stood in a neat row, scarlet curtains drawn back, thick quilts smooth and waiting. The scent of polish and clean linen lingered in the air. Harry felt a tug in his chest - so many nights, so many memories bound up in this room.

On two of the beds lay folded sets of clothes: crisp, neatly pressed shirts, trousers, and socks.

Draco raised a brow at the sight, then glanced at Harry.-"You didn't tell me there was valet service."

"The house-elves must've brought them."-Harry said, noticing Draco's puzzled frown.-"They'll do more than this, too. Food, laundry - whatever you need. You just...ask, kindly."

Draco sat down on the bed beside Harry's, running a hand across the quilt as though testing it.-"House-elves, trained to spoil Gryffindors rotten. No wonder you lot turned out insufferable."

Harry grinned.-"I think you'll survive it, Malfoy."

Draco gave the place another disdainful glance, though his voice softened.-"Perhaps. Provided the curtains don't strangle me in my sleep with all their...sentiment."

Harry gave a short laugh and tugged at the bed curtains.-"You know, we once set these on fire."

Draco blinked.-"Accidentally, I assume."

Harry grinned.-"Depends how you look at it. Seamus kept going on about how his spells were improving. He tried to light a candle and nearly lit half the dormitory. Next thing I knew, Ron and I were trying to put it out with our wands. We kinda made it worse since we didn't know many good spells, while Neville ran for water. Dean was just shouting at us the whole time. McGonagall nearly had a heart attack when she came in."

Draco smirked faintly.-"Very Gryffindor. Fire, chaos, and no one knowing what they're doing. Two braincells running in circles."

Harry chuckled.-"That wasn't even the worst. One night, we smuggled in firewhisky - Seamus nicked it off his cousin. Things got out of hand, and...well, we thought it would be funny to throw all the mattresses out the window."

Draco's head jerked up, staring at him in disbelief.-"You what?"

Harry shrugged, his smile crooked.-"All five of us- Ron, Dean, Seamus, Neville - ended up sleeping on the floor for a week because McGonagall refused to replace them. Said it would 'teach us responsibility'."

"And did it?"-Draco asked dryly.

"Not really..."-Harry said, laughing again.-"It was miserable, but - fun. Some of the best nights I had here, actually."

Draco was quiet for a moment, his gaze lowering to the quilt beneath his hands.-"Sounds... fitting. Chaotic, reckless, idiotic - very Gryffindor."-His voice softened, though, almost wistful.-"I never had nights like that. For me, it was always about marks, lessons, and keeping ahead. And even then, Granger was always two steps in front. Always second to her. That was my...fun."

Harry studied him, the easy grin fading into something gentler. He almost said I'm sorry, but the words felt too heavy, too pitying. Instead, he leaned back against the headboard and said lightly.-"Well. Guess it's not too late to start making up for it."

Draco huffed, but there was a flicker in his expression - something caught between scepticism and interest. Draco gave a soft snort.-"I think we've had enough for one night. Unless, of course, you're eager to give McGonagall another heart attack. I'm not explaining to her why her golden boy and a disgraced Slytherin ended up hexing each other before bed."

Harry laughed, but his fingers tapped idly against the bedpost, eyes drifting toward the darkened window. The castle loomed beyond, full of corridors and shadows. He wasn't quite ready to let the day end.

Still, he pushed himself up.-"Fine. Showers, then."

They took turns in the adjoining washroom. Harry emerged first, hair damp and sticking up even more wildly than usual, pulling on the fresh clothes the house-elves had left - simple but comfortable. Black t-shirt and matching sweatpants with fluffy socks, smelling faintly of lavender soap. He set his old things in a pile by the door, tugging at the tear in his turtleneck with a half-smile of amusement before tossing it aside.

When Draco came out a little later, he was buttoning the cuffs of a crisp white shirt, his own clothes folded neatly under one arm. His pale hair, usually immaculate, hung damp and slightly unruly. He looked less like the polished Malfoy of old and more like...just another boy trying to wind down after too long a day.

Harry smirked, finding this canvas quite new.-"Didn't take you for the type to fold your dirty laundry."

Draco arched a brow.-"Some of us were raised with standards, Potter."-He said, pointing at the pile he had made by the door. Harry noticed the hand that he had held gloved all day, the glove still there, hiding whatever went wrong with it, he could swear he saw something silver shimmer from inside it.

Harry only smiled politely, but as he sat back on his mattress and pulled his wand onto his side, his eyes strayed to the window again, deep in thought. The Marauder's Map in his bag tugged at his thoughts like an itch he couldn't quite scratch. Sleep wouldn't come easily - not tonight when he had forgotten the violet bottle Luna prepared for him. And sneaking out into the castle had its own kind of pull, considering it.

Harry flopped back onto the mattress that had once been Ron's, letting out a long sigh as he stretched his arms over his head. He glanced sideways as Draco lowered himself onto the bed beside him, careful not to crease the quilt, and settled with his cloak on his lap.

Draco's wand drew a pattern in the air, muttering something under his breath, before he gave a sharp flick of his wand. A soft pop echoed through the room, and a small pile of worn books appeared, neatly aligned as if they had been waiting for this very moment.

"You brought the library with you, it seems?"-Harry teased.

"This is for some light reading."-He dismissed Harry.

Harry's lips twitched in amusement.-"Really? Light reading? You sound - and look - like Hermione."

Draco didn't look up, his grey eyes scanning the first page with deliberate focus. A corner of his mouth twitched, half-amused, half-annoyed.-"Better than looking like a Weasley."-He replied dryly, tapping the edge of one book for emphasis.

Harry laughed, a bright, easy sound that bounced off the four-poster beds.-"I mean, come on. This is very...Malfoy-approved."

Draco allowed himself a brief smile, turning back to his reading. For a moment, the quiet of the dorm enveloped them, the weight of the day fading, leaving only the subtle tension.

For a while, the dorm was quiet again. Draco's breathing was even as he flipped through his worn books, the soft rustle of pages the only sound besides the faint crackle of the fire in the grate below.

Harry watched him for a moment, thinking how odd it was to feel this comfortable next to Malfoy, yet uneasy at the same time.

Sleep, however, refused to come easily. Harry had thought returning here - returning to his old dormitory, to the warmth and familiarity of Gryffindor Tower - might soothe the restless shadows that plagued him. But the nightmares had evolved rather than vanished.

They no longer just dragged him into the forest, or into dark corridors, or back to the face of the serpent. They had begun to twist, fragment, and deepen, reshaping themselves around his fears: shadows crawling at the edges of the window, centaurs staring with unreadable expressions, whispers of dark prophecies that seemed to echo from Myrtle's questions and the centaur's warnings alike.

Draco could sense his discomfort. He wondered if he had taken Luna's potion with him. Considering he did not know they would be spending the night here, he guessed Harry had not. He felt Harry shuffle and quickly sit up, with slight fear; he looked lost...

A quiet sigh escaped Harry. He swung his legs over the mattress and rose, wand in hand, the tip glowing softly in the dim room. Even the familiar scent of polish and fire and old wood could not anchor him tonight.

He moved to the tall window, the panes cool beneath his fingertips. With a practised flick, he unrolled the Marauder's Map, the parchment crackling slightly, revealing a sprawl of inked corridors and the tiniest footprints crawling across the surface.

Harry studied them intently, tracing the paths of students long gone to sleep, imagining their lives continuing in peace while he wrestled with his own. The Map had always offered him a strange solace, a way to impose some order on chaos, a way to keep track of everything in a castle that sometimes felt bigger than he could ever understand.

Tonight, however, it felt different. He didn't just track footsteps - he traced patterns of possibility, trying to anticipate where danger might lurk, where darkness could rise. His green eyes narrowed, the pale glow of the wand reflecting off the lines and letters, and for a moment he felt that familiar tug at the edge of his chest - the mixture of responsibility and dread that had never left him.

And yet, Draco's quiet presence in the room, the faint sound of pages turning, reminded him that he wasn't entirely alone. The thought eased him just enough to anchor himself, at least until the nightmares inevitably returned.

Draco's grey eyes flicked up from his book, irritation sharpening his features.-"Potter."-He drawled, voice smooth but edged with annoyance.-"Do you have to stand there breathing like a drafty window? Some of us are trying to read. Go back to sleep."

Harry didn't look up, his green eyes fixed on the Marauder's Map. He traced the lines of the castle corridors, watching the tiny footprints snake through hidden passages and long-forgotten staircases, lost in thought.

Draco's lips twitched, a mixture of exasperation and amusement crossing his face. With an exaggerated snap, he shut his book so forcefully that the stack of pages shivered. Maybe Harry would sleep if he were not in the room.

He tucked his book under one arm and moved toward the spiral staircase, every step measured, the floorboards groaning softly beneath his socks. Harry's eyes followed him for a brief moment, catching the slight slouch of Draco's shoulders, the careful control in his movements - half irritation, half retreat.

He remembers Hermione yelling at them for breathing while she was deep in her studies, and cant help but smirk at the comparison between them. He wonders how things could have been so different if Draco had been their friend...

The common room below was quiet, bathed in the gentle glow of the dying fire. The embers crackled, sending golden sparks dancing along the stone walls. Shadows stretched and curled around the furniture, deepening the sense of secluded warmth. Draco lowered himself onto the large, worn couch, sinking into the cushions with a soft sigh. The seat had been molded by decades of students, soft and yielding, yet still supportive - an oddly comforting combination. He flicked his wand to make the fire brighter.

He tucked his book closer, letting the crackle of the fire fill the space between him and the distant, unseen footsteps of the castle. For the first time that night, some of the tension in his shoulders eased, though the memory of the forest, the centaur's gaze, and Harry's restless energy still lingered at the edges of his thoughts.

"Of course."-He muttered under his breath, letting himself smirk faintly.-"Even Gryffindors' ghosts can't stay still for long."

Outside the window, the night pressed in, velvet-dark and thick with stars, and for a moment, Draco allowed himself the strange comfort of anonymity in the common room, hidden from prying eyes, yet still very much tethered to the boy upstairs tracing the castle's secrets.

Harry slid back onto the mattress for a moment, fingers brushing over the Marauder's Map before decisively opening his satchel. He dug around, producing the invisibility cloak folded carefully, along with the small trinkets he had buried inside, and the worn notebook where he kept sketches and notes from past investigations and of course dragons.

He muttered under his breath, a frustrated edge to his voice.-"Should've brought Luna's Dreamless Sleeping Draught..."-He frowned at the thought. He hadn't known he'd be sleeping at Hogwarts tonight; if he had, he might have planned better. Maybe a walk all night around the castle, he thought, would soothe his mind - or at least tire him out enough to stop the dreams from clawing at the edges of his consciousness.

Pulling the cloak over his shoulders, he slung the Marauder's Map and wand into hand, leaving his shoes behind. Pajamas and socks would have to do; it was quieter this way, anyway.

He crept toward the door, hoping to slip past the couch where Draco was still perched, absorbed in his book. Every step was measured, quiet. Yet as he drew closer, a faint sensation prickled the back of his neck - the sixth sense he had developed over years of being hunted, tested, and chased.

Draco's head lifted just slightly, gray eyes flicking toward him.-"You're not really going to sneak past me in that, are you?"-The voice was light, teasing, but there was an edge there, almost like a trap being set.

Harry froze, heart picking up pace.-"I... uh... thought I'd try."

Draco smirked, leaning back into the couch cushions with the ease of someone entirely comfortable in his territory.-"You really think I wouldn't notice?"

Harry felt a rush of warmth to his cheeks, part embarrassment, part recognition that Draco, somehow, could always see him - whether it was instinct, sixth sense, or something else, he didn't know.-"You...always know somehow."

"Always."-Draco said, a faint glimmer of amusement in his tone. He returned his gaze to the book in his lap, but the corner of his mouth twitched.-"You're going to be very quiet, very sneaky, and very dead if you wake me tonight, Potter. Consider yourself warned."

Harry allowed himself a small grin beneath the cloak, tugging it tighter.-"Noted."

The tension lingered as he edged toward the door, the quiet of the dorm broken only by the soft crackle of the fire and the occasional rustle of pages. Even now, with the invisibility cloak draped over him, he knew Draco's watchful eyes were tracing every movement, every breath, every calculated shuffle he made.

Harry moved toward the door, cloak draped over his shoulders, Marauder's Map and wand in hand, but before he could take another step, Draco's voice cut softly through the quiet dorm.

"Potter..."-Draco's gray eyes were sharp but gentle, his tone surprisingly low, almost hesitant.-"Why not just...sleep? What's so important that you can't? And must go wander."

Harry froze mid-step, hands tightening on the cloak. He swallowed, not wanting to reveal the full weight of the nightmares, the shadows clawing at him from sleep.-"I... I can't. Its been a while..."-He said finally, voice low.-"It's... complicated."- He shook his head slightly, hoping that would be enough.

Draco closed his book with a soft snap putting it aside, the sound final yet calming, as if he had already decided to respect whatever boundaries Harry was setting. He studied Harry for a long moment, the gray eyes thoughtful. The boy who had seen death, fought it, and returned...He understood more than anyone should.

"The infirmary has it."-Draco said quietly.-"The Draught of Dreamless Sleep. A drop or two, and you'd sleep through the night. You could use that cloak of yours - sneak in, take what you need, leave...Madam Pomfrey might not even notice."

"Oh..."-Harry hesitated, not sure how Draco knew what he needed.-"I... I don't know where the potions are hidden..."

A faint, knowing smile touched Draco's lips.-"I do."

Harry was skeptical.

"Sixth year. I used to sneak in. Take some for...personal uses."-He gave a small shrug, the smirk faint but approving.-"I know the layout. The cupboards. Everything. I can show you on your map."

Harry's green eyes brightened, a spark of hope cutting through his fatigue.-"Or, you can...come with me."

Draco hesitated, glancing at the pile of books he had brought, the quiet dorm, the faint glow of the fire. He gave a short, half-approving nod, although he loved the cosiness he had settled for.-"Fine. But only because you look like you might collapse otherwise, and you are not letting me concentrate at all."

Harry allowed himself a brief grin.-"Noted. And thank you."

For a moment, the room felt less oppressive, the darkness of the night outside less immediate, and the weight of the nightmares slightly lighter.

Harry moved first, leading the way through the shadowed corridors, cloak draped over his shoulders. The dormitory behind them had barely settled into quiet when the Fat Lady's muffled shrieks echoed down the hall.

"Potter! Malfoy! How dare you-..."-She wailed, the door slamming behind her in indignation.

Harry ignored her, ducking under a low archway, murmuring to Draco.-"Hopefully Peeves isn't awake yet."

Draco muttered under his breath, his grey eyes scanning the shadows.-"Of course, nothing could go smoothly, could it?"

They reached the staircase that twisted upward and downward. Harry paused, peering at the gap between the steps, then glanced back at Draco.-"We can take the stairs straight across."-He whispered, nodding toward a higher step jutting over the drop.-"But we'll have to jump."

Draco froze, his gray eyes flicking downward at the chasm, then back at Harry.-"You can't be serious..."-His voice was low, almost incredulous, and his shoulders tensed.

"I am."-Harry said, grinning. He bounced lightly on his toes, the movement casual, almost too casual.-"C'mon, it's not far. You're not going to chicken out now, are you?"

Draco's jaw tightened, and a faint blush crept over his ears - he hated showing it, hated being called out.-"I'm not..."-He muttered, though the hesitation in his voice betrayed him.

Harry laughed, a sharp, teasing sound.-"Oh, come on, Malfoy. Admit it - you're such a pussy."-He grinned wider, noticing Draco's ears turning redder under the dim light.

Draco shot him a sharp shove, catching him in the shoulder.-"Shut up, Potter!"-His tone was a mix of annoyance and embarrassment, but Harry just laughed harder, the sound echoing off the stone walls.

"I'll catch you."-Harry said, stepping toward the edge, his arms instinctively opening.-"You just have to trust me."

Draco swallowed, eyes narrowing, a mix of exasperation and reluctant confidence passing over his features.-"Trust you, huh?"-He muttered, taking a deep breath.-"Fine, but if I die, I'm haunting you forever."

Harry grinned, rolling his eyes.-"Yeah, sure. Now jump."

The tension stretched between them, heavy and almost comedic, Draco shifting his weight back and forth, staring at the drop like it was a bottomless pit. Harry's grin didn't falter, though he noticed the faint twitch of Draco's lips, betraying a begrudging willingness.

Finally, with a quiet mutter, Draco leapt, letting Harry's steady arms absorb his weight. The impact pressed them together briefly, the slight awkwardness only magnified by their shared clumsiness. Harry steadied him, murmuring.-"Got you. See? Not so scary."

Draco's face was still tinged pink, and he muttered under his breath, half amused, half exasperated.-"You're insane, Potter. Absolutely insane."-He let go of him and mumbled teasingly.-"What a man."

Harry chuckled, tugging the cloak around them both.-"Better get used to it, Malfoy. Some of this Gryffindor stupidity is contagious."

Draco just rolled his eyes but didn't pull away, his grip on his gloved hand tightening as he whispered.-"I swear... if you get us caught and humiliated, I'm hexing you in your sleep."

They crouched low under the cloak, pressed together as the shadows of the corridor stretched and twisted around them. The strange approximation catches both unrepared. Awkward in a way...

Harry whispered.-"Peeves could be anywhere. One whistle, and the whole castle wakes up. We need to move."

Draco's gray eyes flicked to him, half-scowling, half-impressed.-"You're insane, you know that? Crazy, madman."

"All these compliments..."-Harry grinned, the glow from the cloak just enough to illuminate his mischievous expression.-"Maybe. But it works."

Draco muttered something under his breath, but a small smirk betrayed him.-"Your Gryffindor attitude is rubbing off on me, you know that? I feel... reckless just being near you."

"You're welcome."-Harry said with a teasing bow, though his grip on the cloak tightened as he led them down the next stairwell.

Draco huffed softly, shaking his head.-"I feel like I'm going to regret this in the morning. If I survive till then..."

Harry laughed quietly.-"You'll survive."

They edged forward under the cloak, silent except for the soft scrape of their socks on the worn stone. The corridor seemed endless, shadows stretching unnaturally as they moved, yet the thrill - the danger, the absurdity of it - made both of them feel sharper, more alive.

Together, they slipped through the castle, moving like ghosts under the cloak, bound by necessity, and that peculiar mixture of irritation and resentment that had always hovered between them.

Harry crouched near the edge of the corridor, the Marauder's Map unfolded before him.-"Okay, so first, you need to know how to open it."-He said, pointing to the faded parchment.-"Say the words: I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

Draco raised an eyebrow, leaning closer.-"You actually said that every time you used it?"

Harry grinned.-"Every single time. And to close it, you tap it and say: Mischief managed. Simple, but brilliant."-He handed Draco the map.-"This is how I used to sneak up on you, back in school. You should've seen your face when I appeared out of nowhere while you were up to no good."

Draco's gray eyes flicked over the map, scanning the tiny inked footprints crawling across the parchment.-"I see... so it shows everyone's movements?"

"Exactly. Look."-Harry's finger traced a path, showing Filch's small, waddling footprints.-"That's why we can't just stroll out the front. His cat, Mrs. Norris, would sense us immediately."

Draco's lips pressed into a thin line as he studied the map.-"Clever."

Harry smirked.-"I know. Come on, follow me. There's a secret doorway here I've used before."

He led Draco down a narrow corridor, stopping before a wall that seemed ordinary at first glance. Harry whispered a short incantation, and a small panel slid aside, revealing a hidden space behind it.

"Enter."-Harry suggested, peering into the empty space.-"It used to have something else inside. Dumbledore hid thing here all the time. Now it's just some old tables covered in rune tablets."-He remembers sneaking in there to see his parents on the mirror of Erised...It had long been removed from there.

Draco stepped closer, eyes scanning the ancient markings.-"Interesting."-He murmured, running his fingers lightly over the carvings.-"These are old... very old. And some of these inscriptions are curses, protective wards. Fascinating."

Harry crouched beside him, watching as Draco's expression became absorbed, his brows knitting in concentration.-"You read these?"-He asked, impressed.

Draco nodded, almost absently.-"Yeah, I know runes, Potter. It helps with curse-breaking. These aren't just decorative - they're warnings, records of enchantments. We'll need to stop here for a few minutes; I want to understand all of them before we move on."

Harry leaned back slightly, that dumb Gryffindor look of confusion on his face.-"Uh?"

Draco didn't look up.-"Just... don't touch anything. Some of these runes are delicate."

For a few moments, the corridor fell silent except for the scratching of Draco's fingers over the stone. Harry watched him, realizing that even in the midst of their sneaky night mission, Draco's meticulous mind found fascination in the smallest details.

Once Draco finally stepped back, satisfied, Harry rolled up the Marauder's Map and gestured toward the infirmary.-"Alright, now that you've dissected history, shall we move before Mrs. Norris passes here again."

Draco smirked faintly, adjusting his grip on the books he had carried.-"Lead the way, Potter."

They crept along the dimly lit corridors, Harry leading the way, Draco close behind radiating warmth that made Harry aware of his presence. The Marauder's Map, tucked safely in Harry's pocket, glowed faintly as the tiny inked footprints traced Filch's patrols.

"Stay close."-Harry whispered, voice low.-"And don't make a sound."

Draco adjusted the cloak around them, eyes scanning the shadowed corridor.-"You really think this will work?"-He muttered.

Harry smirked.-"It has to. You know the vial's here."

They reached the infirmary side entrance, where the supply cabinet stood tucked against the wall. Draco crouched before it, gray eyes narrowing. The cabinet was sealed with an intricate magical lock, layers of runes curling like thorned vines across its surface.

"Pomfrey?"-Harry hissed, pressing himself and Draco against the wall. Their faces very close to each other, personal space having vanished under the Invisibility cloak.

Harry observed Draco's half-shocked reaction to their sudden proximity. Seeing as Draco was taller than him, the height difference was much more noticeable from so near, Draco pushed him a bit to get a better look at Pomfrey.

From the doorway, a shadowy figure moved sluggishly, arms outstretched, eyes half-closed.-"Sleepwalking?"-Harry muttered under his breath, his grip tightening on Draco's elbow.-"She apparently does that...Just...stay calm."

They slip past the beds and heavy curtains under their cloak and past Pomfrey.

"Hmm."-Draco murmured, lips pressed together.-"Someone didn't want this opened casually."-He drew his wand, tracing the silver-tinted runes.-"Containment wards...and subtle anti-tampering charms. Perfect for testing a curse-breaker."

Harry stepped back, letting him work.-"Be careful."

Draco's fingers danced over the cabinet, muttering counter-spells under his breath. His training showed: precise motions, measured incantations, and careful timing. Sparks of faint green light flickered along the runes, hissed, and resisted, but slowly the wards unraveled beneath his expertise.

"Almost... got it..."-Draco muttered, lips tightening in concentration. Finally, the silver runes cracked softly and faded, leaving the cabinet harmlessly inert. Draco straightened, letting out a quiet exhale.-"Done. Your precious potion awaits."

Harry's eyes calmed slightly in admiration.-"You did that...effortlessly."

Draco shrugged, brushing a strand of hair from his face.-"Months of practice. Someone had to learn to undo what other people made."

He lifted the vial of Draught of Dreamless Sleep carefully, hands steady and practiced, and handed it to Harry, who tucked it into his pocket with a grateful nod.

"Thanks."-Harry said softly.-"I wouldn't trust anyone else with this."

Draco smirked faintly, though his eyes softened- "Lucky for you, Potter."

With the Draught secured, they retraced their steps, moving silently past the sleepwalking Pomfrey. Harry glanced at Draco, impressed not just by his skill but by the precision and patience with which he had handled the wards. Draco's expertise had saved them time, trouble, and potential disaster.

As they hurried back through the dim corridors, Draco misjudged a corner and brushed against a polished suit of armor. With a deafening clang, it toppled over, rolling across the stone floor. The sound echoed like a thunderclap, bouncing off the walls, and for a heartbeat, both of them froze in place.

"Oh no."-Harry hissed, eyes widening.-"Peeves is going to wake half the castle."

Draco's jaw tightened.-"Brilliant."-He muttered, though there was no real malice in his tone - just irritation at himself. He ducked behind Harry, the shadows swallowing them both. The poltergeist's distant laughter and the clanging of chains confirmed their fears.

They threw the cloak over them one more time, hearts hammering in their chests. Harry walked into the Great Hall where not even ghosts wandered at night. Harry's arm pressed against Draco's side, and Draco stiffened slightly at the sudden touch, muttering.-"You're enjoying this far too much."

"I'm only enjoying that you actually jumped."-Harry whispered, a grin tugging at his lips.-"And you know it. Malfoy, a jumpy damsel in distress."

Draco shoved him lightly, half in annoyance, half in reluctant amusement.-"Shut up, Gryffindor."

When the chaos of Peeves' misorienting cackles drifted away, they emerged from under the cloak, brushing themselves off. Draco's gray eyes flicked upward, catching the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall.

The room was deserted, candles floating silently above, casting soft reflections on the long tables. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the night sky - deep blues and silvers stretching endlessly - giving the hall an ethereal, almost dreamlike quality. The remnants of the day's feasts lay undisturbed, and the warmth of the fire at the far end made the vast hall feel almost cozy.

Draco let out a quiet breath.-"Well, this is a sight."

Harry leaned against one of the tables, letting his eyes follow the flickering candlelight.-"Yeah... makes nearly getting caught, the sneaking, and the ruined armor worth it."

They lingered for a few moments, just watching, listening to the faint creaks of the settling castle. The warmth of the Great Hall and the soft glow of the ceiling offered a brief, rare moment of calm amid their restless, dangerous lives.

Finally, Draco straightened, tucking his cloak and books close.-"Alright... let's move before we cause any more trouble."

Harry gave a short, satisfied grin.-"Yeah...but admit it, the quiet was worth it."

Draco allowed himself a faint smirk, and together, they slipped silently into the corridors, Hogwarts slowly returning to sleep around them.

Harry tugged lightly at Draco's sleeve.-"Wait...you haven't eaten all day, have you? I dont remember seeing you eat..."-He murmured, glancing at the waning glow of the corridors. Draco shook his head slightly, too tired to argue.

"I have an idea."-Harry said, a mischievous glint in his eye.

Draco almost wanted to cry our.-"Please just rest already, where do you find all this energy, you little..."

"Come with me. The kitchens."

Draco raised a brow.-"Kitchens? At this hour? How do you even know where the kitchens are..."

Harry smirked, talking more to himself than to Draco, like a madman.-"House-elves never sleep. Well...most of them."

They slipped through the hidden entrance behind the painting of a large fruit bowl, and the warm, aromatic air of the kitchens hit them immediately. All the elves seemed to be asleep at their stations, save for one familiar figure.

"Winky!"-Harry exclaimed, rushing forward. The little elf spun in joy, waving her arms, then leapt into his embrace with a squeak of delight. Tears glistened in her large eyes.-"Harry Potter! You're here! I thought... I thought I'd never see you again! And... Dobby... oh, Dobby..."

Draco stood back, silently watching as Winky's sobs shook her tiny frame. Harry gently patted her back, murmuring comforting words.-"Shh... it's alright, Winky. I'm here."

"She...she was talking about Dobby?"-Draco asked quietly, curiosity and concern mingling in his tone.

Harry's expression softened, distant with memory.-"Yes. Winky never got over him."

"Got over? What happened to Dobby?"-Draco asked looking between Harry and the sobbing elf.

Winky cried even more. -"Dobby, oh Dobby! He died...Harry buried him..."

"After escaping your manor...he dies a knife to the heart, I buried him by the beach near Bill and Fleur's place. Wanted him to rest somewhere peaceful."-Harry added as he looked away, the memory still stinging in his heart.

Draco blinked, processing the information.-"You... buried him?"

Harry nodded.-"Yeah. Had to. Dobby deserved better than...than Bellatrix's madness."

Draco shook his head.-"Demented woman, that one. So unfortunate...I was so sure you had all survived."

Winky hiccupped, clutching Harry's robes with small, trembling hands.-"And... Ron? And Hermione? Are they well? And... your life, Harry Potter? You have...you have children? Or... or a job? Please, tell me, I must know!"

Harry chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair out of her face.-"I'm working at the Ministry - an Auror now. Lots of missions, lots of danger. But it keeps me busy...keeps me on my feet. The group is all good, wish they could visit you."

Winky's eyes went wide.-"Auror! Harry Potter...fighting the Dark again?"

Harry shook his head.-"Not exactly the same way, but yes. I track dark wizards, protect people. It's... a lot of responsibility, but I manage."

Draco tilted his head, quietly amazed.-"You've lived a very different life from anyone else here."-He muttered, half to himself.-"It's...unfair."

Draco, watching the interaction, felt a rare warmth. The chaos, the danger, the endless running around - it was all ordinary for Harry. And yet, in moments like this, it became something human, tender, grounding.

Winky brightened slightly, raising a tiny hand toward the small bottle of Firewhisky on a nearby table.-"Drink, Harry Potter! To rest... to remember... to be strong!"

Harry thanked her and let himself enjoy what she had prepared.

Then she turned to Draco with a plate and a bottle of Firewhisky.-"For you too sir, friend of Harry."

Draco's grey eyes flicked from the bottle to the plate, then back to Winky. For a moment, his usual reserve softened.

"Thank you, Winky."-He said quietly, bowing his head slightly.-"I... appreciate it."

The little elf's ears perked up immediately, and a tiny smile brightened her tear-streaked face.

Draco carefully took the plate and the bottle, setting them before himself.-"You've been working hard, haven't you?"-He asked gently, meeting her gaze.-"Don't let anyone push you too much."

Winky's hands fluttered to her mouth in surprise.-"Oh...oh, sir!"-She squeaked, almost forgetting herself in her joy.

Harry chuckled softly beside him, taking a soft bite.-"See? He can be civilized when he wants to."

Draco rolled his eyes faintly but didn't argue.

Instead, he took a small sip from the bottle, careful not to overdo it, and began eating slowly, nodding appreciatively toward Winky with each bite. The elf's tiny face glowed with pride, and for the first time that night, Draco felt a fleeting sense of ease - among food, warmth, and the unexpected kindness of someone who had known loss too.

Draco tilted his head, half impressed, half amused.-"How do you know all this? How do you know the ins and outs of this place...the elves, their habits? It's like we didn't go to the same school."

Harry chuckled softly.-"Years of... observation, mainly kindness it opens many doors. And staying awake more than most of the students, I suppose."

Draco let a small smile tug at his lips. All the things he never did, kindness was never his main way of doing things.

Despite the exhaustion, he felt a rare warmth. One night - just one night - he could glimpse what Harry's life had been like back then: constant activity, mischief, small victories, and a connection to those who lived in the hidden corners of the castle. He silently appreciated the fleeting sense of normalcy, of belonging.

Harry handed him another small plate, stacking it with food.-"Eat. You'll feel better."

Draco accepted it, still quietly thoughtful, and the two of them settled in among the tiny kitchens, the scent of fresh bread and simmering stews filling the air. Outside, the castle seemed to sleep, but here, among elves and quiet warmth, the echoes of the day's adventures and shared confidences finally gave way to a brief, rare peace.

The night stretched on far longer than either of them had intended.

Between the warmth of the kitchens, the comfort of the food, and Winky's enthusiastic insistence that they try "just a sip" of Firewhisky for courage, the two of them had lost all track of time.

Draco's careful, precise movements gradually loosened, his usual stiffness melting into a quiet, bemused enjoyment.

Harry, for his part, laughed more freely than he had in weeks, the tension of the forest and the day's adventures slowly fading.

Before they realized it, Winky had guided them into a game of wizard's chess at a side table. They moved oversized pieces across the board with careful flicks of their wands, the Firewhisky lending an odd sort of bravado to their actions.

Draco, surprisingly sharp and focused despite the alcohol, methodically captured Harry's king, triumphant. He threw his hand into the air and high-fived Winky, who cheered in delight. Harry laughed, staggering slightly in place, shaking his head in mock defeat.

Hours seemed to blur. They had barely noticed the passage of time, and the sky outside began to lighten faintly with the first blush of dawn. Neither had had so much as a wink of sleep, but adrenaline and lingering drunkenness pushed them forward.

Dragging themselves from the kitchens saying goodbye to Winky, still a little drunk and utterly exhausted, Harry and Draco made their way toward the Astronomy Tower, Harry had suggested it, for some fresh air. The stairs felt endless, each step heavier than the last, their earlier mischief and late-night indulgence finally catching up with them.

The memories of this place lingered between both of them, Harry had witnessed the death of Dumbledore here, the scared boy who had been pushed into killing him...Draco shivered but moved past it.

The door to the tower creaked as they pushed it open, and a blast of cool morning air hit them, carrying the faint scent of dew and the distant grounds. The castle below was still shrouded in shadows, the lights in the courtyards twinkling like scattered stars.

Harry let out a soft sigh, leaning against the stone balustrade.-"Fresh air..."-He muttered, eyes closing for a moment. Draco simply nodded, hands tucked into his pockets, feeling the wind ruffle his unruly hair. The fields below was quiet, peaceful - something completely different from the chaos of their night.

They stood there in silence, just breathing, letting the moment stretch. Slowly, the darkness began to lighten, and the first hints of sunrise painted the sky in streaks of gold and lavender. The horizon glimmered like a promise, and for a fleeting moment, even Draco allowed himself to forget the residual tipsiness and fatigue.

Harry, still clutching his Marauder's Map, watched the tiny footprints crawl across the parchment under the soft light, but the warmth of the sun and the cool breeze began to lull him into a drowsy calm. His eyelids drooped, and he let himself slump against the stone.

Draco noticed, his gray eyes softening. He shifted closer, leaning slightly against Harry's shoulder for balance.-"I suppose... this isn't entirely unbearable."-He muttered, voice low, almost lost in the wind.

Before either could argue about the position, sleep overtook them. The chill of the tower, the steady light of dawn, and the exhaustion of their long, eventful night conspired together. Heads lolling gently against the cold stone, they drifted off, watching the sunrise paint the castle in gold and pink as the first real light of day crept across Hogwarts.

Harry slept without his potion...

When they finally woke, it was an hour later, the world softened by sunlight, their hair sticking in wild angles, and the remnants of their tipsiness still lingering like a fading shadow.

The sun had settled a bit over the horizon spilling golden light over the castle grounds. Harry blinked against the brightness, muscles aching pleasantly from the long night and the heavy sleep on the cold stone. Draco shifted beside him, his head resting in his shoulder, letting out a quiet groan, hair wild and eyes still heavy-lidded. He looked peaceful, and Harry did not wish to bother him.

Draco pushed himself away once he understood where they were and with who he was.

Wordlessly, they gathered their cloaks and anything else they had left behind on the tower ledge. The castle was slowly coming to life, the distant murmur of early risers floating up from the courtyards, but the hallways were still mostly empty, allowing them to slip through unnoticed.

Their footsteps were slow and uncoordinated, both carrying the residue of last night's Firewhisky and exhaustion. Draco, usually precise in everything, moved like a shadow, careful not to jostle Harry too much. The corridors seemed longer than they remembered, the castle still half-dreaming itself awake.

Finally, the familiar door to Gryffindor Tower appeared. The password - mumbled automatically - granted them entry, and they ascended the spiral staircase with quiet, shuffling steps. Once inside the common room, they paused for a moment, eyes taking in the warm, cozy space, the fire low and the early morning light painting the stone walls in amber.

Without a word, they climbed the stairs to the dormitory. Draco dropped onto the mattress beside Harry, letting out a long, weary sigh. Harry followed, collapsing on his usual bed, the soft sheets a stark contrast to the cold stone of the Astronomy Tower.

For a moment, they just lay there, bodies heavy, minds still hazy from alcohol and lack of sleep. Neither spoke; words felt unnecessary. The quiet comfort of the room, the soft glow of morning, and the familiarity of Hogwarts around them wrapped them in a rare sense of peace.

Slowly, their breathing evened, the exhaustion of the night and the brief sunlight finally pulling them into deep, uninterrupted sleep. Outside, the castle stirred into life, students beginning their day, but inside the Gryffindor dormitory, Harry and Draco finally rested, safe and silent, the chaos of the night fading like a distant memory.

The dormitory was still heavy with the weight of sleep, pale morning light spilling in through the tall windows in muted strokes. Most of the castle was quiet, the sort of hush that belonged only to early hours when even the portraits were reluctant to stir.

Neville sat on the edge of his mattress, boots in hand, rubbing at his eyes with the back of one knuckle. His hair stuck out at odd angles, the mark of someone who hadn't slept quite enough. Harry was already lacing his own shoes, bent forward, shoulders relaxed in a way that came from habit rather than ease.

"So."-Harry murmured, keeping his voice low so as not to wake the others.-"Sprout's taken you on properly, then?"

Neville nodded, a small smile twitching at his lips despite his sleepiness.-"Mm. An internship - she wants me to help with the second-years this term. Says I've got a knack for explaining things without scaring them off."+He gave a quiet laugh, shaking his head.+"Never thought I'd end up back here like this."

Harry grinned.+"I'm not surprised at all. You've always been good with plants, Nev. And with people, too."

Neville ducked his head at the compliment, tugging absently at his bootlaces.-"Maybe. Still feels strange, though. Walking these halls as...staff. Responsibility and all that. I am only twenty after all."

For a moment, the silence stretched, easy and companionable. Then Neville's gaze flicked across the room, lingering on the pale bundle of blankets in the other bed. His mouth twisted, and the warmth in his face cooled.

"And yet here we are, sharing quarters with him."-Neville muttered under his breath, the words sharp with old distaste.-"Can't imagine what the other guys would think if they knew."

Harry stilled, his hands pausing on his laces. He looked up at Neville, his expression even, but his green eyes carried the weight of quiet reproach. He didn't need to say anything - the look was enough.

Neville shifted under it, cheeks colouring. He let out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck.-"Right. I suppose... people change."-The words came out grudgingly, like stones pulled from the bottom of a river. He forced a crooked smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.-"Morning, then. To him, too. When he wakes."

It was in that softened silence that the blankets on the other bed stirred. Draco shifted, half asleep, half awake.

Draco's eyes fluttered open to the soft, muffled laughter drifting up the stairs. He shifted under the duvet, squinting through the dim morning light. The chatter was faint but unmistakable - Harry, and...Neville?

Peeking over the edge of the bed, Draco caught sight of Neville sitting up on the adjacent mattress, rubbing his eyes and stretching.-"Morning..."-Neville mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.-"Breakfast will be served soon. Don't want to miss it."

"Morning, I guess..."-Draco groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead as Neville sat up and left the dorm.

The headache throbbed relentlessly, a lingering reminder of last night's Firewhisky and their marathon of mischief.-"What... happened last night?"-He croaked, his voice hoarse, memory still fuzzy.

Harry, sitting cross-legged on his bed and still fully awake, scratched the back of his neck, a faint blush creeping across his cheeks.-"Uh... well..."-He hesitated, searching for words that wouldn't make Draco roll his eyes.-"A lot. Let's just say Winky may have overestimated your tolerance for Firewhisky, and we...played a long game of wizard's chess."

Draco raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.-"Chess? That doesn't even sound... responsible."

Harry's grin widened, but he quickly gestured toward a neat pile of clothes on the foot of their beds.-"The house-elves mended our... casualties from yesterday. They even fixed your jacket and cleaned the stains. We should probably get dressed and grab breakfast before we miss the train."

Draco blinked, scanning the restored garments with mild awe.-"They - already fixed everything?"

"Yeah."-Harry said, tossing him a clean set of clothes.-"You really should appreciate how well these elves work. Now, let's go before Neville inhales all the food."

Draco muttered under his breath, but there was a trace of amusement in his voice as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, finally willing to face the day.-"Fine. But next time, remind me to never trust you near Firewhisky again."

Harry laughed, shaking his head.-"Noted. But you have to admit, last night was...memorable."

Draco huffed but allowed a small, reluctant smile to tug at his lips as he began changing, the headache dulling slightly as the familiar routine of Hogwarts morning took over.

Harry descended to the Great Hall without waiting for Draco to collect himself.

Draco prepared his books enchanting them again to hide with magic inside his cloak. And he went downstairs, taking the long way around sine the stairs decided to play tricks on him.

The Great Hall was bathed in the soft, golden glow of morning sunlight, the long tables almost empty except for a few early risers and the quiet shuffle of teachers preparing for the day. Harry had already taken a seat with Neville, his eyes still a little heavy from lack of sleep.

Draco descended the stairs a few moments later, rubbing at his temples and trying to shake the remnants of last night's exhaustion. He paused, surveying the hall, unsure where to go.

"Over here."-Harry called from where he was sitting with Neville.-"Plenty of room. Come sit-..."

Neville, although very cautious, seemed not to mind much that he was sitting there.

Draco hesitated, then approached, sliding onto the bench across from Harry. His gray eyes flicked briefly toward Harry, who offered a small, tired grin in return.

Just then, Professor McGonagall appeared at the head of the hall, moving with her usual brisk efficiency. Her robes whispered against the stone floor as she came to a stop, eyes immediately locking onto the trio.

"Good morning."-She said, her voice clipped but carrying a note of amusement. She paused, taking in their slightly disheveled appearance - hair tousled, faces tired.-"I see someone has not been sleeping much."

Harry and Draco exchanged quick glances, the memory of their midnight escapades still fresh.

McGonagall's gaze sharpened.-"And I see...an armour has been damaged last night."-Her eyes narrowed, scanning their faces.-"I happen to know whose doing that was."

Draco's lips twitched, fighting back a smile, and Harry coughed into his hand to hide his own amusement. The two shared a subtle glance, silently acknowledging the other's culpability.

"If either of your last names ever appear on a student list again...Potter and Malfoy..."-McGonagall continued, her tone suddenly weighty and impossibly firm.-"I shall retire immediately. Mark my words."

The trio swallowed, a brief tension filling the air, but then Neville let out a quiet chuckle. Even Draco allowed a faint smirk, though his posture remained careful. Harry, cheeks tinged pink, leaned back slightly, shaking his head.

"Noted, Professor."-He murmured, voice light but respectful.

McGonagall's stern expression softened just a fraction, though the warning still lingered in her eyes. With a sharp flick of her robes, she swept past, leaving Harry, Draco, and Neville exchanging relieved but amused glances.

"So..."-Neville said, settling into his chair.-"What exactly were you two up to yesterday?"

Harry shrugged, a mischievous glint flickering across his tired features.-"Exploring the castle... causing a bit of chaos. Typical Gryffindor mischief."

Draco let out a faint snort, shaking his head.-"Exactly Gryffindor nonsense. Unrestrained, reckless... predictable."

Harry grinned, nudging him lightly.-"Better reckless than boring, Malfoy. And I remember you having fun."

For a moment, the three of them laughed quietly together, the soft morning light, the warmth of the nearly empty hall, and the shared memories of the previous night forming a rare moment of calm camaraderie.

After a silent breakfast at the Great Hall, they left Hogwarts quietly, the castle's ancient towers and flickering windows receding behind them as they descended toward the hidden platform. The air carried the familiar scent of smoke, stone, and the faint tang of magic, a reminder of the day's adventures and the countless memories the castle held.

Boarding the train, they sank into the seats of an empty compartment. The warmth of the carriage and the gentle rocking of the train wrapped around them, a soft lull after the day's chaos. Neither spoke much at first, the silence between them comfortable...

For most of the journey to London, sleep claimed them. Their minds, weighed down by the forest, the unicorns, the duels, and the discoveries, finally allowed themselves to rest. The Marauder's Map and the day's events lay folded neatly in Harry's satchel, but the memories lingered, a quiet hum beneath the surface of their sleep, having both taken a drop or two of the Dreamless Sleeping Draught.

When the train at last screeched to a halt, the afternoon light spilling into the compartment, Draco blinked against the brightness and stretched, still half-caught between the remnants of sleep and wakefulness. He glanced at Harry, voice low but resolute:-"I'll... look into Hagrid's unicorns, test the blood. Something about what we saw...it doesn't sit right."

Harry offered him a tired but genuine smile.-"Good. And, Draco...good luck with everything else too - the Unspeakables exam, curse-breaking, everything you've got lined up. If anyone can handle it, it's you."

Draco allowed a faint, thoughtful smile to tug at his lips, a small acknowledgement of both gratitude and mutual understanding.-"Thanks, Potter. Maybe...one day our paths will cross again."

They gathered their things and stepped onto the platform together, the clatter of the station around them and the swirl of morning commuters filling the space. Yet between them was a quiet pause, the weight of the day and the bond formed during it settling like a soft presence. The memories - the laughter, the duels, the quiet confessions, the forest, the unicorns, the map, and even the chaos - traveled with them, unforgotten, lingering in the space between what had been and what was still to come.

They stepped onto the platform together, the bustle of commuters around them fading into the background.

Finally, in a small, unspoken gesture, they paused. Harry extended his hand, and Draco met it, firm and deliberate. He was slightly taken aback by the gesture.

The handshake was simple, quiet, yet it carried the weight of all they had shared - the laughter, the duels, the midnight escapades, and the understanding forged in between.

Draco sighed.-"Potter..."

"Malfoy..."-Harry said politely.

As they released, each continued on their separate path, the bond lingering like a silent echo. Some things, Harry thought, began and ended with a handshake - but they left a mark far longer than the moment itself.

As they parted ways, Harry lingered a moment longer, watching Draco's figure fade into the crowd. A quiet thought crossed his mind, one he didn't voice aloud: perhaps some things, once shared, left traces that stretched farther than either of them might have expected.

Chapter Text

The September sun was dipping low, painting the lake at the edge of the Lovegood farm in ribbons of copper and rose. The water caught the colours like molten glass, rippling with each small breeze that swept across the grassy bank.

Draco sat there, cloak tossed aside on a tree stump, his sleeves rolled past his forearms. A flat stone rested between his fingers, and though he turned it over and over, he made no move to skip it across the lake like he usually did. He only studied the way the light glinted along its edge, lost in thought, eyes fixed somewhere in the void of the lake.

Beside him, Luna lay on her stomach over a blanket, her chin propped on her hands, her feet dangling on the back of Draco's. She was humming to herself as she threaded bits of coloured threads onto a thin cord. The sound was aimless, like wind chimes on a lazy afternoon. Her hair looked warm under the sunsetting light, a freakish resemblance to Draco's in the way they shone, so much so that you would think they were actual siblings.

"You're too quiet today..."-She said suddenly, not looking up from the braid she was making.-"It doesn't suit you, Draco."

He huffed, deep in thought, eyes fixed on a point far away.-"I'm a bit lost, Moony."

She finally glanced up, her silvery eyes twinkling with amusement.-"You always call me that when you want to avoid saying something serious."

Draco let the stone drop from his fingers. It landed with a muted thud on the grass between them.-"Maybe I am. Maybe I don't know what to say."

"Start anywhere, we can catch its train when it passes by."-Luna replied gently, going back to her string being braided. Her wand stood forgotten by her side.

Draco leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, his eyes fixed on the restless shimmer of the lake. His voice was low, clipped, like he had to force each word past his teeth.

"As I mentioned...The centaur. What he said... about Potter. About darkness."

His jaw tightened, working as though the thought itself soured in his mouth.-"I can see it, Luna. The way he prowls the castle at night, like he's still hunting something only he can see. The way he gulps down potions just to close his eyes. You can call it nightmares, call it whatever you like - but it looks to me like there's still something festering in him. Like he never really left the dark behind. Tell me that doesn't sound like it's still lodged in his bones."

Luna paused mid-knot, then set her beads down and watched him. She didn't interrupt, didn't offer her usual soothing contradiction. She simply waited for him to get everything out of his chest first.

Draco's voice dropped lower.-"I don't want another name, people are too afraid to speak. Riddle was enough. We can't-..."- He cut himself off, fingers curling against his knees.-"The world wouldn't survive another one. Not if it was him..."

There was a silence, broken only by the lazy lap of the water. Luna tilted her head, considering him with her unfathomable calm.-"Harry is not Riddle."-She said softly.

Draco let out a bitter breath, half a laugh, half despair.-"That's exactly the sort of thing you'd say, Lovegood. He is your best friend after all..."

She smiled faintly at the old habit of the name.-"Because it's true, not because I feel like it. If you had seen him, how he protects us..."

His gaze flicked to hers - sharp, restless, but beneath it, an unguarded fear.-"Look at him yourself, any day you like. You have...this way of seeing things no one else does. If you think nothing is festering in him, maybe I'll believe it."-He gave a humourless huff, more scoff than laugh, but his fingers curled tight against his knees.-"But right now, I'm certain of one thing: there's still something inside Potter, something dark, and I'd rather know than spend my life waiting for it to break loose."

Luna's expression softened, almost sad. She didn't flinch from his intensity. Instead, she reached over and brushed her fingers against the edge of his sleeve - a grounding touch, light as breath.-"Then I'll see him..."-She said simply.

For a moment, Draco let his eyes fall shut, as though the weight in his chest had eased just enough for him to breathe.

"Thank you... for not calling my paranoia completely absurd."-He muttered, and for once, the words weren't sharp or guarded.

They were just raw, honest. Always, for each other.

Luna went back to her beads, her voice drifting like the breeze.-"It won't be another name to fear, Draco. Not as long as Harry has us."

He didn't answer, but the thought lingered as he stared out at the sunset, wishing - for once - that he could believe her without doubt.

A newspaper from the Daily Prophet stood between them as an oddity. Luna had found out about their odd pairing through the newspaper. A picture of them by the window of the Three Broomsticks with the bold high lettering of: "Rivals to Something More, Here is all you need to know about the relationship between Potter and Malfoy."

What she read there had her blushing, and made Draco want to burn the newspaper when she showed him. He had cursed the whole editorial who wrote that filth. They had painted him like the number one fan of Harry bloody Potter, and a two-faced bastard who went after power, changing sides whenever he pleased. His reputation was in shambles.

Draco plucked another stone from the grass, weighing it idly in his hand, the corners of his mouth twisting.

"As the Prophet conveniently left out..."-He drawled.-"We've been... busy. If you can call stumbling into cursed corridors, trashing bathrooms, and nearly being skewered in the forest busy."

Luna's dreamy gaze didn't waver; she smoothed the paper flat with delicate fingers, as if calming a restless creature.-"The Prophet rarely prints the truth..."-She said serenely.-"It likes scandal better. People prefer to gasp at shadows than look at what's really there."-Her lips curved in a small, knowing smile.-"If you'd like, I could ask Father to print a response in The Quibbler. Something truer. You'd have the final word, Draco."

Draco snorted, half-amused despite himself.-"Yes, just what I need - my name splashed across another magazine. Next to an article about Snorkacks or pixie infestations, no doubt."

Luna tilted her head, unbothered.-"Sometimes the outlandish is closer to the truth than anyone realises."-Her lips curved faintly.-"It sounds like you had one of those adventures Harry loves to take people on. He is amazing at it, don't you think?"

Draco gave her a sharp look, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed amusement.-"If that's what you want to call it, Moony. I'd call it lunacy."-He flicked the stone in his hand into the lake, watching the ripples break across the copper reflection of the evening sky.

"Do you know how ridiculous it feels, hiding under an invisibility cloak while Peeves nearly screams the castle awake? Or drinking in the kitchens with a perpetually distressed, alcoholic house-elf? Or ending up on the Astronomy Tower at dawn because you're too far gone to find your way back?"-He let out a short, humourless laugh.-"And all of this has completely ruined our transformation schedule for this month. I skipped the morning ritual of collecting dew - completely. Weeks of preparation, just gone."

Luna's laugh was soft, silvery, and entirely unbothered, drifting across the water like a song.-"Apart from the added time to our transformation-..."-She said lightly.-"...-it sounds rather fun."

Draco's eyes narrowed, but he couldn't suppress the faintest smirk.-"Fun..."-He muttered.-"If your idea of fun involves potentially being petrified by Peeves, chased by a centaur, or discovering that even your animagus preparation can't survive a night of Gryffindor chaos."-He paused, the corners of his mouth twitching as he glanced at her.-"I suppose there's a certain... charm to it. In a completely insane, utterly foolish sort of way..."

"I remember the Gryffindor charm..."-She said dreamily.

"And here I wonder how you ended up in Ravenclaw."-Draco muttered, tilting his head slightly, a faint trace of curiosity in his sharp grey eyes.-"You would have fit better amongst them."-He gestured vaguely toward the far-off lake, as though he could see the golden trio lingering there in memory.

"You smiled just now. Cause you liked it, secretly enjoyed his company."-Luna pointed out dreamily, as though remarking on the weather.

Draco lifted his head, scowling faintly, lips pressing into a thin line.-"Did not."

"You did."-Her tone was teasing, light as the breeze, and she tucked another coloured thread into the braid forming over her shoulder.

He huffed a laugh, short and reluctant, shaking his head.-"Fine. Maybe for a moment. But don't tell anyone, Lovegood. If word gets out that Draco Malfoy enjoyed a night of Gryffindor nonsense, my reputation will never recover...not that it would change much, with what the newspaper has spat on my last name..."

Luna tipped her head.-"I'll keep your secret."-She looked at the newspaper again and smiled. Their picture moving softly through the thin fog of the photograph - Draco's faint smile, Harry's gaze locked on him with equal understanding and interest.-"Odd pair, you two...like a mismatched pair of socks, it stands out, but can work just perfectly...They should have named the article something less... explicit."

Draco's brow arched.-"Like... Adventure with the Wrong People, Caught at the Wrong Timing."

That earned her a low chuckle, one that caught him by surprise.-"Denial is the first step to admitting you..."-She replied serenely.-"...-had more fun than you've had in years."

He didn't argue. Instead, he leaned back in the grass, staring up at the deepening indigo sky, and let the quiet honesty of her words settle in.-"I have fun with you, too."

Luna's gaze wandered to the fading patch of fur on the back of her hand.-"This is different...we are more laid back."-She pointed out.-"We aren't exactly reckless."

Draco lifted an eyebrow, glancing at her hand then at his own, claws now freed from his leather glove that he usually wears out in public, then back at her face, as if to silently suggest that "laid back" wasn't entirely accurate. He then glanced over at Beaky, tied at the tree beside them, eating a ferret in total silence and a fit of pride in its posture. A faint smirk tugged at his lips.-"Right... laid back. Less reckless."-Like they had not just flown across the lake on the back of that very same hippogriff just to find some Yellowbell mushrooms for absolutely no reason.

Luna touched her hand softly, a big smile on her face, and she called it a partial success.

The breeze tugged at their hair, and for a moment, neither spoke. The lake shimmered under the September sun's last golden fingers, and Draco felt, quietly, that despite the chaos and darkness surrounding him and Harry, this - here, with Luna - was exactly the kind of calm he hadn't realised he needed.

Draco had not told her about the unicorns, in case she might get too sad for the separated mother and unicorn calf. He was going to look into this matter on his own and let Hagrid know if he found out anything.

Draco shifted onto his elbows, the grass bending beneath him.-"It wasn't just nonsense... There were... moments where he was... so true."-His grey eyes flicked to the lake, then back to Luna.-"But that centaur - took one look at him and muttered about darkness clinging to him. Said it was still in his bones."

Luna's expression didn't change, but her gaze grew thoughtful.

Draco rubbed a hand down his face.-"And it made sense, Moony. You should've seen him that night. Wand lit, pacing corridors, pretending he was just restless, but I know better. He couldn't sleep from those bloody nightmares."

"Did you help him?"-Luna asked gently.

"Honestly, he isn't my friend...but-..."-Draco smirked faintly.-"In my own brilliant way, I offered a piece of my mind. Broke into the infirmary, stole Pomfrey's Dreamless Draught. Potter thought he was the clever one, but he'd never have opened the cabinet without me."-He let a touch of pride creep into his tone, though it faltered when he added:-"Too easy. He needed it too much."

Luna gave a low cackle while braiding her threads.

He sat up fully now, knees drawn up, arms resting across them. -"And then there was Dobby. Winky was in the kitchens, still grieving, and Potter-..."-He swallowed.-"He had buried him. Himself. By the sea, at that bloody cottage. You'd think a saviour wouldn't get his hands dirty, but Potter-..."-Draco's voice broke off into a soft scoff.-"He does. Every time."

Draco's voice faltered as he mentioned Dobby, but Luna cut in softly, her eyes still fixed on the rippling lake.-"I know. I was there, Draco. Harry dug his grave without magic. Every shovelful of earth with his own hands. He wanted Dobby to be honoured properly, with effort, with love."

Draco stilled, the stone rolling between his fingers.-"He didn't use magic?"

She shook her head.-"He wanted it to be real. Honest. Respectable..."

For a moment, Draco didn't speak. His chest tightened with something he couldn't name - shame, maybe, for the cruel orders his family had once given to elves, or for never thinking of them as more than servants. Or perhaps it was admiration he didn't want to admit.

Finally, he exhaled, voice low.-"Bloody Potter... he never does anything halfway, does he?"

Luna smiled faintly.-"Not when it matters."

Draco gave a dry laugh, but it was hollow around the edges.-"And that's exactly what terrifies me, Moony. I think he does not know the war is over yet."

Draco leaned back against the soft grass, letting the late September sun warm his face. The rippling lake reflected copper and rose light across his features, softening the sharp angles that usually carried a permanent edge. The sunset lingered longer than usual above the ground of the lake.

Luna sat beside him, her fingers working gently at a strand of chords, threading tiny coloured threads through it. A few beads were kept in small glass containers beneath her on the ground.

"You should try."-She said, tilting her head with that serene confidence that somehow made everything feel easier.-"It's simpler than it looks."

Draco raised an eyebrow, glancing at her intricate braids.-"I highly doubt it. My hands are not...delicate enough."

Luna chuckled, the sound light and musical, a contrast to his usual clipped tones. She guided his fingers carefully, showing him how to twist and weave the threads.-"Not delicate..."-She murmured.-"Just... careful. You're already precise. That's half the work."

He reached out and took three tiny threads from her pile, changing his position to sit on the blanket side by side.-"Show me..."-He said softly, giving up on the unnecessary fight to learn something new.

Luna, unlike anyone who would witness this on Draco, did not point it out or tease it; she embraced his change of mind, of heart...she taught him, because he wanted to be taught.

Draco focused, brow furrowed, hands stiff at first, his talons not quite helpful in this delicate moment, but slowly following her motions. He caught her small smile as his braid began to take shape, a little messy, not perfect - but hers wasn't flawless either.

"See...not completely hopeless."-She said, tilting her head to inspect his work.-"There's potential."

He allowed himself a short, real laugh.-"Potential."-He echoed, as though savouring the word.-"I'll take it."

They lapsed into silence, the only sound the soft lapping of the lake and the occasional call of a bird. Draco, uncharacteristically relaxed, let his shoulder brush hers as he started a new braid in hopes of making fewer mistakes. Luna didn't pull away, just hummed softly, continuing her own work on her braids.

For a moment, he felt the weight in his chest ease. The world, the darkness he so feared lingering in Harry, even the echoes of battles past - all of it seemed distant here. Just the grass, the lake, and Luna's quiet guidance.

"You know..."-He said finally, voice low, almost reluctant.-"If I survive this month without stabbing someone with a wand... I might keep this braid around my wrist. As proof, I can follow instructions."

She tied his first braid around his wrist, just around the other bracelet, the shimmering unicorn hair.

Luna then went back to her braid, threading a tiny coloured cord with a few beads in it.-"My mother...she used to braid my hair like this all the time, three threads at a time...My father... well, he was not really good, or he never really tried."

Draco shifted slightly closer, the grass soft beneath him, his fingers hovering uncertainly near her hair.-"Would you...let me try?"-His voice was low, careful, uncharacteristically soft, as though the words themselves might break the fragile quiet of the moment.

Luna tilted her head, her silver eyes catching the last rays of the setting sun.-"You can..."-She said gently.-"And I won't undo it. Promise."

Draco exhaled, a faint edge of tension leaving his shoulders. His fingers moved slowly, threading the first blonde strand through the braid, careful not to tug too hard. Luna watched in quiet fascination, her lips curling into a small, appreciative smile.

She remembered her mother's hands guiding hers years ago, the comfort of the careful, patient touch, and a pang of longing rose in her chest. But now, with Draco leaning close, deliberate and attentive, she felt that same calm wash over her. It wasn't her mother's hands - but it was care, deliberate and kind, offered freely.

Draco's movements were stiff at first, precise but cautious. Yet there was something quietly earnest in the way he worked, a focus that made his chest swell with an unfamiliar warmth. If he had ever had a sister, he thought, this is how he would have been - protective, meticulous, devoted to the task at hand with a steady heart beneath that usual sharp exterior.

As he lifted a strand to weave through the braid, he felt a faint tremor in his fingers. Not from fear, not from anger, not even from clumsiness - but from the unfamiliar tenderness of the act, the strange vulnerability of doing something so purely for another. Draco's sharp mind noted it, but didn't recoil. Instead, he adjusted, guiding the hair threads carefully, each movement deliberate. Fingers trembling in care.

A strange warmth crept through him, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. In all his careful, controlled years, he had never allowed himself a moment quite like this - quiet, private, and entirely unburdened. A small smile tugged at his lips.

"There..."-He murmured finally, leaning back slightly.- "Done... I think."

"You... you're really careful, I will keep it."-Luna murmured softly, not as a critique, but as a quiet acknowledgement of how rare such dedication felt.

Draco glanced up, meeting her gaze briefly, eyes softened.-"I don't... I don't do things half-heartedly. Not when it matters."

She leaned back slightly, letting him finish the braid with a few flowers he picked up from the ground beside them, the braid catching the fading light of the sunset. For a moment, the world beyond the lake and the rustling grass felt impossibly distant. Here, in this quiet, Draco was simply... present. Attentive. Careful. Caring.

When the last strand and flower clicked into place, Draco straightened, brushing a rogue thread into line, as if proud of the simple act. Luna reached out, her fingers lightly brushing his as she touched the braid.-"It's perfect..."-She said, voice soft, almost dreamy.-"Thank you... for this."

Draco's usual sharpness softened into a quiet satisfaction.-"It's... nothing."-He muttered, though the faint curve of his mouth betrayed him.-"Just... thought you deserved the effort."

For the first time in a long while, Draco let himself feel it: the simple calm of being useful, of caring without consequence, of a moment unshadowed by expectation or fear. They lay together in the soft grass, the late September sun warm on their faces, the lake shimmering behind them, and for just a little while, everything felt...uncomplicated.

And for a while, they simply sat there, the lake rippling copper and rose in the sunset, Draco's fingers still lingering near the braid, Luna's small smile tucked into the quiet, a rare, unspoken bond threading between them.

And if Luna started appearing around with more braids than usual in her hair, no one had to know...it was Draco who would braid them for her just because it reminded her of when her mother used to make them.

Evening sunlight slanted through the windows of the Burrow, illuminating the comfortable chaos within and catching dust motes in lazy beams. On the sofa, Hermione sat cross-legged, cradling a squirming one-year-old Teddy. With gentle flicks of her wand, she conjured iridescent birds with the "Aviatus Charm", sending them flitting above his head. The baby squealed with delight, his small hands reaching for the magical creatures as they danced and chirped, his tuft of hair briefly flashing turquoise with excitement.

The domestic peace was broken by Ron, who paced nearby, waving a freshly delivered Daily Prophet like a battle standard.-"You have to see this."-He declared, his voice full of mock gravitas. He read the headline aloud:-"'Rivals to Something More: Here is all you need to know about the relationship between Potter and Malfoy.'"

He paused for dramatic effect before smirking.-"It gets better. They’re calling him 'Harry Potter's number one fan.' Public humiliation for Malfoy! This is the happiest day of my life."

Hermione looked up from Teddy, a genuine smile touching her lips at Ron's theatrics.-"They're spinning it, Ron. Now that Harry's single, they think there's some sort of... 'bromance' going on."

"Bromance?"-Ron scoffed, gesturing dramatically with the paper.-"I thought he went to the Three Broomsticks to chat with Rosmerta, not have a romantic date with the ferret and make the front page! They're writing about a 'bromance with hidden potential' and painting them as the next wizarding power couple or something."

She laughed softly, gently sending a new flock of Aviatus birds to dance around Teddy, who clapped his hands in delight. "It's ridiculous. It was official business for Kingsley, nothing more. You know how the Prophet twists things."

Ron shook his head, still pacing.-"Honestly, this is worse than those tabloid articles about Ginny's Quidditch scandals. Can you imagine Harry's face when he reads this?"-He finally flopped into an armchair, a wide grin spreading across his face.-"Or better yet, Malfoy's. I'd pay good Galleons to see him realise the Prophet has painted him as Potter's devoted shadow. He'll be puffing out his chest like an indignant peacock for a week."

Hermione just shook her head fondly, her attention returning fully to the gurgling baby in her arms.-"They're not anything like what the Prophet thinks."-She murmured, her voice soft as she sent a final, shimmering bird to dissolve above Teddy's head. "Just two people doing what they need to."

Ron, however, was already rereading the article, muttering about their supposed "unspoken bond" under his breath.

The kitchen door creaked open, and Harry stepped in, balancing three clinking glasses. He'd enlisted Bill's help to mix something fruity and strong that smelled of cinnamon and citrus.

"Thought we might need these."-He said, setting them on the table with a grin.-"Especially when we start planning for the trials."

Ron completely ignored the comment about the trials, snatching up the crumpled Daily Prophet from the counter.-"Never mind that. You have to hear this, Harry. They've completely lost it."

"Let him sit down first, Ronald."-Hermione said, though her eyes were dancing with amusement. One-year-old Teddy was happily grabbing a fistful of her hair, which was promptly shifting to match his own turquoise tuft.

Harry groaned, rubbing the back of his neck.-"I've been avoiding that thing. The title alone made my stomach churn."

"Too late, mate."-Ron said, shoving the paper into his view. He read the headline aloud, his voice thick with mockery.-"'From rivals to something more, here's all you need to know about Potter and Malfoy.'"- He paused for dramatic effect again.-"And the best part: 'Harry Potter's number one fan: Malfoy's unusual devotion could lead to... romance?'"

Harry's jaw dropped.-"They - what?"-He grabbed the paper, his face flushing a deep red as his eyes scanned the words.-"This is appalling! How could they - I swear, none of this happened!"

Hermione suppressed a laugh as Teddy, still attached to her hair, began wriggling in her arms, mumbling "da-da" and reaching for Harry.-"Oh, Harry. They've painted it as if Malfoy is obsessed with you and you're, well, flirting with danger now that you're single."

"Exactly!"-Ron crowed, slapping the table.-"Honestly, you look like you're about to combust."

Harry let out an exasperated groan, sinking into an armchair and grabbing one of the drinks.-"They're making me out to be some reckless, swooning Gryffindor who's got Malfoy wrapped around his wand. Have they ever actually seen us? We were more likely to be hexing each other that night than...whatever this is."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, a small, knowing smile tugging at her lips as she shot a look at Ron, who returned it.-"Sounds like quite a night, Harry."

"Quite."-Harry muttered, taking a long sip of his drink.-"And this is what the Prophet publishes. My life turned into a melodrama, and Malfoy's my 'number one fan.' Can you imagine his face?"

Ron leaned back, chuckling.-"It's hilarious, mate. You have to admit."

"Hilarious, yes. Accurate? Not even close."-Harry huffed. He looked between his two friends, the embarrassment on his face finally giving way to resignation.

Hermione settled Teddy more comfortably on her lap.-"Alright, let's hear it then. What really happened?"-She pointed a finger at a picture on the page where he and Malfoy appeared to be smiling at each other.

Harry laughed despite himself, finally relaxing into his chair.-"Alright, fair enough."-He raised his glass.-"But first... cheers."

They clinked glasses, the sound ringing through the kitchen. Harry took a deep breath, gesturing toward the newspaper still sitting between them.

"Alright, before you have any more fun with that."-He began.-"You should probably know what actually happened."

Ron leaned forward eagerly, his eyes glinting.-"Unfortunate adventures, you said?"

Harry took a fortifying sip of his drink, a wry smirk touching his lips.-"It started with a duel. In Myrtle's bathroom."

Ron choked on his drink.-"Again!"

"He's gotten better."-Harry admitted, a flicker of something like respect in his eyes.-"Fast, clever... ruthless. He's a curse-breaker in training, and honestly, he's good. We practically trashed the place. Myrtle was thrilled."

Hermione leaned forward, her brow furrowed.-"You two actually fought?"

"More like a destructive negotiation."-Harry corrected dryly.-"But we had to work together after that. Dodging Peeves, navigating cursed staircases...it wasn't about rivalry. It was just about surviving the trip."

He paused, glancing between them.-"He even helped me get some Dreamless Sleep Draught from the infirmary when the nightmares got bad in the castle."

Hermione blinked.-"You stole from Madam Pomfrey?"

"Borrowed..."-Harry shrugged, a roguish grin appearing for a moment.-"Pomfrey sleepwalks. Draco knew the counter-curse for the cabinet. I wouldn't have managed it without him."

Ron shook his head, a look of stunned amusement on his face.-"So you're duelling, breaking into the infirmary, and running from Peeves... and you somehow managed not to kill each other?"

"Barely."-Harry confirmed.

Ron picked up the Daily Prophet again, laughing as he pointed at the picture of Harry and Malfoy.-"And meanwhile, the rest of the world thinks he's your devoted fanboy, hanging on your every word."

Harry groaned and drained the rest of his glass in one go.-"If they only knew."

As the laughter subsided, Hermione's expression grew more serious. She gently placed a now-sleepy Teddy into his nearby crib before turning back to Harry. "-You never told us about Hagrid. That's the real reason you went, wasn't it?"

Harry's smile faded. He nodded, reaching into his pocket and carefully placing a tattered piece of fabric on the table between them.-"This is what we found. Stuck on a branch near where the foal was taken."-As Teddy threw a toy from the crib, Harry absently levitated it back with a flick of his wand, his focus never leaving the clue.-"Hagrid's worried sick. The mother unicorn cries all night. He showed us...There were small pools of shimmering, silver blood on the moss."

Hermione frowned deeply, her voice firm.-"Harry, you need to take that to the Ministry immediately. Remember Quirrell in the forest. This is far too serious for Hagrid to handle alone."

Ron, however, leaned back with a grin.-"Or maybe it was just one of Aragog's lot? You know, nature taking its course."

Hermione's hand shot out and smacked him firmly on the arm.-"Ronald, that is not funny!"

"She's right."-Harry said, his voice low and intense.-"I've never seen Hagrid like this. He's tense, pacing... something unnatural is happening in that forest, and I won't ignore it."

Ron rubbed his arm, grinning sheepishly.-"I'm just saying, if a giant spider ate it-"

"It wasn't a spider."-Harry cut in, his eyes sharp.-"This was deliberate. Hagrid wouldn't be this shaken over a simple creature attack. He knows his forest."

Hermione nodded, her gaze fixed on the fragment of cloth.-"Exactly. You have evidence now, Harry. You can take it straight to Kingsley. He'll get the right people on it."

Harry picked up the fabric, holding it against the lamplight. The edges were frayed and felt faintly damp.-"I will."-He said, his voice hardening with resolve.-"First thing tomorrow. Hagrid won't have to worry alone for much longer."-He carefully folded the clue and slid it back into his pocket, his expression set. The time for jokes was over.

Harry relaxed into an armchair at the Burrow, swirling the dregs of his drink.-"Rosmerta will testify for Draco..."-He told Ron and Hermione.-"But that's only half the battle."

Ron paced the length of the rug.-"Half the battle? Harry, we're walking in blind. We have no idea who the Ministry will call as a witness or what lies they'll be ready to tell."

Hermione, keeping a watchful eye on Teddy as he dozed in a nearby bassinet, frowned.-"He's right. An unknown accusation could be disastrous. If we only had a few minutes' warning..."-Her voice trailed off, her expression thoughtful.-"There is the last Time-Turner, Dumbledore's Time-Turner. It's highly illegal, but functional."

"Perfect!"-Ron said, stopping his pacing.

"Not perfect."-Hermione countered immediately. -He can't just appear in a crowded courtroom. The temporal displacement, the risk of being seen... It's impossible."

A sly smile touched Harry's lips.-"But what if I'm not seen? I've been thinking. What if we combine the Time-Turner with Mirage Spells? If I can mask my presence and movements, and you two - disguised as jury members - act as extensions of the spell, I could move undetected, gain those crucial minutes, and still be in position. They wouldn't even know I was a step ahead."-He paused, letting the plan sink in before adding the final piece.-"There's more. Draco and Narcissa don't know the trial is in two days. I've had Kreacher intercept their owls from the Ministry."

Ron stared, dumbfounded.-"You're mad. Completely barking. Intercepting Ministry mail?"

"It's brilliant, actually."-Hermione breathed, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and approval.-"You're protecting them from the stress while giving us complete control to prepare their defence."

"See? Brilliant."-Harry said with a grin.-"But the timing has to be flawless. One mistake and the whole thing collapses."

Hermione was already nodding, her mind racing.-"We'll need to practice the hand-off. Synchronise everything perfectly. The Enchanted Chamber at the Ministry where Aurors train will be the best place - secure and adaptable."

"So we're really doing this..."-Ron said, a thrill of excitement cutting through his disbelief.-"Time travel, secret plots, a house-elf accomplice...Just like old times."

"We start tonight."-Harry said, his tone leaving no room for argument.-"We train until we're flawless."

Their glasses clicked one more time, a quiet, sharp sound in the suddenly still room. As if on cue, a soft murmur came from the bassinet. The intense energy of their planning session dissipated instantly, replaced by a gentle domesticity that was still, at times, a marvel to them all.

Harry rose without a word and moved to the bassinet. He picked up Teddy, whose tufts of hair had settled on a dark brown similar to his own, and held him against his shoulder. The gentle, rocking motion was instinctive now, a rhythm of comfort and protection. As he softly lulled him, the faint scent of milk and baby powder filled the air, a grounding aroma that stood in stark contrast to the high-stakes magic they had just been plotting.

Ron and Hermione watched, the conversation forgotten. They didn’t see the determined Auror or the Boy Who Lived planning another impossible feat. They saw Harry, their friend, his expression softened by the warm, sleeping weight of his godson. They saw the very reason they all continued to fight for a safer world.

"We'll be there, mate."-Ron said quietly, his earlier bravado settling into a look of steadfast loyalty.-"Every step."

Hermione reached out, placing a hand on Harry’s arm. Her touch was a silent promise of support, her eyes conveying an understanding that went beyond words. This reckless, brilliant plan wasn't just about saving Draco Malfoy; it was about defining the kind of world Teddy would inherit - one where second chances were possible and old hatreds were not allowed to fester.

After a few more moments, Harry carefully laid the sleeping child back down, tucking a soft blanket around him. He turned back to his friends, the lamplight casting long, determined shadows across the floor. The time for talk was over. Outside, the Burrow stood as a beacon of warmth against the encroaching night, and inside, three friends stood ready, bound by an unbreakable resolve.

The calm had settled, but they were ready for the storm.

Draco's carriage rumbled up the winding driveway of Malfoy Manor, the familiar silhouette of the estate rising like a dark sentinel against the bruised purple of the late afternoon sky. The grand doors swung open before he reached them, and Narcissa Malfoy stepped into the hall, her elegant composure pulled taut over a layer of sharp worry.

"Draco, darling..."-She said softly, but with the unmistakable edge of a mother on alert.-"Where have you been? Is something wrong?"

Draco inclined his head politely, careful to keep his tone measured.-"I was... with a friend."-He said simply, avoiding details he wasn't ready to share.

"A friend?"-She pressed, her eyes narrowing slightly.-"You've been...gone for hours, Draco. I've never known you to vanish without telling me. And after the...mission at Hogwarts?"-Her brows knitted together.

Draco let the silence stretch, deliberately uninformative.-"Everything's fine, Mom. Really."

Narcissa's lips pressed into a thin line.-"Is it about the newspaper?"-She asked finally, a flicker of hope - or perhaps defiance - crossing her features.-"I can have a statement issued. We can control the narrative."

Draco shook his head, polite but firm, and he hid his hand behind his back, the one covered with a leather glove.-"Thank you, Mom, but I'll manage it myself. I need to... figure this out alone."

She studied him for a long moment, frowning, but finally nodded.-"Very well. But your examinations are in four days. You cannot afford distractions."

"I've been studying."-He replied, eyes meeting hers evenly.-"I'll continue in the Ministry's library. I need the silence to focus."

Narcissa's gaze softened slightly, though worry never left her face.-"Go then. But..."-She paused, as though weighing her next words carefully.-"There's an owl waiting for you in the family owlery - from your father, from Azkaban."

Draco's jaw stiffened imperceptibly.-"I'll fetch it in a moment."-He said evenly, though inwardly he bristled at the thought. Receiving anything from his father was never pleasant, but duty came first. He was a Malfoy, after all.

With that, he turned quietly, retrieving his coat from the hall and making his way toward the owlery, every step measured, every thought kept carefully in check. Even as he obeyed, a small part of him recoiled at the message he would have to collect - because some duties, no matter how unpleasant, were simply unavoidable.

Draco approached the owlery, his boots crunching softly over the gravel. A few owls were perched on their roosts, feathers ruffled in the evening breeze. One, a sleek tawny owl with sharp amber eyes, cooed impatiently - clearly carrying a letter addressed to him. Another, smaller and flustered, flapped its wings desperately, trying to escape some unseen struggle.

As Draco drew closer, his sharp gaze caught the scene: an elf, small and wiry, was grappling with one of the owls, trying to wrest a letter from its talons. There was something familiar about the elf - the sharp, angular features, the long, pale fingers - but he couldn't place it at first. Then it clicked.

"Kreacher?"-Draco hissed, stepping forward.-"You?"

The elf froze, wide-eyed, caught in the act. Draco raised his wand with precision, muttering a quick immobilising spell. "Petrificus Totalus" Kreacher froze mid-lunge, the owl flapping furiously but unable to escape.

"Explain yourself."-Draco demanded, eyes narrowed.-"Why are you stealing my letter? Who sent you, and for what purpose?"

Kreacher's voice, sharp and thin, squeaked out as if from a lifetime of barely contained fury and fear.-"Y-Young Master... it is... for your own good. My master... he... he requires you not to interfere. He said... this is for your benefit, young master..."

Draco's hand tightened on his wand.-"My benefit? Who is your master?"-His voice cut low, hard.

"The...the true master of the Noble House of Black..."-Kreacher whispered, as if the words were being torn from him.-"Harry Potter. He requires… discretion."

"Potter?"

Potter. The name landed like a punch to the gut. A cold, familiar fury coiled in his stomach. Of course. It always came back to Potter. Draco snatched the letter from the still-frozen owl and released it, his mind racing.

"So Potter is managing my affairs now?"-He sneered.

"Yes, young master!"-Kreacher squeaked, his voice strained.-"He said you must not... know, must not interfere. It is... for your own good..."

Draco's eyes narrowed dangerously, his jaw tight.-"No, Kreacher. This ends now. You go back to your master and tell him: there was no letter today. And under no circumstances do you mention to him that I found out you were stealing it."

Kreacher's small frame stiffened, but he lowered his head obediently.-"Yes, young master. I will... tell him nothing."

Draco released the spell on the elf, who scuttled off like a shadow, leaving the crumpled letter in Draco's hand. He stared at it for a moment, rage and disbelief twisting in his chest. Harry Potter. Always a step ahead, always meddling - even now, when Draco had no intention of interfering with his life, when they had already parted paths.

He stuffed the letter into his coat pocket, muttering under his breath.-"This - this is far from over, Potter."

He stood for a moment, the wind tugging at his pale hair, the crumpled letter in his hand feeling like a brand. It wasn't just meddling. It was an insult of the highest order - the implication that he, Draco Malfoy, was incapable of handling his own life.

He stormed back to his room, the Manor’s opulent halls offering no comfort. They felt like a cage, its bars gilded with the legacy he was struggling to redefine.

Once inside, he kicked the door closed and began pacing. Every sharp step echoed against the polished floors, a rhythm matching the storm of thoughts in his head.

Could this be about the trials, his father, or his mother? Is this another of Potter's schemes?

His mind raced. Harry Potter, always clever, always one step ahead...but why involve him? Was it a test? A trap? Or was Potter trying to manipulate him somehow, drawing him into something dangerous under the guise of "help" or "guidance"?

Draco's fingers itched to draw his wand, to perform a quick detection spell on the letter without opening it - but he stopped.

He sank into a chair by the window, staring out at the darkened grounds below, moonlight glinting off the edge of land in the distance. The world outside seemed calm, almost indifferent, and yet his chest tightened with a mixture of anger and curiosity.

"What are you planning, Potter?"- He whispered to himself, the words barely audible over the steady tick of the grandfather clock in the hall.-"What the hell are you trying to do this time?"

He rose abruptly and began pacing again, restless, hands running through his pale hair. I won't be a pawn, he vowed silently. I can't. Not with whatever he's dragging me into.

Finally, after what felt like hours but was likely only minutes, Draco stopped in the centre of the room. He pulled the letter from his coat, turning it over in his hands, the faint rustle of parchment sounding louder than it should. He studied the seal, noting the way it had been folded and the slight crease along one edge.

This letter was from the Ministry of Magic itself...

Draco let the letter rest on his lap, eyes narrowing, mind calculating.

He broke the seal and opened it...

Chapter Text

Draco's fingers trembled only slightly as he unfolded the parchment, though he forced himself to move with calm, deliberate precision. His pale eyes scanned the page - and his expression darkened.

The letter was short. Too short.

Notice of Trial Hearing.

The Office of the Wizengamot hereby summons Draco Lucius Malfoy to appear before a judicial hearing convened under the authority of Madam Amelia Susan Bones, Head of the Wizengamot.

Subject of Hearing: Allegations on the conduct of the undersigned during the events of the late conflict, in relation to matters involving Madam Rosmerta of Hogsmeade.

Date of Hearing: 7th of September

- Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

That was all. No charges. No petitioner. Just the name - Rosmerta - and the date.

7th of September, that was only...Two days from now.

Draco's chest tightened, and for a moment, he almost let the parchment slip through his fingers. Rosmerta. He had thought - no, he had been certain - that chapter had been buried with the war.

He could still remember the flash of his wand, the incantation forced through clenched teeth, fear in his voice, hesitation, the cold weight of the Imperius Curse settling over her like a chain. He hadn't wanted to remember. He had spent years forcing the image away. No one had ever known - not truly. Except his mother, his father and...

Potter.

Draco swallowed hard, heat prickling the back of his neck. Could Potter have put him on trial? That night at the Three Broomsticks...his private business with Rosmerta. What Potter had called a matter from the Ministry. Going up to Rosmerta's room and plotting.

Potter had known all along.

It seemed impossible. How would Potter stomach facing him, laughing with him, sharing bits of his life with him, if he were the one to drag Malfoy into Azkaban? He had played the hero long enough - but this? This would be a quiet execution, not glory.

Unless it wasn't Potter at all. Unless it was one of the others.

The pure-blood families who had survived the postwar trials had called the Malfoys traitors - cowards who had switched sides too late to be forgiven. Many were still clawing at scraps of power, desperate to see rivals fall. This hearing - shadowy, rescheduled seven times, petitioner concealed - stank of vendetta.

Still...it didn't explain why Potter was interfering. Why he'd sent Kreacher to steal the letters? Why was he keeping Draco in the dark?

Draco crumpled the edge of the parchment, forcing himself not to rip it in two. His thoughts circled like caged wolves. Potter's silence was worse than an accusation. Did he mean to protect him? Or to watch him squirm?

Draco let the letter rest in his lap, his face pale but his eyes sharp, burning. He totally ignored his father's letter, probably another plea from him to marry and continue their bloodline. He instead focused on the letter that might bring it to an end.

"This doesn't make sense."-He muttered in disbelief.

The letter felt heavier the longer Draco stared at it, its cold words pressing down on him like iron chains. He folded it carefully, as if the act of neatness could steady his pulse, then tucked it away. He couldn't think in this house, in these halls echoing with judgment. He couldn't breathe here. He couldn't even go to his mother for comfort. He could not face her like this...just as they had thought this would end...that they were finally free.

He knew, almost without deciding, where he would go.

By nightfall, Draco was standing on the crooked path that led to a little house tucked away beyond the treeline - not grand, not gilded, but warm with lantern light that spilt over the worn stone steps and flickered in the windows. The moment the door opened and Luna's dreamy gaze met his, something in him loosened. She didn't ask a single question. She never did. She simply stepped aside, letting him slip into her world without ceremony or judgment.

Inside, the air was scented faintly with lavender and old parchment, and the gentle hum of lantern light made the shadows dance softly against the walls. Luna prepared the sofa in her bedroom for him, tucking in extra blankets and plumping the pillows with meticulous care, transforming the narrow couch into a nest of warmth and quiet. Draco sank into it gratefully, the soft cushions rising to meet him, and for the first time all day, he let his shoulders drop.

His eyes wandered, restless even in comfort, and then he noticed a new addition to her mural of pinned photographs. Luna's walls had always been a patchwork of her whimsical world: pictures of strange creatures, distant lands, her friends laughing in careless joy. But among them, carefully taped and framed, was a photograph he recognised immediately.

The lake. That afternoon's sunlight glinted on water like spun gold. And there they were: him, hands tangled in her hair, braiding it with a rare, unguarded smile on his face; he had not noticed himself smile like that; and her, looking up at him with her quiet, surreal smile, the kind that made the world seem just slightly less heavy. She had taken the photo without a word, capturing the moment in a stillness that felt sacred. Matching hair and eye colour, like twins. He looked up at her, and there it was, the braid he had made earlier; she had kept the promise and had not undone it.

Draco's chest tightened, a hollow ache curling through him. This - this fleeting joy, this fragile normalcy - might be the last time they were truly together, shielded from the storm coming at dawn. His hands itched to brush the edges of the photograph, but he held still, letting his gaze linger.

He thought of her as a sister, a tether to the one part of his life that remained unbroken by guilt, by the war, by the relentless legacy of the Malfoy name. Luna was absurd, unpredictable, and impossibly grounded all at once - the one insane, constant thing keeping him sane. And the thought of losing that, of stepping into tomorrow without her presence nearby, made his chest constrict like a vice.

She moved quietly, placing a small tray of tea at the edge of the sofa. Draco didn't look at it; he didn't want to break the spell of stillness. Luna settled beside him, her fingers brushing his lightly as she adjusted a blanket around his shoulders, grounding him in the gentlest of touches.

"Drink it when you're ready."-She murmured, her voice soft, steady, like a lullaby only he could hear.-"I'll be right here, ready to hear."

Draco closed his eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of her hand, the faint scent of her hair, and the memory captured on the wall settle him. For once, he allowed himself to be small, to be vulnerable. Not as a Malfoy. Not as a schemer, a student, a fighter. Just Draco - a boy who clung to his only friend, who had never asked him to be anything more than he was.

It was the closest he'd ever come to surrender. Not the surrender of the war, forced at wandpoint, but something quieter, more frightening: the acceptance that his past was finally going to drag him under, and that maybe he deserved it. Yet for these few, precious hours, he could simply breathe.

And in that fragile bubble of warmth and quiet, he allowed himself a thought he never spoke aloud: If tomorrow comes, if the world tries to take her from me... I don't know what I'll do.

He gave her the letter, and let out his burden, and she was there to listen, to gently hold his hand through it, and ear, a column...

The next morning - the day before the hearing - Luna's patience wore into insistence. She tugged back the curtains, set parchment and ink before him, and tilted her head in that infuriating, compassionate way.-"If you say nothing, you'll be giving them everything."-She murmured.-"Write. At least write a defence statement."

If he would have to fight...he would fight for this... for her.

Reluctantly, Draco sat at her desk, his two bracelets shimmering, tangled in each other, his hand ungloved, claws gripping the side of the table. His hand hovered over the parchment. Words refused to come. What defence could he mount? Everyone had always known the truth, even if they hadn't said it aloud: he had followed orders, yes, but he had cast the curse. He had put Rosmerta in chains. The unspeakable had been spoken...the unforgivable curse had left his mouth...

In the end, what he scratched out was hardly a defence at all - just a tangle of sentences, a brittle attempt to explain. That he had been forced, that Voldemort himself had left him no choice. That he had hated every second of it. That he had been a boy, not a monster.

But there was no polish to it, no structure, no cunning. It was little more than a plea. A hope for forgiveness where none might be given.

He stared at the shaky lines of his own handwriting, remembering his first trial after the war - how Harry bloody Potter had spoken for him and his mother, had tipped the balance toward mercy. But Potter would not be there this time; instead, he was the one tipping the balance toward eternal darkness.

Draco pressed the quill down until the tip splintered. His chest ached with a hollow, gnawing certainty: he had nothing left. No power, no allies, no clever speech to turn the tide.

Only Luna's quiet presence at his side, and the fragile hope that someone, somewhere, might still see him as more than what the Dark Lord had made of him. Like Luna did...

That last evening, Luna's house was quiet but alive with small sounds - the faint ticking of a brass clock, the purring hum of a kettle, the occasional creak of wood in the beams above. Outside, the autumn wind rattled the windows, but inside, there was warmth.

Draco sat curled on her sofa, a training book clutched in his hands, though he hadn't looked at it in hours. His dream of the Unspeakables' position might shatter faster than anything he had ever seen get ruined before. Luna sat across from him on the floor, legs crossed, a tray of tea between them. She sipped hers slowly, eyes thoughtful, as though she were staring at something far beyond the walls.

Finally, she spoke.-"I don't understand why Harry would do this."-Her voice was soft, lilting, but her gaze was steady.-"He isn't cruel. He never was. He must think he's helping you. But..."-She tilted her head, the pale strands of her hair catching the lamplight.-"Harry doesn't know you as I do. He doesn't know how hard you've tried."

Draco's jaw tightened, his eyes fixed on the flames in the small hearth.-"I told you something dark was stirring...in him, Moony." -His voice was brittle with disbelief.-"How is this helping...By making sure I choke on every mistake I ever made? That's his idea of help?"

Luna set her cup down gently.-"Maybe not his idea of help...something else might be behind this, I can feel it...this can't be it, Draco..."-She admitted.-"But he believes in justice. Sometimes too much. Sometimes it blinds him."-She leaned forward slightly.-"And justice isn't the same as mercy. You know that better than anyone."

Draco didn't answer. His throat felt too tight. He could feel the parchment trembling in his grip, the pathetic draft of his "defence" a mockery of every ounce of cunning he used to pride himself on. He had nothing. Not this time. He did not have enough time to do anything; he had not even told his mother...In fear, she might break even worse. He knows she would give her life for his, but right now, she, too, was powerless.

Luna's hand came to rest lightly on his knee.-"Whatever happens tomorrow...."-She said.-"You don't face it alone. You'll never face anything alone again. Not while I'm here."

Something in Draco cracked at that, though he held himself rigid, refusing to let it show. He swallowed hard, staring past her, but the weight of her words lodged deep in his chest.

Later, as the fire burned low, Draco finally broke the silence.-"Tomorrow..."-He said quietly.-"I'm not going straight to the hearing. I'll go early. Undercover. I need to see who's moving in and out of those chambers, who's pulling the strings. If Potter is at the centre of this, I want to know why. I need to know."

Luna's eyes softened, though there was a shadow of worry in them.-"If you do, be careful. Don't let them see you before they're meant to. And Draco..."-She hesitated, rare for her.-"I hope it isn't Harry. Truly. Because if it is... then he doesn't understand what he's doing to you. And I think he'd regret it, once he knew."

Draco leaned back in the chair, exhaustion pressing down on him. His fingers loosened their grip on the parchment until it fluttered weakly to the floor. He wanted to believe her, wanted to imagine Potter simply misguided. But the fury coiled inside him said otherwise.

As the clock chimed midnight, Draco forced himself to meet Luna's gaze.-"Whatever I find tomorrow, Moony."-He murmured, voice low and taut.-"I won't let him break me. Not Potter. Not anyone."

Luna reached across the space between them, taking his hand without hesitation. Her fingers were warm against his cold ones, grounding him.-"You won't break."-She said, as though it were the simplest truth in the world.-"Not while you remember who you are."

And for the first time since he had opened that cursed letter, Draco allowed his eyes to close. He did not sleep, but the weight of Luna's hand in his steadied him through the long hours before dawn.

The night crept through the curtains, pale and thin. Draco lay awake on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, pretending to be asleep. He could hear Luna sit up and go into the next room, her voice drifting low and earnest - the soft, steady cadence she used when she truly wanted to be heard.

"Please, Daddy..."-She said.-"It's not just for Draco. It's for the truth. If the Ministry is hiding things, if they're moving against him in secret, people ought to know. That's what the Quibbler is for, isn't it? To say what others won't."

There was a long pause, then Xenophilius's voice, gruffer, lined with unease.-"The Ministry is no place for you, Luna. Especially not now. You don't know what you'll be walking into. And this business with Draco...It's full of danger..." He sighed, the sound heavy.-"He has too many enemies at his tow. People will talk...they always do"

"I don't care if they talk."-Luna's reply was quick, her tone unusually firm.-"He needs someone. And if Harry's really behind this, then I want to understand why. Harry doesn't always see people as they truly are. But I do."

From his place on the sofa, Draco's stomach tightened. Hearing his name in her voice - not with scorn, not with pity, but with conviction - was like a warm hand pressed to a bruise: painful, gentle, but impossible to look away from.

Silence stretched again, and when Xenophilius spoke, his voice was softer, resigned.-"If you go... You won't go alone. The Ministry is dangerous, Luna. Too many secrets, too many eyes. I'll allow it, but only if Rolf Scamander accompanies you. He's steady. Reliable. You'll be safer with him there."

Draco almost sat up at that. Scamander? Another witness to his humiliation? He clenched his jaw, forcing himself still, though his hands curled into fists against the blanket.

"I don't mind."-Luna said lightly, though Draco caught the hesitation beneath.-"Rolf is kind. He'll understand. And he won't get in the way."

Xenophilius's chair scraped against the floor.-"Then it's settled. But Luna - promise me, you'll be careful. You've always seen the world differently, and that's a gift. But don't let it blind you to danger. Draco will be fine, my flower; he has amazing friends like you."

There was the sound of Luna's soft hum, her way of promising without words. A moment later, footsteps padded back toward her room.

Draco shut his eyes quickly, feigning sleep. He felt the blanket adjust over his shoulder, Luna's gentle touch lingering for just a second.

He wanted to tell her not to come. That she was wasting her kindness, tethering herself to a sinking weight. But the words stuck in his throat. Because deep down, he wasn't sure he could walk into the Ministry without her.

By late morning, the plan had crystallised - strange, reckless, but the only path Draco saw open to him. He sat down, braiding her hair while she sat on the floor, they were going through their plan over and over; it was not good, but they were hoping it would save the day. He enjoyed these last few moments with her...hoping they would not be the last. He thought of his mother, how worried she might be that he has been gone for two days...he hopes she will understand why he ran away.

Later, in Luna's tiny kitchen, the bitter tang of Polyjuice filled the air. Draco always carries it with him. He grimaced as he tipped the flask back, the thick liquid sliding down like sludge. His pale features warped, bones shifting beneath his skin until the sharp lines of Anthony Markus - a middling Ministry employee from the Department of Defence - stared back from the mirror Luna held up.

Markus was a pale, lean man with short brown hair and not so many prominent features. Draco found his face quite forgettable...easy to blend in with crowds. He wore a set of simple Ministry clothes. Underneath the disguise, he had his own clothes, for the hearing...simple, but this could work. He pulled his leather glove over his claws and let out a sigh.

It wasn't the first time Draco had worn Markus's face. Since the war, he had used the man's likeness to slip into the Ministry's restricted libraries, poring over tomes that even Malfoys weren't permitted to touch to study for the Unspeakables quizzes. Markus, ever weary of the endless chaos of Ministry life, had agreed readily enough to the arrangement. A week away once in a while was all he wanted, he'd said. A vacation. A respite. Draco could have it all in his stead - the desk, the badge, the face. Anthony would get paid every month for the attendance Draco made in his place. Draco had even learned the way around his work at the Ministry, although he was not very Defence Department qualified.

Today, that borrowed life would shield him again, this time not to go through libraries and sit on the desk of a strange man who does not know what his own job is.

Across the room, Rolf Scamander lingered with a nervous sort of energy. It was early in the morning, and he looked sleepless. He wondered if Lovegood's owl had dropped on his face that morning, by the way his hair stood out. Rolf wasn't what Draco had expected; he was taller, broader, yet quiet in a way that felt oddly akin to Luna's own stillness. His eyes darted between them, uncertain but curious.

"I... suppose this is where I ask if you're sure about this..."-Rolf said, rubbing at the back of his neck. His voice was low, hesitant.-"But you've clearly thought it through more than I have."

Luna smiled at him, her expression soft.-"We'll be fine. You'll see. Just follow my lead, and if anything goes wrong, write down everything you can. Truth has a way of finding its way out, even if people try to bury it."

Rolf nodded, though his brow furrowed with worry. Draco caught the glance he cast at Luna - protective, unspoken - and for once, instead of irritation, Draco felt something stranger. Oddly... comforting. As though the two of them, Luna and Rolf, balanced each other's strangeness with gentleness.

It was foreign to him, that kind of companionship. But not unpleasant.

Draco adjusted his new face one last time in the mirror, then tucked Markus's Ministry badge into his pocket.-"Let's go."-He said sharply, though his heart pounded with an anxiety he refused to show.

Before they left, Luna slipped a delicate silver chain around her neck, the pendant resting just below her collarbone. The small compass gleamed faintly in the morning light, its needle twitching lazily though no true north pulled it; instead, it pointed at Draco.

Draco noticed immediately. His chest tightened, though he kept his borrowed face schooled. My compass, he thought. He had given it to her months ago, half as a gesture, half as an experiment - a Protean Charm bound to his watch, a private channel only the two of them could use. A way to reach her in silence, during their sneak-outs.

Now, seeing it against her skin, he realised how much it mattered.

"This will help."-Luna said simply, as though she knew what was circling in his head. She touched the compass with one finger, and the needle glowed briefly before settling again, showing Draco's direction.-"If you need me, you only have to think of what to say. The words will appear."-She repeated the rules that Draco had taught her.

Draco tugged his sleeve back just enough to glance at his watch. A faint shimmer of script curled across the glass before fading, her test message:

"We'll be all right."

He swallowed, not trusting himself to answer aloud. Instead, he tapped the rim of the watch once, the needle on Luna's compass spinning wildly before it stilled. The briefest flash of words shimmered across it, the letters sharp and precise, his handwriting unmistakable:

"Stay close. Don't be reckless."

Luna smiled faintly, the kind of smile that always made him wonder if she knew far more than she let on. Could she predict the future? She gave him the file they had prepared with an actual statement/defence, which held the ministry logo and was very much legal.

From across the room, Rolf watched their quiet exchange, brow furrowing in curiosity. He didn't comment, but Draco saw the way his gaze flicked between them, as though he were trying to puzzle out a language he didn't speak.

Oddly, Draco didn't mind. The two of them together - Luna with her unshakable calm, Rolf with his shy steadiness - formed a strange sort of anchor. And as he adjusted Markus's badge once more, he realised he felt... not safe, but steadier.

They grabbed a handful of Floo Powder near the fireplace, while Luna's dad wished them all luck and prayers, they said the name of the Ministry of Magic, loud and clear.

The Ministry's marble atrium awaited them, crowded and cold, but for the first time since the cursed letter arrived, Draco knew he wasn't walking in alone.

The Ministry Atrium was as busy as always, cavernous, gleaming, and cold. Polished black floors reflected the enchanted lanterns above, while witches and wizards hurried past in robes of every cut and colour, clutching scrolls, memos and files, their voices blending into an endless, anxious hum.

Draco adjusted the fit of Anthony Markus's robes, his badge clipped neatly in place, and slipped into the current of Ministry workers moving toward the lifts. Luna squeezed his hand one last time before letting go and mixing with a crowd of reporters while Rolf followed her like a lost puppy. The Polyjuice held; no one spared him more than a glance. Still, every step felt like walking a knife's edge.

A faint shimmer rippled across his watch. He tilted his wrist, catching the message as it wrote itself in Luna's unmistakable hand:

"You're frowning. Markus never frowns."

His lips twitched despite himself. He let the corner of his sleeve brush the glass in answer. A new line appeared across the tiny compass at her throat, glowing briefly before fading:

"I'm not frowning, Moony. I'm concentrating."

Across the atrium, Luna and Rolf had just passed through the security desk, their press credentials from the Quibbler fluttering under the enchanted quills' inspection. Xenophilius's name carried weight enough for them to pass, though not without a few suspicious looks.

Luna, serene as ever, wore her best pair of butter-yellow robes and a quill tucked neatly into her hair where the braid he had made earlier stood as her signature reporter look. Beside her, Rolf clutched a satchel bulging with parchment and ink, his posture uncertain but determined. He cast furtive glances at the towering Ministry statues, at the watchful Aurors by the lifts, and finally at Luna herself, as though tethering his courage to her calm.

Draco's watch flickered again:

"Rolf is nervous. He needs something to do."

Draco scowled at the message, then smirked faintly and sent back:

"Tell him to count how many times the Aurors glance his way. That should keep him busy."

A minute later, Luna's compass glowed:

"He's on twenty-seven already."

Draco stifled a laugh, ducking into the nearest lift as its grate clanged shut behind him.

For the briefest moment, the dread coiled in his chest eased. He was still walking into the lion's den, still hours away from a trial that could shatter what remained of his life - but the compass ticked against Luna's heart, the watch hummed against his skin, and he was not entirely alone.

The lift doors hissed open onto the Ministry's lower chambers, the hallways echoing with footsteps and murmurs. Draco led the way, weaving through clusters of employees and petitioners while keeping his head low, eyes sharp. The watch on his wrist vibrated faintly - Luna.

He tapped it once, fingers trembling slightly, and sent the message:

"Do you see Potter?"

A heartbeat later, the compass at her throat shimmered. Her reply appeared slowly:

"Not yet. I'm scanning the crowd. He isn't here... at least, not visibly."

Draco exhaled, though the relief was fleeting. He kept moving, eyes flicking over the assembled people. Officials and petitioners murmured quietly among themselves, papers clutched in rigid hands, robes pressed perfectly. The chamber beyond the main doors - the trial floor - loomed like a stage, and he felt the familiar coil of dread tighten in his stomach.

Another tap.

"Do you see anyone out of place?"

The compass glimmered again:

"A few things." Luna typed carefully. "Several pure-blood families. They seem...eager to watch someone fall."

Draco's jaw tightened. He recognised the subtle arrogance in their postures, the quiet smugness of those who had survived the war and now whispered vengeance in the shadows. He had expected whispers, yes - rumours of old grudges - but seeing it laid bare like this made his chest tighten.

"Names?" He tapped out, urgency prickling.

"Some familiar." Luna replied. "Rosier. Nott. Travers. Others I don't recognise, but they're pure-blood families who always tried to claim influence over your father's house. They...they're all here, watching."

Draco's lips pressed into a thin line. Watching. Judging. Waiting for him to falter. His heart hammered. The trial wasn't just the Ministry's; it had become a stage for old enemies to gloat. And Potter...wherever he was, had set this entire chain in motion.

He sent a final tap to Luna:

"Stay close. Don't draw attention. We're just observing...for now."

Her compass responded almost immediately:

"Always."

Draco adjusted Markus's robes and moved forward, the weight of his borrowed face heavy, the hum of his watch grounding him. A few hours, he reminded himself. And every pair of eyes in that chamber - some hopeful, some cruel - would be upon him.

Draco tapped his watch once more, glancing down at the tiny shimmer of digits. Time. The trial floor, the corridors, the crowds - everything seemed to slow in that instant. He slipped a hand into the folds of Markus's robes, fingers brushing against the small bundle Luna had tucked into his file: a barn owl's feather, delicate and light, her grounding touch folded into every quill-stroke of the half-written defence they had cobbled together.

He went back to the main hall. Taking the lift there.

He moved silently toward the fountain in the atrium, the familiar marble pool where he often lingered. Draco's pulse tightened. Months of working under Markus's guise had given him knowledge of the Ministry's rhythms, for example, the moment Potter usually appeared. And now, as if the world itself were holding its breath, the fountain stood empty...until the exact second.

A figure approached from the main hall, striding with the precision and quiet intensity that always marked him. Draco's stomach turned over, and yet he forced his shoulders back, chin high. Harry. Two people, a middle-aged woman, and a half-bald man, he did not recognise at his tow, bickering with each other beside him. A hefty file clutched in his hand - perhaps to bury Draco beneath bureaucracy, or worse. His other hand was hidden under his cloak, as if wounded.

Draco froze for a heartbeat, staring at him across the fountain. Harry's gaze lifted, sharp and calculating. Recognition flickered - subtle, quick, but unmistakable. Potter had noticed before. Even under Polyjuice, even under Anthony Markus's face, he had sensed the anomaly.

Harry spoke to the couple following him, and they left him alone in the hall, walking away still bickering.

Draco pressed his gloved hand against his side, where the leather hid the small claws and pale fingers from the failed Animagus ritual weeks ago - Harry's sharp eyes must have caught it immediately. His wand was drawn to his hand, but he kept it low, approaching towards Draco with measured steps.

Draco tried to look away, hoping nothing had given away his true identity, looking at the fountain instead. But soon he felt his presence by his side, and he had stopped, much to Draco's terror, right beside him.

Harry was now only one step away, facing the fountain just as he was.

"Hello, Draco..."-Harry said quietly, the words drifting over the fountain's surface. Calm. Controlled. Like a serpent coiled just beneath the water.

Simultaneously, Draco felt the light, firm press of a wand against his ribs. It wasn't a jab or a threat of violence; it was soft, deliberate - a warning, a simple claim of control. He had been caught, yes, but that was not what scared him most.

It was the look in Harry's eyes. They were dark, calculating, and shadowed with a fatigue that whispered of sleepless nights. And yet, behind that exhaustion, there was an unnerving softness - a deep, analytical focus that made the darkness in them sharper. His glasses were tilted just so, catching the atrium's cold light. The crisp, rigid lines of his Auror robes gave him a presence Draco had never imagined possible back at school. This was not just a man, but a weapon honed by duty, standing in human form. So much different from the laid-back, easy-going Potter from a few days ago, fighting in the bathrooms and stepping into the Forbidden Forest.

Fear, Draco realised, had curdled into something hotter, more dangerous. A coil of cold fury twisted through him. Potter was there to intimidate, to punish, perhaps - and this, Draco didn't want to admit - to watch him squirm.

He squared his shoulders, fighting to hide the tremor in his fingers. He met Harry's gaze head-on, letting his Polyjuiced face remain a perfect mask of neutrality. Inside, his mind raced. Every movement Harry made, every subtle adjustment of his wand, every line of his shoulders spoke volumes of a man in complete command. The weight of that uncertainty, coupled with the raw power emanating from him, made Draco feel smaller than he had in years.

Yet something inside him coiled tighter than fear. Resentment. The bitter taste of their lifelong rivalry sharpened his senses. Potter's lips curved slightly, so faint it was almost imperceptible, the ghost of that old, teasing smirk - the one that had haunted Draco throughout school, only now it was honed by unspoken grudges and the weight of unhealed war scars.

The fountain gurgled between them, a calm, unrelenting witness. And Draco, heart pounding, felt the full, intoxicating force of the challenge staring him down.

Draco met his gaze, chest tight, fingers brushing the barn owl's feather in his file for courage. The world narrowed to the sound of the fountain, the faint scrape of footsteps, and the cold press of a wand against his side.

He said nothing. Not a word. Not yet.

Harry's eyes lingered, sharp and unyielding, before his focus lowered slightly. The faintest sigh escaped him, less of a breath and more of a final calculation being made. Harry leaned forward, his eyes alight with a dangerous mixture of amusement and victory, the darkness of his intent underscored by a mocking, soft cadence.

Harry's eyes flicked to Draco's gloved hand, then back up to meet his eyes. His voice was a low, confidential murmur. As he spoke, his body shifted subtly, moving just close enough to ensure his own torso shielded the movement of his right hand. The tip of his wand, held low, pressed lightly and possessively against Draco's abdomen.

"I could have prepared your file for Shacklebolt weeks ago."-Harry said, the softness of his tone a profound threat.-"But really, how could I explain that I knew it was you, from the exact way you hold your shoulders when you think you're unobserved? Or the precise little pattern you tap into your signet ring when you're feigning indifference - a habit, I noted, you've had since you were seventeen? And what about the moment your breathing catches, three seconds before you deliver a perfectly crafted lie? These details belong to me, Draco...It's not evidence for a Ministry report and cannot sanely be explained."

Draco's grey eyes locked onto Harry's. He didn't move; the pressure of the hidden wand tip felt cold and final. There was no defiance in his gaze, not immediately. There was only the raw, white heat of exposure, followed by a terrifying comprehension. The way his name rolled on Harry's tongue, instead of the usual last name. Intimate in a way he did not want to admit.

He wasn't simply caught; he was known. Every hidden defence, every calculated deception, every private breath had been catalogued, understood, and ultimately spared by the one person he thought he had outwitted.

The torment wasn't the threat of exposure to Shacklebolt, but the realisation that his true, vulnerable, nervous, calculating self - now belonged exclusively to Harry. His breathing, which had briefly caught, now flowed in shallow, rapid pulses, but he offered no denial. He simply swallowed, the slow movement of his throat the only sign of his internal war. He was trapped not by evidence, but by an intimate, possessive knowledge that transcended the law.

Draco let his jaw tighten, letting the silence speak instead. He had no words yet that would matter. Only the chilling awareness that Potter - as always - had already anticipated his every move, rendering every hour spent crafting his defence with Luna moot. The only thing left to him was the feather in his pocket, the small, final piece of the defence he hadn't yet been forced to play.

Harry was satisfied with the terror and comprehension mirrored in Draco's eyes. His gaze did linger, but instantly dropped, focusing on Draco's other hand. Even in the gloom cast by the fountain's light, Harry's sharp Auror's eyes noticed the familiar cream-colored folder clutched in his grip - a testimony Ministry file.

His voice, stripped now of its mocking softness, was pure command.-"You will walk to the third corridor, without making a scene."

Draco, whose every defence had been mentally dismantled, offered no argument. The cold obedience was immediate. He shifted his weight, his posture still rigid from the shock, and began to walk, his footsteps echoing softly away from the fountain and toward the designated corridor. He did not look back.

The game had begun.

Chapter Text

The Triptych of Deception...Here is how it started.

The plan was a masterpiece of interconnected deception, big words coming from Hermione; forged in secret and resting on a knife's edge. It required three wizards moving in perfect, silent unison across the timeline and spaceline itself...and at its heart lay a forbidden piece of magic: the 'Mors Praesens' charm.

The charm's name meant "the death of the present self", and its effect was chillingly literal. It created a temporal mirage of the caster, effectively severing their true presence from the spaceline for a brief period. To all observers, the illusion was perfect: it appeared to breathe, blink, and maintain subtle expressions. In reality, the true wizard was free to move outside that anchored moment, typically by using a Time-Turner, aka a timeline. Upon their return, they would dissolve seamlessly back into the mirage as if they had never left at all.

Its limitations, however, were severe. The mirage was a silent, passive painting; it could not speak or react. The spell consumed immense energy, and a caster had to return to the exact spot from which they departed, or the illusion would shatter violently.

It was theorised to have been developed by Unspeakables in the Department of Mysteries around the 18th century, but it was quickly outlawed after being abused by Aurors to falsify alibis. It was the start of many Unspeakables vs Aurors rivalry...a rivalry as old as time, mainly because Aurors were annoying and cunning, and Unspeakables were driven by their mind rather than emotions and did things by the book.

Harry's knowledge of the spell wasn't gained through official channels, but through the same obsessive surveillance that had come to define him as an Auror. Weeks earlier, in the labyrinthine depths of the Ministry's library, when he had been discreetly watching Draco Malfoy. His official reason for being there was to study Auror Protocols, but his true purpose was to track his former rival at his mother's request, whose curse-breaking research and Unspeakables training often required consulting rarely accessed texts.

His interest was piqued when he saw the dusty, leather-bound tome titled Advanced Auror Protocols: A Primer for Probationary Officers. Tucked deep within its pages, written in a cramped, archaic script, he found it: the theory and incantation for Mors Praesens. The outlawed nature of the charm only confirmed its power, and Harry knew instantly he had found his weapon that could help him later; the gunpowder had sparked there.

He didn't fully grasp its complex runic structure, but he knew who would. He passed the coded notes to Hermione that night at the Burrow while discussing plans, who devoured the text in a single, intense night, much to Ron's nightmare. The next day, in the familiar, high-ceilinged expanse of the Enchanted Chamber where they held private training sessions, she was ready.

"It's brilliant, Harry, but its magical signature is a massive liability."-Hermione explained, her eyes bright with intellectual challenge. The charm, as written, gave off faint magical surges that would be instantly detectable by the Ministry's warding nets.-"We can't just cast it. We have to reshape it from the outside."

And so, the mission evolved from a solo act into a delicate, silent choreography for three. Their plan now depended on Ron and Hermione becoming his anchors.

"The trick is seamless infiltration."-Hermione declared, holding up two shimmering vials of perfectly brewed Polyjuice Potion.-"The charm needs to be maintained from within the room. Ron and I will use these and take seats on the Wizengamot jury."-She tapped a worn leather box filled with tiny, corked vials.-"I've been building an emergency supply of hair for months now, knowing we might someday need them."-She said with a slightly disturbing meticulousness.-"You darling..."-She said to Ron.-"Will be Arthurus Hornet, a retired Curse-Breaker. And I will be Mathilda Bergamot, a clerk from the Department of Records; they have both been called for juror duties on Malfoy's hearing. I have owled both of them to tell them that the hearing has been changed to another date, and they will not be there."

Ron clapped in absolute awe.-"She does it again...brilliant."

Hermione's brilliant adaptation had twisted the charm's weave, forcing it to respond only to non-verbal, sustained focus. She and Ron, together, disguised and hidden in plain sight, would become the living conduits keeping Harry's mirage alive.

"If either of us loses focus."-Hermione had warned, her gaze steady.-"Even for a second... the illusion fractures. The room will see Harry flicker, and it will all collapse."

Ron had grumbled at first, his history with non-verbal spellwork being less than sterling. But the weight of the task galvanised him. He practised until his eyes watered, fixing his stare on a training dummy, enduring the forced stillness because one blink at the wrong time meant disaster.

Harry's part was the sharpest edge of the blade. Anchored by his friends, he would fuse the Mors Praesens with the old Time-Turner. He would slip back just minutes into the past to listen to questions and arguments aimed at his illusion, then return to his body in time to answer with perfect, unnerving foresight.

His words, chosen after already hearing the opposition's strike, would seem preternatural, cutting off arguments before they could fully form. It was temporal precognition, weaponised.

For this, he devised the simplest of covers: the Broken Arm. His left arm would be tightly wrapped in bandages and held stiffly in a sling, the believable mark of an Auror mishap. This gave him the perfect reason to keep that arm hidden beneath his cloak, concealing both the intricate wandwork and the faint glint of the Time-Turner strapped to his wrist.

The risk was immense. The Time-Turner was not stable; Hermione had warned him it could not withstand more than seven turns per use. Each use shaved away at the edges of safety, threatening an unpredictable fracture in the weave of time. One misstep wouldn't just expose them - it could unravel them completely. Such as ending up Splinched...

And so they practised in silence: Hermione's hawk-like stare fixed on the spot where the illusion would be; Ron's jaw clenched, blinking as little as humanly possible; and Harry's fingers brushing the cool, dangerous metal of the Time-Turner, its weight a constant reminder that their margin for error was non-existent.

Ron groaned, his eyes watering as he forced himself not to blink at the flickering outline of Harry's mirage. His jaw worked like he was chewing nails. Finally, he muttered through clenched teeth.-"You know, I always thought if we were going to risk getting blasted into next week by some unstable Time-Turner, it'd be for something a bit more... noble. But no. It's to save Malfoy. Of course, it's Malfoy."-He gave a short, humourless laugh, shoulders sagging.-"You've got a real knack for picking the most complicated charity cases, Harry."

Harry didn't answer; he was busy adjusting the bandages on his "injured" hand, ensuring the bulk of the Time-Turner stayed hidden. Doing some pre-preparations, getting comfortable with the lie he had constructed.

Hermione, however, didn't so much as flicker. Her eyes remained fixed on the phantom-Harry, her brow furrowed in disciplined concentration.-"Ronald."-She said evenly, her voice clipped with the strain of maintaining the spell.-"This isn't a charity case. It's a gross miscarriage of justice, and you know it."

Ron rolled his eyes skyward but didn't dare look away from the projection.-"Merlin forbid we just let the Ministry handle it like normal people."

Hermione's voice sharpened.-"The Ministry isn't handling it - that's the point. If Harry hadn't stepped in, the Wizengamot would have convicted Draco on politics alone, like they wanted to do in the first trial. And I, for one, refuse to live in a world where the court abandons evidence for pressure."

Her jaw tightened, her focus absolute.-"That's not law, Ron. That's tyranny, what we fought against a year ago, in case you forgot."

For a moment, the training chamber was filled only with the quiet hum of the illusion and Ron's grumbling breaths as he blinked furiously against the sting in his eyes.

Harry finally looked up, his expression caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement.-"You two finished?"-His voice was low, steady, carrying more weariness than bite.

Ron huffed but didn't break his stare at the mirage.-"Just saying, mate. Of all the people to bend time and risk splinching ourselves for - Malfoy?"

Harry's mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed serious.-"It's not about Malfoy."-He let that hang for a moment, then added, quieter.-"It's about making sure no one else gets steamrolled just because the Wizengamot feels like it. If we let them get away with it once, they'll do it again. To someone else. Maybe to us."

Hermione's lips pressed together, almost a smile of vindication, though she didn't dare glance away from the illusion.

Ron sighed dramatically.-"Fine. Noble cause. Still doesn't mean I have to like staring at your face this long. My eyes are burning."

That broke a laugh out of Harry - short, dry, but real.-"Trust me, Ron. Malfoy's going to owe us all for this. Big time. However, this is a no-claim help."

Hermione didn't blink, her gaze still locked on the mirage.-"You've done this before, you know."

Harry frowned.-"Done what?"

"No-claim help. Stepped in when the Ministry or the Wizengamot wanted an easy target."-Her voice sharpened, precise even as her eyes watered from not looking away.-"You spoke for Andromeda when they tried to strip her of custody of Teddy just because of her pureblood status. You gave testimony for Stan Shunpike when they wanted to throw him back in Azkaban without a trial. You even went to bat for that werewolf registry clerk who couldn't afford a defence solicitor. Many more I can't even remember..."

Ron gave a low whistle, side-eyeing Harry.-"Blimey. You've practically made a career out of this."

Harry shifted, uncomfortable under the weight of it, though his tone stayed dry.-"I don't go around looking for lost causes."

Hermione's mouth curved, but she still didn't look away.-"No. But they seem to find you, Harry. Every time."

For a moment, the room went quiet except for the faint buzz of the charm sustaining the mirage. The soft shimmer of Harry's duplicate figure hovered across the room, its stillness a reminder of the fragile balance they were rehearsing.

Harry exhaled slowly, shoulders sinking as though the weight of the bandaged hand tugged down his whole frame. His thumb brushed across the linen wrapping where the Time-Turner was hidden, a gesture equal parts habitual and protective. He muttered, almost to himself, words roughened by fatigue but sharpened with conviction.

"Better me than no one. Can't imagine what it feels like - to believe you're so alone... so beyond help and mercy. Let alone Draco."-His gaze flicked downward, not meeting either of theirs.-"He's got a life in front of him. That examination - his bid for the Unspeakables - is days away, and he might never make it there. Not if tomorrow goes wrong. Not if we're not there to help. Villains are born out of injustice. I've seen it, again and again. And I'll be damned before I let it happen one more time."

The hum of the spell carried on, filling the silence that followed. Hermione's eyes softened as she watched him, her own focus never straying from the mirage. She didn't speak right away, but Ron let out a low whistle.

"Well, if that isn't the most sentimental rubbish I've ever heard."-Ron said, shaking his head.-"You really are going to make the Prophet's dreams come true, Harry. Imagine the headline: Boy Who Lived Fights For Fallen Foe."

Harry's head jerked up, affronted.-"That's not what this is!"

Hermione's lips twitched, betraying her composure for just a second.-"Ron might have a point. You've testified before, Harry - but never like this. I've never seen you pour this much heart into someone else's trial. Is there something you need to tell us about Draco?"

Harry's mouth opened, then snapped shut, appalled.-"It's - it's justice, Hermione, not heart. Malfoy's life shouldn't be dictated by politics or grudges. Someone has to stand in the gap. Don't turn this the wrong way!"

Ron leaned back, smirking. -"And that someone just happens to be you, his knight in shining armour."

Harry groaned, dragging a hand down his face.-"Merlin's sake, you two - don't start. It's not about Malfoy. It's about what's right."

But the heat rising in his ears betrayed him, and Ron's grin only widened.

The Enchanted training chamber hummed with restrained power, its walls alive with shifting wards that shimmered faintly like heat on stone. In the centre, the mirage of Harry stood frozen, every detail so precise it could have fooled even him. The air buzzed softly with Hermione's spellwork, her concentration absolute - until Ron decided to break it.

"Knight in shining armour."-Ron muttered under his breath, then puckered his lips in loud, obnoxious kissing noises. The sound echoed absurdly across the warded room, as if the walls themselves were mocking Harry.

Hermione's focus cracked. She snorted, then burst into helpless laughter, the sound carrying bright against the magical hum. The mirage flickered, Harry's image warping slightly before she steadied her grip, cheeks flushing pink.-"Ronald!"-She hissed, breathless.-"You'll make me lose it completely!"

Harry stood a few paces away, bandaged hand tight against his side, face turning scarlet.-"Unbelievable."-He muttered, dragging his palm down his face. He looked as though he'd rather be anywhere else - chasing a rogue curse in Knockturn Alley, even - instead of trapped here while his two best friends cackled at his expense. Mocking him for his care.

Ron leaned on his wand, grinning so wide it was a wonder his spell held at all.-"Come on, Harry. The Prophet's going to eat this up. 'Boy Who Lived... Boy Who Loved.' Front page, guaranteed, some new paparazzi picture of you two kissing under a tree this time."-He added another kissy sound for good measure, nearly losing his balance as Hermione elbowed him.

Hermione was still laughing, trying and failing to keep her voice steady while her wand hand glowed faintly with the sustaining charm.-"You have to admit, Harry, you walked right into it..."

Harry groaned, turning toward the far wall and pressing both hands over his face, as though sheer will might block them out.-"You're insufferable."-He said, voice muffled.-"Both of you. Hermione, he is making you a mini version of himself."

Hermione just laughed, mouthing a quick 'obviously'.

His ears were still pink, his posture a mix of exhaustion and humiliation, but the mirage in the middle of the room remained perfectly intact - ironically steadier than the man it was meant to mirror.

They laughed the nights away; their book of adventures would be a never-ending story to tell their children and grandchildren. Two nights of training and they had already perfected "the death of the present self", they were defying Death and Time itself one more time.

The night before the trial, Grimmauld Place loomed quiet and unwelcoming, its crooked shadows stretching across the wet cobblestones. Harry stepped off the late train, his shoulders heavy with the day's training, his bandaged hand throbbing faintly from overuse of the Time-Turner. All he wanted was a moment of stillness - just one.

But someone was already waiting at the door for him.

Narcissa Malfoy stood beneath the iron streetlamp, pale and composed, though only at first glance. Her hands clutched an umbrella so tightly to her chest that it trembled, her knuckles bone-white. Rain caught on the edge of her sleek hair, spilling down her face, but her expression was what stopped Harry cold. She looked...lost.

When she saw him, her whole body moved as if by instinct, speeding up to meet her under the lamppost.

"Mrs. Malfoy?"-Harry stepped closer, urgency threading his voice.-"What is it? Has something happened? Draco...-?"

She took a shaky breath.-"Harry... has he been at the Ministry library? As usual? He hasn't been home for two days."-Her voice caught, almost a whisper.-"I went...I tried to ask the librarians, but they refused to give me any information...I thought perhaps you'd know."

Harry's brows knitted.-"Two days? Not even a quick visit?"-He paused, taking in her face, assessing, thinking like an Auror.-"Has he gone to any friends? Someone he trusts? Someone he might have confided in?"

Narcissa's hands tightened on the umbrella.-"He... he does not have many friends left. One, perhaps, but I do not know her name. Draco keeps his connections close and away from public...and me."-Her lips pressed into a thin line.-"It is unlikely he would be gone, even for an hour, without telling me, though. He... he has never done this before."

Harry's expression hardened, eyes scanning her for more.-"When did you last see him? Did he mention a meeting? A project? Anything unusual?"

She swallowed, voice trembling.-"Three nights ago, briefly. He spoke of some preparation -research for the Unspeakables position, nothing more. He was... distracted, as always. That night, I thought nothing of it. I - I should have noticed. But then the day passed, and still no word. Nothing. And I..."-She faltered, clenching her umbrella tighter.-"I am worried, Harry. Something might have gone wrong. Something...bad."

Harry stepped closer, placing a steady hand over hers. His voice softened, firm, a promise threaded in every word.-"Narcissa. I'll find him. I promise. You don't need to ask. A mother's worry isn't a burden to me. I'll follow every lead, every possibility, and we'll get him back. I'll make sure he's safe."

Her eyes shimmered, fear and relief mingling.-"Thank you."-She whispered.-"I cannot imagine asking anyone else, not after...everything."

Harry pressed his thumb briefly to the back of her hand.-"Then don't. Just tell me everything you remember - every place he might have gone, every person he trusts, no matter how small. It all helps."

She nodded slowly.-"The library, usually... his room at Malfoy Manor. His father once in a while during visit hours. He visits old acquaintances rarely, and only when necessary. He...keeps most of his life hidden now. I don't know where he could be."

Harry took a step back, thinking, forming the beginning of a plan.-"Alright. We'll start with what we know and move from there. He hasn't been to the Ministry, correct?"

"Not these last few days."-Narcissa confirmed, her voice steadying.-"I have asked the librarians. He simply...disappeared."

Harry's jaw tightened.-"Then we trace from the last known location, check any contacts, any possible errands, any... unusual behaviour in the past few days. We'll leave no stone unturned."

Narcissa exhaled, shoulders loosening slightly, though the tension lingered.-"Thank you, Harry. I... I cannot say enough. I know you are busy, and yet-..."

"You don't have to say it."-Harry interrupted gently, giving her a reassuring squeeze of her hand.-"A mother's worry is never a burden to me. I'll find him."

Her lips trembled, nodding once, and for a moment she allowed herself to lean slightly on him, seeking steadiness she hadn't felt in two days.

Harry watched Narcissa disappear into the foggy street, her umbrella bobbing through the dim lamplight, before finally letting himself inside Grimmauld Place. The house was quiet, too quiet, the shadows crawling across the walls like living things. He barely had time to shrug off his cloak before he strode toward the kitchen.

"Kreacher!"-He called sharply, voice echoing off the high, warped ceilings.

The elf appeared immediately, wringing his hands nervously.-"Master Harry! Yes, sir!"

Harry's gaze hardened.-"When I sent you to the Malfoy Manor, did you see Draco by any chance?"

Kreacher's eyes flicked down, hands trembling.-"At the owlery, sir... yes."

Harry's stomach tightened. The Ministry letter. He pressed on, voice low but urgent.-"And the letter? You said there was no letter that day from the Ministry."

Kreacher's mouth twitched, and for a moment, Harry thought the elf would tell the truth. But the words that came out were careful, false.-"N-no, sir. There was... no letter that day, sir."

Harry's hands clenched.-"Kreacher."-His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.-"You're lying."

The elf flinched, eyes downcast.-"M-master Harry...I did as I was told. Master Draco caught me... taking the letter. He...he said I should not tell you."

The world seemed to tilt beneath Harry. That letter - his carefully orchestrated plan to protect Draco, to manipulate the situation so the boy wouldn't have to face the full force of the Ministry alone - was now exposed. Draco knew. He knew Harry had taken it, knew about the hearing, and knew that Harry was manoeuvring behind the scenes.

And he didn't know why. Why?

"Why didn't you tell me?"-Harry snapped, stepping closer, voice tight with panic and anger, in a way Harry could not recognise in himself.-"Kreacher! Do you have any idea what could happen? If he thinks we're against him, if he panics..."-Harry could not imagine the stress he must be enduring...all alone, with the whole world against him again.

The elf quailed under his gaze.-"I-I was told not to, sir. Master Draco...he would be angry. Very angry."

His tiredness was catching up to him, his legs almost giving up. Why?

Harry's jaw tightened, fists clenching at his sides. His plan had been perfect. He had accounted for every variable - every move, every reaction. And now, Draco's knowledge threatened to unravel everything. His careful mirage of control, his precise timing for the trial, the very possibility of keeping Draco safe - all jeopardised.

He exhaled slowly, trying to regain some semblance of calm.-"I have to find him."-He muttered, almost to himself.-"Before he does something stupid...before fear or mistrust pushes him to act alone."

Kreacher cowered, muttering apologies, but Harry barely heard him.-"Sorry, Kreacher, it's not your fault."- His mind was already racing, tracing Draco's likely movements, considering every possible hiding place, every instinct the boy might follow under pressure.

Time was slipping, and Harry knew it. Every minute Draco remained unaware of his true intentions increased the danger - both to himself and to the boy he had sworn to protect.

He strode to the staircase, the Auror cloak flaring behind him.-"I won't let him ruin this."-He whispered, voice fierce in the empty house.-"Not if I can stop it."

"Tell Andromeda to stay here tonight with Teddy when she comes by to drop him off. Prepare her room. I will be out searching."-Harry commanded his Auror cloak, taking a turn and flickering out of the door.

And with that, he vanished into the night, leaving Grimmauld Place echoing with the faint hum of wards and the weight of decisions yet to be made.

The Ministry was silent. Bones-deep quiet, save for the distant hum of wards and the occasional drip of fountain water echoing faintly through the marble corridors. Harry stepped into the central atrium, the great fountain glinting in the pale glow of enchanted night-lights. The clock above the atrium struck three a.m., and he was alone.

He stopped at the edge of the fountain, hands resting on the cool stone rim, eyes fixed on the dark swirl of water. And then it hit him - like a cold jolt through his chest. A memory of Draco. Waiting there. The day he had been assigned to escort him to Hogwarts, to reclaim the Vanishing Cabinet for safekeeping. Draco had been tense, careful, holding himself perfectly still - but there had been a faint tremble, a soft touch, one Harry hadn't quite placed at the time.

Then he remembers the mysterious man by the fountain, same spot, same posture, same hand tremble. The scent that clung to the man. His mind raced. The familiar scent of sweet but sour, decayed-fruit smell, Stewed Lacewing Flies.. Polyjuice ingredients. The subtle, faint tang of something magical and yet... deliberate. And the man by the fountain - Anthony Markus. The person Hermione had been asked to look into. The man who had been standing there every day for months, posture identical, ring tapping constantly, a mechanical tic Harry had dismissed at first. How had he been so blind?

That day, he had followed Markus through the Ministry under his Invisibility Cloak. Markus - or who he had thought was Markus - had gone to the library.

Harry leaves the atrium, his tired legs taking him to the library.

He pushed open the library doors, the familiar scent of parchment and ink greeting him. The chamber was deserted at this hour, and there was only the faint echo of his footsteps across the polished floors. He moved quickly, head low, wand at the ready - not for danger, but to keep himself focused.

At the central desk, the logbooks sat in neat rows, bound in dark leather. Harry's fingers brushed the covers, flipping open the pages carefully. His eyes scanned the entries, the neat spidery handwriting of Ministry scribes cataloguing who had entered, who had requested which texts, and the exact times of their access.

And then he saw it.

Anthony Markus. Over and over, the name appeared, each entry precise, unyielding. He was there every day Draco had been researching, checking out books and records Harry had only now realised were critical. Harry's pulse quickened.

He flipped forward, scanning further. The hours of access painted a clear pattern. From 8 a.m. to 6 p.m., the logbook recorded Anthony Markus. And then - from 6 p.m. onward - entries shifted. Draco Malfoy appeared, listed as a "guest reader," the Ministry designation granting him access under strict supervision, masking his true identity.

Harry's eyes widened as the pieces fell into place. Draco had been using Markus's identity to access restricted books, ones vital for whatever plan he had been carefully constructing. Every detail - every hour, every entry - pointed to the same conclusion. Draco had orchestrated it all with meticulous precision. All this...for that damned examination...the importance it had to Draco's life catching up to Harry's reality.

He leaned back against the edge of the desk, exhaling slowly, staring down at the open logbook. The pattern was undeniable. Every entry, every time slot, every name - it had been hiding the truth in plain sight. And now Harry knew exactly how careful Draco had been, and how much was riding on this fragile, perfectly timed plan.

And here he was, standing in the silent library, the muffling charm active at all times, piecing it together in real time. He exhaled sharply, shoulders slumping with both relief and tension. Relief that he now understood, tension because the clock was ticking, and Draco - probably anxious, probably acting alone - was still out there.

Harry muttered under his breath, almost to the library itself:-"Of course... of course. You clever little bastard."

He pulled his wand from his cloak, voice low and urgent.-"Time to find you, before you decide to do something stupid, on your own."

The library's quiet faded behind him as Harry left, the logbook still open in his mind, the pattern burned into memory. The night outside was chill and silent, but his thoughts raced too fast for sleep. He rubbed the bandaged hand where the Time-Turner rested beneath his cloak, knowing there was no rest until Draco was found - or at least until he had positioned himself to intercept whatever the boy might attempt.

The Ministry stretched around him, empty and echoing, but he didn't falter. Every step, every thought, every connection he had just uncovered was a thread he would follow - because he could not afford to lose Draco now. Not when the boy's life, his damned examination, and the success of the plan, hung by the thinnest of strands.

Still, exhaustion pressed against him, bone-deep.-"I can't do everything tonight."-He muttered under his breath.-"At least... I can go home. Make sure Teddy's safe."

The thought of his godson, sleeping peacefully under the soft glow of a bedside lamp, drew him forward with a rare, fleeting warmth. He stepped quietly through Grimmauld Place, careful not to wake anyone. At last, he reached the nursery. Teddy stirred slightly as Harry bent down, brushing a hand over his tousled hair and pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.-"I'll be back soon, little man."-He whispered, voice soft, almost apologetic, while giving him the Hippogriff plush to hug, which Teddy sleepily hugged.-"Don't worry."

Even as relief fluttered in his chest, the weight of responsibility returned. He collected the files he needed for the trial from his room - everything meticulously organised, every witness, every piece of evidence, every potential line of questioning. Each folder was a small anchor in the storm, something tangible he could control.

He opened the pensive cabinet in his bedroom, taking out a few memories he had prepared for the trial, the vials clicking softly as he put them in his satchel.

By the time he was ready, the hour had grown impossibly late. Sleep, fleeting and shallow, would not come tonight, not even with Luna's potion. He looks down at his bandaged arm, the shiny bracelet intertwined with the time turner that almost hid under the bandarids...He knew this would not be easy and that there would be no sleep. Instead, Harry made his way toward the Burrow, the familiar, warm path leading him to Ron and Hermione. They needed to know, needed to be prepared for the sudden change in circumstances.

His mind worked furiously, plotting the morning, the fountain, the precise timing, the next moves in this delicate game. And yet, for a heartbeat, he allowed himself a flicker of normalcy - the quiet, fleeting joy of being able to care for someone, to protect what mattered. Then the shadows of the Ministry, of Draco, of the trial itself, crept back in, sharper and more insistent than ever.

The morning was brittle with early light filtering through the windows of the Burrow. Harry moved with practised efficiency, packing his own files and checking over the folders he would need for the trial. Every sheet, every note, had been double-checked; every contingency planned. The weight of the day pressed against him, but he carried it quietly, methodically.

Ron and Hermione, still under their Polyjuice disguises, dressed in plain, Ministry-appropriate robes, murmured to each other in low tones about last-minute preparations, unaware - or deliberately ignoring - that Harry's focus was elsewhere. He barely acknowledged them, already walking toward the fireplace, wand ready.

"All set?"-Harry asked, already moving toward the fireplace.

Ron grumbled something unintelligible. Hermione gave a short nod, eyes on him.

"Floo network?"-She asked.

Harry paused only briefly to glance at Ron and Hermione, noting their posture, their attention to the mission. -"Yeah."-Harry said, stepping into the green flames. Ron and Hermione followed, disappearing after him.-"He could be waiting."

They all exchanged looks.-"We can do this."-Hermione in disguise said, holding his hand, the flames taking them.

He emerged in the Ministry atrium through the Floo network just as the dawn haze shifted through the glass ceiling, feeling the familiar hum of its stone and magic beneath his feet. His eyes flicked immediately to the fountain - his instincts, honed by the previous night's observations, were already working.

And there he was.

Harry allowed himself a small, silent nod. Now all that remained was to watch, wait, and act at precisely the right moment.

Anthony Markus - or rather, the man Draco had masqueraded as - stood by the fountain, posture exact, hands fidgeting against the strap of his watch. Every movement was as Harry had predicted: precise, careful, measured. Nothing had changed in the rhythm of his presence, just as it had been in the dreamlike vision that had haunted Harry through the night.

Harry watched from the edge of the atrium, eyes flicking to every subtle movement. The borrowed face of Anthony Markus sat stiffly on Draco, robes hanging slightly awkwardly over narrow shoulders, the hum of the watch on his wrist a steady, grounding rhythm. Every detail mattered: the slight shift of the robes, the weight of the false identity, the careful way his hands moved over the files clutched in his grip. Hours. He reminded himself that all of it would come down to timing - just a few hours in the hearing hall, all eyes focused, some hopeful, some cruel.

Behind him, the bickering couple - Ron and Hermione, disguised under Polyjuice - muttered under their breath, quietly arguing while keeping their eyes trained on Harry. Hermione's clipped observations and Ron's grumbles were faint, almost drowned by the hum of the atrium, but they provided the anchor Harry needed: silent support and backup for the operation.

The leather glove caught his eye - the same one Draco had worn that day Harry had escorted him to Hogwarts for the Vanishing Cabinet. Familiarity screamed from it, identification, unspoken truths.

He saw Draco tap the watch again, shimmering under the atrium lights. Precision was always part of Draco's habits, and now it gave Harry a clue to how he measured time, planned every step. The movement toward the fountain was slow, careful, and deliberate. Months of acting under Markus's guise had taught Harry the boy's rhythms: when he would appear, where he would pause.

Their eyes met for a brief moment.

"I found him."-Harry told the couple behind him, their bickering stopping for a moment.-"Meet me at the third corridor in half an hour."

Ron and Hermione did not question his words, unaware which one was Draco.-"Do not be late."-Hermione dressed as Mathilda Bergamot said.

They left at one, still planning, plotting, careful.

Harry let his robes hide his bandaged arm, where he had carefully hidden his wand, pulling it out, ready, low.

He walked with measured steps toward the man by the fountain. The man was looking away, hoping he had not been recognised.

He stepped forward, now standing by his side, facing the fountain in silence...His hand moved slowly, his wand pressed lightly against Draco's side - not a threat, but a signal, a claim of authority, a subtle anchor. Every motion had a purpose: he needed Draco in the precise location he could monitor, while keeping the boy calm enough to avoid rash action.

"Hello, Draco..."-Harry said quietly, measured, low, deliberate. Teasing even, he had a slight smirk on his face, a happiness that he had managed to find him.

Draco's eyes flickered toward him, just long enough to betray a spark of recognition, then darted away. The briefest hesitation, the almost imperceptible tightening around his jaw, told Harry everything he needed: the boy had been seen, caught - but was attempting to hide it. The subtle avoidance confirmed that Draco was aware and calculating.

Harry exhaled softly. He didn't rush. The crowd and observers were gone; this was the moment to assert control without creating panic.

"I could have prepared your file for Shacklebolt weeks ago."-Harry said, the softness of his tone a profound threat.-"But really, how could I explain that I knew it was you, from the exact way you hold your shoulders when you think you're unobserved? Or the precise little pattern you tap into your signet ring when you're feigning indifference - a habit, I noted, you've had since you were seventeen? And what about the moment your breathing catches, three seconds before you deliver a perfectly crafted lie?"-He managed to say without breaking eye contact, observing every little eye shift Draco made.-"These details belong to me, Draco...It's not evidence for a Ministry report and cannot sanely be explained."

He had meant it...those little details...they belonged only to him.

He watched carefully as Draco's muscles tensed, subtle pauses in motion revealing comprehension, the effort to suppress instinctive reactions. Every motion, every word, was a signal: authority, awareness, and control. Enough to keep Draco aligned with the plan, to ensure he followed the steps for the trial, and to prevent any rash action.

Harry's gaze shifted to the file in Draco's other hand - a testimony folder, he must have prepared it upon learning about the trial, his heart clenched softly at the thought of Draco having to sit down and prepare his own plea to such a messed-up situation. He must tell him...that he is not alone.

"You will walk to the third corridor, without making a scene."-Harry commanded, now entirely authoritative. No mockery, no softness - only clarity, control, and direction.

Draco's feet obeyed instantly. His steps were measured, quiet, echoing faintly across the empty atrium. Harry followed, maintaining distance while keeping eyes locked on every micro-adjustment, every flicker of expression. The game had begun, and Harry's mind leapt ahead, calculating next moves, anticipating the trial, analysing every risk, and preparing for the intricate, dangerous dance still to come.

Because he just realised...this was not a game to him, it was Draco's future in his hands.

Chapter Text

Harry's wand pressed lightly into Draco's ribs as he guided him out of the atrium. Not a shove, not a threat.-"Third corridor."-He reminded him, voice low enough that only Draco could hear.

Draco's steps were stiff, his borrowed body rigid. He didn't look back, but Harry saw the subtle tightening of his shoulders, the shallow breaths. He thought Harry was leading him to punishment. Maybe worse, to obliviation.

He carefully pressed his watch with his right hand.

"I have been found, Potter knows everything." He informed Luna.

The response was quick, and Draco felt the weight of his carelessness on his shoulders.

"Are you okay? Where are you?"

But before he could even respond again, they had arrived at the final destination.

The corridor was empty. Silent. The marble walls swallowed sound. There were no people at such a part of the Ministry, the hall leading to a barely used conference room at the end of it.

Draco tried to reach for his wand...Worst move against a trained Auror. Harry moved fast to block it - too fast for Draco to counter-react. Draco understands now that Harry had been holding back during their fight in the bathroom. A quick shove spun him around, his back slamming against the cold stone wall. Harry's forearm pressed firmly across his chest, pinning him in place, while his other hand slipped between his fingers and took away his wand and testimony file from his grip. The parchment crumpled with a harsh rasp, echoing down the empty corridor like a verdict being sealed.

Draco sucked in a sharp breath. Harry's hand, although quick, had been soft, taking his defence from between his fingers. His pulse hammered against Harry's arm, trapped between rage, fury and despair. His voice lashed out, unsteady, cracking at the edges, his voice, the one thing the potion could not change.-"Why? Why do you keep doing this to me?"-His chest rose hard against Harry's arm, each word spilling out sharper than the last.-"You take the only defence I have left. You think this is justice? Some twisted Auror's duty? Or is it just another way to see me-..."-He broke off, jaw tight, eyes burning what could only be described as tears, his borrowed face almost cracking.-"To see me humiliated? Broken?"

Harry didn't answer. His green eyes stayed fixed beyond his glasses, shadowed, unreadable. Draco hated that silence. It made his chest ache.

Harry's grip faltered; he had not meant to be harsh, but Draco pressed on, the words spilling faster, bitter, unguarded.-"Haven't you hurt me enough already? You - you saved everyone else. You testified for them. You vouched for them. But me? All I get is you tearing apart every chance I have left, like you can't stand the thought of me standing on my own two feet. Is this because I was a thickhead when we were younger? Have I done something irreversible to you? What line have I crossed?"

The corridor remained empty. His throat was tight, dry, and he swallowed hard against it, but the words wouldn't stop. Two days of dread, of isolation, poured out. His voice dropped lower, cracking against the weight of exhaustion.-"Two days, Potter. For two days, I've walked into empty thoughts, knowing the Prophet will already have my obituary written. Two days knowing no one - no one - would lift a wand if I disappeared. And then you show up-..."-Draco's eyes flashed, but the glint was wet, not sharp.-"And you take even this from me, my last hope."

For the first time, there was no sneer, no sarcasm. Just bitter, hurt, hollow and sharp. His watch shimmered, but he could not see what was written on it.

"You don't know what it's like."-Draco whispered, the words trembling as if torn out of him.-"To realise you've run out of people. That you're not even worth saving."

The words hung, fragile, dangerous in their honesty.

Harry froze, all files and his wand in hand. The words hit him harder than any curse. For a heartbeat, Draco looked nothing like the sharp-tongued rival he'd always known - he looked hollow, cornered, trembling on the edge of collapse.

And then Harry moved.

Before Draco could pull in another ragged breath and hurtful word toward Harry or himself, Harry dropped the files to his side and stepped in, despite Draco physically flinching, a pair of arms locking tight around him in a fierce, in an unyielding hug. The move startled them both. Draco stiffened, shocked. Harry felt like his heart had possessed his logic.

Draco tensed - waiting for more force, another blow of humiliation. But instead, there was warmth. Strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him forward, tight, steady.

Draco froze, breath caught against Harry's shoulder. He hadn't been touched like this in...he couldn't remember. The wall at his back was cold, but Harry's chest was warm, grounding. His body locked in reflex, stiff, but the steadiness pressed into him seeped past that instinct, curling into places he didn't know were still raw.

He could feel Harry's heartbeat, steady against his own frantic pulse. He could smell ash, woodsmoke, and a faint rainy scent clinging to Harry's robes just like the day Harry had lent him the coat. Every nerve screamed to shove him away, to sneer, to reach for the wand and escape - but his body betrayed him. The fight bled out of his muscles, leaving him weak in Harry's grip.

Confusion swirled. This wasn't how it was meant to go. Potter was meant to drag him by the collar to Shacklebolt, to sneer at his weakness, to strip him bare with evidence. Not this. Not arms around him, holding him like someone worth anchoring, worth steadying.

It was unbearable. And yet - strangely, terrifyingly - something inside him eased. A thread of panic loosened, as though someone had cut a rope choking him. Comfort, foreign and unwanted, wrapped around him, tight as Harry's arms.

The bitter thought clawed at him: How dare Potter of all people offer me this? And yet beneath it, quieter, shamefully fragile: Why does it feel like I needed it?

For the first time in days, Draco didn't feel like he was falling.

"You're wrong...so wrong."-Harry finally said roughly into his ear. Harry's breath was warm against his ear, voice hoarse, unpolished, raw with urgency.-"You're not alone. Not in this. Not ever again. And you are worth saving."

The words slid into Draco's chest like a blade, cutting through layers of armour he had spent years building. He didn't move. He didn't even breathe. His body remained rigid in Harry's hold, but inside - inside something cracked, fragile as glass under strain.

Draco's mind fought the words. Every instinct screamed denial: Lies. Pity. Another way to humiliate me. But the steady weight of Harry's grip told a different story. Harry wasn't letting go. There was no mockery in his tone, no sneer on his lips, no audience waiting to laugh at Draco's downfall. Only truth - blunt, infuriating, impossible truth.

He wanted to laugh bitterly, to spit out something sharp - Worth saving? After everything? After the Mark, the trials, the stares that cut deeper than curses? - but the words wouldn't come. His throat locked. His chest felt too tight, constricted by years of silence, years of pretending that nothing could touch him.

Harry's arm tightened, pulling him closer, grounding him as though he could feel the war raging inside Draco. His voice came again, low and rough, steadying every fracture:-"Not every blow has to land on you. Let go of it. Let me take it from here...I can take it."

Draco's eyes burned, though no tears fell. The words dragged memories he hated into the open - cold drawing rooms, his father's disappointment heavy as chains, the echo of jeers in the courtroom. Always alone, always the scapegoat, always bracing for the next strike. And now- now Potter, of all people, was saying the one thing Draco had never allowed himself to imagine: that he was not beyond saving.

His fingers twitched against Harry's sleeve, uncertain, as if testing whether the solidity there was real. The warmth pressed against him didn't vanish. It stayed. It held.

Footsteps echoed, soft but quick, and two figures appeared at the corridor's edge. Ron and Hermione, still Polyjuiced, slipped into position without hesitation - standing guard, scanning the hall for threats.

Ron let out a strangled sound that was half laugh, half groan.-"Blimey, mate - hugging Malfoy? You're not beating any of the Prophet's allegations."

Draco's head jerked up, like he had been caught doing something bad, eyes narrowing, recognition sharp.-"Weasley?"

Hermione shot Ron a withering look, though her own voice betrayed her when she said, urgent but steady.-"Harry, we've got an hour until the trial. We need to get into defensive positions."

Draco stiffened again, eyes darting between them. His voice was low, incredulous.-"Granger?"

They both nodded at him in recognition. Draco recognised their faces as the bickering couple following Harry that morning into the Ministry.

He turned back to Harry, confusion clouding every line of his face.-"What are you all doing here?"

From the end of the hall, Ron's voice carried, dry and casual as he kept watch.-"Rescuing you, of course. What else?"

Harry pulled back just enough to meet Draco's eyes, his hands still firm on his shoulders. His tone softened, steady, a quiet anchor.-"It's going to be fine. I promise. We will explain everything soon."

Harry let his arms slip away at last, though not without reluctance. He studied the boy in front of him - Anthony Markus's face still sitting like a mask, but Harry wasn't fooled. He could see through it as if it were glass. The Polyjuice altered cheekbones and jaw, yes, but it did nothing to erase the little crease between Draco's brows, the exhaustion in the way his shoulders hung, or the tremor he tried so hard to hide in his posture.

"The new face doesn't do yours justice."-Harry murmured, almost teasing, reaching up to flick a stray strand of brownish hair back into place. His smile was small but real, softening the edges of command that had defined his presence moments before. For a fleeting heartbeat, he looked not like an Auror pinning his quarry, but like a boy who had spent too many years knowing exactly what Draco Malfoy looked like when he was about to break.

Before Draco could even process the flicker of warmth, Hermione's voice cut through the air, wry and clipped.-"Hurry it up with the goodbye kisses, Harry. We've got less than an hour to settle."

Harry's smile deepened just a fraction. He leaned in, voice pitched low, meant only for Draco.-"You heard her. Time to move. Follow Ron inside, sit with the jurors. He'll explain the basics of how this will go."-He shifted the stack of files in his arm, giving him back his wand, taking Draco's slim testimony alongside his and Hermione's thickly prepared case.-"I'll be right behind you - need to owl your mother. She came to me, worried sick. Begged me to find you. And, well..."-His eyes lingered on Draco's, searching, steady.-"She came to the right person."

The words caught Draco off guard. His throat tightened, confusion pulling sharply at the edges of his composure. His mother and Potter, of all people, working in tandem? His mother trusts him? And Potter solving the mystery in a single night, something Draco had hidden for months? It was dizzying, unreal.

"Behave. All of you."-Harry left him with that, a clean sever of words that refused further argument, before nudging him toward Ron and telling him to keep an eye on him.

Ron, still under the neat disguise of Polyjuice of an old, tall, balding male, clapped Draco on the shoulder with a kind of careless familiarity.-"Come on, mate. I'll walk you in."-He leaned closer as they strode toward the Wizengamot chamber.-"Harry's got a trick up his sleeve."-His tone was dry, amused.-"And I mean that literally. Best pun you'll hear all day."

Draco gave him a sharp, sceptical look, but Ron only smirked, pulling a small vial of eye drops from his pocket. He blinked a few drops in, muttering about how the spellwork he was about to perform would dry him out otherwise.-"This non-verbal nonsense is not for an old man's eyes. Worst disguise Hermione could have picked."

Draco arched a brow, more sceptical.-"Non-verbal intensive spells? From a Weasley?"

Ron grinned sidelong.-"That's what I thought, too. But you try having Hermione Granger for a girlfriend. You either level up fast, or you get pummeled into the dust."-He tapped his temple knowingly.-"I chose the former. Self-preservation and all that."

The quip earned a startled huff from Draco, though whether it was the edge of a laugh or disbelief, even he didn't know. The corridor ahead opened to the massive chamber of the Wizengamot, and for the first time in days, the pit in his stomach shifted - not vanished, not even eased, but reshaped by something that felt suspiciously like a sliver of trust.

Of course, Draco had questions - dozens of them, all jostling against each other in his mind as Ron steered him through the corridor with that infuriatingly casual stride.

"Why am I sitting with the jurors? Isn't that a bit - suspicious?"-Draco tapped his watch to let Luna know he was okay, having missed all her messages.-"And how in Merlin's name am I supposed to keep up with what's happening without making a fool of myself?"

Ron didn't even flinch.-"Easy. You sit. You look bored. You don't speak unless spoken to. Pretend you're me in History of Magic with Professor Binns."

Draco shot him a glare sharp enough to cut stone.-"Very funny, Weasley. What if someone asks me a direct question?"

"Then you nod wisely, like you've seen it all before, and make a noise that sounds vaguely approving. Or disapproving. Doesn't matter which, really. Just don't trip over your robes and you'll be fine."

Draco nearly stopped walking in disbelief.-"This is the Ministry of Magic, not a Quidditch match."

Ron grinned at him.-"And yet, oddly similar stakes. Too much pressure, bad referees, and everyone secretly hoping you'll crash."

For a long moment, Draco just stared, torn between indignation and the creeping suspicion that Weasley might actually be right. He exhaled through his nose, muttering.-"Brilliant. Out of all the people Potter could have paired me with, he gives me you."

Ron puffed his chest with mock pride.-"World-class choice, if you ask me. Steady nerves, sparkling wit, devastating good looks-..."

Draco groaned aloud.-"Merlin, save me."

He turned away, eyes skimming the chamber doors ahead. Two Aurors are taking guard. He thought if he'd been paired with Granger, she would have buried him under a five-hour lecture on procedure, rules, and proper posture before they'd even reached the corridor. Perhaps this was the lesser evil.

The doors to the Wizengamot chamber opened with a groan, and Draco froze on the threshold.

The scale of it hit him like a blow. Rows upon rows of seats spiralled upward into the gloom, all filled with dark familiar faces, tier upon tier of watchful eyes already focused on the raised platform at the centre. This was no echo of the smaller hearing he'd once endured after the war besides his mother. This was the full weight of the Ministry's ancient power pressing down, threatening to grind him into dust.

If Potter hadn't dragged him from the fountain, if Weasley hadn't marched him here with that maddening ease, if Granger weren't somewhere behind the curtain pulling all strings - Draco knew, with a sudden clarity that hollowed him out, that he would have been history by now. Buried beneath accusations, stripped of dignity, forgotten by everyone but his mother.

Weasley nudged him forward, breaking the spell of dread.-"Keep moving, Malfoy. We don't want to look suspicious, do we?"

Draco stumbled into step, head high, though his insides were a storm. He took his seat among the jurors, feeling the weight of Polyjuice on his skin, Markus's face like a borrowed mask that might shatter at any second. He swallowed, trying to ignore the dryness in his mouth.

Then, movement in the crowd of reporters, he spots her. Pale hair like spun moonlight, a braid he had threaded that early morning as an unspoken goodbye. Her eyes were steady, calm, and somehow piercing even across the chamber.

Luna.

Her expression was soft, worried, and in her hand, a quill hovered over parchment as if it had a mind of its own. Rolf Scamander sat beside her, bent over notes, cataloguing every breath, every stir, every flicker of the proceedings. But Luna...She had her necklace gripped tightly in her heart, waiting, breath caught in her throat.

The faint hum against Draco's wrist startled him. He shifted his hand under the table, and words shimmered faintly across the Protean-linked dial.

"Are you all right? You disappeared. I was worried."

Draco's throat tightened.

"I am unsure, Moony. Too much happened to even explain."

The answer was true, if pitiful. His ribs still remembered the soft pressure of Potter's wand. His chest still carried the phantom weight of that sudden, anchoring hug.

Another flicker against his wrist. Luna's reply.

"Then don't explain. Just breathe. We are here for you."

He dared another glance at her. She sat serenely, quill tapping her chin, eyes locked on his as though she were the only tether keeping him from unravelling. Encouragement shimmered through the small, silent messages she continued to send, words that felt less like advice and more like lifelines.

Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the watch clutched so tight his knuckles ached. For the first time in days, maybe weeks, he realised he wasn't entirely alone - not in this chamber, not in this nightmare, not in the story Potter had forced him back into.

And Merlin help him, but it steadied him.

Ron leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking under his old man's disguise weight as he rubbed at his eyes, already red from the practice sessions and maybe sleepless nights. The room around them buzzed with hushed tension, but his voice carried in that low, casual drawl he used when he wanted someone else to relax.

"Calm down, Malfoy. You'll sprain something, glaring holes into the floor."

Draco shot him a look but said nothing, clutching his watch and leather glove tighter.

Ron leaned closer.-"How long's that Polyjuice good for?"

Draco's throat worked before he answered, clipped and precise.-"Another hour. Perhaps more, if the brew was exact."

Ron nodded, satisfied.-"That'll do. Should be enough to get through the worst of it."

Silence stretched for a beat, broken only by the faint scrape of quills and the distant shuffling of Ministry clerks. Then Ron, in his infuriating Weasley way, added casually:-"So...you've got someone out there worrying about you? You know, someone romantically invested?"

Draco stiffened, appalled, fingers whitening on the edge of his glove.-"I'd rather not answer that, Weasley."

Ron smirked, exactly as if he'd been expecting the response. He leaned back in his chair, muttering under his breath.-"That's a yes if I've ever heard one."

Ron leaned back in his chair again, smirking, elbow resting on the back as he nudged Draco lightly.-"Honestly, I should've seen your face days ago when the Prophet printed that article about Potter. I laughed for hours. Hours, Malfoy. You, Harry Potter's...what do they call it again? Number one admirer?"

Draco's lips twitched, half in irritation, half in disbelief.-"I'd rather not comment on that either."

Ron snorted.-"Oh, come on. Peak, I tell you. A new bromance is in the making. Who knows, could even turn into...something more someday."-He quoted directly from the newspaper, waggled his eyebrows, grinning like it was the cleverest joke in the world.

Draco's hand clenched around the bench.-"You are insufferable."

"Insufferable?"-Ron raised a brow, mock offence in his voice.-"I'm helping you. Can't have you going into the Wizengamot all stiff and broody, can we? Someone needs to lighten the mood before Potter shows up and ruins your composure completely. Swoon all you want after that."

Draco felt heat burn around his neck.

"And don't even get me started on what Potter was doing when he read the article."-Ron continued, oblivious to Draco's simmering inner turmoil.-"He didn't even try to hide it! There was this smug little grin, like he knew exactly how you'd react. Truly peak, Malfoy. A bromance for the history books. Honestly, I think you secretly enjoyed it."

Draco exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes narrowing, but he couldn't entirely hide the flicker of warmth that rolled through him despite his irritation. It was maddening, but...oddly grounding, in that strange, chaotic way that only Harry and his friends could manage.

Ron leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice just slightly.-"I swear, if Potter knew you were sweating bullets the way you are right now, he'd just- he'd just eat it up. Absolute bliss for him, I tell you."

Draco's hand flexed again over his watch, feeling Luna's soft murmurs through its shine. He said nothing, only letting a small, reluctant part of himself acknowledge that, somehow, the chaos of Harry Potter, the teasing, the endless pranks and schemes, had him firmly in its orbit - and he didn't entirely hate it.

Draco let out a sharp, exasperated sigh, leaning back just slightly in his chair.-"Honestly, I think I'd rather be in Azkaban than listening to you jabber on like this, Weasel."

Ron laughed, waving a hand dismissively.-"Ah, come on, I'm just teasing! You've never had the chance to have a proper, civilised conversation with me before, have you? This-..."-He gestured vaguely at the empty chamber, the Polyjuice disguises.-"This is my perfect chance to be nothing more than... friendly. I promised Harry I would be on my best behaviour. For once."

Draco's eyes flicked toward him, the corner of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly. For the briefest moment, he let himself feel it - the strange, odd comfort of it. Not just because they'd rescued him, or because his life had been thrown into chaos, but because here, with Ron's relentless, ridiculous energy, there was a sense of normalcy, of connection, however fleeting.

"And don't think I don't appreciate it."-Draco admitted softly, his voice lower now, carrying a weight that surprised even him.-"Not just because...well, not just because you are doing this for me."

Ron smirked, clearly pleased with himself, but there was a warmth in his eyes, a recognition that went beyond teasing.-"Well, that's the point, mate. Even when things are a mess, you've got someone willing to talk to you, not just yell at you or-..."-He paused, waggling a finger.-"Or watch you sweat over a blasted article in the Prophet."

Draco's lips twitched, almost against his will, a brief flicker of a smile breaking through the mask of exasperation. Just for a heartbeat, his guard lowered, and Ron noticed immediately.

"There we go!"-Ron whispered triumphantly, nudging him lightly with his elbow.-"Finally! A laugh, even if it's just half a one. Absolute achievement, Malfoy."

Draco glared, or at least tried to, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, curling up just enough that Ron counted it as a victory.

"Don't get used to it."-Draco muttered, but there was no real bite in the words.

Ron grinned, satisfied.-"Oh, don't worry, mate. I won't. But mark it down - this day, this exact moment - you smiled. Tiny victory for me, and possibly catastrophic for your dignity."

Draco rolled his eyes, trying to hide it, but his posture slackened slightly, just enough for Ron to savour the rare, fleeting victory. His eyes darted - anywhere but at him - and then both their gazes snagged across the jury circle.

Hermione sat composed under Mathilda Bergamot's borrowed face, her posture impeccable. To anyone else, she was just another juror waiting for the session to begin. But Draco, with his nerves stretched thin, caught the subtle rhythm of her blinking, the slight clench of her jaw - tells he never would've noticed before Potter had pointed out just how much could be read in the smallest things. Like he had read his cover.

Ron tilted his head toward her, a fond little grin tugging at his mouth.-"Brilliant, isn't she? She and Harry pulled this whole dance together - mirages, decoys, spell work so sharp you'll swear reality's gone slippery. By the time this gets going, you won't even be able to tell the difference between what's real and what's not."

Draco swallowed, throat tight. The idea that Potter, Weasley and Granger had orchestrated something grand - the choreography of deception, the sheer audacity of it - should have rattled him. But instead, watching her hold her place with steady precision, and hearing the unshakable confidence in Weasley's voice, he felt the strangest flicker of something else.

Draco leaned back slightly, voice low and cautious.-"Do you three ever get tired of helping... charity cases?"

Ron glanced at him, then at Hermione, who was silently observing from afar, eyes sharp and calculating.-"Well, yeah, we've done our share of little good deeds in past trials."-He admitted, a shrug accompanying the words.-"But this one... this one's different. Especially for Harry. Honestly? He'd rather risk getting splinched than let you face this trial room alone today, quite literally."

Draco's eyes narrowed behind the Polyjuiced mask, voice tight, almost incredulous.-"The situation... is that bad?"

Ron gave a wry shrug, leaning slightly forward.-"Quite literally, yeah. You're screwed, Malfoy. Some people really want your family dragged down. But here's the thing - Harry's confident. Hermione too. And if those two are, then I am as well. Leave saving the world in our hands anytime."

The courtroom buzzed faintly as the session began, though the weight of anticipation seemed to press the air heavier than any crowd. From the back, the doors are opened and closed with a loud bang. Amelia Bones, the formidable head of the Wizengamot, rose with an authority that silenced even the shifting of robes. Her sharp gaze swept the room before she sat down and began reading aloud, detailing the cases that had brought this unusual session to life.

The enchanted typewriter beneath her started writing the moment she entered the room, capturing everything.

"The file before us by persecutor Malcolm Canis Felch concerns allegations of Forbidden use of the unforgivable curse of Imperius and other dark magic and artefacts in several instances."-She began, her voice crisp, unwavering. Rosmerta under the Imperius curse, Katie Bell - whose life was imperilled by a curse that could have ended tragically - and Ronald Weasley, poisoned via mead by Professor Slughorn. The evidence has been compiled meticulously. The accused - Draco Malfoy - is to be summoned to the stand."

But the chair remained empty. Whispers ran through the room, tension crackling like static.

Then, the door opened with a fleeting swing of his wand, and Harry stepped forward. Cloak draped elegantly over his shoulders all the way to his feet, the bandaged arm noticeable but non-threatening, and the familiar set of his jaw drawing the attention of every eye. On the other side, an arm full of files. The room stilled completely, the hum of murmurs fading into a charged silence.

Amelia's sharp eyes blinked once, then she addressed him directly.-"Mr. Potter, are you here to confirm whether Mr. Malfoy will be joining us today?"

Harry's gaze swept the courtroom briefly, lingering on the familiar faces of the jury, before he replied evenly, measured, and precise:-"That will not be necessary. I will be testifying, defending and leading the presentation of the case on his behalf. Request I made a month ago through Laurel County."

A hush of disbelief passed through the gallery. Malcolm Fletch, draped in the sombre black of the prosecution, stiffened imperceptibly. Harry's gaze locked briefly on him; recognition sparked in a subtle, venomous way. He knows his face and name from a previous trial he testified against, he had failed to get him to Azkaban due to lack of evidence and no Death Mark, although he knew he had done heinous things in the past.

Fletch - the same one who had pushed for this trial, one of the ungrateful purebloods who had danced around justice by a hair, dragging other families with him to maintain old hierarchies - stood poised and indignant.

Harry could almost feel Draco's pulse from the gallery, the boy sitting quietly, their eyes met briefly, and he looked shocked still, that same confusion written all over his borrowed face.

Draco's eyes flicker from him to the reporters' box. There, Luna and Rolf Scamander wrote every detail, quills scratching meticulously. The rest of the reporters were already writing down every detail that would drag Draco and his family to the dirt. Luna's necklace flickered softly, a tiny lifeline.

A whispered, dreamy message slid across to Draco's awareness:-"So Harry is your defender... That's amazing."-The words, gentle and weightless, made even the rigid trial air feel softer.

"Much to everyone's surprise..." He responded.

Harry's gaze lingered briefly on Draco, reading the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers fidgeted under the borrowed robes. Then he returned his attention to the courtroom. The game had begun, and he was ready - not just for the trial, but to guard the boy he had spent every careful step preparing to protect. As many turns of time as he needed to get this done.

Every motion, every glance, every carefully measured word now carried dual weight: justice for the victims, and safeguarding Draco from the consequences that might otherwise crush him.

The courtroom's tension thickened, a living thing coiling between the benches, the judges, and the jurors. Ron crouched slightly in the gallery, wand raised and aimed carefully through the stands. His eyes never wavered from Harry, every nerve taut with focus.

He whispered under his breath, just loud enough for Draco to hear him.-"It's going to be fine. I've got you. Just... trust us."-His words, steady but carrying that faint teasing edge, were meant to soothe, to anchor Draco in a storm he hadn't yet fully realised was about to hit.

Hermione, sitting at the far end of the opposite jurors' box, gave a brief, subtle nod. The enchantments were in place, the complex choreography of their non-verbal spellwork ready to support Harry's mirage.

Time slowed in the seconds before the queue. Every movement, every heartbeat, was magnified in Draco's perception. He could see the slight twitch of Harry's wrist as he adjusted the bandaged arm, the faint rustle of cloak fabric as it settled over his lap.

"Apologising for my state today, I have hurt my arm during some Auror training."-He seamlessly lied. Amelia thanked him for the time he took to come down here when he should be resting. Then, with a practised ease, he tucked his hand beneath the cloak with his wand in hand. His eyes flicked briefly toward Draco, lips forming a silent message: It has started.

At that cue, Ron's spell work flowed seamlessly, anchored by Hermione's silent support. The mirage shimmered into existence, precise and unerring, every detail honed to perfection. Draco felt the weight of reality shift around him - the illusion was alive, breathing, controlled entirely by Harry's unseen hand.

The courtroom noises seemed to dull, the clock on the wall ticking louder in his ears. Every second now was measured, precious. The mirage held, flawless, and the game they had prepared for so long was finally underway.

The time had come.

"Something has started, but I do not know what..." Draco tells Luna through his watch.

He notices her shift on her chair, holding her necklace in her hand, her dreamy eyes looking around the room as if to examine its energy.

"I can feel the change in the air..." She responds. "Good energy is battling something dark and coiled..."

Draco shivers.

The chamber of the Wizengamot was colder than Harry had anticipated. Marble walls glimmered faintly under enchanted torches, their light catching the high, curved benches that rose like tiers of shadowed stone. Witches and wizards in plum-colored robes shifted, whispering, rustling parchment, the murmurs bouncing faintly across the chamber.

Harry stood at the centre dais, the heavy chain coiled on the chair behind him unused. Beneath his robes, the small, warm weight of the Time-Turner pressed against his wrist. Every motion now would be precise, each turn measured like they had trained, rehearsed, almost like a carefully scripted dance with his friends orchestrating from the shadows.

At the far end of the floor, Malcolm Canis Fletch rose. His lean, bitter face was sharp with old resentment, eyes flicking toward Harry with the intensity of someone nursing grudges over decades. He was old and had white hair, slim and lean, his eyes were like a snake's, and his monocle rested on his left eye. Harry noted the subtle twitch in Fletch's jaw, the slight weight he put on one foot, cataloguing every detail even as the man spoke.

"Honourable members of the Wizengamot, your honour Ms.Bones."-Fletch began, bowing in curtsy voice, slicing through the murmurs like a tyrant's speech.-"We are gathered not only to examine the tangled web surrounding Madam Rosmerta, but to reveal the cowardice and complicity of Draco Malfoy. It was Rosmerta who passed along cursed items. Poisoned mead meant for the Headmaster, which nearly killed a student. The necklace that left a girl half-dead. And always, at the centre of this foul play, Draco Lucius Malfoy!"

Gasps rippled across the chamber. Every head turned toward Harry, questioning, astonished. How could he protect such a man?

Draco, seated in the shadows of the jury, this had to be someone whom his father might've crossed, or maybe just another pureblood who is trying to gain authority once more over less powerful families. He must know about Rosmerta from none other than the closest Death Eaters of Voldemort. Dolohov, still salty about his imprisonment, has run his mouth from prison for sure.

Harry waited, letting the weight of the accusations settle, his eyes flicking toward the stands where Ron and Hermione, disguised, held their spells poised, every muscle tense, ready. The briefest nod passed between them - the signal that they were in sync, that every moment of this performance was aligned.

Fletch started again after the dramatic pause.-"Madame Rosmerta is a well-known figure who has helped this man commit..."

Stepping forward, back from a few minutes...Harry's voice carried clearly across the chamber.-"Intervention, your honours."-He asked, measured and deliberate, interrupting Fletch, once Amelia nods for him to intervene.-"The facts tell a very different story."-He allowed a pause, just enough to let the chamber absorb his presence.-"Madam Rosmerta was not an accomplice. She was a victim. Placed under the Imperius Curse, forced to act against her will. Every cursed delivery, every poisoned bottle - none of it was her doing. Punishing her would punish someone already wronged."

His words hit like a carefully timed strike. Eyes followed his subtle movements, the way he shifted weight from foot to foot, a hand brushing under his robes, hidden, a slight flick of the wrist - each motion rehearsed with Ron and Hermione, part of the choreography to keep the audience, and Draco, off balance. The chamber hung on every syllable, while Harry's gaze, precise and unyielding, swept past the spectators, resting briefly on Draco - silent reassurance that he was not alone in this.

Amelia Bones's voice rang out, firm and precise over the soft shuffle of feet and rustle of robes.-"Madam Rosmerta, please approach the stand."

An Auror stepped forward immediately, bowing slightly before gesturing for her to follow. Rosmerta rose, her usually unruly caramel hair had been pulled back in a bun, there was a faint tremor in her hands betraying her nerves, and she allowed the Auror to guide her across the chamber. Each step echoed lightly on the marble, the audience falling into a hush as she passed. Her eyes flicked toward Harry, catching the calm assurance in his gaze, and she drew a slow, steadying breath before taking her place at the stand, hands clasped tightly in front of her, ready to speak.

Draco's eyes flicked toward Rosmerta, then back to Harry, seated with his calm, measured gaze fixed on the proceedings. His mind drifted, unbidden, to that crisp Hogsmeade afternoon days ago. He remembered the quiet corner of the tavern, the way Harry had met with Rosmerta in secret, the careful attentions and hushed words he had never shared with Draco that night. The way she had returned with Butterbeer in her hands for them, a soft smile on her lips.

He had felt... left out then, a mixture of irritation and curiosity twisting in his chest as he waited patiently for Harry to return to the seat by the window. And now, sitting here, watching Harry guide every step of this trial with unwavering control, Draco realised something that twisted deeper than pride or annoyance. For all the secrecy, for all the decisions made without him, Harry had been there - watching, protecting, planning - for him, for the chaos that might have swallowed him whole. All this time, he had been quietly, tirelessly by his side.

Why?

A warmth crept through Draco's chest, confusing and strange, as he acknowledged it. He hadn't expected gratitude, hadn't expected relief - but he felt both, tangled with the bitter sting of past doubt. And in that moment, amid the cold marble and murmuring crowd, he understood just how much Harry had carried for him without a word, without expectation, always present, always ready. Like he had grounded him earlier, when his mind was going way and beyond, tight like a warm hug.

Harry turned to Rosmerta as she rose, trembling, guided gently by the Auror escort.-"Tell them."-He urged softly, his tone steady but encouraging, a lifeline through the chamber's tension.

Harry's eyes flicked down at the Time-Turner resting beneath his robes. The familiar weight pressed against his chest like a heartbeat, steady and grounding. He had already turned back a few seconds earlier, to see if everything was alright, enough to anticipate the opening statements, enough to measure the tempo of the chamber, enough to prepare for the questions he would answer before they were fully asked.

Rosmerta's eyes glistened as she spoke.-"I... I do not remember faces."-She whispered.-"Under the curse, memory was stolen from me. But I remember a voice. A voice that was harsh, commanding, cruel."-She faltered, then drew strength from Harry's gaze.-"It was not Mr Malfoy. He has been to my tavern many times. His voice has always been gentle... hesitant. Nothing like the one that commanded me. That voice belonged to another."

Murmurs rippled across the chamber. Harry inclined his head slightly, the smallest acknowledgement, before stepping forward, speaking with calm precision.-"That deeper voice was Thorfinn Rowle. Voldemort placed him in the shadows to ensure the plan did not fail. He strengthened the curses. He forced Rosmerta forward when Draco faltered in his attempts to fix a broken cabinet. Later, Thorfinn Rowle was Obliviated during a fight, which I have witnessed- which explains the gaps in memory."

Gasps and whispers echoed through the high benches. Harry shifted just slightly, a beat ahead of the murmurs, his movements fluid, his tone controlled, rehearsed in the brief glimpses the Time-Turner had afforded him. Every gesture, every pause, measured to steady Rosmerta, to signal her courage, to guide the chamber's attention where it belonged.

A sharp cough cut through the room. Malcolm Fletch surged forward, robes billowing, voice rising in disbelief and accusation.-"Objection, your honour. Lies! We can call Antonin Dolohov! He will testify to Malfoy's guilt!"

Amelia gestures for Harry to continue with his statement.

Harry had already seen this moment unfold minutes earlier. He knew precisely when Fletch would surge, knew the subtle twitch of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes as he prepared to spew accusation. Before Fletch could gain momentum, Harry's voice cut through the murmurs, sharp and unflinching.

"Antonin Dolohov was not present for the delivery of the cursed items."-He said, eyes scanning the chamber with calm authority.-"Any attempt to bring him into this is deliberate misdirection. This is not about justice. It is about revenge."

The words hit like a cold gust. Gasps ran through the Wizengamot, a ripple of shock and curiosity spreading over the plum-robed members. Some nodded slowly, understanding the weight of the claim. Others frowned, suspicion creasing their brows. Harry's posture remained relaxed, but the controlled intensity in his grey eyes anchored every syllable.

Fletch's face darkened, veins tightening along his temple. His desperation was almost tangible, a thin layer of smoke curling from the corners of his clenched jaw. His eyes flickered, searching for a weakness, a falter in Harry's calculated composure - but there was none. The chamber seemed to hold its breath as Fletch paused, then his voice rose, strained, venomous and cracking.

"You - how can you speak so boldly? You speak for him, and yet you are not Malfoy! You cannot know what truly happened! You-..."

Harry tilted his head slightly, anticipating every word before it was fully formed. His lips curved in the faintest trace of a smirk, though his tone remained ice-cold, measured with surgical precision.-"I know enough. Enough to prevent an injustice masquerading as an accusation. Enough to ensure that the innocent are not sacrificed to satisfy old grudges. That, Mr. Fletch, is what this chamber is for: justice. Not vendettas."

The chamber was still, the murmurs halted by the sheer certainty of his words. Draco, hidden among the jury, felt his heart tighten, every nerve alert.

Harry's performance was flawless - not an act of bravado, but a careful orchestration, rehearsed in the quiet minutes Harry had stolen, the tiny rewind of time giving him the edge to answer before the question fully landed. Every head in the room, even Fletch's, was caught in the rhythm Harry had set, his presence and timing undeniable.

Draco's fingers curled slightly in his lap, his pulse racing. He had seen Harry before, fought alongside him, relied on him during their mindless adventures - but here, in the chamber, in this precise choreography of words, timing, and subtle gestures, Harry became something more: a force, a shield, a mind that ran just ahead of reality, keeping him - and perhaps everyone - safe.

The chamber hummed with tension as Amelia Bones and Malcolm Fletch exchanged a glance, clearly unprepared for the methodical assault on their narrative. Amelia leaned slightly forward, her voice even but probing.-"Mr. Potter, can you clarify your position regarding the cursed deliveries? And how can we be certain of Mr. Malfoy's non-involvement?"

Harry's gaze swept across the floor, calm and unyielding. He produced a hefty file from beneath his cloak, the leather worn from countless hours of handling.-"Of course."-He said smoothly, placing it on the dais.-"I prepared this file for you today. It contains statements, corroborations, and evidence that paint an accurate picture, all sealed with the stamp of the Ministry of Magic."

Fletch tried to talk.-"We were not informed of any cha-..."

Harry stopped him with a short gesture of his free hand. He pulled a few small vials from a hidden compartment in his pocket, his speciality to bring memories to court.-"Included here on these memories as well as on the file where the statement has been documented and signed by her."-He continued while they all floated towards Amelia.-"Is Katie Bell's account regarding the cursed item she encountered. She confirms that while the object caused harm, it was rectified immediately, and she explicitly stated she wished no charges against Draco Malfoy, as he is and will remain a former friend of hers from Hogwarts."

Fletch's lips tightened, the muscle in his jaw working as he tried to interject. He had not thought Harry bloody Potter would involve himself with this family.

Amelia held up a hand, a silent command. Harry moved on, turning to another section of his file.-"Also included is a statement from Ronald Weasley, whose words I have verified and he has signed, expressing both his first-hand knowledge of Draco's innocence in this matter and his understanding of the shadow cast by his family. Ron notes that Draco was only a boy during these events and that he would never press charges against him either way."

Draco felt a strange, sinking mixture of shock and disbelief. He looked at Ron, who could not break his eye connection with Harry for the non-verbal mirage to work his wand pointed at Harry, discreetly, just like Hermione from across the room. His hand pressed lightly against the edge of the bench, trying to ground himself. Every word Harry read aloud seemed to undo the weight he had been carrying for days.

Fletch tried to talk again.-"This evidence is not enough to-..."

Harry's voice softened just slightly, guiding Amelia and the Wizengamot through the evidence with precise clarity.-"Finally, Madam Rosmerta's testimony confirms that she does not recall Draco's voice in any of the commands she was forced to follow under duress. Instead, she recalls a harsher, commanding voice, while Draco himself, during his visits to her tavern, was always kind, gentle, and hesitant - never threatening."

A ripple ran through the chamber. Murmurs spread as the audience digested the meticulous nature of Harry's presentation, each follow-up question from Amelia and Fletch answered before they had fully formed in their minds. His timing, his preparation, the fluidity of his responses - it all struck the room as rehearsed, yet impossible to dispute.

Draco's chest tightened, and for the first time since the trial began, he felt a cautious thread of relief. Harry wasn't just answering questions; he was constructing a shield around him, meticulously, unwaveringly, every fact and voice supporting him like an invisible army. The Polyjuice mask could not hide the tremble in Draco's fingers, the shallow hitch in his breath, nor the way his wide eyes darted between Harry, the files, and the murmuring Wizengamot.

Malcolm tried to ask another question, but he was interrupted almost immediately.-"Dolahov can testify against this all-..."

Harry continued, seamless, almost ahead of the room's perception. Each answer arrived before a follow-up could fully form, a heartbeat too fast for anyone else to react. And in that perfect cadence, Draco realised that for all the chaos and fear, for all the peril of this moment, he was not alone - not with Harry orchestrating every move, not with Hermione and Ron silently covering every angle.

Fletch's face twisted with frustration as he leaned forward, voice sharp, trying to regain control.-"Mr. Potter, words are not enough - concrete proof is required. We need irrefutable evidence that Draco Malfoy-..."

Before he could finish, Harry stepped smoothly to his bag and produced more vials of memories he had painstakingly collected. Each glimmering orb held a preserved truth, moments frozen in time. He held them up one by one.-"Here."-He said, voice calm but carrying the weight of every sleepless night.-"Katie Bell's recollection, Ronald Weasley's testimony, even Slughorn himself, Headmistress Minerva McGonagall and Madam Rosmerta. And of course...more of my own memories from these instances."

Fletch tried one more time to regain control over the matter.-"Rowle was never included in such matters, Dolohov can vouch for my words-..."

Gasps ran through the chamber as Harry let the words settle. He leaned slightly, eyes scanning the room, precise and measured.-"I witnessed the Obliviation of Thorfinn Rowle and Antonin Dolohov the night of Ministry's fall, where I was followed to Tottenham Court Road along with Antonin Dolohov disguised as construction workers while on the run from Death Eaters. If you bring Dolahov to the stand, Malcolm Fletch, he will confirm my words, too, under the truth serum. Antonin Dolohov was also obliviated; later, he had recollected only very few memories." - A sugar-coated threat peeked from Harry's statement. Silence fell for a moment; he had caught Malcolm in his own lie.

Harry pulled out a vial from his pocket; this one shimmered gold instead of silver. He levitated it towards Amelia.-"Antonin Dolohov's obliviation at Tottenham Court Road fight."

Amelia arranged all the vials and gave them to an Auror on her left.-"Take these to Laurel County for a reading in the pensive, bring me the readings file."

The Auror rushed away. Harry did not waste time strengthening his statements.

"Thorfinn Rowle was present during the school break-in and at the Astronomy Tower, where Snape ended Dumbledore's life. Many others can corroborate these events, as I have prepared on the vials of memories. Draco Malfoy, as I have already testified during a previous trial, could not, and would not, have carried out Dumbledore's death. Voldemort knew that. He had contingency plans, several in fact, which also included Rowle. I know better than anyone here the web Voldemort wove...the connections he maintained, and the people he used."

A tense silence fell over the Wizengamot. As the auror came back with the thin file of the readings from Laurel's office. He handed it to Amelia, who started reading it out loud.-"The readings have come back positive. During the events at the Tottenham Court Road fight, both Antonin Dolohov and Thorfinn Rowle had their memories altered and permanently erased. The people testifying have all agreed on Draco Lucius Malfoy's favour; they have pleaded his innocence."

Fletch rose in horror, throat ready to spew more lies.-"This is untrue, these memories could have been altered..."

Heads turned, some sceptical, some beginning to nod. Harry's tone sharpened, carrying more than accusation - disappointment, frustration, a quiet anger that had been building for weeks.-"I am disappointed."-He said, glancing at the chamber like a hawk, tired.-"That we are forced to revisit a trial I thought had been settled the first time I testified for Draco Malfoy and his mother. It seems the Ministry has a tendency to target certain individuals, to manipulate justice. That is not something I will watch unfold quietly. Not here. Not ever."

The vials shimmered faintly in the torchlight, evidence undeniable. Harry's gaze, unwavering and precise, held the room in a kind of frozen awe. Each movement, each word, was a measured blow, surgical in its execution. And through it all, Draco - hidden in the jury's shadow- could barely breathe, heart racing as the truth Harry presented shielded him, piece by piece, from accusations that could have destroyed him.

This was more than defence; it was a reclamation of everything that had been stolen, carefully, deliberately, orchestrated with the kind of precision only Harry Potter could manage. And as Fletch sputtered, grasping for any leverage, Harry's eyes flicked momentarily to Draco, offering the faintest assurance:-"You are not alone. Not now. Not ever."

The chamber buzzed with suppressed whispers as Amelia Bones lifted a hand, silencing the room.-"Mr. Fletch."-She said, her voice firm.-"Dolohov will not be called to the stand. That testimony will not be considered due to the evidence we have just been presented."

A wave of relief rippled through some of the Wizengamot members, though others glanced sharply at Fletch, who stood frozen, face twisting from fury to disbelief. The realisation hit him like ice: his attempt to sway the court with a convicted Death Eater's account had been neutralised.

Harry's gaze never wavered, steady and precise, reading the subtle shifts in the chamber. His jaw tightened, not with triumph but with controlled focus. He looked tired, drained - he had anticipated this, planned for it, and now it unfolded exactly as he had foreseen.

Fletch's shoulders stiffened. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and closed it again. Pride and desperation warred across his features, his hands clenching at his sides. He could not admit defeat, not in front of the court, yet the weight of Harry's unwavering command was undeniable.

Amelia's eyes flicked to Harry briefly, a subtle nod acknowledging that this development strengthened his position. The advantage was clear: without Dolohov's testimony, Harry's carefully prepared files, his vials of memories, and the testimonies he had orchestrated held unchallenged sway.

From his seat, Draco's heart tightened. He saw it all - the shift in Fletch, the quiet authority in Amelia's decision, the unwavering calm in Harry. He didn't need anyone to confirm it for him; he knew, with the certainty that tightened his chest, that Harry had won this round.

And somewhere deep inside, beneath the lingering tension and fear, Draco allowed himself a small, fragile flicker of relief. Harry had done it - again. He had safeguarded the truth, dismantled the lies, and in doing so, had pulled Draco back from the edge.

The chamber erupted in mutters. Some nodded, some frowned. Fletch's face darkened; his eyes flickered with desperation.

And then his fury boiled over.

He pointed a finger at Harry, his voice shrill and venomous:-"And now we have Potter, standing teeth to teeth with the law, defending this boy who does not even dare appear! What sorcery compels him to do so? I submit to this court: Harry Potter is under enchantment! Either Amortentia, or curse possession - for no sane wizard defends a Malfoy with such zeal!"

Gasps burst from the benches. A storm of whispers swept the chamber. Some eyes narrowed at Harry, others flicked uneasily toward Fletch, who stood red-faced and trembling with fury.

Before Fletch could continue, Amelia Bones lifted a hand, firm and commanding.-"Mr. Fletch."- She said, voice crisp and unyielding.-"That will be enough for today. Nothing else will be submitted."

A subtle shift ran through the chamber. Some Wizengamot members exhaled quietly, relief mingling with curiosity. Harry's jaw tightened slightly - he had anticipated this moment minutes ago, knew how it would unfold, but the tension in the room still sparked against his skin.

Harry stepped forward, calm, deliberate.-"This is a trial of facts, not fevered paranoia."-He said evenly, eyes locking on Fletch with the quiet authority of someone who had already lived through worse.-"You would accuse me of enchantment, of madness, simply for defending what is true? Then let us speak of enchantments - of loyalties - of shadows."

He walked forward, his cloak grazing the floor with elegance, his posture held so straight you could think it was theatrical, his glasses shimmering as he faced Fletch directly, head held high. A dark aura radiated around him. He resonated...He screamed in all his mannerisms...He is their saviour. He is their hero. He is their Lord...

He lowered his voice just enough to draw the chamber in, each word precise, deliberate.-"I know Death Eaters, Fletch. I lived among them, fought them, bore the scars of their master. And I know yours - your relations, your dealings with Voldemort's followers. Not forgotten. Not erased. The fact that you stand here today, free and not rotting in Azkaban, should be lesson enough: do not drag innocents into chains when your own darkness still clings to you."

The chamber fell utterly silent. Gasps scattered like sparks. A few Wizengamot members leaned back as if struck; others exchanged startled glances. Fletch's face drained of colour, mouth working soundlessly, caught in the suffocating grip of Harry's unshakable certainty.

Harry held his gaze a moment longer, then turned back to the court.-"My defence of Madam Rosmerta is based on evidence, and evidence alone. She did not act of her own will. Rowle forced the hand that held the cursed wine. That is the truth."

A faint murmur of approval passed through the benches. Fletch, realising he had been outmanoeuvred, stiffened, unwilling to admit defeat aloud, though the tightening of his hands and the narrowing of his eyes betrayed him.

Amelia Bones nodded slightly, her sharp gaze confirming the advantage Harry now held, and the Wizengamot's attention shifted, the focus no longer on wild accusations but on the precise, unassailable facts Harry had delivered. Fletch, meanwhile, fumed silently, every flicker of his desperation a confirmation to Draco that their plan - their truth - was being executed perfectly, piece by piece.

"Since Thorfinn Rowle is already under the supervision of St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries due to loss of memory, Antonin Dolohov cannot testify due to loss of memory, and the pile of evidence, and all the victims included in this testimony against Draco Lucious Malfoy plead his innocence, we will proceed with a fair voting from the jury before closing this case once and for all."-Amelia stated taking her gravel in hand, her typewriter ready to count all the votes and hands that rise.

He remained seated, disguised as Anthony Markus, hands folded tightly in his lap. He did not dare raise his own hand; part of him still bore the weight of guilt, even if Harry had spun a narrative of truth that painted him as blameless. The realisation hit him with a dizzying mix of awe and fear - Harry's mind, his ability to anticipate, manipulate, and orchestrate, had saved him completely. The darkness lingering beneath Harry's calm, precise exterior had guided every step of this intricate plan. Draco had always known Potter could lie - now he saw just how perfectly he could do it.

"Raise your hand, Malfoy."-Ron whispered, leaning close.-"You've earned it!"

Harry from the centre of the room looks in his direction and nods. He sees that Draco has not raised his hand, the only one in the entire stand who dares not raise his hand.

They look at each other, knowingly. Draco knows he was not innocent, Harry knows how many lies it took...

Draco shook his head ever so slightly at Ron, a shadow of a smile touching his lips. He didn't need to raise his hand. Instead, he allowed his eyes to sweep across the chamber, catching the quiet cheer from the reporters' gallery. Luna and Rolf Scamander, notebooks brimming with careful notes, grinned at him softly, their pride and relief palpable, unlike the other reporters who had expected or had been told and paid for a different story to be painted that day.

The Wizengamot murmured as the final votes were tallied, one by one echoing through the marble chamber. Every hand raised, every voice counted - and when the verdict was read, the words struck Draco like sunlight after a long storm:-"Draco Malfoy is acquitted of all charges."

A shimmer on his wrist made him glance down. Through the Protean Charm, Luna's familiar, dreamy script blinked across his watch: "You are free."

Draco's chest tightened. A lump rose in his throat, and a small, genuine smile broke through his usual guarded expression. He wrote back.

"Thanks for being here for me, Moony."

He felt the weight of the past days lift in tiny increments. Every harrowing step, every sleepless night Harry had endured, had been to ensure he survived this moment. The thrill of relief was intertwined with a strange, quiet admiration. Draco realised that he had not just been saved; he had been seen, truly seen, in a way no one else had ever managed.

For a moment, the chamber's chill seemed to fade. The stone benches, the polished floors, the whispered echoes of judgment - all of it became background noise to the vivid certainty that Harry had orchestrated a path through the storm for him. He could feel the steady, almost imperceptible reassurance of Harry's presence even from across the room, a calculated calm that had held the chaos at bay.

Draco's eyes flicked to Harry, then to Ron and Hermione, whose vigil had been unwavering. The trio's silent coordination, their subtle glances, and perfectly timed spells had carried him through a trial far beyond what he could have survived alone. And in that instant, Draco understood the depth of their dedication - and the truth of what he had always suspected, that Harry's cunning, his patience, and his resolve were far greater than anyone in the Wizengamot could comprehend.

Draco's relief from the verdict barely had time to settle before his eyes caught something off - Harry, steady and controlled just moments ago, now almost stumbled as he rose from the dais. Ron and Hermione exchanged tight, fearful glances, their worry unspoken but sharp.

"He has overdone it..."-Ron muttered, voice low, and Draco frowned. Overdone? What does he mean by that?

Before anyone could answer, Draco was already moving, rushing out of his seat to catch up with him. He pushed past the last of the murmuring Wizengamot members and raced back to the third corridor, knowing he might have gone there, the same cold stone stretch where Harry had held him in that grounding hug hours before. And there he was - Harry, leaning heavily against the wall, bandaged hand pressed against the stone for support, his other hand having dropped his wand somewhere on the tiles at his feet.

Harry's hand slipped, the movement sudden and terrifyingly real. Without thinking, Draco lunged forward, catching him before he hit the cold floor. He steadied Harry, easing him down behind the wall, letting him sit, his own hands gripping Harry's tightly.

From underneath the white bandages, Draco glimpsed something gleaming, delicate...The string of a Time-Turner, glinting softly in the corridor's dim light. His stomach twisted. He remembered Ron's joke earlier about getting splinched and overdoing it, and he shivered.

"Harry... how many times...?"-Draco asked, voice tight, a mix of awe and fear. He already knew the consequences of overusing the device - fatigue, danger, even worse.

Harry looked at him, eyes catching the worry on Draco's face, the lingering relief from the trial, and something soft, almost intimate, passed between them.-"It was worth it."-He said simply, his voice steady but quiet, almost vulnerable.

Draco's hands tightened around his.-"How many times... Harry?"

Thirteen.

"Thirteen times..."-Harry admitted, with a faint, tired smile.

Draco stared at him, heart hammering, mind spinning. That is twice the allowed times.-"Why? Why! You could have..."-His voice cracked.-"You could have died, or worse, splinched. Why did you do all this?"

Harry just held his gaze, letting the words hang in the space between them. The Time-Turner, the orchestrated trial, every dangerous minute, had been for him - Draco, free, alive, and no longer under the shadow of accusation. The weight of it all - Harry's exhaustion, the risk, the sheer audacity - pressed on Draco, and yet, somehow, the chaos of the past days was anchored by the steady presence of the boy sitting against the wall in front of him.-"You'd better get that position as an Unspeakable..."-Harry admitted, a playful tease on his lips.

Draco shook his head, muttering again.-"You have gone insane, brave beyond reasoning...That position means nothing to me...If this-...this is cost."

Harry's lips twitched into a faint, weary smile, and for the first time, Draco allowed himself to sit closer, holding the hand that had risked everything for him, the very same hand that clearly wrote 'I must not tell lies' across it... and finally, in the quiet corridor, letting the emotions of relief, fear, and admiration crash together in a torrent of unspoken words.

Harry leaned against the cold wall, seated on the floor where Draco had gently guided him, but even in fatigue, there was a strange grace to him, like a warrior finally at rest yet still poised. His breaths were shallow, yes, but measured; his eyelids fluttered in rhythm with the pulse of the corridor, not slack or flopping, but soft, deliberate. Draco crouched beside him, pressing a hand to his shoulder, voice taut with worry when his eyes closed and were not opening for a few seconds, his breaths hitching.-"Stay with me, Harry. Your friends must be coming."-He urged, gently nudging him. Yet Harry's head dipped only slightly, a faint gleam of composure still clinging to his features, his eyes too heavy to open again.

Even as exhaustion pressed in from repeated Time-Turner use and the relentless strain of the trial, he carried a quiet dignity, as if the world's weight could touch him but not entirely bend him.

Realising he could not keep Harry upright alone, Draco reluctantly let go of Harry's hand, it falling limp over the tiled floor. He moved to find Hermione and Ron; they were heading his way, still in their Polyjuice disguises, eyes sharp, ready. "Harry - he's fading."-Draco said, the panic in his voice barely containing his fear.

He led them back to the third corridor, the quiet, familiar stretch where Draco had first held him hours ago and earlier caught him before collapsing. Hermione dropped to her knees beside Harry immediately, deftly fishing into the small bag she kept tucked at her hip. With a practised motion, she produced a vial filled with a warm, amber liquid that seemed to shimmer faintly in the corridor's light.

Ron was measuring his pulse on the other side, worried.

Draco's eyes flicked to the glowing potion; his brows furrowed.-"What is that?"-He asked, voice tight with concern.

"Draught of Rekindled Vitalis."-Hermione replied, voice firm but gentle.-"It'll restore strength, clear the fog. He needs it now - fast."-She handed the vial to Harry with steady hands, coaxing him gently.

Ron turned to Draco, noticing his hair colour slightly changing back to the usual pale strands, voice quieter but no less urgent.-"Malfoy, your Polyjuice's wearing off. You might need to go soon. We'll take care of him, but you need to move."

Draco nodded, heart tightening. He stood to make sure Hermione and Ron were steady as they prepared to administer the potion.-"Go."-She murmured softly, urgency lacing her words.-"Harry will be fine... just... hurry. If they see you, there will be trouble."

Hermione nodded towards him, understandingly.-"I got him."

Draco pressed a hand briefly to Harry's arm, a silent promise and a whisper.-"Thank you." - Before stepping back, leaving Harry in the safest hands of his friends. With urgency in his stride, he went back and gathered Luna and Rolf Scamander, who had arrived just in time at the middle of the Ministry atrium.

Draco gripped both their hands, weaving through the corridors with precise, quick movements, and led them to the Floo Network. Green flames roared to life around them, swallowing them in a rush of heat and motion that left Draco's hair slightly singed at the edges.

They landed at Luna's house, where her father waited with a mix of anxiety and hope etched across his face.-"How did it go?"-He asked them while Luna hugged him as if they had been apart for a week.

"Harry saved the day once more..."-Luna answered with a hushed, awe-filled voice.

Without more explanation to her dad, the three of them retreated to Luna's room. Rolf lingered at the doorway, awkward at first, drawn in by the shared sense of adventure they had just gone through.-"We can trust you with a secret?"-Luna asked Rolf, her voice soft but insistent, eyes gleaming with curiosity.

Draco gave a careful nod, weighing the trust he felt in this small circle.-"Yes, I think we can."-He replied, a faint tension easing from his shoulders, inviting him to step inside while he explains.

"Thanks, I am still shocked...I was sure it was a lost cause."-Rolf admitted, and Draco scrunched his nose, having fully returned to his original appearance, Anthony's clothes fitting him loose.-"I mean-.."-He tried to fix his statement, but Draco cut him off with a dry laugh.

"No worries, Scamander. You have found me in high spirits today."-Draco said with his usual irony.

Luna sat on her bed, gently holding Draco's hand, happy to have him back, happy to see him free.-"Told you Harry would have a good enough reason to keep secrets from you..."

Draco looked down at his lap, the memory of Harry's hand slipping on the hallway having been just minutes ago...-"He should not have...almost got splinched...Moony, he was using a Time-Turner, and Granger and Weasley were keeping his mirage up from the jury stands, disguised as jurors."

Rolf's eyes widened as he sat on the ground, letting his heavy leather bag fall beside the bed.-"Time-Turner? But the Ministry destroyed every single registered Time-Turner?"

Draco nodded, playing with his leather glove.-"That is what we all thought...But I saw it slip from his wrist. He overused it, and it drained him."

Luna covered her mouth.-"How many turns?"

"Thirteen..."-Draco said, looking away.

Rolf went through the notes he had collected.-"That is the precise number of times he interrupted Malcolm Fletch..."

Draco eyed his notes, an idea in his mind.-"I need both of your notes from the hearing. I need to check if anything has been noticed from the plan Potter had orchestrated today. Someone might have noticed, whispers are enough to drag this whole thing to the ground..."

Rolf, ever methodical, unknown to the two of them, pulled out his reserve notebook, sliding from its cover an enchanted pen he had smuggled past Wizengamot security - a clever, but highly illegal pen, and perfect for his meticulous work.

"Does dad know about this?"-Luna asks Rolf, looking at his pen, feeling the soft feather between her fingers. She is familiar with this type of magic/enchantment used on the pen...-"These have a mind of their own..."-She said, looking at it towards the light.

The pen quivered to life in her hand, it is enchanted for capturing every word, every inflexion, every nuance of recounting with painstaking precision. Rolf stiffens.-"No...not really. Hence, the fact it's illegal...but look...Rita Skeeter uses it all the time. What difference does it make...if I..."

Draco noticed his face go white and almost laughed.-"I am continuously surprised today, who knew little Rolfus had a trick up his sleeve too."

Rolf scratches his head, laughing, caught in his trick.-"I take that you do not mind..."

"Of course not."-Draco says, patting him on the back.-"Cunningness is something I recognise and value."

Rolf smiled in relief.

"Did you go to Hogwarts?"-Draco wonders.

He nods.-"Yes, of course."

"Which house?"-Draco follows up.

Rolf's face turns from white to rose red, brushing the caramel coloured hair from his face.-"Hufflepuff..."

"Impressive."-Draco says with a firm smirk.

Together, Draco and Luna combed through his memory of the trial, searching for any hint, any slip, any fragment of Harry's orchestration - the subtle hand movements, the cadence of his answers, the way he seemed always a step ahead.

Rolf's pen moved relentlessly across the pages, releasing every captured detail, yet as they went over it again and again, they realised it was flawless. Every pause, every gesture, every answer had been perfectly calculated. The Time-Turner and spell work for the mirage, the responses from witnesses - all of it had been executed without a single visible flaw due to the timing the Time-Turner had allowed.

Luna exhaled softly, almost in awe.-"It's... perfect."-She whispered, her eyes shining.

Draco nodded, a mixture of admiration and disbelief twisting through him.-"It had to be. He left nothing to chance. Not for a second. That little bastard..."

The three of them sat in quiet awe, the weight of Harry's brilliance settling around them. Even with the enchanted pen capturing every microsecond, every subtlety, they understood the truth: what Harry had done was beyond replication, beyond ordinary understanding. It had been perfect.

Draco, exhausted yet alert, finally allowed himself to breathe, feeling the warmth of their company and the safety of this haven. For the first time in hours, he felt a fragile, hard-won peace.

Draco nodded, still catching his breath, his grip on their hands tightening reflexively.-"He planned every step. Crazy bastard."-He said quietly, almost to himself.-"Every move, every answer...everything. And he did it for me."

Draco, drained but alert, sank into a chair by the window, finally allowing himself a measure of relief. Surrounded by friends who understood and supported him, and with the knowledge that Harry was safe for now, he felt a fragile, hard-won peace settle over him - a calm after the storm, brief but desperately needed.

Questions flew from both Luna and Rolf, overlapping, each more curious than the last.-"Did he-..."-Luna began, then paused, unsure.-"Was he - really okay?"

Draco shook his head.-"I am not sure. Will you go visit him later? Owl me the news? I need to visit my mother; she had alerted half the world to my absence."

"I will," Luna confirmed, her voice a soft, reassuring balm. She squeezed Draco’s hand one last time, her silver eyes holding his with an unwavering calm. "Go to your mother. I’ll go to Grimmauld Place and check on Harry. I’ll owl you the news, I promise."

Rolf nodded, his expression serious as he slid the stack of parchment into a magically sealed satchel.-"I'll head straight to the studio. Go through these again, just in case we missed something..."-He offered a firm, steadying hand to Draco.-"You're safe now, Malfoy. My job here is complete."

Draco shook his hand.-"I was nice having you tag along, witnessing absolute insanity."

Rolf laughed. He turned to Luna.-"I really enjoyed your story about the tracking of a Graphorn herd in the Albanian mountains...I would love to hear more about it someday."-He said, scratching the back of his head, genuine interest in his eyes.

Luna smiled widely, tilting her head.-"You can owl me anytime for a catch-up then..."

He shook her hand softly.-"Deal!"-And with that, he turned to leave.

Once he did, Daco raised an eyebrow at Luna, who was still blushing. He caught on fast to what was going on.-"I think he fancies you..."-He nudged her.

Luna shook her head.-"Oh no, he is rather friendly with everyone."

"Well, he did not invite me to talk about the tracking of a Graphocks herd in the Albanian mountains, did he?"-He joked, and Luna hid her face behind her notebook.

"Graphorn, not Graphocks."-She corrected him.

Draco gave her a grateful, weary nod, a teasing smile on his lips. There were no more words to be said. With a shared, final look of understanding. As promised, they part ways around the afternoon.

Draco arrived at the gates of Malfoy Manor with the sharp crack of Apparition. He found every window ablaze with light, a frantic beacon against the dark. The grand oak doors were pulled open before he could touch them, revealing his mother, Narcissa, her face pale with sleepless anxiety. She said nothing, her eyes scanning him for any sign of harm before pulling him into a fierce, desperate embrace. As the familiar, cold walls of his home enveloped him, Draco finally let the tension drain from his shoulders. He was no longer a defendant or a fugitive; he was simply a son, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, he was safe.

"Harry, he found you-..."-Narcissa spoke.

Draco nodded before she could complete.-"Yes...he did."

She hugged him even tighter, thanking Harry in her mind for bringing her son home one more time.

Luna appeared on the steps of Grimmauld Place with a soft shimmer. The door, enchanted to recognise friends, swung open to a home transformed by Harry’s warmth, the grim decor replaced by Harry's style. She found him in his bedroom, with Teddy in his arms, both of them godson and godfather fast asleep. The Time-Turner rested on the bedside table, looking as weary as its owner. Without waking him, Luna conjured a thick blanket, draped it gently over them, and settled into the opposite chair, content to stand watch over her friend in the quiet, just as she had promised...

Chapter Text

The drawing room at Grimmauld Place had changed. Gone were the moth-eaten curtains and the stench of old magic. Harry had filled it with himself - a bookshelf sagging with Quidditch annuals and Auror manuals, framed photographs of friends smiling in golden light, a few Weasley jumpers folded neatly on the sofa. Even the tapestry of the Black family, painstakingly restored, no longer seemed like a monument to cold bloodlines, but part of a living house.

The toy hippogriff sputtered in midair, wings beating unevenly before tumbling onto Teddy's lap. The boy shrieked with laughter, clutching it to his chest. Luna smiled faintly, though her eyes strayed toward Harry at the desk by the window.

He sat slouched forward, fingers pressed against his temple, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he looked through some Ministry paperwork for his future Auror promotion. The Daily Prophet headline still glared accusingly beside him, loud and cruel, while the Quibbler's gentler praise lay half-buried beneath reports and scrolls.

“SAVIOR ENCHANTED OR POSSESSED? Potter Defends Malfoy - Love Potion, Blackmail, or Madness?”

Harry’s jaw tightened, the words echoing louder than Teddy’s laughter. They had wasted no time, had they? Turned his defence of Draco into fodder for conspiracies, questioning his sanity, his loyalty, even his freedom. He rubbed his temples.

“You shouldn’t listen to them.”-Luna said airily, as if she had read his thoughts. She was coaxing Teddy’s toy hippogriff into a dramatic bow, its wings fluttering.-“It’s what they do best. Fear makes them loud.”

Harry gave a short laugh, bitter at the edges.-“Maybe. But loud has power, Lunalight. And people like this…”-He trailed off, staring at the ink again, at the words that painted his decision as a kind of madness.

Luna tilted her head, the faintest smile curving her lips.-“I thought you were magnificent yesterday.”

Harry gave her a searching look, as though trying to decide whether she was simply being Luna - airy, unshakable - or if she truly understood what it had cost him.

And she did - more than he knew.

“I was at the hearing.”-She explained, still in that dreamy voice of hers, as if being a reporter at the Wizengamot was no stranger than hunting for Nargles.-“Reporting for the Quibbler. I thought you ought to know.”

Luna lowered her gaze back to Teddy, who was clapping his hands as the toy soldiers attempted a clumsy dance. Luna softly touches the wooden athame where Draco Malfoy's name is carved childishly. She didn't say what pressed at the edges of her heart: that she had also seen Draco Malfoy yesterday, pale and tight-jawed beneath the scrutiny of the Wizengamot, a boy holding himself together by threads. She didn't say that he had sought refuge on her sofa, that she had tucked a blanket over him as though he were a brother she might lose by morning.

And she didn't say what she truly wished - that one day, Harry and Draco might sit in a room together, not as saviour and rival, not as enemies bound by old battles, but as men who could finally hear each other. She thought perhaps they could. If only they would stop looking at each other as ghosts of their pasts.

Instead, she only said.-"The Quibbler has it right. You stood for fairness. You should be proud of that."

Harry’s brows furrowed, but before he could speak, she added softly:-“You did the right thing. Not just for Draco Malfoy, but for all the people who don’t get their second chances. Rolf wrote about that part. He said the Wizengamot is too eager to close doors when it ought to open them wider.”

She nodded toward the other side of the desk, where another paper lay - the Quibbler. Its headline gleamed in bright, whimsical lettering:

“Justice on Trial: Auror Potter Stands for Fairness in the Wizengamot.”

Harry reached for it, scanning the words, the praise heaped on him, the reframing of what had happened. His throat tightened.

Harry leaned back in his chair, letting out a long breath, and nodded faintly. Teddy tugged at his sleeve, holding up the toy hippogriff for him to see, mumbling the only word he knew so far, dad-da over and over, and for a moment, the heaviness in the room lifted.

“You really think that?”-He asked quietly, glancing from the paper to Luna, to Teddy squealing as he held up the toy hippogriff. Luna picked Teddy up, taking him back to the rug to play, not to tire Harry on his recovery day, his body still very frail from the events of yesterday.

Luna smiled again, though her secret hope stayed folded in her chest, tucked away like the photograph of her and Draco by the lake - a fragile thing, waiting for a world where enemies could finally become something else.

“I know it.”-Luna said simply.-“And someday, everyone else will, too.”

Harry swallowed, and for the first time since the trial, some of the weight pressing on his chest eased.

Harry tossed his quill onto the desk with more force than he meant to. Ink splattered across a corner of the Prophet headline, blotting out the word Possessed. He pushed a hand through his hair, the way he always did when agitation bled into weariness.

"I just-..."-He broke off, shaking his head.-"It's impossible to get through to him. Malfoy. His guard is always up. His armour never comes off. I'd wager he even sleeps in it. He doesn't want to be saved. His pride's too thick for that."

His voice carried a note of bitterness, but underneath was exhaustion, the kind that came from trying again and again to reach someone who recoiled every time.-"Like a snake, you are yet to discover if they are venomous or not, and the only way to find out is by getting bitten."

Across the room, Luna sat cross-legged on the rug beside Teddy, who had just enchanted the toy soldiers to topple in a heap. She tilted her head toward Harry, her pale eyes thoughtful, her wand idly twirling between her fingers.

"Maybe..."-She said gently.-"You're helping in the wrong way."

Harry frowned, glancing up at her.

"You always try to fix things."-Luna continued, her tone calm, unhurried.-"You see broken pieces and think they must be mended. But Draco doesn't need someone to fix him. He isn't a puzzle or a problem. He needs someone who'll sit with him, who'll let him talk, even if the words come slowly. Someone who'll listen, instead of trying to save."

Harry leaned back in his chair, lips pressing into a line. He looked at her like he wanted to argue, but the weight in his shoulders said he knew she was right.

"Listen?"-He repeated, almost incredulous.-"That's it? Just... listen?"

Luna smiled faintly, her eyes returning to Teddy, who was now crawling after his hippogriff.-"Sometimes, Harry, listening is the bravest thing we can do. It means letting someone else keep their armour - until they decide to set it down."

Her words hung in the quiet, gentle and immovable. Harry looked back at the Prophet headline, then at the Quibbler's softer one, and for the first time, he wondered if all his years of trying to save people had blinded him to the simplest act of all.

Later that evening, after Luna had settled Teddy with his enchanted toys and the quiet of Grimmauld Place had wrapped around him like a warm cloak, Harry found himself replaying her words over and over. "Draco doesn't need someone to fix him... just someone willing to listen." The idea settled uncomfortably in his chest, pricking at the edges of his old instincts. For hours, he had considered how to honour that advice without abandoning the sense of responsibility that had always driven him.

Harry sat at his desk in the drawing room, Teddy asleep upstairs, the fire dying low. Hermione had left Draco’s file on the edge of the blotter, and though he told himself not to, he had opened it...His testimony a mystery to Harry.

Draco Malfoy’s Written Defence (Trial Statement)

I will not dress this up because I do not know how. I was ordered. I was commanded. And I was too much of a coward to refuse. Voldemort gave me no choice, and I had no strength then to fight him. I did things I should never have done. Things that, if I could erase, I would erase until there was nothing left of them. But I cannot.

I was sixteen when it began. Just a boy. Not a soldier, not a Death Eater by choice, but a child given orders by the darkest wizard of our age. People call me a monster for what I carried, but I was terrified every waking hour. Terrified of him, terrified of failing, terrified of what would happen to my family if I disobeyed. Hatred lived in me, yes - but it was hatred for him, for the chains he wrapped around us, not for the people I was told to harm.

I am not asking for sympathy. I do not deserve it. I only ask for the truth to be seen: that I did not raise my wand because I wanted to, but because Voldemort was the hand that held it. And if I stand guilty for that, then so be it. I am guilty of being weak. I am guilty of surviving.

If there is forgiveness in the world, it will not come from me asking for it. It will come from time, from deeds, from living differently than I once did. I can only promise I will try if I am given the chance. If I am not, then I accept whatever judgment falls. But let it be known: I was a boy, not a monster.

The parchment was creased, smudged, and a barn owls feather charm was still tucked between the pages like a stubborn reminder. He remembers the barn owl's feather he found under the floorboard of the drawing room, the first time Draco had ever figured out magic. And as Harry’s eyes passed over the words, he felt the strangest hollow ache. It wasn’t eloquent. It wasn’t clever. It was desperate, brittle, almost painfully plain. No shield of pride, no armour of wit - just Draco Malfoy stripped bare, saying the one thing he had never said aloud.

“I was a boy, not a monster.”

Harry’s hand tightened around the paper. He thought of the pale, sharp-faced boy at sixteen, trying to look older, stronger, crueller than he really was. He thought of Pansy brushing through his hair at the train while he sat there soft at ease; he thought of the trembling wand in the bathroom, of Dumbledore’s tower, of Malfoy’s shaking hands that night. And for the first time, Harry didn’t see an enemy, or even a rival. He saw what Draco had always been beneath it all: a boy drowning, waiting for someone to notice he couldn’t swim.

And Harry, who had spent his life trying to save everyone, realised with a sharp pang that Draco had never asked to be saved. He had only ever asked - quietly, badly - for a second chance to survive.

He had to do something...

By the time he walked into the Ministry, toward her office, where Hermione was working, his mind had settled on a compromise: he wouldn't barge in, he wouldn't manipulate or lecture - he would leave a subtle opening. A hint, a door left slightly ajar, and the choice would finally belong to Draco.

He walked through the grim department of Unspeakables, where small offices are lined up, separated by thin walls and glass, and at the end of the wide hallway filled with glass doors, he finally found Hermione's office. Her office is wide and takes up a lot more space, which he has filled with piles of books.

Hermione was deep in her notes when Harry cleared his throat after slipping through her door.

She didn't look up.-"You're circling me like a vulture. If you have something to say, out with it."

Harry shifted uncomfortably.-"It's about the Unspeakables' exam."

That got her attention. She lifted her head, brows arched.-"You want to sit it? What happened to your Auror promotion? Harry, you don't even like-..."

"No."-He cut in quickly.-"Not me. Someone else. Someone who... might need the chance."

Hermione studied him, sharp and unrelenting. She was always quick to see through him, and he knew it. Still, the words wouldn't come cleanly. To say Malfoy's name aloud was to admit too much.

Finally, he muttered.-"Look, I don't want to fix things for them. I just... I don't want the path to be blocked if they try. Could you - maybe drop a hint? Something small. Nothing that hands them the exam, just... leaves the door open."

Hermione leaned back, arms folded, suspicion flickering in her gaze.-"This is about Malfoy, isn't it?"

Harry's jaw tightened. He didn't confirm, but he didn't deny it either.

"You know he won't take it."-She said after a moment.-"If he even suspects you're behind it, he'll refuse on principle."

"Then don't tell him it's from me."-Harry's voice was quieter now, a touch raw.-"If he never knows, fine. I just... I'd rather he had the chance. Even if he spits in my face for it."

For once, Hermione didn't argue. She searched his expression, as though weighing the truth of his intent, then gave a small, reluctant nod.-"I'll see what I can do. But Harry - this is the last time I run interference for you two. I am not your owl... If you really want him to listen, you're going to have to stop playing saviour and start meeting him where he stands."

Harry's lips twitched in something like a smile, though it didn't reach his eyes.-"Yeah. I'm working on it. Luna also said the same thing."

"And you should know she is absolutely right."-Hermione said dismissively, going back to her paperwork, letting Harry sit on her office's couch, mainly for Harry to let out what has been bothering him while she works on her quests.

The next day, the hall was quiet, washed in pale torchlight, the kind of silence that made every footstep sound like trespass. Draco adjusted the sleeve of his pressed robe, wand tucked close, mind rehearsing the latticework of runes and arithmantic sequences he'd studied until the parchment blurred. The Unspeakables' quiz was tomorrow, and every nerve in him hummed like an overstrung violin.

Draco's steps echoed softly on the polished floor of the Ministry corridors, each tap of his boots precise, controlled, the newspaper and Quibbler in his hand, anger flowing from the maddening words the Prophet had written for him...and for Harry Potter. A silent thank you in his mind, to Rolf for painting a softer picture, too.

As he neared the library entry, a soft, deliberate voice called from around the corner, familiar, asserting:

"Draco?"

He paused, noticing her before she fully revealed herself. Hermione Granger, holding a stack of notes, stepped lightly on the stone floor. Wand tucked close, Draco lingered near the wall, watching her approach, sensing her care and caution, as if she were approaching a hazardous animal.

She stopped a few paces away.-"I-uh...thought you might want a small tip for tomorrow. Just... a nudge, nothing forced."-She said carefully.

Draco inclined his head slightly, voice even, controlled.-"I... thank you for the trial. Your help then-..."-He paused, choosing his words.-"...was appreciated. But this-..."-He gestured toward her notes.-"...is too much."

Hermione hesitated, caught between wanting to explain and respecting his space.-"I just thought-"

Silence...

"It's about tomorrow. I... think it could matter for the quiz."

Draco's shoulders stiffened immediately.

"No."-He said firmly.

"You haven't even heard me out."-She said gently.

"I don't need to."-He replied, tone clipped but not cruel.-"If this is about the quiz, then save your breath, Granger."

Hermione bit her lip, choosing her next words carefully.-"Draco...this test isn't ordinary. You know as well as I do the Ministry doesn't waste an Unspeakable's time on parchment drills alone-..."

"Enough."-Draco's wand flicked almost before he realised he'd moved. A charm shimmered faintly in the air between them, silencing the next words from her lips before they could form. The Veritas Mute - translated to: muting of the truth - spell, that did not allow the person to speak the truth they did not want to hear - an obscure spell he'd practised privately for similar reasons.

Her eyes widened, understanding what spell he had cast. She tested it to tell him, but no voice came from her throat.-"You-..."

"Yes."-He said smoothly, lowering his wand but keeping the barrier.-"You are an Unspeakable. And Unspeakables should not... speak the unspeakable."-His lips twitched with dry amusement, though his eyes were hard, the pun bringing back school memories.

For a moment, Hermione just looked at him. Then, to his surprise, she smiled faintly, as though she'd found a truth in him she'd been hoping for.-"You really mean it."-She murmured.-"You'd rather fail than take a step that isn't yours."

Draco inclined his head.-"If I pass, it will be because I earned it. Not because Potter decided to hand me another piece of his endless charity."

Hermione's mouth twitched, caught between a smile and the necessity of truth, of course, Draco had known it was Harry's idea.-"I... I have to admit..."-She said carefully.-"It was Harry. He only wanted to leave a small hint. Just a nudge. Nothing more. He thought you might need the door left open, but... he didn't force anything."

Draco's expression didn't change, though his eyes flickered briefly at the mention of Potter.-"Of course he did."-He said softly, still edged with steel.-"That's who he is. Always saving people. Even the ones who don't want saving."

Hermione's gaze softened, touched with quiet understanding.-"I told him it wasn't needed. That you wouldn't accept it. But I think... a part of him hoped I was wrong."

"Well."-Draco said, stepping back and straightening his robe with deliberate elegance.-"He should learn that not everyone wants to be his project. I'll take the quiz tomorrow. On my own. Thanks, Granger."

Hermione gave a small nod, a flicker of pride in her eyes. She didn't push further. As she turned down the corridor, the shimmer of the silencing charm dissipated, leaving Draco alone with the torchlight and the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

Hermione crossed her arms, her brow furrowed as she paced in the small Ministry office where Harry once again had crashed on her couch.-"Honestly, Harry."-She said, exasperation edging her voice.-"You're an idiot."

Harry looked up, frowning.-"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."-She continued, voice rising slightly.-"Draco was right. You're too pushy. Always assuming he needs saving, always thinking you know what's best. He doesn't. And forcing yourself into his choices only makes it worse."

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, frustration flashing across his features.-"I-I'm just trying to help."

"That's exactly the problem!"-Hermione snapped.-"You think helping means controlling, guiding, nudging... You can't fix this for him. You have to trust him to do it himself."

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it, struggling for a response, feeling a twinge of defensiveness. He had always been the one to act, to step in, to protect. But Hermione's words hit too close to the truth.

He left it at that, choosing to frown and sit further down on the couch with his arms crossed.

Later, back at Grimmauld Place, the familiar scent of dust and aged wood greeted him as he stepped into the drawing room. Luna was there, perched on the sofa with Teddy at her side, gently animating his small toys to move about the rug. She looked up at him with her usual serene clarity, though her expression held a faint trace of reproach.

Since the trial, she has been staying with Harry, helping him sort things out with his work, and Teddy, Harry had taken a few days off from his training, Kingsley had told him that he had no need for the training and that he was ready to be appointed a team, do some real Auror work (no longer secretly tagging along with senior Aurors), lead some cases, they needed his sharp mind in some prision escapings that have been happening.

Luna has been his resting shoulder through all these changes. So when he entered the room that night, she knew...in the way he carried himself inside the room. Guilty...

"You're doing more than you should."-She said softly, her voice almost a whisper.-"Draco doesn't need it. He... he needs to be allowed to walk his own path, even if it's a hard one."

Harry sank into a chair, staring at the floor.-"But I can't...I can't just let him do everything alone. I know him - he's so clever, but he's... he's... cautious to the point of self-destruction sometimes. How can I stand by and do nothing?"

Luna tilted her head, calm but insistent.-"You're not standing by, Harry. You're forcing him to rely on you, even when he doesn't want to. Sometimes listening, waiting, or simply being near him is more than enough. That is help."

Harry shook his head, frustration and confusion warring across his face.-"I don't understand. He doesn't need me, but I can't help it. I... I want to make sure he's safe, that he doesn't stumble. How can I just sit and do nothing?"

"That's the thing."-Aunty Luna said gently, reaching out to adjust one of Teddy's moving toys. -"Sometimes helping isn't about stopping him from falling. It's about letting him choose when to rise."

Harry leaned back, blinking at the ceiling, the words settling slowly in the pit of his chest. He wanted to accept them, he wanted to understand - but a part of him still refused. Letting go had never come naturally. And Draco Malfoy - so proud, so guarded - was the hardest lesson yet. His mind would always go back to the testimony statement Draco had written...the soft feather that he had tucked inside...

Harry's insistence on intervening wasn't simply about justice or righting wrongs at the Ministry. It went deeper than that, back to his earliest lessons about the way people change. He remembered how Sirius had told him stories of James Potter - the boy who had once been a bully, brash, arrogant, almost unrecognisable to Harry as the same man who had loved Lily so fiercely. James had changed because of guidance, influence, love, and firm boundaries. He had been given the right people, at the right time, to shape him.

Draco, in Harry's mind, was painfully reminiscent of that past. He was clever, dangerous even, wrapped in a suit of pride and prideful defiance, yet beneath it, Harry suspected a vulnerable boy - the sort of boy who could go too far if left unchecked. The trials had been different; justice demanded intervention, yes, but there had been rules, evidence, and consequences. Draco's survival, his chances to emerge unscathed, had rested on careful manipulation of those rules. And Harry, almost instinctively, had wanted to tilt the scales in his favour, as much to protect him as to make sure the outcome wasn't tragically unfair.

But now, it was no longer simply about justice. This was about Draco himself - his choices, his pride, his life. Harry couldn't entirely explain why he cared so deeply, why he felt compelled to step in at every turn. It was a gnawing, almost irrational pull. Perhaps it was guilt - a need to ensure that no one else had the power to mould Draco into the man he might have feared as a true villain. Perhaps it was fascination, or curiosity, or a faint echo of responsibility he had always felt toward those who reminded him of his own father's youth.

And yet, as Luna had reminded him - as Hermione had hesitantly suggested - this wasn't his fight to win. Draco didn't need saving. Not in the way Harry had imagined. The pull to intervene was instinctual, emotional, almost uncontrollable, but it was no longer about evidence or law. It was personal, inscrutable even to Harry himself.

This murky blend of protective instinct, unresolved guilt, and fascination with a life so different yet eerily familiar kept him hovering on the edge of action, unable to step back, unsure if what he was doing was truly help - or simply his own desire to shape someone else's fate, as he had once tried to shape James, or as he had tried to shape himself.

Harry leaned back in the chair, the quiet hum of Grimmauld Place settling around him. Teddy's toys moved under Luna's gentle enchantments, a small, comforting chaos in the otherwise still room.

He had always acted to protect, to guide, to intervene - but this time felt different. Watching Draco, seeing how the boy carried himself with that cautious pride, had triggered something Harry hadn't expected. Not fear, exactly, but a recognition. He could not, would not, force Draco into anything - not lessons, not choices, not safety disguised as guidance. He would not become like Lucius, pressing his will, shaping another's life with authority. He had no right over one's life.

The pull to step in still lingered, subtle and insistent, but Harry could feel the line he must not cross. Draco had to choose, to act, to stumble, to rise - on his own. That was the only way he could respect him, and the only way Draco could truly be free of interference, even from someone who meant well.

He exhaled slowly, letting the decision settle in his chest. Enough had been triggered already. Enough nudges, enough hints, enough subtle doors left open. Draco would walk his path. Harry could watch from a distance, quietly, carefully - but never step over the line again.

Even as his mind wandered, tracing Draco's routines, anticipating the quiz, wondering if he was prepared, Harry reminded himself firmly: he would not interfere. Not this time. Not ever, in a way that forced, guided, or controlled. He would honour the boy's autonomy, even if it meant waiting and watching from afar.

For the first time in days, he felt the sharp tension in his chest ease slightly.

Distance wasn't just a choice...it was the right thing to do.

The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of Grimmauld Place, painting the drawing room in pale gold. Harry sat at his desk, the first rays catching the edges of parchment and ink. The notice had arrived overnight, carried by an official owl with the precise punctuality of the Ministry itself.

He broke the seal and unfolded the letter, scanning the words quickly, heart quickening with quiet satisfaction. He had been appointed to a squad - no longer an Auror in training. He was now a fully-fledged Auror, assigned to a team of newly minted colleagues, all friends from the gruelling training drills of the past year. Each one had earned their place, and together they formed a unit polished and ready, their combined skillsets formidable.

Airforce operations had been recognised as Harry's particular forte, a talent so refined that even the head Auror of the department had conceded its superiority. It had taken him a full year of tireless work to earn this assignment, refusing promotions that had been offered before he was ready. On the very first day of training, he had been offered the highest position in the department - a tempting prize - but everyone knew he had declined. Leadership, he had decided, must be earned, not handed out. And now he had it.

For all the weight of his own achievement, Harry felt a strange emptiness.

Harry stirred as the first tendrils of sunlight crept through the tall, narrow windows of Grimmauld Place. The news from the Ministry still felt surreal in his chest, a pulse of pride and disbelief. He glanced at the sofa across the room, where Luna lay curled beneath a patchwork of blankets, soft snores punctuating the quiet morning.

He approached quietly, careful not to startle her, and nudged her gently.-"Lunalight... wake up."

Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first.-"Hmm? Morning Haz?"

"I have news."-Harry said, unable to hide the grin tugging at his lips.-"I... I've been officially appointed to a squad. A full Auror, not just in training anymore. And it's-..."-He paused, letting the excitement settle in his chest.- "...a really good team. The Airforce specialists."

Luna's expression brightened instantly, and she swung her legs over the side of the sofa, eyes wide, pulling him in a warm hug.-"Oh! That's wonderful, Harry! You've earned it."

"I did."-He agreed, and he could almost see the faint pride in her gaze, as she always seemed to notice what others missed.-"It's been a year of training, refusing positions I wasn't ready for... and now it's official."

Luna released him from the hug.-"I am so proud of you."-She congratulated him.

The Ministry itself seemed to celebrate along with him. Later that morning, as he walked through the grand halls, his eyes widened. Posters of the newly appointed squads were splashed across every corridor, each team framed like a triumph. And there, front and centre, was his squad, Harry himself captured in the middle, broom in hand, the word Airforce emblazoned beside his name.

A massive banner hung above the main atrium, the image of the team larger than life. Harry blinked.-"When did they get this picture?"-He murmured, recalling the bitter cold of training in Iceland, the frozen terrain and the way the wind had bitten at their faces as they mounted the brooms. He remembered the challenge course, each obstacle more punishing than the last, and how he had surged ahead, clearing every test before the others had even gotten their brooms properly in the air.

It was a rare, silent thrill: recognition earned, not given. He adjusted his cloak, letting the weight of it settle on his shoulders with a sense of hard-won satisfaction. The Ministry's grandeur, the banners, the applause of unseen eyes - none of it mattered as much as knowing he had truly earned his place.

"I did it."-He mumbles to himself through a smirk, he grabs a poster and goes to Hermione's office, to celebrate this new milestone with the one person who has been here with him every day.

On the other side of England, Draco has just gotten up for the day...

Draco stood before the mirror in his own room, the silence broken only by the faint rustle of fabric as he adjusted the Ministry-issued robes. A row of them hung neatly pressed along the wardrobe - dark, formal, intimidating in their precision. Each one was a reminder that this was real, that the Unspeakables' examination was not a dream or a cruel trick. It was happening. Today...

His stomach churned as if a swarm of butterflies were clawing at his insides. He reached for the only thing he was permitted to carry with him that day: his wand. He turned it slowly in his fingers, the polished wood glinting faintly in the light. This wand had defeated a Dark Lord - but not by his hand. The thought still burned, twisting pride and shame together into something unbearable, for the spell had come from Harry. And Harry had returned it to him anyway, an act of kindness so undeserved it felt like a weight on his chest, an absolution and a challenge both.

Draco exhaled shakily, his thumb brushing the familiar grain of the wood. Once, it had cast the simplest charms: mending the latch on his toy chest, lighting candles in his childhood bedroom when he had been afraid of darkness, conjuring sparks that had filled him with wonder and many more mischievous, innocent hexes. That was innocent magic, before his name became a curse and his hand was forced to channel spells that reeked of fear and violence. Now, when he looked at the wand, he didn't see triumph or destiny - he saw the war eating at him from the inside, and the kinder hand that had held it to save the world with.

His hands wouldn't stop trembling, the wand quivering between his fingers. He cursed under his breath, thinking of the small vial his mother had pressed into his hand the night before, a potion of her making brewed with the care and steadiness only she could provide. He had drunk it as dutifully as he'd learned to breathe, and still the tremors lingered, his nerves refusing to be soothed because some shakes were not soothed by draughts: some tremors were moral.

This was supposed to be the day he proved himself - not as Lucius Malfoy's son, not as the boy who almost failed everyone, but as Draco. The candle guttered at the sill and threw knifed shadows across his room. In the wavering light, the mirror did not show a polished, presentable future - it showed a succession of selves he could not scrub away: the schoolboy with the sneer, the son who learned cruelty as a language, the boy who raised a wand against a headmaster he both feared and revered. The Dark Mark felt mapped under his skin even when it was hidden; the memory of that raised hand lived in the hollows of his chest like a carved thing.

As if compelled, he undid the top button of his Ministry robe and peeled back the fabric that hid his torso. The old scars were pale, puckered lines that made a constellation across his ribs and shoulder: the jagged signature of Sectumsempra. He had bled under them. After all, he had been foolish, terrified and compliant, because he had not, in that moment, found the courage to refuse. Each line was a ledger entry in a ledger he could not burn. For a ridiculous second, he thought of how different it would have been if the wounds had been final, if the water and his blood had mixed forever, before the world polished him into a monster for its theatre. He tasted that thought - the secret cruelty of it - and recoiled at himself.

A softer truth pushed against the cruelty: Harry had stood in a marble chamber and unstitched those accusations with threads of time and witness. Ron had scrawled words that refused to let him fall. Hermione had bent laws of enchantment into shields. Luna - gentle, baffling, luminous- had sent him a single bright line: You are free. That freedom felt, in the quiet after the storm, less like release than like an invitation he feared he did not deserve.

The Unspeakables examination waited like a low, inevitable sun.

He had spent months unpicking ancient runes until their logic lay clearer than his own conscience. He had learned to love the cold exactness of Arithmancy, where numbers held no malice and every problem yielded in proportion to attention paid. He had read, re-read, annotated, and written until his cramped notes looked like offerings: proofs of effort he hoped might one day outweigh the ghost of his name. And yet the exam demanded more than knowledge. It wanted him to become a thread in the Ministry's tapestry - not a stain at the edge of it. The glue, not the crack on the wall. It required him to present himself not as Malfoy, the fear, but as Draco, the practitioner, the careful mind who could be trusted with secrets and measurements. It was, in small, practical terms, his atonement: not the wiping away of what he had done, but the painstaking construction of what he would do next.

Draco closed his eyes, letting the old chorus of pity, anger, and loathing fill him until each voice tired. Then, with a steadier breath than he felt, he made himself a promise that sounded like a vow and felt like survival practice. He would not become hollow penance. He would not fold into self-accusation until he was emptied. He would sit the Unspeakables' quiz, and he would pass it on merit. He would learn to let the Ministry measure him by what he produced, not by what his surname had once implied. He would build, with his hands and his mind, a record that might, bit by small bit, outlast a past none of them could change.

The scars would remain. He would carry the memory of the raised wand and the night at the tower like a map of what to avoid. Sometimes the self-hatred would take a hard, senseless hold of him, and he would not be brave enough to fight it back. But he would show up anyway: to study, to sit exams, to answer for his work rather than for his worst days.

He set the wand down, smoothing the robe over his chest. For the first time since the verdict - for the first time in a long while - he allowed himself a small, deliberate breath that was not all guilt.

Forward, then. He had only that. Forward would have to be enough.

Draco paused at the foot of the Ministry atrium, the torchlight and morning sun glinting off polished stone, and froze. There, suspended above the bustling crowd, was a banner so large it dominated the hall: Harry Potter and his newly appointed Airforce squad. Draco's eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in a strange mixture of awe and calculation.

He studied the photograph, every detail etched clearly: Harry, broom in hand, poised in mid-motion as if frozen in the very heartbeat of flight. The word Airforce gleamed beside his name, official and immutable. Draco's mind traced back to their Quidditch days - when Harry had moved with the same precision, the same almost predatory awareness. Not much had changed, he realised, except the posture had sharpened, the muscles had tightened, the eyes now keen like a hawk's, cynical and assessing behind the same circular glasses, daring anyone to underestimate him.

It was infuriating, in a way Draco could not entirely articulate. Harry could have taken shortcuts, vaulted straight into the highest rank, demanded accolades, or leaned on his name. Yet he hadn't. Every step measured, deliberate, and earned.

Even yesterday, when Hermione had tried to deliver Potter's hint for the Unspeakables exam, Harry had offered him a shortcut, and Draco had refused. The irony twisted in his chest. Harry's brain - how it worked, why he could be so relentless, so calculating, yet somehow so hypocritical and stupid in a way - was a constant enigma.

Draco's gaze flicked back to the banner, then down to the polished floor, anxiety prickling at the base of his skull. Today, he would face the Unspeakables' quiz, and every nerve in him was taut. He swallowed, hands tightening around his wand. And yet, he couldn't shake the thought, half resentment, half admiration: Harry didn't take the easy way, never had. And somehow, in a world that had tried to shape them both, Harry had remained his own force, relentless and exacting.

Draco exhaled, the sound almost a hiss, and tried to centre himself. The quiz loomed, the Ministry corridors seemed suddenly narrower, and his own heart raced with anticipation and fear. But the image of Harry up there, poised and unyielding, remained burned into his mind - part challenge, part warning, part impossible standard.

Draco's footsteps echoed sharply in the corridor leading to the Unspeakables' exam hall, each tap against the polished stone sending a tremor of tension through his chest. The Ministry's grandeur seemed almost oppressive here - high ceilings, carved archways, and the quiet hum of magic lingering in the air. Every sense was alert, every nerve taut.

He paused at the doorway, catching sight of the exam room beyond: rows of desks, at least a hundred people, parchments neatly stacked, quills poised, and a faint whiff of ink and parchment mingled with the sterile scent of enchantments. A hush fell over him, the kind that made even the shuffle of robes feel amplified, a sound that might betray unpreparedness.

Draco adjusted his robes, then his wand at his side, and drew in a measured breath. The image of Harry on that banner earlier, broom in hand, posture perfect, eyes sharp and calculating, flashed in his mind. Every obstacle Harry had faced as a training Auror, every step he had earned rather than taken by shortcut, pressed against Draco's own sense of self. The comparison was impossible to ignore, though Draco refused to let it intimidate him completely.

He reminded himself: he would walk this path alone. No Potter shortcuts, no hints beyond his own mastery. That choice had been made yesterday, clear and irrevocable.

The examiner's nod pulled him from his thoughts. Draco stepped forward, parchments in hand, and took his seat, setting his quill carefully beside it. The thrum in his chest did not lessen, but it sharpened, focusing his awareness. Every rune, every arithmantic sequence he had studied, every minute of practice, was now his alone to wield.

He glanced briefly at the banners of other candidates, the meticulous arrangements of their materials, and then closed his eyes for a single heartbeat. I can do this. I will do this on my own terms.

And with that, he dipped his quill into the ink and began, letting the silence of the Ministry and the distant, unyielding image of Harry's measured rise drive him forward. Today was his trial. Today, he would prove himself - just as Harry had proven himself, in a very different arena, by earning every step he had ever taken.

As Draco's quill scratched across the parchment, the quiet of the exam hall became a canvas for his thoughts. The banners, the torchlight, the faint hum of magic - it all blurred into the rhythm of calculation and focus. And yet, even here, Harry's presence lingered, not in person, but in memory: the perfect posture, how much he had grown the last year...

Draco hated himself for noticing it. There was a pang of admiration, sharp and unwelcome, twisting alongside his irritation. How does he do it? He wondered. How can someone be so precise, so relentless, and yet so... uncompromisingly fair to himself? And then the more dangerous thought followed: And why does it make me feel like I'm running behind, even when I've chosen my own path? Away from his...

He dipped the quill again, forcing the ink to flow over the runes he had studied tirelessly. His pride, his resolve, flared. This was his test. His choices. His skill. No Potter shortcuts, no whispered nudges through Hermione - this was his domain. He could admire the man if he wished, even respect him for his diligence, but it would not sway him. Draco would not be moved by the standard Harry had set.

And yet, somewhere beneath the armour he wrapped around himself, a quiet acknowledgement settled. Harry's example was a shadow at the edge of his vision - an impossible measure, yes, but also a mirror. It reflected what could be accomplished through discipline, through determination, through integrity. It was a challenge Draco could neither avoid nor fully embrace, but it did not define him.

For all the admiration and envy that swirled together, Draco's focus returned to the quill in his hand, to the latticework of runes before him. This is mine. This is what I control.

The weight of that assertion, the clarity of his own autonomy, gave him a strange calm. Harry's measured rise, his accomplishments, even the banners plastered across the Ministry - it was all irrelevant to what Draco was doing here and now. This was his test, his moment, his measure.

And for the first time in days, the fluttering anxiety in his chest began to align into something sharper, more disciplined. He would face it all alone, and he would rise - or fall - on his own terms.

Draco blinked, staring down at the parchment in disbelief. Snapping out of his thoughts.

Something was... off. The questions, the layout, even the prompts - they were far too simple. Too basic. His brow furrowed as he re-read the first few lines, then the next. This can't be it, he thought, tapping his quill lightly against the edge of the desk.

His gaze swept over the hall: other candidates dipped their quills, scratched answers, and some were already handing their completed papers to the exam officials.

His instincts prickled. He blurred his eyes, seeing through his eyelids...

The spacing of the lines, the alignment of the questions with the answers he had just written - it was almost as if the parchment itself was... waiting. Draco's mind raced, and then the realisation struck. Slowly, deliberately, he flipped the paper over upside down.

A faint pattern emerged where the ink and the spaces intersected. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but unmistakable to someone trained to see hidden structures: the arrangement of his precise, correct answers traced a lattice of runes, only visible when the paper was inverted and examined in context.

His pulse quickened. He dipped his quill into the extra paper provided for rough work, copying the runes carefully, each stroke exact. This isn't just a test of knowledge, he realised, it's a test of perception, precision... discernment. The Unspeakables' quiz, it seemed, had multiple layers - and he appeared to be the only one noticing them.

Around him, the other candidates murmured softly, already finished, their papers handed in, oblivious to the hidden challenge. Draco's mind whirred. The runes formed a pattern, a sequence, perhaps even a message. Each stroke seemed deliberate, intentional, meant to gauge more than rote learning.

He leaned closer, eyes sharp, wand tucked into the sleeve of his robe for comfort, fingers brushing lightly over the extra parchment. The thrill of discovery mingled with the familiar tension in his chest. This was a test within a test - a challenge most would never see, and it was entirely his to unravel.

Draco allowed himself a small, sharp smile. Alone in insight, entirely reliant on his own perception, he felt the surge of clarity that always accompanied a problem only he could perceive. The rest of the hall might be finished, the answers collected, but he had found something they hadn't. And he intended to decipher it.

Draco's quill hovered over the extra sheet, the ink barely wet, as his gaze flicked back and forth between the inverted exam paper and the lattice of runes forming beneath his careful strokes. His entire body seemed to hum with tension and focus, muscles taut like drawn wires, hands steady despite the rapid beat of his heart.

He began slowly, tracing the first line of runes with meticulous precision, committing each symbol to memory as he transcribed it onto the blank parchment. Each curve and angle demanded concentration; a misstep would disrupt the delicate symmetry of the sequence. He leaned closer, chin almost brushing the paper, nostrils flaring slightly as if inhaling the very logic embedded in the lines. He felt like the night at Hogwarts while rushing away from Peeves under an invisibility cloak and hiding in the secret room within the castle with Harry, where he had come across some actual old runes, so similar to this logic in front of him.

The first layer revealed itself almost immediately: a simple sequence of protective wards, each rune nested within the next like a set of locks. Draco's mind mapped them, feeling the interlocking energy patterns as if he could sense the magic they represented. He adjusted his posture, rolling his shoulders back to steady the tremor in his forearms, and continued, letting the rhythm of tracing the runes guide him deeper.

The second layer emerged as he worked, subtler and more complex. Now, the spacing of the letters themselves carried meaning, guiding him toward a secondary sequence of arithmantic sigils that could only be discerned through precise alignment. Draco's breathing deepened, slow and deliberate, matching the cadence of his movements. He could feel the tension in his back and neck, the stretch in his fingers, and the tightness in his chest as if every muscle were engaged in a silent conversation with the magic beneath the paper.

By the third layer, Draco's mind and body were fully entwined in the puzzle. He shifted in his seat, legs tucked under, quill balanced perfectly, wrist flexing with each sweep. His eyes scanned for anomalies, tiny misalignments, the faintest hints of a hidden order. Every instinct honed from years of study, every lesson in arithmancy and runes, guided him. He was aware of the other candidates, finished and restless around him, but their presence was a blur; the room contracted to the space of parchment, quill, and ink.

Each layer built upon the last, a crescendo of hidden logic and magic. Draco's heartbeat synced with the subtle pulse of the runes, almost as if the symbols themselves breathed beneath the page. He adjusted his quill with micro-precision, tapping into a flow of concentration he had never reached even in his darkest study marathons. The protective wards, arithmantic sigils, and layered instructions coalesced into a coherent pattern, one that whispered of the Unspeakables' true purpose: testing not only knowledge, but observation, patience, and ingenuity under pressure.

Finally, Draco leaned back slightly, quill hovering in midair, eyes tracing the last connecting sigil. A shiver ran down his spine, equal parts thrill and exhaustion. He had uncovered the hidden framework, layer by layer, deciphering a secret the other candidates had missed entirely. His palms were slick with sweat, fingers stiff, but there was a sharp clarity in his chest, a spark of satisfaction that only came from solving something meant to confound.

The hall seemed to breathe around him, the ticking of time and the faint scratching of quills elsewhere fading into nothing. Draco's gaze flicked to the final rune sequence on the extra paper, the pattern complete, the hidden challenge unravelled. Alone in insight, entirely reliant on his own skill and perception, he allowed himself the smallest, almost imperceptible smile.

He had discovered what no one else had. And now, the true test - decoding the implications, applying them perfectly - was still ahead.

The hall, once a quiet cocoon for concentration, now buzzed with the low murmur of candidates who had already finished their exams. Many leaned back in their chairs, false confidence, quills set aside, whispering and glancing at Draco as he frantically flipped from page to page, ink flowing in rapid, precise strokes. He had already filled ten sheets of the extra paper provided, each covered in meticulous runes and calculations.

A group of boys at the back snickered, nudging one another.-"Look at him."-One whispered, voice loud enough to carry.-"Ten pages already...what a try-hard."

Draco's head snapped toward them, eyes narrowing into slits. A dangerous, slow smile tugged at his lips, not of amusement, but of disdain. He gave them a look that froze the youngest of them in place - a subtle, lethal mixture of contempt and superiority, as if they were insects crawling at the feet of someone entirely above their comprehension. He saw his young self in the boy in front of him, with the sharp bullying tone and meaningless words...No words were necessary; the message was clear. I am leagues beyond you.

Before the thought to curse their socks even formed, he knew it was pointless to deal with such emptyheads. He turned his attention back to the task at hand, ignoring the whispers and scoffs that were meant to make him feel negatively. The runes required his complete focus, and he could feel the magic of the paper pulsing beneath the ink, almost impatient for him to continue.

As he transcribed the final layer, the paper itself seemed to respond. The lattice of runes shimmered faintly, almost imperceptibly, before a golden script appeared, floating just above the surface of the page. Only he could see it. The words glowed with quiet authority:

Write your name to complete the test.

Draco's breath caught. His hand, still steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him, moved over the paper. He wrote his name with deliberate care, sealing his mastery of the hidden sequence.

The moment the final stroke was made, the paper pulsed once, then dimmed - the magic of the exam acknowledging completion. A profound stillness settled over the room. Candidates glanced at one another nervously, sensing something had shifted, but none understood what.

The Unspeakables themselves, who had been monitoring the hall from their elevated seats, leaned forward, astonished. They began collecting his pages, murmuring among themselves in hushed, incredulous tones. None of the other participants had even unlocked the first layer of the exam, yet Draco had unravelled every secret, layer upon layer, alone.

"Impressive."-One of the examiners said quietly, almost reverently, as they gathered his completed sheets.-"We'll need to review these fully, but...it appears you may be the only candidate to have completed the challenge. We will owl you once the pages have been graded, for the final decision."

Draco inclined his head slightly, expression calm and composed, though the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed the surge of triumph within. Around him, the other students shifted uneasily, some avoiding his gaze, others trying to whisper under their breath, though it was clear no one dared approach.

He had done it. Alone. And in the quiet hum of the Ministry's examination hall, Draco Malfoy felt the rare thrill of being unambiguously, undeniably the best.

Draco stepped out of the exam hall, the tension of the past hour slowly melting into a steady hum of satisfaction. The corridors of the Ministry seemed to shift around him, no longer oppressive but alive with movement and purpose. He allowed himself a moment to stretch his shoulders, to release the tight coil of nerves that had held him taut through the layered runes.

As he rounded a corner, a sudden commotion drew his attention. Down the main hall, a group of Aurors - sleek, disciplined, and purposeful - were parading toward the lifts and launch chambers, heading off to their first tasks of the day. The newest squad, the one that had been appointed just that morning, moved with a precision that made Draco pause.

And then he saw him. Harry Potter.

The tight Airforce uniform clung to his frame, polished badge catching the torchlight, an intricate black wooden broom gripped firmly in his hand. Each step was confident, measured, yet instinctively watchful - the same precision Draco remembered from the training marching they used to do every day around the Ministry before going to their training chambers, now magnified in the real-world authority of his first mission.

Harry's eyes flicked up and met Draco's across the hall, just for a heartbeat. In that instant, a thousand thoughts passed between them: unspoken challenges, old rivalries, distant respect, and an acknowledgement of their parallel paths.

Draco's lips curved, just slightly, a small, unguarded smile forming - the kind that only surfaced in rare moments of recognition, appreciation, and amusement.

Harry's eyes twitched in return, a flicker of acknowledgement, almost imperceptible, before he turned back to lead his squad forward. Draco watched him stride with the quiet authority of someone who had earned every step, every decision, every piece of his success.

The smile lingered on Draco's face long after Harry was gone, a mixture of admiration and something softer - something that had nothing to do with rivalry and everything to do with recognition. For all his cunning, all his isolation, Draco allowed himself a brief, private acknowledgement: they had both earned this, each on his own terms, yet their paths would always be subtly, silently intertwined.

Draco tucked his hands into his sleeves and continued down the corridor, the weight of the exam now replaced by a lighter, sharper focus. Today had been a test, yes - but the world outside, with all its challenges and possibilities, awaited. And for the first time in a long while, Draco felt ready.

Chapter Text

The door to Grimmauld Place gave its usual, protesting groan as it opened, the heavy oak reluctant to let her pass. Hermione stepped across the threshold, and the familiar, faintly musty scent of the old house greeted her at once. Somewhere down the corridor, muffled but unmistakable, a pulse of music carried up through the dark-panelled walls - the thrum of a guitar, a beat alive with energy, echoing faintly through the dim first floor. She paused for a moment, drawing her coat tighter around her. The chill of the September morning clung to her like a second skin, its dampness still woven into her hair, teasing her curls into unruly tangles.

She hung her coat and hat by the door, her fingers brushing the brass hook that had been polished by years of use. The wind had bitten at her cheeks during her walk, leaving them flushed, but as she moved deeper into the house, warmth enveloped her, carrying with it a sense of quiet comfort. Still, with a firm grip on her leather bag, she approached the source of the music with caution, her footsteps muffled by the faded rug running the length of the hallway.

As she neared the kitchen, the music grew louder, clearer - the sharp strum of a guitar riff accompanied by the hum of a familiar male voice. From the doorway, she caught sight of the scene inside, and for a moment her breath caught.

At the table sat Harry and Teddy, both bent over their work with an intensity that made the room glow with a kind of mischief and industry. They wore round protective goggles that were slightly too large on Teddy, making him look faintly ridiculous, but Hermione could see how little they cared. On the table before them, instead of the expected breakfast plates and half-drunk glasses of pumpkin juice, lay a cluttered mountain of objects - screws, nails, odd gears, scattered parchment notes, a thick manual, and a glinting assortment of magical tools. At the centre of the chaos rested an elegant, intricate broomstick, long and slender, its black wood dull but full of life.

Teddy, barely visible behind his oversized earmuffs, had a smaller broomstick before him, this one broken clean in half. His small hands poked at the broom, trying to imitate Harry, as though he were attempting to piece together something far more important than a child's toy. Harry leaned close to him, brows furrowed in that familiar way, one hand adjusting a brass contraption on the larger broomstick while humming to the beat of the music.

Hermione's lips curved into a smile so wide she couldn't restrain it, warmth bubbling in her chest. The sight was impossibly dear - this improvised workshop in the middle of the kitchen, the small toddler so intent beside the man who had become, in every possible way, a father. For all the battles Harry had fought, for all the loss he had endured, here he was on a quiet morning, giving a child the most precious gift he could offer: his time, his patience, his joy.

Her gaze flickered to the corner of the table, where a squat, boxy radio perched precariously among the clutter. She recognised it immediately - Arthur Weasley's handiwork, cobbled together from old wires and enchanted knobs. Arthur had pressed it into Harry's hands only a week ago, a proud grin splitting his face as he congratulated him on his promotion with the Airforce. Now it filled the kitchen with life, its enchanted speakers crooning out the unmistakable opening bars of Bowie's Starman.

The song hung in the air like a promise, weaving itself through the room, over Harry's quiet laughter, and through Teddy's giggles. Hermione stood in the doorway a moment longer, drinking it in, knowing she had stumbled into a moment worth treasuring - a small, fragile piece of everyday magic, more powerful than any spell.

Harry must have felt her gaze, for without looking up from the broom, he suddenly lifted his goggles, pushing them onto his forehead. His eyes, bright with mischief, found hers immediately. Before Hermione could even part her lips to greet him, he was already striding across the kitchen, his hands reaching out to catch hers.

"Harry-!"-She gasped, startled, her leather bag falling on the floor, as he swept her into a sudden spin.

The notes of Starman filled the kitchen, the radio's tinny enchantments making it crackle faintly, but Harry moved with surprising rhythm. His grip was warm and insistent, pulling her into a makeshift little dance across the flagstone floor of the kitchen. Hermione stumbled once, laughing despite herself, curls bouncing in every direction.

"You lunatic!"-She cried between peals of laughter, trying to keep her footing as Harry twirled her clumsily.

At the table, Teddy clapped his tiny hands together, squealing with delight. The boy's round cheeks flushed pink as he bounced on the bench, his childish voice ringing out with the few words he had mastered.-"Da-da! Da-da!"

The sight made Hermione's heart lurch in a way she hadn't expected. Teddy's joy was pure, unfiltered, his small hands smacking together in perfect time with Bowie's chorus.

Harry, meanwhile, was clearly enjoying himself far too much. Over the years, he had learned a few proper dance steps - not many, but enough to sway, to spin, to dip her with something almost resembling grace. When the song drew to its glittering close, he released her hands only to step back, bowing low with a theatrical flourish. His grin was boyish, playful, the kind Hermione hadn't seen in far too long.

"Your move, Granger."-He teased, straightening again. He goes back to fixing his broom goggles back on.

Still laughing, Hermione swatted his arm before taking a seat at the cluttered table.-"Tea would be nice after that ambush."

At once, Kreacher appeared at her elbow, muttering to himself but nonetheless setting down a steaming cup with something that - by his standards - bordered on respect. Hermione caught the old elf's sideways glance, a mixture of wanting to be seen and wanting to disappear, and she couldn't help but smile into her cup.

Her eyes fell then upon a brightly colored postcard wedged between two rolls of parchment. She recognised the bold, looping handwriting instantly - Ginny's. Picking it up, she skimmed the words; a faint smell of perfume clung to the card, her smile softening. A cheerful note, full of fire as ever, congratulating Harry on his Airforce promotion and teasing him into a challenge: a broom race. Of course, Ginny would celebrate by daring him to a competition. Hermione could almost hear her voice.

Harry noticed the card in her hand.-"Ah, yeah. Came yesterday."-He said, his hands using a special magic tool to fix some screws.-"She's got the National Team at her back now, but she still thinks she can beat me."

Hermione arched a brow.-"You realise she probably can."

Harry smirked, leaning back with that infuriating confidence that always surfaced when he had a broom anywhere near him.-"Oh, please. She'll be eating my dust by the first lap."

Hermione snorted into her tea, shaking her head.-"I'll believe that when I see it."

Harry turned to Teddy, lifting his earmuff softly over his teal coloured hair.-"Teddy, can you say, da-da win?"

From the bench, Teddy clapped again as if in agreement, though he had no idea what for. His little voice piped up.-"Da-da w-in!"

Harry chuckled, reaching out to ruffle his son's hair.-"See? Even Teddy knows I've got this one in the bag."

Hermione leaned back in her chair, cradling her cup, watching them both. For a fleeting moment, with the radio still humming faintly in the background and Teddy's laughter filling the room, she felt the world settle into something rare and precious: simple happiness.

Hermione set her teacup down, her gaze sharpening as it drifted back to the broom sprawled across the table. Its sleek black wood glimmered faintly even in the soft morning light, runes etched along its handle in careful precision. The clutter of metal parts, parchment sketches, and spell diagrams scattered around it tugged at her curiosity - too precise, too deliberate to be mere tinkering.

"Harry."-She began slowly, folding her arms.-"What exactly are you doing to a Ministry-issued broom? You do realise that's not only your main Airforce tool other than your wand, but also official property. Is this even remotely legal?"

Harry snorted, leaning back in his chair with that maddening grin of his.-"Of course not, Hermione. But come on - who's going to question me?"-He gestured dramatically at himself, eyebrows raised.-"I'm the Chosen One, remember?"

Hermione groaned, unable to stop her laugh from slipping out.-"You still use that as an excuse? Honestly, Harry-"

"The joke never gets old."-He said with a chuckle, running a hand through his extremely messy hair. His eyes gleamed with the kind of mischief she hadn't seen since their school days.

He tapped the broom's shaft, reverently almost, before leaning forward as though sharing a secret.-"Truth is, I stole the idea from Hagrid. Remember how he always fiddled with his flying contraptions? Half of them shouldn't have worked at all, but somehow they did. He sent me some tools he'd collected - strange old metalwork, enchanted screws, even a clutch of dragon-hide straps - and I started sketching blueprints."

Hermione picked up one of the papers from the table. The drawings were surprisingly technical, with detailed lines and annotations filling every corner. She blinked, impressed despite herself.-"You did these?"

Harry shrugged, though a trace of pride flickered across his face.-"Turns out my Auror training didn't just teach me how to duel and chase down dark wizards. I've had to learn mechanics too - wards, charms, reinforcement. If I'm going to keep up with the missions they throw at me, I need more than muscle and a wand."

He tapped the broom again, this time with a quiet intensity.-"I need to be quick. Swift. Faster than lightning in the air. If I can double this broom's speed, I'll always have the edge. No one will be able to outrun me."

Hermione studied him, recognising that sharp, stubborn fire in his eyes. It was the same look he'd had before charging into danger a hundred times before, equal parts reckless and determined. And suddenly, it made sense.

"So that's why..."-She murmured, sitting back.

Harry tilted his head.-"Why what?"

She smiled faintly.-"Why Shacklebolt started calling you Lightning after your first mission. I thought it was just because you had the scar and the reputation. But no - you earned it, didn't you?"

Harry gave a modest shrug, though she could see the flicker of satisfaction in his expression.-"Guess so. Kingsley has a flair for names."

From the table, Teddy clapped again, parroting the word as though it was the most exciting thing he'd ever heard.-"'Ight-ning! Da-da 'Ight-ning!"

Harry laughed, scooping his son into his arms and spinning him once before setting him back down.-"Even Teddy's in on it now, can't always teach him only the good words."

Hermione shook her head, though her smile betrayed her. Part of her wanted to scold him, to remind him of the laws, the dangers, the responsibility that came with his rank. But another part - the part that remembered Harry racing on a broom with wild abandon at eleven years old - knew there was no stopping him.

Hermione's eyes softened as she watched him drift into silence, the firelight of the kitchen fireplace flickering against his face. She sipped her tea, then set it aside, her tone careful, almost coaxing.

"So."-She said, leaning slightly forward.-"How's the Airforce work going? Really going, Harry? You seem happier..."

Harry blinked, pulling himself back to the present. A small smile tugged at his lips, though his gaze grew distant again. He leaned back, one arm draped casually over the chair's armrest, and let the memory unfurl.

"The first mission."-He began, his voice lower, steadier than usual.-"Was last week the first day on the team. At the Amigail Forest. You've never been there, so I wouldn't suggest it. Cold as the grave even in September. The wind cuts through everything - your cloak, your bones. Frost sticks to you whether you're flying or standing still."

Hermione shook her head, but she didn't interrupt.

"I remember how the broom felt under me."-Harry continued, eyes narrowing as though he could still see it.-"The bristles froze stiff in minutes. My muscles ached like hell by the time we landed, but - Merlin - it was worth it. Hours of flying, weaving between skeletal trees, tracking that bloody werewolf through the frost. Every second counted. Every breath."-He gave a short laugh, though it was hollow.-"He had killed three people during the last full moons. We couldn't afford mistakes."

Hermione clasped her hands together in her lap, her posture tense.-"And you didn't make any..."-She murmured.

Harry shook his head.-"No. Not one. We flew as one unit, cornered the beast, restrained it cleanly, and got out without a scratch. For a first mission? Kingsley called it impeccable. But..."-He trailed off, gaze drifting toward the broom still lying on the kitchen table.

"But what?"-Hermione pressed, her voice quiet.

Harry's jaw tightened.-"It wasn't fast enough."

Hermione blinked, caught off guard.-"Harry, you said the mission was flawless."

"It was."-He admitted.-"But there were moments - where I was faster than my broom - moments where I knew if I'd been even a heartbeat faster, we could have ended it sooner. Safer. My squad could have flown out without pushing their limits. And me-..."-He ran a hand through his hair, tousling it further.-"I need to be sharper, quicker. In the air, there's no room for hesitation. A broom that's fast enough for drills isn't fast enough for actual missions."

His eyes lifted to meet hers, burning now with that same stubborn determination she had seen a hundred times before, back when they were teenagers plotting impossible victories.-"That's why I'm doing it. Why I'm pushing the broom past what the Ministry thinks is 'safe.' They don't understand. But I do. I have to."

Hermione sat very still, watching him, the weight of his words heavy in the firelit room. She wanted to argue, to remind him of the laws, the dangers, the risks. But she also knew the truth of him. Harry had always been willing to push himself further, to demand more from his tools, from his body, from his soul - because lives depended on it.

Her lips parted, but no words came yet. Instead, she leaned back slightly, studying him with a mixture of exasperation, admiration, and fear.

Harry shifted in his chair, still half caught in his memories of frost and pursuit, when his eyes flicked back to Hermione. She had been listening with that measured quiet of hers, but now she set her teacup down, brushing a stray curl behind her ear.

"And what about you?"-Harry asked, his voice softer now, his hand rubbing absently at the back of his neck.-"How's the Department treating you, Madam Leader of the Unspeakables?"

A small smile curved her lips at his teasing, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.-"Demanding. Necessary. And... expanding. One of the senior analysts retired last month, so I'm replacing him. A chance to strengthen the team."

Harry arched a brow.-"Who's lucky enough to be recruited into your army of shadows?"

Instead of answering, Hermione reached into her bag, the familiar rustle of parchment filling the room. She drew out a thick, neatly labelled folder and set it carefully on her knees. Her expression softened, her voice lowering into something quieter, carrying a weight she rarely showed.

"Harry, well, about that."-She said, steady but gentle.-"I think you'll want to see this. After all... You were more than a little involved in how this story began."

Curiosity stirred in his chest. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, as Hermione opened the folder.

Inside, the pages gleamed faintly in the firelight: dense sheets of runes nested within runes, arithmantic lattices so intricate they seemed to hum faintly on their own, annotations so precise that they bordered on artistry.

Harry frowned.-"You know I can't read intricate runes...What is it?"

Hermione looked up, her gaze locking on his. There was no hesitation there, only calm resolve.-"It's Draco Malfoy's file. And I want him on my team."

Harry's lips parted, but no words came. He blinked at her, searching her face, but Hermione pressed on, her voice firm but tinged with a surprising gentleness.

"He's remarkable, Harry. You can see it here. Every sequence, every calculation - done entirely on his own. No tutors, no shortcuts. He passed the Unspeakables' entrance exam. Out of hundreds of candidates, he was the only one to do so."

Harry leaned closer, the scepticism softening from his features as curiosity took hold. Hermione flipped to the final page, and there it was: Draco Malfoy's signature, sharp and precise, traced in golden ink that shimmered faintly above the parchment as if it had been etched into the magic itself.

Almost without realising it, Harry reached out, fingertips brushing the air above the name. The runes shimmered in response, alive with their creator's magic.

"He did it..."-His voice was low, tinged with disbelief.

Hermione nodded, tapping a margin with her wand.-"Every layer. He cracked the hidden wards, solved the ciphered runes, and rebuilt the entire lattice. Alone. He didn't just pass, Harry - he outstripped the rest by miles."

Harry's hand lingered on the page. From the high chair, Teddy babbled happily to himself, tugging at the small broken broomstick. Harry's eyes flickered to it briefly, amused at the irony - the broom had belonged to a much younger Draco, hidden away in Grimmauld's floorboards when the boy once visited the Blacks, his grandparents. Harry said nothing of it, letting the private knowledge rest in his chest, knowing he would be fixing the small broom later.

Instead, he returned his attention to the file. He removed his goggles, slipped on the pair for reading, and slowly traced through Draco's work again. The proofs. The runes. The unbroken neatness of the handwriting he had used to explain his work. Each page felt like proof of something unthinkable years ago.

Hermione watched him in silence, knowing the weight of this moment for him, for both of them and Draco.

At last, Harry closed the file, resting his palm on its cover as though to anchor it. His eyes drifted upward, far away, caught by a memory: the Ministry hall only days ago, lit by golden banners of the newly appointed Auror squad. Across the crowd, he had glimpsed Draco after the quiz, standing taller than he remembered, a faint, almost imperceptible smile curving his mouth when their eyes met. Not arrogance. Not defiance. Something else entirely - quiet triumph. Shared between the two of them only.

Harry drew a long breath, exhaling slowly. His lips curved into a rare, unguarded smile.

"For Merlin's sake, he wasn't kidding."-He muttered softly, shaking his head, though there was admiration in his voice.-"Draco bloody Malfoy."

And for the first time in years, he let himself feel it openly: pride - not in himself, but in a boy who had once been his rival, and who now stood as proof that people could change, grow, and shine by their own light.

It was, he thought, one of the best moments he'd had in the Ministry yet.

Harry leaned back in his chair, the file still open on his lap, the edges brushing against a sprawl of parchment blueprints and broomstick parts. The kitchen smelled faintly of polish and tea, the soft hum of the enchanted radio now lowered in volume after Bowie's last note. Teddy giggled from the high chair, banging the broken broomstick against a stray gear.

As Harry traced Draco's golden signature with his thumb, another memory rose - sharper, rawer. The hallway after Draco's trial.

He'd been fragile then, teetering on the edge of exhaustion in those strange, time-stripped moments after the overuse of the Time-Turner. Barely holding himself together, half a boy, half a saviour, the world still demanded. He remembered the way his voice had cracked, half plea, half command:-"You'd better get that position as an Unspeakable..."-Harry had admitted, a playful tease on his lips.

Draco had listened. He hadn't argued, hadn't sneered. Draco had shaken his head, muttering something alike.-"You have gone insane, brave beyond reasoning...That position means nothing to me...If this-...this is cost."

He'd inclined his head - small, quiet, but heavy with meaning. In that fleeting acknowledgement, Harry had felt something pass between them in the way Draco had admitted that it had not been the way he had wanted to earn that position. Not forgiveness, not friendship. Something rarer. Recognition. A shared stake in what came after, however different their paths might be.

Harry blinked, pulling himself back to the firelit kitchen. He looked down at the signature again, gleaming faintly against the neat rows of runes. A small, wry smile tugged at his mouth.

"I... I already knew."-He murmured, more to himself than to Hermione. Then louder:-"Maybe I always knew. Somehow, there's this...strange sense of knowing between us. Even when we're at our most separate. Our most adversarial."-He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.-"I could feel it that day, saw it in his smile."

Across the table, Hermione's eyes softened. She didn't interrupt, only nodded, her mouth tugging upward in that gentle, understanding way she had when she knew words would only spoil the weight of the moment. She looked between him, the file and the postcard and shook her head, a familiar sight in the way Harry held the file.

Harry shifted, the file still resting on his lap, the weight of it pressing against him like something alive. It was uncanny - unsettling, even - but there was comfort in it too. Draco Malfoy, once rival, once antagonist, now something more intricate, had always been moving in parallel with him. Harry had tried to plan, to intervene, to shoulder everything himself. But this victory - this brilliance - was Draco's alone.

A soft laugh bubbled from Teddy as Harry reached down to ruffle his son's hair, the boy squealing in delight. Harry let the sound steady him, let the pride settle deep and quiet in his chest - not just pride in the accomplishment itself, but in the recognition that, somehow, he had always known Draco would succeed.

The golden shimmer of Draco's signature glowed faintly in the firelight, a reminder both comforting and challenging. He glanced across at Hermione, her gaze steady on him, and let the satisfaction of it all linger between them, mingling with the clutter of broom parts and the soft crackle of the hearth.

Hermione reached across the table, closing the file with a firm but gentle hand. For a moment, she looked at the golden shimmer of Draco's signature, then back to Harry. Her expression softened, though her voice carried the quiet strength that had always anchored them both.

"I'll try my best."- She said.-"Not just to guide him as his leader, but to help him build something more - a good name for himself. Not as a Malfoy, not as a shadow of the past, but as a teammate. Someone who stands on his own merit."

Harry studied her, the firelight catching the sharp line of her jaw, the determination shining in her eyes. There was no judgment there, only resolution.

"He'll need that."-Harry murmured.

Hermione allowed herself a small, wry smile.-"I know. That's why I have to try. He deserves the chance to prove what he's capable of."

Teddy let out a loud giggle from the high chair, smacking the broken broomstick against the table, as if punctuating her words with childish certainty. Harry chuckled, reaching down to pull the toy gently from his son's hands before it left a mark.

He leaned back, folding his arms, eyes still flicking once to the closed file.-"Then let's see what he does with it. Maybe once again, Malfoy will surprise us both in a way that cannot be explained."

Hermione's gaze softened even further, and the firelight seemed to swell around them, the quiet weight of possibility settling into the room. Between the piles of broom parts and parchment, amid the hum of the radio and Teddy's innocent laughter, a fragile but undeniable truth hung unspoken in the air: Draco Malfoy had stepped onto a path entirely his own, and for the first time, both of them could see it leading somewhere worth following.

On the other side of the coin...

Draco Malfoy sat in the study that had once belonged to his father, though now it bore almost no resemblance to Lucius's world of pomp and severity. Where Lucius had lined the shelves with tomes on bloodline politics and Ministry loopholes, Draco had littered the surfaces with half-broken instruments, twisted relics, and trinkets that gleamed faintly with cursed light. It was his haven, his workshop, his quiet rebellion. He didn't hoard to show off, not anymore. He hoarded to mend, to twist, to reforge into something useful.

On the wide desk before him, three coins lay side by side - a sickle, a galleon, and a knut. Their surfaces caught the glow of his desk lamp, gleaming gold and silver, waiting. Draco ran his wand lazily across the air above them, murmuring the lines of the Protean Charm with practised ease, his movements sharp but elegant. Threads of magic shimmered and sank into the coins, binding them together, before flowing into the slim watch clasped around his wrist.

He smirked faintly when the inscriptions burned themselves clean onto the metal.

One favour. One time.

The idea had struck him many moons ago when, by chance, he'd unearthed something from the bottom of an old trunk - one of those fake galleons, the very same Dumbledore's Army had once used to send messages. He remembered pocketing it during his stint in Umbridge's inquisitorial squad. He hadn't known why he'd kept it then. Probably a habit. Probably the magpie instinct his father had always teased him of.

But now, looking at it with older eyes, he realised what it truly was: an artefact of a club he had never been invited into. A joke he'd never been in on. A war he had been forced to fight from the wrong side of the lines. He had sneered at it back then, of course - pretended it was childish, foolish, beneath him. And yet, he had kept it. Perhaps because even then, in the quietest part of him, he had wanted to belong to something like that. To the side where the laughter lived.

His lips pressed into a thin line, the memory sharp enough to sting. Castaway, he thought. Always the derelict.

And yet - Hermione Granger had written to him. Congratulated him. Not only on his acceptance into the Unspeakables' ranks, but on the Veritas Mute ward he had crafted to shut her out when she'd tried to nudge him toward the right answer.

He could still hear his own voice in that moment, cool, cutting, but not without the dry humour that lingered in old habits:-"Yes. You are an Unspeakable. And Unspeakables should not... speak the unspeakable."

The corner of his mouth twitched upward now at the memory of it - how her lips had thinned, how her eyes had betrayed the tiniest flicker of amusement despite herself. A schoolyard echo, of days they used to hex each other at first sight, resurrected, but twisted into something clever.

And beneath the smile, there had been a truth. He had wanted - needed - to prove he didn't require her help, that his place had been earned, not handed over as a concession. Passing the exam wasn't just a triumph. It was vindication.

Now, holding the fresh parchment that had arrived with his acceptance letter, he traced the Ministry's seal with a thumb. Tomorrow, he would walk into the Unspeakables' chamber, be assigned to a team, and step fully into the life he had clawed for, alone. But his instincts told him it would be her, Granger, standing across from him, offering him the place he had fought to deserve.

The thought stirred something sharp and strange in his chest. Not dread. Not rivalry. But...possibility, a hard-earned opening.

Draco leaned back in the worn leather chair, the coins gleaming faintly before him. His gaze swept the room, his room, littered with the wreckage of other men's failures made whole in his hands. And for the first time in years, he let himself believe that perhaps he, too, could be reforged into something more.

Draco set the final coin down upon the desk, the small knut gleaming as though it had been newly minted. He tilted it beneath the lamplight, inspecting every groove, every etched line of the charm he had painstakingly embedded. The pulse of the Protean link stirred faintly against his wristwatch, a delicate tug of magic answering his intention. Perfect. It worked.

A rare smile tugged at his lips, sharp but fleeting, as he leaned back and let his wand rest across the edge of the desk. For a moment, satisfaction hung in the quiet room - then his gaze slid to the drawer on his left.

He pulled it open slowly, as though bracing himself, and withdrew an envelope, yellowed slightly with age. From beneath a stack of forgotten papers, he lifted a small pin, one he had not touched in years. The words still shimmered faintly across its face, mocking in their simplicity: Weasley is our King.

How proud he had been of that trinket once. How smug. It had been a childish cruelty, a laugh at another boy's expense, a moment of glory carved out of someone else's humiliation. That was the Malfoy way. Always had been.

But tonight, as he turned the button in his palm, it felt different. Smaller. Hollow.

With quiet precision, Draco took the knut and pressed it to the back of the pin, anchoring it with a whispered spell until it locked in place, bound to the charm he had threaded through his watch. His eyes lingered on the object for a long moment, not with pride, but with something quieter. A decision.

He slid both into the envelope. No words. There was no need. Weasley would understand.

Tying the letter to his owl's leg, Draco paused, his hand resting for a heartbeat on the bird's feathers. His jaw tightened as the words whispered through him, not aloud but in the marrow of his resolve: Malfoys are not ungrateful. At least... not the Malfoy I intend to be. Different from the man my father wished to shape.

The owl launched into the night, wings catching the sliver of moonlight beyond the study's tall window. Draco remained at the desk, watching the silhouette fade into the distance, his face unreadable. Somewhere deep inside, a knot loosened.

It was not forgiveness towards himself. Not yet. But it was something, the start of something bigger.

An owl arrived at the Burrow that same bright morning, wings flapping furiously against the windowpane before it finally settled, looking mildly indignant.

Ron, hunched over the kitchen table, didn't even notice at first. His fingers were smudged with ink and soot, weaving delicate enchantments onto a handful of tiny joke devices. Sparks leapt from a miniature Sneakoscope, fizzling harmlessly, while a rubber spider scuttled across the table, startling him enough to drop a tiny exploding candy in the process.

"Careful, mate."-George's voice called from across the cluttered room. He was perched on a stool, tinkering with a new prototype of Extendable Ears.-"We don't want a repeat of the last test batch - remember the fizzing pants fiasco?"

Ron chuckled, brushing soot off his hands.-"Yeah, yeah...I remember. But this time, I've got it. Just needs a tweak here."-He squinted, adjusting a tiny spring in a model Skiving Snackbox.-"Honestly, George, you'd be lost without me around the workshop. Someone's got to keep the shop running when you wander off thinking up 'brilliant' ideas that explode in our faces."

George shook his head, smirking.-"Right, right. My right-hand man, partner in crime... the responsible one. Hermione has made you a mini-her. Got it. Just don't let it go to your head, Weasley."

Ron grinned, dipping a quill into ink as he scribbled calculations beside a miniature Extendable Ear.-"Me? Responsible? Never. I just... like making sure you don't blow yourself up before breakfast."-He realised he sounded like Hermione and facepalmed, returning to his work.

At that moment, the owl's repeated thumping against the window caught his attention. He snapped upright, brushing soot from his hands and snatching the small envelope from the bird's leg.

"Oi! Who's this from?"-He muttered, eyes flicking between the majestic owl and the envelope, excitement pushing aside the scattered chaos of pranks, enchanted candies, and half-finished prototypes.

Even as he tore it open, a small, rueful grin tugged at his lips. Life with George was always a mess, always a little dangerous - but it was also exactly where he belonged.

Inside lay a circular pin, bright and polished, the familiar slogan from their Hogwarts days gleaming back at him: Weasley is Our King.

Ron's grin was instant.-"Ha! Classic."-He said, holding it up, shaking his head in disbelief.-"Still got it, eh?"

Curiosity, as usual, got the better of him. He fiddled at the edges, poking and prodding at the pin, muttering about trying to remove the backing to inspect the clasp.

A faint shimmer of light startled him. The pin split open in his hands, revealing a small bronze coin nestled inside. Smooth and warm to the touch, its surface etched with delicate lettering:

"One favour - One time - Ron Weasley."

Ron's eyebrows shot up.-"Blimey...What's this then?"-He rolled the coin between his fingers, runes glowing faintly beneath his touch.-"Protean charm? Like Hermione's DA coins?"

A rueful laugh escaped him, low and surprised.-"Of course... of course. Only someone clever enough to hide a magical coin inside a Hogwarts pin would expect me to try taking it apart."

Even as he chuckled, a spark of excitement lit his eyes. A favour owed. Mysterious, magical, and entirely unpredictable. And knowing it wasn't just a joke - it was a test. A challenge.

Ron had barely let the coin rest in his hand before he began experimenting.-"Oi - who are you? What is this for?"-He muttered, pressing the bronze surface with his thumb, expecting nothing more than a warm shimmer.

The coin pulsed faintly, and letters began to glow:

"You guess."

Ron leaned closer, squinting.-"Cannot tell me? All right...fair enough. But - what about this favour thingy, say... Can I borrow ten Galleons?"

"Do not use it to borrow ten Galleons."

His jaw dropped.-"What? I wasn't even thinking about - oh, come on!"

He flipped the coin, took his wand out and tapped it, muttered a few of his own improvised incantations, and pressed it again. Words appeared, tauntingly clear:

"Do not attempt to reverse this message."

Ron groaned, half-laughing, half-grumbling.-"Typical. Someone clever enough to send a Protean coin isn't going to tell me anything useful."

He sat back, the coin balanced between his fingers, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.-"All right... fine. One favour. But I'm never using it unless it's serious. Really serious."

He tapped it again almost involuntarily. The glow pulsed obediently, but no new words appeared. Ron's eyebrows shot up, a slow grin spreading across his face as his two braincells finally connected.-"Wait a minute... of course. This has to be... Draco Malfoy. Only Draco would - turn a little Hogwarts pin into a...a mysterious magical favour token. Honestly."

Ron pressed he coin.-"Clever one, Malfoy."

"Took you long enough."

Despite his protests, a faint thrill ran through him. There was power here. Mysterious, subtle, entirely under someone else's control - and exactly the sort of thing Ron found impossible to resist experimenting with.

Ron leaned back in his chair, the coin still balanced carefully between his fingers, turning it over as though inspecting it for hidden mechanisms. His mind kept returning to the envelope, the pin, the neatness of it all. Protean charm, clever inscriptions... one favour.

And then it hit him, like a quiet thump of sense: Draco had sent this. For him.

A small, unbidden warmth crept into Ron's chest. Draco Malfoy. Sending a thank-you. Not in words - no letter, no speech - but in something clever, precise, perfectly Malfoy. A coin hidden inside a pin, enchanted and linked to a watch he didn't even own. A gift that said, I notice. I remember. I owe you.

Ron shook his head, grinning despite himself.-"Blimey."- He muttered, tapping the coin lightly again. -"After everything...after all the muck at Hogwarts...he actually...he actually says thank you."

He could almost picture Draco in his study, sitting among trinkets and half-cursed relics, polishing the coins with that faint smirk, thinking carefully about exactly what he wanted to convey. It wasn't a joke. Not entirely. It was...acknowledgement. Respect. Gratitude in the most Malfoy way possible.

Weasley is Our King.

Ron's lips curved into a lopsided grin.-"Well, I'll be damned...Malfoys aren't all bad, then. At least...not this one."

George leaned over, peering curiously.-"What've you got there, mate?"

Ron looked down at the coin again, smirking.-"Oh, nothing...just a little favour owed. From a certain Malfoy. I wrote a testimony for his trial, well, Harry made me, it seems Malfoy liked that."

George whistled, eyes wide.-"Blimey. That's...unexpected. Think he's trying to be nice?"

Ron shook his head, chuckling.-"Knowing Draco? Not exactly. Not exactly nice...But...maybe. Sort of grateful."-He placed the coin in his wallet, the excitement and mystery settling around him like a spark in the workshop chaos. One favour owed. Magical, unpredictable, and completely impossible to ignore.

He tucked the coin into his pocket carefully, as if handling something fragile, and leaned back in his chair. For the first time in a long while, the complicated, often infuriating boy he had known at Hogwarts felt like something more: someone who could be trusted, even in the smallest, quietest way.

A thrill of anticipation ran through him. One favour owed. Mysterious, magical, and entirely unpredictable. And this time, he wouldn't need to figure it all out alone.

In three places, in three ways, magic and intention intertwined.

Harry crouched over the battered toy broom over the kitchen table, having just finished with his own, he inspected its splintered bristles fanning like a bedraggled bird’s tail. He had found it over a month ago beneath the warped floorboards of Grimmauld Place, a relic small enough that he’d known at once it was made for a child. With a steady hand and a touch of wandlight, he repaired every seam, polished the wood until it gleamed, and laced the shaft with protective charms so robust the broom would hardly rise higher than a foot off the ground. Perfectly safe - or as safe as wizarding toys ever got.

While touching this memory-filled broom, he wondered if Draco would have minded...another child playing with it.

Teddy, still wobbling through that space between crawling and toddling, squealed with delight as Harry fastened tiny padded guards to his knees and elbows, tugged a soft helmet over his tuft of turquoise hair, and set blankets across the drawing room floor in thick layers. He even dragged down every spare pillow he could find and piled them into soft barricades. The room, once Black family's gloom, now looked more like a fortress of cotton and quilts.

“All right, champ.”-Harry said, guiding Teddy’s tiny hands around the handle of the toy broom. - “Nothing too fast. We keep it gentle.”

The broom hummed faintly, eager to obey. Teddy gave a delighted kick with Harry's quick demonstrations, and to Harry’s surprise, it lifted smoothly, wobbling only slightly before settling into a slow, circular drift just inches above the blankets. Teddy’s laugh was high and giddy, his chubby legs dangling as though he’d been born to do this.

Harry couldn’t help but grin, jogging alongside, ready to catch him if the broom so much as sneezed sideways.-“Look at you, Ted. Merlin’s beard - you’ll be flying before you walk.”

Just then, green flame whooshed to life in the fireplace. Andromeda stepped through, brushing soot from her shawl, her eyes sharp with their usual mixture of exhaustion and poise. She froze mid-step.

There before her: Harry Potter, crouched in the centre of the drawing room, surrounded by a battlefield of blankets and pillows, chasing a squealing toddler who hovered safely but unmistakably on a broomstick.

For a long second, Andromeda simply stared, her lips parting.

Harry looked up, sheepish.-“Er… hi. Don’t worry - it’s completely safe. Protective enchantments, cushioning charms, the whole works. He can’t go higher than this.”

Teddy zoomed past them at all of eight inches off the ground, babbling “Da-da-da-da!” with triumph.

Andromeda pressed her fingers to her temple, though her lips twitched, threatening a smile.-“Merlin help me.” - She murmured, shaking her head.-“I left him with you for a few hours, and you’ve already turned him into a broomrider.”

Harry laughed, scooping Teddy neatly from the air as the little broom hummed to a stop.-“What can I say? It runs in the family.”

Harry guided Teddy’s wobbling little broom in a gentle loop around the drawing room, blankets cushioning the floor and pillows piled into soft, ridiculous towers. Teddy squealed with every turn, his laugh bubbling over the old Black family gloom like sunlight cracking through storm clouds.

The green flare of the Floo startled him only briefly - Andromeda stepping through, shawl neat about her shoulders, her expression composed as ever. She stopped, taking in the sight: Harry jogging alongside her grandson, who hovered barely a handspan above the blankets, turquoise hair poking out from under a padded helmet.

Instead of scolding, she crossed to the sofa and lowered herself gracefully, her gaze never leaving the child.-“You know.”-She began, voice steady but softened.-“Nymphadora was just as obsessed with flying. Always had to be on a broom, from the moment she could balance one. Broke my nerves more times than I can count.”

Harry slowed Teddy’s broom to a stop, listening as Kreacher shuffled in with tea, muttering but obedient. Andromeda wrapped her fingers around the steaming cup, eyes drifting somewhere far away.

“She played Chaser at Hogwarts. Terribly reckless - loved the thrill of it, the speed, the risk. Then she trained harder still, pushing herself for the Auror Airforce just like you have. Hours in the air until her muscles burned, but she never once complained. Flying was freedom for her. It was how she breathed.”

Harry sat back on his heels, his chest tight. Every word she spoke felt like treasure, pieces of Nymphadora he could one day gift to Teddy, to give him a mother’s memory when his own would be too faint to remember. He tucked each detail away carefully, reverently.

He glanced at the broom still hovering faintly above the floor.-“This one.”-He said quietly.-“I found it under the floorboards. It used to belong to the Blacks - well…to Draco Malfoy, actually. A child’s broom. I repaired it, thought maybe Teddy could make brighter memories on it than it ever saw before.”

Andromeda’s fingers stilled on her teacup, her face unreadable. She didn’t speak, didn’t comment on the name, the history, the family ties cut jagged by war. Too much loss - her daughter by Bellatrix’s hand, her sister Narcissa’s silence through it all. The silence stretched, heavy and delicate, and Harry knew better than to press.

Instead, Teddy giggled, tugging at the broom handle as though demanding another go. Harry smiled and lifted him back onto it, the little boy’s laughter rising once more to fill the hollow room. Andromeda watched, her face softened with something that looked like both sorrow and love, and in the quiet between words, Harry hoped this, too, might be a memory bright enough to keep.

Her lips parted as though she meant to speak, to say something about the keepsakes Narcissa had sent her through Harry- quietly, secretly, filled with trinkets and apologies that had come too late. For a flicker of a moment, her eyes softened, her voice almost rose...

But she stopped. Closed her mouth. Stared into her tea.

Harry didn’t press. He could feel the weight of what had been left unsaid - Bellatrix’s cruelty, Narcissa’s silence, the jagged rift between sisters that even time hadn’t smoothed.

Instead, he offered the only words he could.-“Time has its ways.”-He said gently.-“It fixes the wounds that are meant to be fixed. Maybe not all of them… but enough to make the rest bearable.”

Andromeda looked at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable but no longer so sharp. Slowly, she nodded, the faintest tremor in the gesture.

Teddy giggled again, tugging on the broom handle with both hands until Harry guided him back into a slow, wobbly drift above the quilts. His laughter filled the drawing room, unbothered by old grief or unspoken memories.

And for a little while, even Grimmauld Place felt lighter.

Chapter Text

Days blurred together, marked by paperwork and fleeting missions, until the golden light of September gave way to October's grey shroud.

London seemed gripped by autumn's teeth; cold rain fell in sheets across the cobbled streets, the wind cut sharply through every alleyway, and a thin mist clung to the Thames like a second skin. Leaves, brittle and half-rotted, plastered themselves to the Ministry's polished stone steps, tracked in by booted feet until the Atrium floor shone slick with their imprint.

In the Auror Office, the change of season made itself known in subtler ways. Drafts whispered along the high ceilings, carrying with them the scent of damp wool cloaks hung to dry after missions out in the cold and rain. The low hum of enchanted never-burning lamps reflected faintly off rows of Auror offices, each one cluttered with parchment rolls, case files, and the faint gleam of magical implements. The walls seemed to press closer as the days grew darker, and the pile of unsolved cases only ever seemed to climb. The dead teeth of war still cling to each of them.

In Harry's office - his own small island of controlled chaos - a single file lay heavier than all the rest. Its corners curled from long neglect, its Ministry seal dulled and cracked. Dust had settled thickly across its surface, disturbed only by Harry's restless fingertips whenever his eyes wandered to it.

Alecto Carrow & Amycus Carrow

Their names still seemed to carry a faint chill, as though the parchment itself remembered their cruelty. Harry had carried the file back and forth for months now, each time promising himself he would crack it open and begin. And yet it remained unopened, an accusation in faded ink.

The siblings had not surfaced much since their escape - a carefully timed flight from Azkaban during the chaos of its reformation. The Dementors had been driven out for good; their cold reign was ended, replaced at last by human guards and fortified wards. It had been a victory for justice, for humanity itself. But victories always carried a cost, and in the days of transition, amid faltering enchantments and scattered authority, the Carrows had slipped through the cracks.

The reports inside the file all said the same thing. Dead ends. Faint rumours. Whispers of their names muttered in frightened taverns along the coast. Alecto, once the venomous professor of Muggle Studies at Hogwarts, was remembered for her rasping laugh and cruel punishments. Amycus, his hexes always delivered with delight, his cowardice only sharpened by desperation. Both cruel, both cunning, both unrepentant. And now, both gone - phantoms at large in a world struggling to heal.

Harry leaned back in his chair, the dim glow of his desk lamp catching the edge of his glasses. Beyond the office window, the October rain smeared the London skyline into a watercolor of gray and amber light. He exhaled, fingers drumming restlessly against the arm of his chair.

Where, he wondered, did you even begin with something like the Carrows?

The dust on the file gave no answer.

He has been hiding in his office most of the time this last month, taking on any case that required him to be out in the field, in the cold, rather than here in the ministry, in his office. 

Harry's quill rolled from his fingers and clattered across the desk, disappearing somewhere beneath a tower of reports. He sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face. From the slightly opened door, the Auror Office buzzed faintly around him - quills scratching, parchment shuffling, the low murmur of colleagues bent over their own cases - but his own corner was a storm of clutter. Empty tea and coffee cups balanced precariously on top of files - he never had time to sit around the café like the rest of his colleagues - maps curled into untidy tubes, and the ever-present Carrow dossier sat heavy in its dust at the far edge of the desk.

The door creaked completely open without warning.

"Honestly, Harry..."-Hermione's voice carried the sharpness of long familiarity. She stepped inside, the faint scent of autumn rain clinging to her cloak. Her eyes swept the chaos of his desk, and she shook her head with half a smile.-"This room looks like it's been ransacked."

Before he could protest, she reached into the nearest pile of parchment and fished something free. Not another report, but a small photograph - creased at the corners, ink smudged from being shoved between files. It was of Harry and Teddy, taken in Grimmauld's drawing room. Harry had Teddy perched on his shoulders, the toddler's colour-changing hair to match Harry's flashing as he clapped his tiny hands. The moving image caught Harry laughing, head tilted back, utterly unguarded.

Hermione softened as she looked at it, then glanced up at him.-"You keep hiding treasures like this under paperwork. No wonder you can't find half your things."

Harry reached for it, a touch sheepish.-"Ah, yeah, that's the one missing! That one, he is matching my hair almost perfectly, he loves doing that when he misses me."-He said, taking out a small album he kept in his drawer, filled with pictures of Teddy and his friends. Hermione can tell Luna was the one to decorate the cover of it, by the blue shining paper and other trinkets stuck to it. 

She set it back carefully, tucking it on top of the pile as though restoring order in one small act. Then she leaned against his desk, folding her arms.-"And speaking of things you haven't gotten around to... when are you going to come down to the Unspeakables' floor? My team could use your input on some of the joint operations we're supposed to be coordinating."

Harry hesitated, fumbling for a reply. He tucked away the album and tapped the edge of the Carrow file instead.-"Been... busy. Cases. You know how it is."

Hermione arched an eyebrow.-"Busy avoiding us, you mean."

His throat tightened. He tried for a laugh, but it came out strained.-"I wouldn't put it like that."

"Then how would you put it?"-She pressed, her gaze sharp but not unkind.

Harry shifted in his chair, the lamplight glinting off his glasses. He opened his mouth, closed it again. The truth itched at him, raw and restless.-"It's just... strange."-He admitted at last.-"Knowing Malfoy's down there. Every time I think about walking those corridors, I find myself turning the other way. I don't even realize I'm doing it. Just-hiding."

Hermione's expression softened, though she didn't let him off easily. -"Why, Harry?"

He stared at the photo of Teddy, his jaw working. Why indeed? He could have said it was about pride, or mistrust, or the long shadows of school rivalries. But deep down, none of those fit. What unsettled him wasn't Draco's presence as a rival - it was Draco's presence as something else. Something earned, something undeniable. A man who had carved his way into a place Harry himself respected.

"I don't know."-Harry said finally, the words rough but honest. -"Maybe... maybe I'm afraid of what I'll see. Or of what I won't."

Hermione studied him for a long moment, her silence speaking volumes. She didn't scold, didn't comfort, just let the words hang between them like smoke curling toward the ceiling. And Harry, for once, let the discomfort linger, unmasked.

Hermione didn't look away, didn't soften her stare, even as Harry shifted uncomfortably under it. Finally, she spoke, her voice calm but with that edge of matter-of-factness that always cut through him.

"You know..."-She said.-"He's settling in better than anyone could have guessed. Some of my people were... reserved, of course. Skeptical. But Malfoy's been nothing but steady. Focused. His work is precise, his instincts are sharp. He fits, Harry. The team works."

Harry dragged a hand down his face, then both palms pressed hard into his eyes as though he could block out her words. His voice cracked through his fingers.-"I can't, Hermione. I just... can't."

She tilted her head, her tone still level.-"Can't what?"

"See him. Work with him. Pretend like it's all easy now."-Harry's words tumbled out, muffled behind his hands. He let them fall at last, elbows planted on the desk as he stared at the grain of the wood.-"It feels... too strange. Too... weird. Like, I don't even know what to do with it."

Hermione leaned forward, her voice softer now but no less insistent.-"Harry, nobody's asking you to pretend. But you can't keep hiding in this office while the world keeps moving. Malfoy is making his place. He's proving himself every day. And you-"-She hesitated, choosing her words carefully.-"You're still stuck in the memory of what he was, instead of facing what he's becoming."

Harry shook his head, raking his fingers through his hair until it stood on end.-"I don't even know what I'm feeling, Hermione. He was my rival, he was my enemy. Now he's... what? A colleague? An ally? It feels like - like walking into a room where the walls have shifted and I'm the only one who hasn't noticed."

Hermione's expression softened at last, though her eyes still held that steady fire.-"Then maybe it's time you looked around the room properly."

Harry gave a bitter laugh, quiet and self-deprecating.-"Easy for you to say. You're the one who got him to sign on. You see him at his best."

"I see him as he is."-She corrected.-"And I think, deep down, you do too. That's why this feels so... strange."

Her words settled over him like the weight of the rain against the windowpanes, steady and unavoidable. Harry rubbed his temples, his heart thudding harder than he wanted to admit. Strange. Weird. Uncomfortable. But beneath it all, something else was stirring-something he didn't dare put a name to. Not yet.

Before Hermione could press further, the office door swung open without ceremony. Ernest Macmillan - solid as ever, his blond hair damp from the drizzle outside - strode in, holding a folder tucked under one arm.

"Lightning."-He said briskly, though his familiar grin softened the edges of the formality.-"Got word from Callum O'Dwyer. There's movement on the Carrow case at the London's wizarding restricted library. We're needed on the field, now."

"Coming, Ernie."-Harry was on his feet almost too quickly, the relief in his body language as plain as the files scattered across his desk. He grabbed his broom from the corner, tucking it under one arm like an old habit, and turned to Hermione with a lopsided smile that was meant to be casual - but wasn't.

"Duty calls."-He said, voice lighter than the weight hanging between them.

Hermione stood as well, her lips pressed into a line that was equal parts fond and exasperated. Harry pulled her into a quick, firm hug - his way of thanking her, of buying time, of escaping her gaze. Then he pulled back, eyes already flicking to the door where Ernie waited impatiently.

"Don't think this lets you off the hook."-Hermione murmured, low but pointed.

Harry gave a half-smile, the kind that never reached his eyes.-"Wouldn't dream of it."

And then, before she could say anything more, he was gone - his dark robes disappearing behind Ernie as the two Aurors moved swiftly down the corridor, the tap of their boots fading into the Ministry's endless hum.

Hermione sank back into the chair he'd abandoned, looking at the desk still littered with papers, a photo of Harry and Teddy half-buried beneath them. She sighed, the sound heavy with both worry and resolve. He'd escaped her - for now. But sooner or later, Harry would have to face what he was running from.

Hermione left Harry's office with her thoughts in knots, her steps measured as she made her way down the hushed corridors of the Department of Mysteries. The glass-walled offices gleamed with eerie stillness, shadows from the low torches crawling like restless thoughts across the floors. Much different from the Auror offices that are private and separate, always messy for some reason, here everything was see-through and neatly clean.

As she passed one such office, her gaze caught - despite herself - on Draco Malfoy. His workspace looked exactly as she expected: papers neatly squared, quills lined with soldierly precision, not a thing out of place. He sat hunched over a heavy book, pale brow furrowed in concentration, the lamplight cutting hard planes across his face. For a heartbeat, he looked entirely absorbed, almost unreachable. Then, as though sensing her, his eyes lifted. They caught hers through the glass, cool and unblinking. He straightened, closing the book, and slipped something rectangular and neatly wrapped from his drawer.

By the time Hermione reached her own door, his voice called after her.

"Granger."

She paused, turning with a questioning look.

He strode up, the parcel in his hand.-"You've got a moment?"

She inclined her head and gestured toward her office.-"All right. Come in."

Inside, she moved behind her desk, motioning him toward the chair opposite. He didn't sit immediately, instead surveying her shelves with that same air of careful detachment.

"How's it going then?"-She asked, folding her arms lightly.-"Fitting in?"

His mouth curved - not quite a smirk, not quite a smile, but close enough to spark a sharp memory of school days.-"Well."-He drawled, eyes flicking to hers.-"Hermione Granger, I'm being bossed around by Hermione Granger."

She turned her head toward him, brow arched, ready for the sting beneath the words - yet his expression betrayed something else. He was smiling.

"And I'm mildly enjoying it."-He added, softer, the mischievous glint unmistakable.

To her own surprise, Hermione didn't bristle. There was no barb here, no malice - just the echo of a boy who had never quite shed his slyness, tempered now by a man who had changed his intent. It felt oddly... friendly. As though he hadn't abandoned his personality, only redirected it.

She found herself smiling faintly back before she shook her head.-"Work will get more thrilling, Malfoy. It always does here. You'll see."

He gave a little shrug, sinking finally into the chair.-"Perhaps. At present, it's all resonance charts and dust-ridden objects that wouldn't bite even if you begged them. Not quite the dueling riddles I'd anticipated."

Hermione smirked at that, hands folding neatly atop the desk.-"Patience. This department doesn't look like much until it does."

His eyes flickered, curious, as though filing away her words. Then, almost abruptly, he pushed the parcel across her desk.

"And this?"-She asked, lifting it lightly.

"Not work."-He said quickly.-"Just something I thought you might want."

The paper fell away, revealing a scuffed, well-loved book. Mysteries of Moonlight and Magic. Its spine was cracked, the gold of its title worn thin, but it radiated a certain magic even at rest.

Her brows rose.-"For me?"

Draco shifted slightly under the weight of her gaze.-"When I was a boy, every witch and wizard I knew grew up with these stories. Fairytales. Legends. Riddles before bed, curses passed down as rhymes. The sort of nonsense that teaches you to think of magic as a companion."-His voice dipped, quieter.-"You didn't."

Hermione's fingers lingered reverently on the cover.-"I've read The Tales of Beedle the Bard."

He gave the faintest smirk, though the steel in his gaze had softened.-"Yes, well. This is the less tidy cousin. Witches falling in love with moonlight, forests that talk back, questions that only make sense years later, and riddles you were supposed to answer before sleep. Thought you shouldn't miss out."

Hermione closed the book carefully, as though it were fragile glass, then looked up at him. There was surprise in her eyes, but also something gentler, warmer.-"That's... surprisingly considerate of you, Malfoy."

"Don't get used to it."-He replied, smirk returning in full - but his eyes told another story.

Hermione turned the book over in her hands, fingertips brushing the creased spine, the worn corners. She glanced up at him again, curiosity bright in her gaze.

"Why the sudden need to be so... generous?"-She asked, careful, but with the faintest edge of suspicion.

Draco leaned back in the chair, arms folding, that sly curve tugging faintly at his mouth.-"Generous? Hardly. It's mainly a riddle."

Her brows rose.-"A riddle?"

He nodded, eyes gleaming with that old mischief she remembered from years past - but stripped of cruelty, reshaped into something sharper, more subtle.-"Let's see how long it takes the great Hermione Granger to unlock its meaning."

Hermione gave a small, dry laugh, though her grip on the book tightened; she could feel the magic running through it like a hum.-"You're serious?"

"Deadly."-He replied, his tone slipping quietly. For the first time, the smirk faltered.-"I should apologize for the annotations. It was the only copy I could get my hands on. The rest-..."-He gestured vaguely, though there was something pointed in the way his hand cut the air.-"Burned. Destroyed. Someone made certain of that, not very long ago."

Her eyes snapped to his, sharper now.-"All of them?"

"Most of them. But those who have it would not hand it over easily."-He confirmed. His voice carried no pride, only a steady weight.-"I had to hide it. And if you read carefully enough, you'll understand why the hunt for it started in the first place."

Hermione traced the faded letters of the title again, her mind already unravelling possibilities, wondering what kind of knowledge could inspire someone to erase an entire lineage of stories from wizarding culture. What sort of truths could be buried beneath childish legends?

She looked back at him, searching his face.-"And you're giving it to me?"

His lips twitched, almost into a smile, though his eyes remained unreadable.-"Consider it a challenge, Granger."

Hermione exhaled, half amused, half unsettled.-"You haven't changed as much as you think."

Draco rose then, straightening his cuffs with the same deliberate precision she had seen him use on quills and parchments.-"No."-He agreed, tone dry.-"But maybe just enough."

He inclined his head, then left her office without waiting for her reply, the faint echo of his footsteps fading into the quiet of the Department of Mysteries.

Hermione stared down at the book in her lap, the title glowing faintly in the lamplight, the edges scarred with time. She could feel the question of it humming already, pressing at her thoughts. A riddle wrapped in a gift, hiding a history someone had tried very hard to erase.

And Draco Malfoy, of all people, had put it in her hands.

That evening, long after her quills had been set aside and her reports sealed, Hermione found herself in the Burrow's sitting room. The fire burned low, its glow casting the old knitted throws and mismatched armchairs in amber warmth. 

Ron was slumped against her shoulder, dead asleep, still smelling faintly of gunpowder and fizzing whiz-bangs from a day spent elbow-deep in George's workshop. His arms circled her waist loosely, a tired reflex, and his snoring was soft, unguarded.

Balanced against his arm was the book Draco had left on her desk. Mysteries of Moonlight and Magic. Hermione drew it closer, fingertips tracing the softened leather cover. It creaked as she opened it, the faint musk of old parchment rising like a ghost from within. The pages were fragile with age, their edges feathered soft as velvet.

She skimmed idly at first, turning past tales of bewitched forests where trees traded secrets in riddles, of silver-haired witches who bartered with moonlight, of children who vanished into lakes and returned speaking truths their elders refused to hear. Each story pulsed faintly with some forgotten power, some deeper rhythm she could sense but not yet name.

And yet - none of them felt quite like the riddle.

Her eyes caught on one story more worn than the rest. The parchment was thinned by repeated turning, the ink a little smudged at the edges, as though someone's fingers had lingered here often. The margins were littered with neat annotations in a hand she knew instantly - Draco's, childlike handwriting, each note tucked beside a line, each question mark pressed down with almost obsessive weight.

Hermione hesitated, then began to read. Her breath caught as she turned the fragile page. The title made her chest tighten: The Boy Who Lived.

The margins were crowded with scribbles in a boy's uneven hand - snatches of questions, exclamations, the scrawled certainty of a child trying to understand a miracle.

How?

Could I do that?

Strongest wizard alive.

Near the bottom of the page, a faint heart had been drawn, lopsided but deliberate, as though a very young Draco Malfoy had felt something too big for words and pressed it into the parchment instead.

Hermione traced the mark with her fingertip, half-smiling in disbelief. To think of Draco - proud, sharp-tongued Draco - once staring at this story wide-eyed, wanting to be like the boy from the story... it softened something in her chest.

Her eyes lingered on the worn heart in the margin, tracing the curves softly, as if she could feel the small boy's pulse echoing faintly through the parchment. Whatever Draco had been protecting, it was bigger than any ordinary treasure - it was a fragment of the boy he had been, a memory he had carried into adulthood, and now, quietly, into her hands.

She settled back, Ron's warmth and soft snoring grounding her, the book open in her lap, and let the weight of it all settle around her like smoke from the fire: a riddle, a memory, and the unmistakable shadow of a past preserved with courage she could almost touch.

Hermione leaned back, eyes narrowing as she studied the margins of The Boy Who Lived. The hearts and scribbles were distracting, yes, but beneath them, Draco had left something more - a subtle puzzle threaded through the story, faint but insistent.

She began at the top of the first page, scanning every annotation, every exclamation mark, every tiny heart pressed into the margins. Some notes were questions: Could I do that? Strongest wizard alive. Others were just single letters, circled or underlined, as though marking importance only he could discern.

Her mind worked methodically, tracing each clue, jotting in her own notebook, connecting letters from phrases, counting words, tallying letters. Each heart, each scribble, each irregular mark began to form a pattern. She followed it like a trail through a forest of ink, every step revealing another layer of the puzzle.

Hours passed, but Hermione hardly noticed. She murmured softly to herself, aligning words and letters, writing sums and connections in neat rows. Slowly, a structure emerged from the chaos, and she recognized it: a riddle, written in Draco's careful, uneven hand:

"I am the first of hope, the last of fear,
In shadows I hide, yet always appear.
Count my letters, the sum is the key,
A favor I give, though none can see."

Hermione tapped her chin, whispering the lines softly, turning them over like puzzle pieces in her mind. First of hope... last of fear... shadows... count my letters... And then, almost suddenly, the answer emerged. She spoke it aloud, as though testing the truth in sound:

"Harry Potter."

A quiet laugh of relief escaped her. The riddle had not been about the story itself, nor the fairytale adventures it contained - it had been a breadcrumb trail of words, hearts, and numbers leading to one truth, one name, one moment.

Hermione closed the book with a soft thump, letting the firelight flicker across the worn cover, her mind still turning over the childish scrawl and hearts pressed into the story of The Boy Who Lived.

Closing the book gently, she held it for a long while in her lap, staring into the fire. The glow of the flames painted the room in shifting golds and ambers, reflecting in Ron's tousled hair as he slept peacefully beside her. For all their tangled history, she could not help but feel she'd been given a glimpse of the boy Draco might have been, before the world told him who he had to become.

It was clear now what had happened to this old book of tales. Voldemort had burned every copy of this story during the war. Every book, every page... except this one. Draco had hidden it. Hermione's mind traced the implications slowly, carefully: the risk, the care, the secret kept across years.

Why?

She didn't yet have an answer. But the riddle, she realized, had nothing to do with the story itself. The riddle was in why Draco had preserved it, hidden it, and entrusted it to her.

Almost absentmindedly, she opened the book again.

Her breath caught. Resting neatly on the title page was a small, silver Sickle coin. Not just any coin - its surface shimmered faintly with enchantment, the runes around the edge pulsing gold for a heartbeat before settling. She recognized the spell at once.

A Protean Charm.

She lifted it carefully, reading the words etched into the face:

One favour - One time - Hermione Granger.

Her thumb brushed the inscription, and a shiver ran through her - the memory of the trial where she, Ron, and Harry had defended Draco, standing for him when it had mattered most. 

Hermione sat very still, the coin balanced in her palm, feeling both amused and unsettled. Typical Malfoy - never able to give a gift without a twist hidden inside. Yet this was different.

For a long while, she stared at the Sickle, then at the book, before finally tucking both carefully into her satchel. One favor, one time. A quiet acknowledgment, a promise, and a memory preserved.

The next morning, Hermione made her way to Draco's office at the Ministry, the quiet hum of activity in the Department of Mysteries buzzing faintly through the corridors. In her satchel were the book and the silver Sickle, careful not to jostle them. She had made up her mind: she would return them. After all, he might prefer to keep the stories to himself.

Draco looked up from the small pile of parchments on his desk, hand still stealing warmth from his coffee cup, his sharp grey eyes lifting. When he saw her, a faint smile curved his lips.

"Granger."-He said, voice smooth as always.-"I was wondering if you'd drop by. Seems you have finished the book already."

She hesitated at the doorway, then held out the book and coin.-"Yes I did...I thought...you might want to keep these."-She said, a small smile tugging at her lips.-"But I've had my turn, and I didn't want to impose. Figured that this story...means a whole lot to you."

Draco shook his head, leaning back in his chair, one long-fingered hand steepled in thought.-"Keep them."-He said quietly, but firmly.-"I know every story by heart anyway. You might as well have the pleasure of passing them down yourself."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, sliding the book and Sickle back into her satchel.-"I might never call in the favor."-She admitted softly, almost conspiratorially.

He allowed himself the barest hint of a smirk.-"It's not mandatory."-He replied, his tone lighter, though there was sincerity in his voice.-"It's just there, for you. If you ever need me...for anything. But-..."-He leaned forward slightly, eyes locking with hers.-"Please, don't use it for work. Anything Ministry-related, Unspeakable affairs, I might not accept it that way."

Hermione chuckled quietly, nodding.-"I'll keep that in mind."

For a moment, they sat in the calm, faintly quiet of his office, the papers and parchments around them fading to background noise. The unspoken understanding lingered: the favor was hers to call in - or not - and the coin, small and silver, was a symbol not of obligation, but of trust.

Finally, she smiled, tucking the satchel more securely under her arm.-"Thank you, Draco."

He inclined his head, a simple gesture of acknowledgment, and for the first time that morning, the office felt warmer, somehow lighter, despite the early autumn chill creeping in from the corridors.

Hermione headed out and took off to the Auror's department. She hesitated outside Harry's office, the dull hum of Ministry activity drifting from the hall. In her satchel rested the book and the silver Sickle, now safely pressed between layers of parchment. She had considered stopping by Draco's office, but the thought of telling Harry - revealing the subtle riddle, the Protean Charm, the favor - gave her pause.

Stepping inside, she found him hunched over his desk, eyes trained on a scattered pile of reports, quills scratching, and parchment shuffling. The office smelled faintly of parchment, ink, and the lingering scent of broom polish from the day before. Harry looked up at her entrance, expression guarded.

"Hey."-Hermione said softly, approaching the desk. She noticed the slight tension in his shoulders, the way he seemed to shrink back, as though the weight of the Ministry pressed down on him even more heavily than usual.

Harry offered a small, tired smile.-"Hey."-His voice was low, almost wary. He didn't close the distance. He hadn't yet.

Hermione sat in the chair opposite him, placing the satchel on her lap but not opening it. She studied him quietly, noting the pale rings beneath his eyes, the weariness in his posture.-"Harry... you've been keeping to yourself a lot."-She said gently.-"Avoiding the Ministry, staying home with Teddy... I just..."-Her words faltered, unsure whether to tread on the tender edges of his routine.

Harry shrugged slightly, eyes flicking back to the reports.-"I guess... It's easier."-He murmured.-"Less noise. Fewer people. If I can do the work away from the Ministry, then go home, it feels...manageable. Safe."

Hermione nodded, understanding more than he knew.-"I see."-She said softly. She paused, weighing her next words. She wanted to tell him about Draco, the book, the favour - but something in Harry's demeanour told her this wasn't the moment. He was still recoiled into his safe space, circling the routines that kept him steady.

Instead, she offered a quiet smile.-"Just... don't forget to take care of yourself, Harry. And Teddy, too."

He gave her a brief, almost imperceptible nod.-"I'm trying my best..."

Hermione lingered for a moment longer, feeling the invisible walls he had built, then quietly rose. She didn't mention Draco - not yet. Some things, she realized, needed their own time to surface. Instead, she left the office with a soft sigh, leaving Harry to his papers and the faint hum of the Ministry around him, the weight of her own thoughts tugging gently at her mind.

Later that morning, Hermione made her way through the bustling corridors of the Ministry, the faint clatter of quills and footsteps echoing off the high ceilings. She arrived at the office of Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister's calm presence grounding her as she knocked lightly on the doorframe.

"Come in."-Kingsley's voice invited, warm but measured.

Hermione stepped forward, sat straight, and explained her intent.-"I want to take on a case in collaboration with the Aurors. I'd like my team to be involved, and I-..."-She paused, choosing her words carefully.-"...-I want to be near the field, near the work. There's nothing happening on our end, but my team and I want to be useful."

Kingsley regarded her for a moment, studying the quiet determination in her eyes.-"Which case did you have in mind?"-He asked, leaning back in his chair, knowing that arguing with Granger was a lost cause.

"The one Harry's working on."-She said without hesitation.-"The Carrow siblings. They've stolen some important books from a restricted library."

Kingsley's brow lifted slightly, then he nodded.-"That's right on your alley."-He said.-"It's a complex case, and the stolen material is...well, delicate. You'll need to coordinate with the Auror Office. I'll assign your team."

Hermione allowed herself a small smile.-"Perfect!"-She said, the familiar spark of excitement igniting in her chest. A riddle to solve, books to track, and more importantly, she'd be near Harry. In the field. Finally. No hiding. No avoiding.

Kingsley stood and gestured to the door.-"You'll start today. Work with the Aurors, but keep your team's skills sharp. And Granger...be careful. I know how you work, but remember, this isn't classroom logic. Lives are involved. I am sending word to Potter and his team right away."

"I understand."-Hermione said, voice steady, though her mind raced with possibilities. She could already picture the scene: tracking the Carrows, decoding their schemes, keeping close enough to Harry to watch over him without overstepping, and yes... even Draco would be in the mix at points.

No need to run. No need to hide. For the first time in weeks, she felt the steady pulse of purpose - and the comfort of proximity.

She left Kingsley's office with brisk steps, heart beating faster, already formulating plans for the case, the team, and the inevitable confrontations ahead.

It didn't take long for the word to get to Harry. And for Harry to decipher her reason behind it.

From Draco's vantage point behind the glass of his office, Harry's figure stormed down the corridor of the Unspeakables Department. His shoulders were rigid, jaw tight, and there was a storm in his eyes that made Draco's stomach twist slightly. 

Fury mixed with that darkness that hid in his bones so visible now...Fury, Draco realized, but not directed at him - at the world, at circumstances, at himself. Harry's pace was relentless, purposeful, as though he were barreling toward some reckoning he had long delayed.

Harry pushed open Hermione's office door and stepped inside. The force he had used on the glass door caused it to move off the hinges; however, it closed enough for the voices to be concealed.

He didn't sit. He didn't even pause. Instead, he planted himself at the edge of her desk, towering over the scattered parchments and reports she had been reviewing.

"I know what you're doing."-He said sharply, voice low but tense.-"Taking on the mission I'm working on... the Carrows case."-His eyes didn't leave hers, and though his anger was clear, it wasn't at her - it was at himself.

Hermione looked up, startled, then concerned.-"Harry..."

"I told you I need time."-He continued, fists curling slightly at his sides.-"Time to think, to plan, to-...This is not the way to get me to work with you and your team, pick any other cause, any other case."- He exhaled sharply, frustrated with the way his own emotions had held him back.-"You and your team... this case is dangerous. You should step back. All of you."-He gestured subtly toward Draco's office, then back at her, eyes flicking with barely contained worry.

Hermione's expression softened, the corners of her mouth tugging upward faintly.-"Harry..."-She said gently, gesturing toward the empty chair behind her desk.-"Sit down. Please."

He shook his head almost imperceptibly.-"No. I can't."-His voice was taut, low, carrying the tension of someone who felt responsible for more than he could handle.-"Not when there's risk. Not when you - and Malfoy - might get caught in the crossfire."

Hermione's gaze softened further, her eyes warm and steady. She understood. She knew how deeply he cared, how protective he could be, even to the point of guarding others at his own expense. But she also cared for him. Enough to make him see it, even when he couldn't allow himself the comfort of sitting.

The room settled into a quiet tension, the hum of the Ministry in the distance barely reaching them, two minds aligned in worry and trust, both aware that whatever came next, the paths they were taking would not be simple - but they would face it together, however precariously.

Draco leaned slightly forward, elbows resting on the edge of his desk, eyes fixed on the scene through the glass partition. Harry's broad figure loomed over Hermione's desk, rigid and taut, like a coiled spring. His jaw was set, his hands moving occasionally in sharp, emphatic gestures, and every so often his voice - low but firm - cut through the quiet hum of the Ministry corridors.

Hermione remained seated, calm and composed, though her brows lifted at intervals and her hands moved in measured, deliberate gestures. She seemed to be offering reassurance, trying to coax him down, to ease the tension - but Harry was immovable, refusing the chair she gestured toward, standing over her as though guarding her even while arguing.

Draco tilted his head, narrowing his eyes, studying the interplay of expressions, posture, and tone. There was anger there, yes - but it wasn't aimed at her. The way Harry's shoulders tensed, the sharp exhalations, the quick glances toward his own office - it was frustration turned inward. Self-directed.

Hermione's face softened in a way that made Draco's chest tighten, subtle and careful, as though she understood something Harry could not admit even to himself. Her lips curved faintly, quietly reassuring, yet firm enough that Harry's rigid stance didn't waver entirely.

Draco's mind raced. He didn't hear the words clearly from here, only fragments carried faintly across the distance: "dangerous... need time... your team..." The rest he had to infer. Whatever it was, it was serious. More serious than their usual office banter. And yet, beneath the tension, there was care, concern, a quiet acknowledgment of trust threading through their motions.

He leaned back slightly, folding his hands, observing the tableau of two people circling emotions and intentions as carefully as wizards manoeuvring a spell. It was delicate, volatile, yet intimate in a way that made Draco pause. He didn't understand all of it - not yet - but he recognized its weight. And, despite himself, a flicker of something new stirred: curiosity.

What were they really bickering about? Whatever it was, Draco realized, it wasn't just words or a mission. It was...far more personal.

Through the glass of his office, Draco's attention snapped to the slight movement in the hallway. Harry was muttering something under his breath, wand tip flicking with precise, almost impatient movements. A faint, almost imperceptible hum spread outward - the familiar tingle of a Muffliato charm.

Draco's brow furrowed. Muffliato...Why now? Why here? He leaned closer to the glass, ears straining, but the charm had already begun its work: words, sighs, and the soft scrape of chair legs were swallowed by an invisible bubble of sound. To any ordinary passerby, the corridor was silent. To Draco, though, it was a puzzle.

He watched Harry pace briefly, shoulders tense, jaw tight, before finally letting himself collapse into one of Hermione's chairs. Draco's mind whirred: the Muffliato had been cast deliberately, not out of habit - this was something private, urgent, almost...defensive.

He doesn't want anyone listening. But I'm the only one still working at this hour. He doesn't want me to hear this. That thought made Draco straighten, curiosity sharpening into a keen awareness. His gaze lingered on Harry's movements, the taut muscles relaxing slightly, Hermione's gentle, grounding presence drawing him back from the brink of whatever storm had been raging inside.

Draco tilted his head, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, though it carried no amusement. Potter. Always guarding something. Always hiding the weight behind a wall of spells and discipline. And now, even a simple conversation needs a shield.

He pressed his fingers lightly against the glass, silent, observing. One word, one gesture, and already the situation was layered with secrecy, emotion, and questions he had no way of answering.

Harry's pacing slowed, but the tension in his shoulders didn't ease. The days of endless missions, sleepless nights, and rushing between the Ministry and home had finally caught up with him. With a harsh exhale, he let himself collapse into one of Hermione's chairs, his body almost frail, the weight of exhaustion pressing down in every bone.

"Andromeda's out of town. Visiting Edward's family. It's been a year since he passed away...With that, the war also turns a year old, a year since...Remus, Nymphadora, Fred...So many more..."-He muttered, voice low, almost a growl.-"I've been running back and forth so much...I think I'll splinch myself one of these days. Teddy, he's the only thing I have left..."

Hermione moved closer, her eyes soft, finally breaking through the storm he'd carried for weeks. She crouched slightly, letting the warmth of her presence ease him, though she didn't speak yet - she simply waited, letting him unload.

Harry's hands clenched in his lap, voice taut.-"Who's been taking care of Teddy while I'm gone? Molly... she's done her best, but I can see it in her face - she's tired and still raw with her own loss. And Ron, George... they've helped too, but that's too much to ask from them, not the most perfect people to handle a child."-His voice dropped, almost a whisper now, thick with guilt.-"He's my son, Hermione. I should be there. He needs his father. But this case with the Carrows...Unlike any of these chases we have had with runaway Death Eaters so far...The things they stole. So dark and extremely forbidden."

Hermione reached out, resting her hand over his, a steadying, grounding touch.-"Harry."-She said softly.-"You know I can look after him at my office, keep him safe while you...deal with work here at the Ministry."

He hesitated, pride and fear twisting inside him. People would stare. Whispers would follow. He could not hide him forever from the public, he knew...But there was no other solution, and his need - Teddy's need - overrode everything else.-"Alright."-He admitted, voice tight but yielding.-"He could be near, I can keep an eye on him here...I know it's a lot to ask from you too..."

From across the hallway, Draco lingered behind the glass of his office, leaning slightly forward, eyes sharp yet unreadable. He had watched Harry collapse into the chair, his shoulders hunched, face drawn and pale. Hermione's hand rested over his, steady and gentle, her voice low and measured. Draco couldn't hear the words clearly, but the energy - the raw exhaustion, the quiet trust, the care between them - was palpable.

He frowned slightly, the curiosity prickling. He didn't understand everything, but the scene was intimate, charged, and...different from anything he had expected. Harry Potter, always so strong, so unyielding, finally letting someone in. And Hermione Granger, patient and unwavering, meets him halfway. Draco's gaze lingered, caught somewhere between fascination and something he hadn't quite named, yet.

Harry stepped out of Hermione's office, the hinges of the door he had damaged giving out, causing the door to stay open. He was moving quickly down the corridor of the Unspeakables Department. Each stride was purposeful, yet weighted, much different from the way he had stormed in earlier...the exhaustion of endless days spent between missions, the Ministry, and more pressing on him.

Draco had his file in hand, rested on the back of his chair, and saw him immediately. Their eyes met for a fleeting instant, but it was enough -  too many unsaid words, weeks of avoiding one another, the tension of narrow hallway encounters and sidelong glances coiling into that single spark.

Harry's gaze faltered first. He looked away, letting his visibly tiredness excuse his retreat. For once, the fraught energy between them passed without words or confrontation.

Draco didn't take it personally. He understood, in his own way, that the storm Harry carried wasn't about him. Still, the brief, electric connection lingered, a quiet reminder of everything they hadn't addressed, a tension both unsettling and familiar.

As Harry disappeared toward the exit, Draco straightened, fingers brushing the edge of his desk. He exhaled slowly, the moment gone but not forgotten. There would be more of that, he was certain - but for now, the spark alone was enough.

He returned to his work in silence...

The next morning, Draco lingered near the tall windows of the Ministry café - a new addition to the gloomy building, cradling his coffee like a talisman against the chill that seeped through the stone corridors. The early morning light filtered in pale and grey, catching the steam rising from his mug in ghostly tendrils. He liked these quiet moments before the day truly began; he had been quick to fall into a routine around the Ministry. Slow mornings were the best, when the world hadn't yet demanded attention, when the murmur of footsteps and faint rustle of robes were just background music rather than urgent orders and stacks of paperwork to sort through.

He settled into a corner, angled just so to avoid the line of sight of his colleagues - most of whom were too lazy or unmotivated to start their days this early. That suited him perfectly. He sipped slowly, savouring the warmth, the rich bitterness of the coffee grounding him, letting him linger in the stillness.

From this vantage point, Draco could watch the ebb and flow of the café without engaging. A passing Auror, Ernest Macmillan from the Airforce noticed him, nodded politely but lazily, muttering a tired and sleep-filled "Morning, Malfoy." and drifted on. He offered no conversation, no small talk. Ernest, like most of the Hogwarts batch of students that started working at the Ministry after graduation, all liked to greet each other, even if Draco didn't have the energy - or desire - to expend on pleasantries, he was kind enough to wish them a "Good Morning" as well. The solitude was a shield, a small pocket of control in a Ministry that often demanded endless energy and obedience.

His eyes, half-lidded, scanned the corridor beyond the glass doors, noting movement without interest. The chill in the air pressed faintly against his senses, the lingering scent of damp stone and faint magic grounding him. The day could wait a few minutes longer; the world outside the café, with its endless bureaucracy and polite annoyances, need not intrude yet.

The autumn chill of London had seeped into his coat, and he hunched slightly, warming his hands around the mug. His eyes, though, were not on the golden brew - they were scanning the morning Daily Prophet, the pages slightly damp from the mist outside, he had picked it up on his way to the Ministry while on a walk.

A new article caught his attention, the headline sharp against the ink-stained paper:

"BREAK-IN AT MINISTRY'S RESTRICTED WIZARDING LIBRARY: WITNESSES CLAIM CARROW SIBLINGS INVOLVED"

Draco's brow furrowed as he read, his fingers tightening around the rim of the cup. Witnesses described the attackers - Alecto and Amycus Carrow - stealing an array of restricted materials, tomes so dangerous that even most Ministry staff barely knew of their existence. Spells and rituals that had been locked away for decades are now possibly in unknown hands.

His mind shifted automatically to the file Hermione had brought in yesterday, still unopened on his desk. He had guessed that was the reason Potter and Granger had fought yesterday; he did not want her team on the case...reasons, well, unknown. Months of reports, intelligence notes, and leads on the Carrows' whereabouts lay waiting for someone with the patience and insight to follow the threads. From the sparse information the Ministry had released, Draco knew this was exactly the sort of case where Granger's mind would thrive, which explained why she had agreed with Kingsley yesterday to collaborate with the Aurors. And Harry, of course, would inevitably be pulled in. Draco admitted to himself, with a small, reluctant tightening in his chest, that this was precisely the situation where he wanted- if not to intervene directly - at least to observe.

Draco folded the paper carefully, his expression tightening, and stared out at the drizzle-flecked street. London's fog blurred the lamplights into soft, golden halos. Somewhere out there, the Carrow siblings were moving, stealing knowledge that could tip the balance of power once again.

Then, through the glass, he saw her. His leader - the irony of it - Hermione. And suddenly, the comforting warmth of his coffee and the soft bubble of quiet in his corner felt... fragile, as though the world outside might tilt on its axis without warning.

Draco let the rim of the mug linger against his lips, eyes drifting lazily over the Ministry entrance. At first, it barely registered - just Hermione striding in, as punctual as ever, her arms wrapped around something small. He assumed it was a stack of files, perhaps a tome heavy enough to warrant two hands. But then the bundle shifted, soft and alive, and the faint movement caught his eye.

A baby.

He blinked once, twice, the image resolving as she adjusted the weight in her arms. From this distance, he couldn't see much more than the dark raven-like tuft of hair against her shoulder, the way she held it instinctively close, protective.

Draco's mind ticked over the obvious explanation - Weasleys. Her boyfriend had more siblings than he could keep track of, and their families bred faster than garden gnomes. It wasn't unusual to see one of them spawn another freckled, ginger addition to the brood. Likely, Hermione, ever the responsible one, had volunteered to help.

He exhaled through his nose, as if to laugh, leaning back against his chair, dismissing the fleeting curiosity. Not his business. None of it was. The Ministry teemed with children now and then, whenever someone was short on childcare or a relative needed minding. This was no different.

He took another measured sip of coffee, forcing the warmth back into his chest. Whatever it was - whoever the child belonged to - it didn't matter. Best to keep his head down, his mornings quiet, untouched by the whirl of other people's lives. 

His own mind replying his mother's words from last night, her pleas for settling down...according to her, now that he had found a good and respectable job here at the Ministry, all that was missing was starting his own family...Ridiculous...at only twenty. He played with the silver thread around his wrist, his hand had healed some time ago, no more claws...He was looking forward to the next full moon, for him and Luna to try their luck again on their transformation...nowadays, time with her was the only thing he looked forward to.

By the time Draco returned to his office, coffee still warming his hands, the building had shaken off its early drowsiness. Through the wide glass panes, he could see Granger already at her desk, quill flying, that same baby balanced against her hip. The child squealed now and then, a high sound muffled by the office glass-walls, and once he saw it bat at one of her parchment stacks with startling precision.

Draco set his jaw and forced his gaze back to the mound of reports waiting for him.

Whatever domestic circus Granger had volunteered herself into wasn't his concern. He had numbers to reconcile, wards to audit. The Carrow case was fresh to be tackled. So he dipped his quill, ignoring the blur of movement beyond the glass, ignoring the occasional laugh that carried faintly through the corridor. He buried himself in parchment until the door across the hall opened and another voice joined hers.

The hinges across the hall creaked, and Ron Weasley strolled in, shaking rain from his cloak, red hair plastered damply against his forehead. Ron waved and nodded at him in acknowledgement and continued his journey towards Granger. He pushed the door wide open, as if the notion of shutting it behind him had never once occurred. The door, however, had its broken hinges from last night's fight with Harry still unfixed. From his desk, Draco stilled, the steady scratch of his quill halting mid-word. The sound carried easily now, voices spilling through the door that was left open like uninvited guests.

"So here's where he's hiding today!"-Ron's voice carried, warm and teasing, giving the child a ruffle on his hair.

Hermione gave a soft laugh, shifting the child more securely against her shoulder.-"Yes, Teddy's decided my office is far more interesting than Harry's paperwork. I don't mind. He's been the brightest thing to happen to me all week."

Draco's quill hovered uselessly over the parchment. Teddy? The name meant nothing to him, yet the word brightest lingered.

Inside the office, Ron's tone softened, the teasing slipping into something gentler.-"Yeah... I can see that."

Ron was blushing, his freckles dark against the sudden flush. Watching her with a child in her arms - calm, steady, laughing - it stirred something undeniable in him. For the briefest moment, he could picture it: a future, warm and bustling, with children of their own tumbling around the kitchen table. The thought embarrassed him, but it didn't leave.

From behind the glass, Draco leaned back slowly in his chair, the faintest crease pulling at his brow. The voices carried on, easy and unguarded, but he couldn't pull his focus from that one word still echoing in his mind. Hiding. Teddy. Brightest thing.

Hermione shifted the raven-haired baby higher against her shoulder, her voice low and warm as she answered Ron's unspoken question. Teddy babbled, a stream of half-words and nonsense syllables, little fists waving as though he could summon meaning out of thin air.

"She's not in town this week either."-Hermione explained, brushing a curl of dark hair from the boy's forehead. -"Harry's been splitting himself in two just to keep up work, home, everything. So I told him I'd mind Teddy here while he's out on missions and such. He almost refused... he's completely wrapped around the little one's finger."

What does this have to do with Harry...he thought.

Ron let out a bark of laughter, though his eyes softened as he watched the boy nestled so easily in Hermione's arms.-"Obsessed, I tell you. Father of the year, that one. Teddy's got him wrapped tighter than any spell could."

Draco's hands faltered. He froze quill-stroke, spine pressing instinctively against the chair, papers slipping in his grip. Father of the year? The words struck him like a curse. His pulse spiked, ears straining, though the rest of the conversation blurred.

That's Harry's Son? he thought sharply, chest tightening. Harry Potter has a child?

He pressed harder against the chair he was leaning against, heart thudding uncomfortably. Father? His eyes darted to the child - dark hair, wide eyes, babbling nonsense in Granger's arms. He couldn't be more than a year old. But Harry, he is too young to have a child...Only twenty.

But Hermione mentioned a She? The word snagged like a hook. Who was she? The mother? A wife Potter had kept hidden from the papers, the Prophet, from everyone? Like he had dared deny at the train when leaving for Hogwarts, Draco had thought it was all just a joke...The newspaper loves to spin lies...

Hermione continued, unaware of Draco's silent attention from across the hall.-"I don't know how he manages work and everything else with that little terror around. He dotes on him completely."

Ron laughed, shaking his head.-"Honestly, I don't think Harry even realised how attached he'd get. Teddy's already running the house without meaning to."

At his desk, Draco stilled. The words struck sharp, colder than the chill seeping through the glass walls. His quill hovered above parchment, ink bleeding into a useless blot. Potter... a father? Pale and rigid, Draco leaned back slowly, the leather of his chair creaking beneath him. No one had said a word. Not to him. Not ever.

Their conversation at the Three Broomsticks is now making more sense. The way Harry spoke of a peaceful haven at home...

From his vantage point, he couldn't look away. The wide glass panes offered a perfect view into Hermione's office, every detail illuminated. A soft playmat was spread across the floor, toys scattered in cheerful disarray. Hermione knelt close, coaxing the child toward a brightly coloured self-stacking block. The boy's laugh rang faintly even through the muffled corridor, raven hair catching the mid-noon light.

Draco's eyes narrowed, his throat dry. The tilt of the head, the squint of concentration, the way those tiny hands reached with fierce determination - he could trace the resemblance too easily. Potter's stubborn nose. Potter's sharp jaw. Every small movement echoed the man he had spent years locked in rivalry with.

Draco tore his gaze back to the parchment before him, but the words swam, meaningless. Through the glass, the scene pressed in on him - quiet, domestic, intimate. A picture of a life he had never imagined Potter living.

So it's true... Potter's a father. And I was never meant to know.

Draco's jaw tightened, fingers curling against the arm of his chair. His mind snapped back, unbidden, to yesterday. To Potter storming down the corridor, fury tight in his shoulders, before slipping into Granger's office. Draco had watched then too - watched as Potter cast a Muffliato over the room, his voice swallowed by the hum of the charm.

He hadn't thought much of it at the time. Potter was always brash, always private. But now - now the memory sharpened like a blade. He saw again the way Potter had dropped into the chair opposite Granger, not in triumph or anger, but in exhaustion so deep it had hollowed him out. The way his face had crumpled with something too heavy to carry alone.

And now the word he had caught, faint but certain, slipping through the door.

Father.

Draco's gaze dragged back to the glass, to the child gurgling on the playmat, bouncing as Hermione clapped softly, coaxing him closer. The boy's laugh carried faintly, bright as a spell.

It clicked into place, all of it - the spell, the exhaustion, the quiet desperation in Potter's posture yesterday.

This wasn't someone else's child. This wasn't another Weasley offspring, some cousin foisted off on Granger for the day.

This was Potter's.

His child.

Draco sat frozen, the revelation clawing its way down his spine, leaving him chilled. It felt too real, too close, too undeniable. He'd seen the truth in Potter's face before he'd even known to look for it.

So that's it, Draco thought bitterly, pulse hammering in his throat. The Chosen One is a father now. And no one bothered to say a word.

All day, Draco stared down at the file of paperwork before him, quills poised and ink ready, yet nothing seemed to stick. The words blurred, columns of reports and schedules dissolving into abstract shapes. Every time he tried to focus, his thoughts strayed back to the office across the hall - the sun glinting off the child's hair, the soft murmur of Hermione's voice, the unmistakable presence of Potter hovering near the boy's features.

The day stretched on, papers stacked, ink smeared, deadlines looming - but Draco sat behind his glass walls, watching and wondering, the question of parentage simmering in the back of his mind, sharp and unrelenting.

Draco had been half-buried in parchment when movement in the corridor caught his eye. Through the glass, he saw Potter striding past, robes rumpled from the day, raven hair sticking up in that perpetually dishevelled way. There was a restless energy in his step - hurried, but not careless - that tugged at Draco's attention despite himself. He followed him with his gaze until Harry disappeared into Hermione's office.

The broken door creaked open just wide enough for voices to spill into the hall again. Harry's voice dropped, softer now, warm in a way Draco was not accustomed to hearing.

"Hey, little man."

Draco's quill stilled. He looked up just in time to see Potter sweep the child into his arms. Teddy squealed, a bright laugh bubbling out as his small hands clutched at Harry's robes, kicking his feet in delight.-"Da-da!"-The only word he could form with ease bleeds through the cracks of the corridor.

Draco's gaze lingered, sharp and calculating, cataloguing the resemblance as though tallying evidence: the line of the nose, the stubborn set of the jaw, the way the boy's fingers curled just like Potter's when deep in thought. But it wasn't only the physical. There was something subtler, harder to dismiss - the instinctive ease between them, the unspoken tether.

And then the thought returned, sharper now. She's not in town this week. That was what Granger had said earlier. She. The mysterious mother, conspicuously absent while Potter played the part of doting father. Draco's mind gnawed at it, restless. Who was she? Why hadn't anyone mentioned her?

Harry murmured something low and private, words Draco couldn't catch, that made the boy giggle again and bury his face against his shoulder. Draco's chest tightened despite himself. It wasn't just resemblance. It was connection. The kind of bond no blood test needed to prove.

And Draco sat there, still as stone behind his desk, the scratch of his quill long forgotten, watching the scene unfold with questions burning hotter than ever in his mind.

The question returned again and again, nagging and insistent: Who was the mother?

Draco's mind darted in short, jagged bursts. Ginny? He dismissed her immediately - the dark hair, the subtle curve of the jaw, the small, determined chin... none of it matched. Not her. Never her.

He considered others. An old friend from Hogwarts, someone who had lingered in Harry's orbit after the war? Perhaps a colleague from the Ministry, bound to him through dangerous missions and late-night confidences? Maybe a witch from the Auror department? The possibilities twisted in his head like a jigsaw with its last pieces missing, the picture almost complete but never quite clear.

The uncertainty pressed at him, a quiet weight that sat wrong in his chest. He shifted in his chair, straightening his shoulders as if posture could force the discomfort away. His quill moved again, scratching at the parchment before him, but the lines he drew lacked purpose. His concentration splintered - reports and numbers blurring together while the image of Potter and the child remained vivid, stubborn, immovable.

He noticed the way Harry held Teddy against him, protective and tender, as though the boy were the most precious secret in the world. Draco's chest tightened - Potter wasn't just the Boy Who Lived anymore, wasn't just the Ministry's golden Auror dashing from one mission to the next. He was something quieter, something far more dangerous in its simplicity. He was... a father. Despite the youthfulness in his face, the fact that schooldays seemed like they were only months ago...

Draco lingered longer than he meant to, half-shadowed behind the pane of glass. He told himself he was only watching out of habit, cataloguing every detail as he always did, the way he had been trained to. And yet, his gaze refused to move away. Harry's low laugh carried faintly, rich and unguarded, mingling with Teddy's delighted squeals. The small child tapped his feet against Harry's side in some private rhythm, as if he knew exactly who held him.

The sight pressed on something Draco hadn't felt in years, something raw and ill-fitting. A quiet tug that unsettled his carefully controlled composure. It was too much - Harry's rumpled robes, his hair sticking up worse than ever, the easy, instinctive way his hand curled protectively around Teddy's back. It was so ordinary, so domestic... and yet, it carried a kind of intimacy Draco had never been allowed near.

He dragged a hand down his face, a sharp exhale slipping out before he could stop it. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't know this. Merlin, he wished someone would Obliviate him - strip away the sight of Harry like this, unguarded and whole, cradling something Draco could never touch.

Moving quickly, before either Hermione or Potter could notice, Draco gathered the stack of files under his arm and slipped back into the corridor. His steps were brisk, almost too brisk, his retreat disguised as purpose. He didn't look back, not once.

But as he strode away, the thought gnawed at him, sharper than he wanted to admit: Potter had slipped far beyond reach. He had a life that was private, hidden, untouchable. A life that Draco told himself he didn't want - ordinary, domestic, loud with childish giggles.

And yet...the twist in his chest betrayed him. There was something there, something he could not yet name. Not desire, not envy, not quite longing - but a dangerous, unspoken cocktail of all three, burning quietly where no one would ever see.

Draco left the Ministry earlier than usual that evening, his head aching from the sound of Potter's laugh still gnawing at him. He Apparated into Malfoy Manor with the familiar rush of cold air, and for once, the cavernous silence of the place felt like a reprieve.

The drawing room greeted him like a mausoleum - grand, immaculate, lifeless. He climbed the stairs to the old studio of his father...dropped his cloak over the nearest chair and moved to the desk still filled with trinkets he had not yet gotten around to ending with dark magic still lingering in them...there amongst them, a neat stack of unopened letters had been collecting dust. Lucius Malfoy's handwriting was instantly recognizable in every envelope, the ink pressed with the same stern hand as always.

He broke the seals one by one. The words spilled across the parchments like iron chains.

And there it was again. Astoria.

Her name bled through every letter, sometimes circled by subtle flattery, other times bolstered by cold arguments about bloodlines, reputation, alliances. Lucius never outright commanded, but the weight was heavier than any order could be.

Astoria Greengrass. The match his parents had deemed "fit." Or, rather, the only one who would take him. A family still willing to link their name with his, despite the Malfoys' tarnished legacy.

Draco's mouth set into a hard line as his eyes skimmed the script. He had no quarrel with the girl herself; she was simply... there. But what her name carried was unbearable. It was an obligation wrapped in silk, a reminder that he was damaged goods, a branded man in a world eager to forget him unless he bent back into its mould.

His gaze drifted across the letters, though he could no longer focus on the words. In his mind, the image of Potter surfaced again - the small child in his arms, the way he looked utterly unburdened for a moment, entirely at ease.

Draco pressed a hand to his temple. Potter had his future written in firelight and laughter, and Draco? Draco had his father's letters from prison. His father's demands. His father's curse.

He closed his eyes, a bitter breath escaping.

Astoria. The bars of the cage.

Draco sat stiffly in the high-backed chair, Lucius's letters spread before him like the evidence of a trial he had already lost. The fire crackled in the grate, but the warmth did nothing to ease the tension in his shoulders. Each letter was the same - measured words, veiled commands, and always, her name.

Astoria Greengrass.

Not just his father's refrain anymore. His mother, too, had begun her campaign, subtle but relentless. Narcissa spoke of the Greengrasses as if they were the last respectable family willing to extend a hand. She reminded Draco of the dinner she had already arranged, of how Astoria's parents would be expecting civility, courtesy, and gratitude.-"They understand your situation."-She'd said with quiet finality.-"They know what you've endured. They are willing to look past it. You won't find better."

Mother knows best.

He won't find anything better...the brand on his forearm would make sure of that. The brand that the same parents watch him take when it promised them power, escape...

Draco's jaw tightened, the words echoing in his mind like iron bars snapping shut. Now that he had wormed his way into a Ministry post - respectable, promising, presentable - the marriage, the match, the future... it was all being carefully assembled for him. Like the pieces of a puzzle, he had never asked to solve.

His fingers brushed the edge of one letter, crumpling the parchment slightly. He thought of Potter again, unbidden. Potter, arriving in Hermione's office with robes disheveled and exhaustion written into his bones, but then - lifting the child into his arms and dissolving into laughter, as if the weight of the world couldn't touch him in that moment. Potter, who didn't have to be paraded at dinners or bartered like a family heirloom. Potter, who had - without effort, without design - built something Draco couldn't even name.

It clawed at him, that image. The tender weight of a child against his chest. The freedom of choice in who you let into your life, who you let matter.

Draco lowered his head into his hands, the envy sharp as glass. He would never admit it - couldn't even give it language - but it sat heavy, sour, a knot in his chest that refused to loosen.

Potter had a future of his own making.

Draco had his mother's dinner guests.

And Astoria's name, printed over and over in his father's hand, gleamed like a curse.

And yet, beneath the weight of it all, a flicker of something else stirred. Draco had wanted - no, earned - something for himself. The Ministry position, the path into the Unspeakables, the quiet satisfaction of finally being recognized for his own cunning, his own work...that had been his choice, even if everything else in his life was decided for him.

He pressed his palms against his eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly. If sacrificing some personal freedom, some of the chaos of his heart, could make his mother happy, then so be it. He would do anything for her contentment; she had always known best, always steered him when he lacked the perspective - or the courage - to steer himself.

And yet, even as he accepted it, there was that nagging, untouchable part of him that glimmered with quiet envy. Potter had choice, Potter had tenderness, Potter had...freedom. 

Draco had achievements, he had respect, he had a name made by his own work - but the freedom to decide his own life, the freedom to follow a heart unchained, was something he still lacked.

Draco sat in the quiet of his study, letters from his parents spread before him, Astoria's name etched into every line. It was a path chosen for him, as so much of his life had been. He would accept it - if only to please his mother, who deserved her peace after everything.

Yet his thoughts drifted elsewhere. To Potter, to the way he held that child, laughter unguarded, warmth unfeigned. Potter had freedom, choice, a life beyond duty. Draco had titles, position, respect - but no one to share it with, nothing to soften the edges of solitude. 

For the first time, he admitted it quietly to himself: he did not want to be lonely forever. What Potter had, whatever it truly was, Draco wanted too.

It was, Draco thought bitterly, incredibly lonely being a Malfoy. The manor, the name, the expectations - all weigh without warmth. 

Across the glass walls of memory lingered the sight of Potter, cradling that child with an ease Draco had never known in his own home. A life unburdened by legacy, touched instead by love. Draco had duty, tradition, and Astoria's name pressed upon him like a seal. Potter had something far rarer.

And Draco wanted it - though he barely knew how to name it.

Chapter Text

Draco turned the coin over in his hand for what must have been the hundredth time. A Knut for Weasley, a Sickle for Granger, the Galleon prototype for him, the Golden Boy himself - he had built a neat little system, a hierarchy as clean as the stacks of ledgers in his father’s study.

The others had been delivered, slipped away by owl or hidden in plain sight. But this one - this coin - remained.

One favour - One time - Harry Potter.

The engraving seemed to burn brighter every time he read it. What use would Potter ever have for a favour? He wasn’t the one stranded, overlooked, or in need of saving. Potter was the saviour. Always had been. Always would be.

Draco’s fingers curled around the coin until the edges pressed hard into his palm. It felt heavier than gold had any right to be.

He told himself he kept it for symmetry. For completion. Yet whenever he tried to imagine sending it, the thought tangled in his chest. What favour could Harry bloody Potter ever want from him?

The coin lay there, solid and silent, its weight far greater than its size. One favour, one time. But Draco suspected he would carry it far longer than he thought. For now, it lies in his wallet alongside a memo from his mother, for a dinner that weekend with the Greengrasses as if he would ever forget...

The next few days were excruciating. Every time Draco passed Hermione's office, the sight was there waiting for him - the little playmat, the soft hum of conversation, and, above it all, Potter's voice, low and steady, somehow both commanding and gentle. The hinges of her glass door had been broken for weeks, refusing to close fully, and no one bothered to fix them. The result was a constant stream of voices spilling into the corridor like water through a crack. Draco tried to ignore it, burying himself in paperwork, but the words kept drifting out...He could hear it without trying, a constant, mocking reminder of something he didn't want to know about.

The Unspeakables, for their part, weren't gossipers - they weren't called that for nothing - but even in their hushed, private way, questions had begun to circulate. Who was the child? He kept his head down, quill scratching at parchment, but the noise pressed through the glass, through his composure. Potter, a role model. Potter, an amazing father. Every word felt like another tiny splinter working under his skin.

That weekend, the dinner with the Greengrasses loomed like a shadow he couldn't outrun. Draco wasn't looking forward to it - in truth, he dreaded it. There was nowhere to hide anymore. At work, there was Potter and the constant reminder of everything Draco was trying to avoid. At home, there was his mother, gently relentless, every word laced with expectation.

He had been escaping where he could, settling into strange, quiet evenings with Luna instead. Most nights, he Apparated to the house by the lake, surrounded by half-finished experiments and the hum of things only she could explain. They skipped stones across the water, talked of constellations and theories that bent reality in whimsical directions, and sometimes even tended to her father's Mooncalves. For a time, the world there felt distant, his burdens suspended in Luna's peculiar gravity. Even with yet another failed transformation, this time no mutations, they felt great together...

But he couldn't avoid everything forever. Dinner was scheduled. His mother's plans were set. The clock was ticking, and each turn of its hand only deepened the unease coiling inside him. He was unsure of everything - of the Greengrass girl, of his mother's certainty, of himself. And beneath it all lingered a thought he couldn't shake: he didn't want to end up alone, but he wasn't sure this was the way to prevent it.

The quill slipped from Draco's fingers as movement caught his eye. Granger had been called by one of their colleagues, Osprey, down to the labs, and she was yet to return. At first, he thought it was nothing - just the play of shadows beyond the broken hinge of Granger's office door. But then, there it was: a tuft of dark hair, a small, round head pushing forward, tiny hands slapping against the polished floor. The child. Potter's child.

He froze, every muscle taut, waiting for Granger to swoop back in, to gather the bundle up and restore order.

Any second now, surely.

But the seconds stretched, and still the boy crept forward on all fours, determination written in every unsteady crawl. The glass door shifted wider under his little weight, squealing faintly as he wriggled past it, a triumphant mischief sparking in his bright eyes.

He wondered, briefly, if any of his colleagues would take the initiative to intervene. Selwyn, whose office was just beside his, was buried in a tangled scroll of ancient runes, quill scratching furiously as if the world outside her parchment didn't exist. Further down the row, young Vance looked as though he'd been asleep with his eyes open for the past hour, chin propped in one hand, quill dangling uselessly in the other. Draco sighed inwardly. No help there. If the boy crawled all the way into the Floo at the autrium, Vance would probably just keep snoring.

It was maddening, this place - the Unspeakables, the most brilliant minds in the Ministry, and yet so often lost in their own little labyrinths of thought. No one noticed what was right in front of them. No one but him.

Draco cursed under his breath. This wasn't his concern. Not his place. He had papers to finish, reports to write - this wasn't his responsibility. And yet the bundle of energy was no longer Granger's problem alone. The boy was halfway into the corridor now, utterly free.

After a long, bitter tug-of-war with himself, Draco shoved back his chair. His shoes clicked sharply against the floor as he strode into the hall, shadow falling across the small figure. Teddy froze, head tipping up with wide, curious eyes. Grey shining eyes. He had not noticed them change colour from green to grey just then and there.

Draco looked down at him, mouth tightening, words slipping out before he could stop them.-"And where do you think you're going, hm?"

The child only gurgled in reply, a bubble of laughter escaping as though he'd won some private battle. And Draco, despite himself, felt the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth.

Draco lifted the child into his arms with the same caution he might use for a cursed object - yet he was startled by how light he was, how fragile, how alive. The boy wriggled against him, warm and solid, small fists curling in Draco's robes. A weight, yes. But not the burden Draco had expected. This - this bundle was Potter's world, the axis around which his days turned. And Merlin help him, Draco could almost feel it, how easily a life could hinge on something so small.

He crouched, setting the boy gently back on the playmat. Predictably, the child made a face, as if insulted by the very idea of being left behind. Draco exhaled through his nose, straightened, and turned his irritation toward the battered door. A flick of his wand, a muttered Reparo, and the cracked hinges fused neatly into place. Metal gleamed, whole again. He sneered softly at the door.

"This."-He muttered, half to himself, half to the child.-"Is what should have been done days ago. A single Reparo, and none of this-..."-His gaze slid back to the boy.-"...-would have happened."

The baby blinked at him, wide-eyed, as though listening. Draco shook his head, lips twitching. What absurdity - explaining magical maintenance to someone who couldn't string a sentence together. He turned to leave, already rehearsing the quiet, detached way he would ignore this memory later. And maybe forget it forever.

But then came the sound - soft, uncertain, a wobbling cry that pulled at the air. Draco paused, shoulders stiffening. The boy's tiny hands reached out, not quite grasping, not quite letting him go. He looked... scared. Alone.

Granger was still nowhere in sight. Draco wondered how long Osprey would keep her tied up in the lower labs this time. The child wouldn't let the entire floor concentrate if he started wailing. Yet, strangely, for all the days the baby had been here, he had never once cried. Not properly. As if, by some cruel twist, the boy had attached himself to Draco alone - setting him up, in such an ambush.

Draco sighed, low and frustrated, and tried the easy route first. He took his wand out of his back pocket again. A levitated block spun in lazy circles through the air. The child's lip trembled. He conjured a ribbon that slithered like a serpent, its colours flashing bright. Nothing. The whimper only deepened. Finally, with a sharp flick of his wrist and a roll of his eyes, Draco pulled a blank sheet from the nearest stack, folded it with crisp, decisive creases, and tapped the edges with his wand.-"Volatus Papyrum Grus."-He mumbled, a spell he himself had created, which keeps the crane flying for a long time with its magic.

The paper stirred, wings bending into shape. In seconds, a crane burst to life, fluttering into the air with a shimmer of pale light, as though dipped in moonlight. Its wings beat softly, steady arcs carrying it just above the child's head. Teddy gasped, all trace of tears forgotten. His little hands reached skyward, clapping together, grey eyes wide with wonder. Each time the bird swooped low, he squealed with delight, kicking at the air as though trying to fly with it.

Draco crouched closer, watching the boy's rapture with a strange, reluctant tightness in his chest. He remembered these birds - how, at fifteen, he used to fold them at the back of class when boredom gnawed at him. A flick of his wand, a muttered charm, and the enchanted cranes would flutter straight onto Potter's desk. Sometimes they'd peck at his parchment until his neat handwriting turned to blotched scribbles; other times they simply hovered, wings beating noisily until Potter snapped and swatted them away. Draco had always smirked, smug and satisfied, but he had never admitted - not even to himself - that the game was less about irritation and more about attention. It had been a way to bridge the distance without ever crossing it. That memory seemed so far away, yet it had been only a few years ago.

Now, years later, here was the same spell, the same crane, but softened - no longer a taunt, but a comfort. Teddy clutched at the bird when it dipped close, squealing again as it wriggled in his grip before fluttering free. His giggles echoed against the glass walls, high and unguarded, filling the office with light.

Draco bent and placed the crane gently into the child's small hands, letting it sit still this time. Teddy's fingers curled around it with fierce delight, the paper crinkling under his grasp, though the magic kept it intact. The boy's eyes gleamed, as though this was the greatest treasure he'd ever held.

"You're just as annoying as your father."-Draco murmured, voice low, almost fond. Not resentful. Not quite. There was annoyance, yes - but threaded through with something else, something harder to name. Pride, at the boy's stubborn will. Longing, sharp and quiet. And, against all odds, the faintest glimmer of warmth.-"All this stubbornness...just like him."

The boy giggled, babbling nonsense, the crane's wings beating softly against his palm. Draco froze, eyes narrowing at his own reflection in the glass of the office wall. He hadn't planned to say it. He hadn't planned to acknowledge it at all. Yet there it was, out loud, like a confession.

He looked back at the child - Potter's son. No, worse than that. Potter's world, Potter's everything, bundled into one small life. His chest pulled tight.

"Merlin."-He muttered, adjusting the crane in Teddy's grip.-"I must be losing my mind."

Draco straightened quickly as the hinges creaked again, the familiar click of Hermione's heels approaching. She stepped into the office with a file tucked under her arm. Osprey had returned to his office, and Granger paused mid-stride when she saw him crouched near the playmat, Teddy clutching a paper crane in both fists like a prize.

Hermione's brows lifted.-"Malfoy...?"

Before she could open her mouth, Draco lifted a hand in quiet surrender.-"Don't look at me like that, Granger. He was halfway down the corridor when I noticed. I... brought him back. And your blasted door-..."-He gestured to the frame with a flick of his wand hand.-"...-is fixed. Someone had to do it."

She blinked, then laughed, pressing a palm to her forehead.-"That door. Merlin, I've been meaning to take care of it for days. Always putting it off, he can be a handful sometimes."-She gestured at Teddy.

Draco arched a brow.-"Not very efficient of you."

Her smile softened.-"I know, got caught. But...Thank you. Really."

Draco inclined his head stiffly, though his eyes softened despite himself when they flicked once more toward the boy. Teddy was still gripping the crane, babbling nonsense at it as though it might answer him. The sight tugged at something Draco quickly buried.

"Don't mention it."-He muttered, already moving toward the door, but he lingered a moment longer, as though reluctant to turn away. Only after another glance at Teddy - raven curls tumbling over his brow, paper crane beating gentle arcs above his hands - did Draco finally step toward the door.

"Malfoy?"-Hermione called lightly after him.

He paused, half-turned, one eyebrow raised.

"You did more than fix a door."

His jaw twitched, but he said nothing - just inclined his head once again before leaving, his robes whispering against the stone floor.

From behind the shield of glass, Draco sat rigid at his desk, quill hovering uselessly above a half-finished report. His eyes, however, betrayed him - sliding sideways toward the office across the corridor. Potter had finally arrived. His robes were travel-stained, a dark smear of dirt down one sleeve, hair wind-whipped more than usual. A faint cut traced his cheekbone, raw and angry. Draco's gaze sharpened instantly. For one irrational beat, his chest clenched. Inside, Potter bent low, scooping Teddy from the playmat, pressing his face into the boy's hair. The child squealed, tiny fists clutching at his collar. Hermione swept forward, quick as always, already pulling jars from her satchel.

Draco's jaw flexed as he watched. Since the door was fixed, he could no longer hear what happened on the inside, like he had been taunted all these days. She pressed a salve gently to the wound, her hand steady, professional. He couldn't hear a word, but her lips moved with the cadence of reassurance - calm, certain, practised. Potter smiled faintly, and then - Merlin help him - Draco read the teasing twist of his mouth, the almost playful way he tipped his head back, clearly insisting it was nothing. 'Just a scratch. Nothing worth fussing over'. Hermione's brows drew tight; she insisted. He relented just long enough for her to finish, the cut vanishing before Draco's eyes, skin smooth once more.

And then, the moment it was gone, Potter's attention shifted - back to Teddy. Back to what mattered. His hands tightened around the small bundle as though afraid the child might slip away. Hermione stepped aside, lips quirking with exasperated affection. Potter was already lost in the game, bouncing Teddy against his chest, speaking words Draco could not hear but could see in the glow of the boy's laughter. Draco forced his eyes down to the parchment before him, but the words swam, meaningless.

Harry settled into the chair opposite Hermione's desk, Teddy perched contentedly on his lap, tiny fingers curled in his robes. The cut on his cheek still tingled faintly where her salve had erased it, though the real aches - the bruises on his ribs for a quick collision with a tree during a chase and half caught hex, the half-healed cuts on his palms - remained hidden under layers of cloth. He didn't mention them. He never did. Hermione would scold, press more remedies on him, remind him he wasn't indestructible. And maybe she was right. But there were things he needed to shoulder quietly, scars he wasn't ready to have anyone see.

Instead, he let the mask of composure slide back into place.-"Ran down a lead on the Carrows."-He said, keeping his tone even, casual.-"Someone's been selling them restricted ingredients. Caught him before he could slip out, but-..."-His jaw tightened, it explained his state.-"...-he's refusing to talk. My team is currently interrogating him."

"Send me the file once the interrogation is over."-Hermione's eyes flicked up sharply, concern etched there.

Harry still did not want her on the case. So he gave a half-accepting hum.

For now, though, Harry needed this. Teddy leaned back against his chest, babbling nonsense words, plump hands tugging at a paper crane that was fighting to escape his grip in his lap.

Harry froze, pulse skipping. The little figure beat its wings with gentle, charmed persistence, glowing faintly in the afternoon light. This was not Hermione's doing. He knew that crane.

A memory stirred - sharper than he expected. Long hours at Hogwarts, and paper birds drifting over his head, taunts folded into every crease. Malfoy's smirk across the classroom, the flick of a wand that made the cranes swoop low just to annoy him, and ruin his assignments. Harry's throat tightened.

He said nothing. Didn't dare. If he spoke, if he asked, he might reveal too much - might give away the gnawing storm inside him. Instead, he pulled Teddy closer, pressing a kiss to his hair as though the boy's warmth could steady him. Hermione was still talking about the Carrows case, her voice calm and steady, carrying on about strategies, next steps, possibilities for the case. Harry nodded when it seemed right, but his mind lingered elsewhere - on the crane, and on the truth he would not admit, not even to himself.

Why, Malfoy?

And yet, the crane lingered in his mind. Malfoy. Why here? Why now? He clenched his jaw, wishing he could obliviated the thought. But it was impossible - not when it touched something raw, something old, something he hadn't acknowledged in years. A mixture of irritation and a reluctant curiosity, threading itself through him like a persistent ache.

He swallowed hard, straightened, and returned to the case files before him. 'No distractions. Not now.' But in the back of his mind, he couldn't shake the image of the crane, nor the quiet realization that Draco Malfoy - quiet, calculating, untouchable - had made himself a small, impossible presence in the one place Harry had thought was safe: here, with Hermione, with Teddy, in the middle of a mission that demanded every shred of his attention. He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. 'Focus, Potter. Just focus.' And yet, the feeling lingered, impossible to ignore, as if Malfoy's presence - seen and unseen - had already unsettled the rhythm of his world.

Harry ran a hand over his face, rubbing at the tension that had been building all week. Teddy wiggled lightly in his lap, and Andromeda would be back any day now; he would not have to worry about him being alone again when he is at work... He set the boy gently onto the floor, giving him a small wooden block to keep occupied and setting the paper crane free to continue flying around him.

Then he turned to Hermione, trying to find the right tone - gentle but insistent, reasoning without sounding commanding.

"Hermione... please, I continue to think you should step back from this case."-He began, keeping his voice low.-"It's... dangerous, more than either of us realised at first. We saw that today with my team, these guys are not playing around. I can't have you and Draco getting caught up in it. Maybe you could trade it for something lighter? That old case about Hagrid's missing unicorns... or the missing artefacts in Leeds... anything that doesn't put you right in the middle of the Carrows' mess."

Hermione didn't flinch, didn't even pause for long before replying.-"Harry, I can't. I've already committed. Tomorrow I'm heading down to the library myself, checking through the restricted sections, seeing which books are missing. I need to be there, see for myself, and coordinate with the staff. I can't just hand it off now."

He let out a breath, leaning back in his chair, frustration and worry coiling inside him.-"Hermione, I'm asking because I care about your safety. You're not thinking about the risk - the kind of people the Carrows were. Dangerous, cowards but calculated, willing to do... anything. And when cornered, that can be unpredictable...I don't want either of you in harm's way."

Hermione stood, crossing her arms, her expression firm but patient.-"I know exactly what I'm doing, Harry. I can handle it, and I'll be careful. I also need to understand what they took, how, and why. Someone has to, and I'm the one with the skills to figure it out. I'm not just going to sit this one out."

Harry ran a hand through his hair again, jaw tight. He wanted to argue, to insist, to pull her back, but he knew Hermione well enough to see that her mind was made up. He glanced down at Teddy, who had started stacking his toy blocks in earnest, oblivious to the adult tension around him. The child's simple focus reminded Harry of how much he wanted to shield the people he cared about, how much he still struggled with letting go of control.

Harry's mind worked quickly, calculating angles, contingencies, and ways to keep Hermione and Draco safe without interfering openly. He would have to find another way, some quiet, careful manipulation of circumstances, to steer things subtly, without ever exposing his full hand. For now, he let her determination stand, forcing a tight-lipped acquiescence. But inside, a plan was already forming, layered and precise, even as he tried to push down the ache of helplessness that came with watching someone he trusted step into danger. He would protect her.

Harry hadn't meant to stop. His steps had carried him from Hermione's office to the Unspeakables' corridor with the brisk determination of a man trying not to think too much, trying to outrun the noise in his head. He had been heading to the investigation department for the report on the man they just caught...But something had snagged at him - an instinct, a pull - and his feet betrayed him, halting just outside the pane of glass that separated Draco's office from the hall.

For a moment, his chest tightened, breath caught. He could feel eyes on him - or imagined them - burning faintly through the reflection. His own reflection in the glass offered him back the truth he didn't want to face: that part of him wanted to turn, to walk in, to close the distance. To demand why there had been a crane in Teddy's lap, folded in the exact shape that once haunted his schooldays, the same spell now softened to entertain a child. To ask why it unsettled Harry so deeply that his pulse kicked just standing here.

His hands curled briefly at his sides, knuckles whitening, before he forced them still. He was an Auror. A man with a case waiting, lives depending. This wasn't the time, and Merlin knew it might never be the time. If he opened that door, the past - his past with Draco, his own guarded truths - would spill out in ways he couldn't afford.

He breathed out through his nose, sharp and quiet, and let his shoulders harden. Just keep moving.

So he did. A soft huff escaped him, and then his boots carried him away. He didn't look back, though his reflection lingered in the glass until it stretched, thinned, and vanished.

Inside, a faint ache settled low in his chest, an ache he ignored like so many others. Whatever questions were waiting behind that door - he wasn't ready to ask. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

But he had indeed been being watched from the opposite reflection...

Draco's eyes fixed on the glass, catching Harry's figure stalled in the corridor. The pause cut through him - sharp, almost painful. For a moment, his chest tightened, torn between dread and the wild, unspoken hope that Potter might actually step inside. Instead, Harry's outline shifted, stiffened, and then moved on, leaving nothing behind but the faint trace of his breath on the glass.

Draco sat back in his chair, a hollow sort of ache curling in his stomach. Relief and disappointment tangled bitterly together, indistinguishable. Whatever he had expected, it wasn't this silence. Not anymore.

The following morning, Hermione swept into the Unspeakables' offices with a stack of parchments cradled against her chest, the sharp click of her heels echoing over the marble floor. Draco barely looked up from his desk at first, but the tension in the air tugged at his attention. She set the list of stolen books down with a muted thud in each of their teammates' offices, and Selwyn leaned over from her station, sharp eyes narrowing as she skimmed the titles. Selwyn, steady as always, treated the papers like a craftsman would a rare tool - methodical, deliberate, every detail measured before she spoke. On the far side of the room, the younger Unspeakable, with her hair bound in that insufferably neat bun, scribbled notes without once lifting her head. Her name still danced on the tip of Draco's memory, elusive and irritating. He promised himself he'd catch it the next time Hermione addressed her, though part of him knew it hardly mattered. Names were secondary.

Across the corridor, through the shimmer of black glass, Vance stirred at his desk. He was older, grizzled, with the look of a man who had seen too many things in too many hidden corners of the world. He didn't bother to approach, simply raised his eyes from his scroll long enough to track the parchments Hermione carried, his expression unreadable. If Selwyn was the craftsman, Vance was the soldier - the kind who knew when to speak, and when silence served better.

The air was thick with unspoken calculations. Even without stepping closer, Draco could feel it: the list of missing books was already working its way into the gears of their collective minds. He leaned back slightly, quill hovering above parchment, his gaze flicking from one colleague to the next.

Hermione appeared at Draco's door, arms full of parchment. Without preamble, she placed the stack on the corner of his desk, the edges still warm from her handling.

"The list of the stolen volumes."-She said briskly.-"From the Carrow case. The seller who was caught yesterday has not talked yet; we are still waiting for the investigation report."

Draco leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly. He didn't reach for the list straight away. Instead:-"And the library itself? The damage?"

Hermione hesitated, frowning. -"That's not in the report."

"I'm not asking for the report."-Draco countered smoothly. His fingers tapped once against the desk.-"I need any details you can give."

She studied him for a beat, as though deciding how much to give.-"Half-destroyed. They had released Fiendfyre."-She said finally, clipped.-"Walls scorched. Shelves overturned. The stench of burnt parchment everywhere. Enough to make your eyes water if you stood too long."

Draco's breath stilled, the word cutting through him sharper than any curse. For a fleeting moment, the office wasn't marble and glass - it was fire, roaring like a living beast, swallowing stone, turning air to heat so fierce it clawed his lungs. He saw again the endless teeth of flame twisting into serpents, beasts, claws reaching for him, the certainty of death closing in - until Potter's hand had yanked him from the brink.

He blinked hard, schooling his expression back into its usual disinterest, but his knuckles had whitened against the edge of the desk. The faintest tremor passed through his fingers before he stilled it.

"Fiendfyre."-He repeated at last, tone deceptively flat, as though testing the word on his tongue.-"Classic. Subtle as ever."-Draco nodded, gaze shifting past her shoulder, already painting the ruin in his mind.-"And the librarian? Did they survive?"

"Shaken."-Hermione admitted.-"But intact. Handed over the list himself."-She pushed the parchment closer, her tone sharpening.-"Don't ask for every splinter and scorch mark. We'll drown in details if we try."

He unfolded the top sheet, scanning the titles, his jaw tightening as the pieces aligned with the image already forming behind his eyes.-"Details are where the answers live. You know that as well as I do."

Hermione didn't argue. She only exhaled, soft and weary, before moving to Osprey's far office to distribute copies. Draco smoothed the paper flat before him, his eyes flicking across the names, the missing words echoing like ghosts. The books were gone, but the picture in his mind - charred shelves, trembling hands, words reduced to ash - gave him the outline he needed.

Draco leaned back in his chair at the Ministry, eyes scanning the stack of reports before him. The names of the missing books from the Carrows' theft echoed in his mind, and a quiet realisation settled over him - some of these volumes, or at least similar ones, had long been housed in his family's own collection, carried and hidden for generations without his knowledge. His father's legacy of secrecy and obsession with cursed and forbidden objects suddenly felt much needed.

By evening, he found himself walking the familiar halls of Malfoy Manor, having dodged his mother carefully, the echo of his boots against marble calming the restless thoughts the day had stirred. The vastness of the manor, with its high ceilings and endless corridors, offered both solitude and quiet authority.

He approached the room that had always been one of the house's secrets, though never hidden from him. Here, the manor's grand library merged with displays of the family's most dangerous heirlooms. Shelves climbed toward the ceiling, packed tightly with leather-bound tomes, some etched with runes and protective wards he had only just begun to understand. Interspersed among them, glass cases contained cursed objects whose subtle hums and whispers made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Each artefact carried its history - seductive, threatening, and impossible to ignore.

At the far end, the mirror rested beneath its protective cloth, edges faintly glowing with residual enchantment. Even from the doorway, Draco could feel the pull of it, stronger than any other object in the room. He had long learned to resist, to maintain the discipline his father's collection demanded, but the hum of the artefacts around him - the whispered promises of power, knowledge, or ruin - remained ever-present, a constant reminder of the legacy he had inherited.

Draco slowed down, looking at the list in his hands, resisting the pull of the mirror. His focus shifted entirely to the books, the forbidden tomes his family had hoarded over generations. He ran his fingers along gilded spines, noting which he already possessed, which were too volatile to handle, and which hummed faintly with residual magic. Some made his skin prickle; others seemed inert, but he trusted nothing.

Carefully, he began compiling a stack, planning the order in which he would study them. He cross-referenced them with the notes Hermione had given him earlier, forming connections even before opening the pages. Cursed or not, forbidden or not, these were tools - keys to piecing together the chaos the Carrows had left behind, and perhaps glimpses into a larger world he still struggled to understand. For a fleeting moment, awe and unease flickered across his mind, surrounded by centuries of legacy, whispers of danger echoing in the corners of the room.

Hours passed as he wrote, fingers cramped over parchment. Notes from his family vault, annotated the margins, linking objects and methods with uncanny precision. Probable leads were flagged; possible ideas noted. The Carrows' techniques were outlined clinically, stripped of emotion or speculation. By the time he leaned back, the parchment bore the weight of someone who had observed, measured, and deduced with relentless focus - the sort of report that demanded attention, that forced readers to pause and acknowledge the depth of its insight.

When Hermione came for the report the next morning, she actually smiled - the sharp, proud smile of someone who recognised good work.-"You really did a number on this, Malfoy," she said, riffling through the pages.-"This will save us days. I was not aware you possessed these books; I had to leave an appointment with a library in Kensington, and they have a wait time of 3 days."

Before he could answer, she tucked the copy under her arm and, with that irresistible mix of command and curiosity, asked if she could borrow half a dozen of the family volumes that matched passages on the list so she would not have to go all the way to Kensington days later. Draco accepted, arguing that she must not report that he has possession of such books, she agreed to the terms and watched her go, a faint, private satisfaction settling in his chest - he'd expected as much.

She tore through the books the way she always did: intense, precise, mapping connections in the margins and devouring logic in the white spaces. By evening, she was back, the light in her face shifted from academic thrill to something colder.

"I've read every one of them."-She said without preamble, setting the final volume down. Her fingers hovered over the spines for a heartbeat.-"And...we don't have it."

"They didn't find it either."-Draco replied evenly.-"What they were looking for."

Hermione shut the last book with a sharp snap.-"How do you know? Maybe there is something we are missing."-Her voice was tight, almost unwilling to accept the answer.

Draco leaned back, pale fingers drumming once on the desk before going still.-"Because I thought the way they would. This library didn't hold what they're after. Either the Carrows were looking for the most boring dark experiments ever, or they were never there to begin with. Whatever they want - ritual components, dark magic, bindings - it's elsewhere."

"That's a bold claim."-Hermione frowned, crossing her arms.-"We combed through everything. You can't just assume-..."

"I didn't assume."-Draco cut in, sharper than intended, lightly offended by her suggestion, as if that was beneath him, beneath a Malfoy.-"I tried to think like the people who want these books. Like a Death Eater."-The word landed between them, heavy and sour. His jaw tightened.-"Something I was. Something I... am. No matter what I do, it doesn't erase it, does it? Might as well use that for good, Granger."

Hermione's expression softened, though her shoulders stayed tense.-"So you traced the logic of it, and that is your only conclusion..."

"I followed the trail of their rotten beliefs."-Draco admitted, voice cooling again.-"From that angle, the answer was blunt. Terrifyingly blunt. Whatever they're building - it isn't in that library. And if they're still searching, it means they haven't got it yet. But they will try again, Granger."

Silence stretched between them, filled with the unspoken truth that his insight wasn't cleverness but scars. Hermione steadied herself against the desk.

Then, decisive as always, she turned facts into action.-"Then we don't have time to waste."

"Thank you, Malfoy."-Her voice was a small whisper for a heartbeat before steel returned.-"I'm going straight to the Auror office. Harry needs to know...right now. Put guards on every restricted collection in nearby libraries. Leeds, Bristol, the University stacks. If they move to hit another repository, we need eyes."

She was already moving before he could answer. The urgency in her stride was familiar to him - it was the same focused intensity she had whenever a difficult puzzle finally snapped into place. He watched her go, the report still warm on his desk, the remaining volumes stacked like quiet witnesses. Alone, Draco let the moment sit: the comfortable certainty of having done his part, and the hollow unease that came with knowing a trail had gone cold. He had handed her the facts; she had taken them and launched into action. That, at least, was something he could rely on. Granger, much to his irritation, knew how to do her work, a little too well.

Harry leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand across his face as Hermione set the stack of reports down before him. The edges were crisp, the writing precise - Draco's meticulousness layered with Hermione's lightning-fast analysis in each margin.

"They didn't find what they were looking for."-Hermione said, voice taut with urgency as she pointed to the highlighted sections.-"The Carrows are still looking. That one missing piece means they'll strike again. Maybe quieter this time, but they will move."

Harry's eyes flicked over the documents, absorbing the lists of missing items, the rune patterns, and the likely methods of their next attack. He exhaled slowly, impressed despite himself.-"How...how fast does the mind of an Unspeakable work?"-He muttered, shaking his head.-"Two days. One day to gather the intel, the next to digest and report it like this. That's...astonishing."

Hermione nodded, pointing to the mapped-out sequence of likely targets on a map of England and other land nearby.-"We've already made a preliminary plan to deploy guards at key sites, but we'll need to be ready to move at a moment's notice. If they're more careful this time, it could be harder to catch them in the act."

Harry ran a hand through his dishevelled hair, staring at the stack. He was exhausted, tension coiled tight across his shoulders, but there was awe there, too - a reluctant admiration for the sheer efficiency and brilliance of the collaboration. Although Harry realised Hermione would leech herself into the case even more if she carried on like this.

"Right."-He said finally, his voice firm.-"We move fast, stay sharp, and make sure every restricted library in England has eyes on it. I don't want another surprise like last time. They'll be silent, they'll be careful - but thanks to you two, we at least know where to look out."

Hermione glanced at him, her expression resolute. Harry felt a flicker of pride mixed with that gnawing tension that came whenever Draco's name hovered unspoken in the room. He folded his hands over the stack, weighing strategy against exhaustion and already planning his next move, knowing full well the Carrows would try again - and that they might just be waiting for him.

Later that night, Hermione hurried through the narrow corridors of the Unspeakables' department, a new stack of parchments clutched to her chest. Draco's office door loomed ahead, its glass panes catching the pale light. She knocked lightly before slipping inside, greeted by the hum of protective wards and Draco's steady quill scratching against parchment.

"Report from the interrogation?"-Draco asked, not lifting his eyes.

Hermione set the sheets down.-"Harry sent Ernest. The seller finally cracked. He claims there'll be a midnight handoff in Leeds."

At that, Draco did look up, his mouth curling faintly in disdain. Of course, Potter wouldn't descend himself. With Teddy no longer under Hermione's care, possibly at home with his loving mother, he seemed to think there was no reason to tread this floor again. Instead, he'd sent a runner.

Draco scanned the notes, his expression hardening.-"This is rubbish. Leeds? With no Apparition point and wards layered thick enough to block owls? It's a stall, Granger. A false step meant to waste their time. The timing alone is absurd - hours away, in the middle of the night? Even a blind man could see this. He's sending you chasing shadows."

Hermione's brows knitted.-"I also had doubts...Had to be certain?"

Draco tapped the page, sharp and precise.-"Look at the pattern. The seller names quantities that the Carrows would not even need for a headache potion. He lists buyers who've been dead for years. This one, I know, died before the war even started. If this were genuine, it would align with the theft we know, the rituals from the books they stole. It doesn't. Which means it's bait. He's feeding Potter's team a lead designed to bleed resources."

Hermione hesitated, chewing the inside of her cheek.-"So you want me to take this back to Harry?"

"Point out the holes..."-Draco said evenly.-"Make him see it for what it is."

Harry's office was quiet when Hermione entered. He sat behind his desk, shoulders taut, a faint bruise shadowing his cheek from the last mission. He glanced at the papers but didn't rise.

"There are contradictions all over this."-Hermione said firmly, setting the sheets down.-"Timing, dead names of sellers, uneasonable quantities for herbs that are not needed for any sort of potion or ritual. Leeds is a trap. You can't follow it blindly."

Harry's jaw tightened.-"I'm aware it could be a trap. We follow it regardless. We don't have time to pick it apart."

Hermione pressed, hands tightening on the parchment.-"But if it's false, we'll miss their real move. That's exactly what they want."

"I don't have the luxury to start over."-Harry shot back, leaning in.-"Either we act, or they vanish. That's the choice."

Hermione bit her lip, frustrated, then returned to Draco's office with her annotated notes.

Draco read them in silence, appalled, then set them down.-"You sure he is wearing his glasses? How can he miss this? Is he serious? It's so obvious...I see even more now. Ingredient substitutions that don't exist. Contradictions with shipment schedules. It isn't a hunch - it's logic."-He looked at her carefully.-"Hermione, you can take this back to him. Or Kingsley, for all it matters."

Hermione straightened.-"I'll try anyway."

The second trip to Harry's office was heavier. She laid the refined report before him.-"These gaps aren't minor. They could collapse the entire operation if you trust them."

Harry sighed, rubbing his face.-"I'm not fixing them. We follow what we've got. The lead is solid enough."

"It might be false!"-Hermione snapped.-"That's reckless, Harry - you can't just assume this seller told the truth."

Harry's voice dropped, quiet but edged.-"I don't need lectures on procedure. I've worked cases with worse intel and still closed them. Usually this leads to more people getting arrested and interrogated, which gives us more leads till it all traces back to the Carrows. If I waited for perfect clarity, I'd never act."

Hermione's hands shook slightly as she gathered the sheets.-"Then at least bring the teams together. Stop passing reports back and forth like this - we need to coordinate directly."

For a long beat, Harry's eyes softened, almost reluctant.-"I never wanted to work with your team in the first place; we talked about this."

Hermione's breath caught, but she steadied herself, fingers pressing flat against the desk.-"Harry, this case was assigned to both teams. By Kingsley himself. You know that."

Harry's mouth twisted into a humourless smile.-"Oh, right. And what now? You and Malfoy planning to run tattling to him? Threatening me with 'Kingsley will hear about this' nonsense. Go on, then. See how far that gets you."

The mocking edge in his voice made Hermione's composure snap. Her eyes flashed as she leaned forward, voice rising.-"Don't you dare reduce this to schoolyard pettiness. This isn't about you and Malfoy. This is about a case that's already sliding out of control because you refuse to treat this like a joint investigation."

Harry scoffed, but the sound was brittle.-"Joint investigation, sure. Except half the time, you're just ferrying Malfoy's opinions down here like some-..." He broke off, his jaw tight.-"Tell me, Hermione - when did you become his owl?"

The words stung more than she expected, and her fists clenched at her sides.-"You think I enjoy going back and forth between you? Do you have any idea how childish you both look from where I'm standing? I can't keep carrying messages because the two of you can't be in the same room without bristling like angry schoolboys."

For a moment, silence stretched sharply between them. Harry's expression darkened, but beneath it was something else - weariness, maybe even shame. He masked it quickly, pushing back from the desk, his chair scraping hard against the floor.

"Maybe I don't want to be in the same room as him."-Harry said, voice low but cutting.-"Ever think of that?"

Hermione shook her head, her voice trembling with equal parts anger and disappointment.-"I thought you were better than this, Harry. I thought you'd grown past this...this petty grudge-holding. But right now, you're sabotaging your own team. Our teams. And if you keep it up, it won't be Malfoy that Kingsley hears from. It'll be me."

Her words lingered in the quiet, heavy and undeniable.

When she left, Harry sank into the chair behind his desk, shoulders heavy, the dim lamplight casting long shadows across the stacks of half-finished reports. He rubbed at the crease of his jaw, the faint cut from yesterday’s mission stinging with a dull ache.

His eyes fell on the photograph on top of the nearest stack: Teddy, hair wild and raven-like, grinning up at him, small hands reaching as if to tug him into play. Harry’s chest tightened, a twist of longing and guilt settling low. He had sent Hermione and her team running back and forth, watching the quarrels between him and Malfoy ripple into the case, but he could not bring himself to change it - not yet.

Safety, as he had always measured it, required distance. Control. Keeping the people he cared about away from harm, even if that meant alienating them, even if that meant carrying the weight alone. He stared at Teddy’s face, letting the promise echo silently in his mind: I will come back to you safe.

The cut on his cheek itched faintly as he flexed his fingers over the scattered reports. The Carrows’ trail, the midnight handoff in Leeds - it was all still dangerous, probably a trap. But this was the only lead they had. He would follow it to the bottom. He would do what had to be done.

Hermione nearly collided with Draco in the corridor, parchment crushed in her fist.

"Potter didn't take it well, then."-Draco said lightly, though his eyes flicked to her fury.

"He won't listen."-She snapped.-"Not to me, not to anyone. And you - both of you - it's bleeding into the team. You need to settle this, Malfoy. Now."

Draco's expression cooled.-"I've done nothing to him. I've kept my head down, done the work, even offered an olive branch more than once. If he wants to sulk, that's his choice."

Hermione's laugh was sharp, bitter.-"You really believe that? That his anger just came out of nowhere?"

His jaw tightened.-"I'm not sixteen anymore, Granger. If Potter can't let go, that's on him, not me."

Her shoulders sagged.-"I know. It's just...This case is slipping through our fingers, and I can't keep patching over the cracks between the two of you. It's exhausting, everything's getting too tangled. We can't afford it."

"I'll speak to Potter, if that's what you want..."-Draco promised, quiet but firm.

Hermione nodded once, grateful, and pushed on toward the warded offices, leaving him in the dim corridor with her frustration still hanging in the air.

He turned in the opposite direction, toward the Auror corridor. Potter’s door was ajar, lamplight spilling faintly across the stone floor. The room inside was dim and empty. Too late, Draco thought, a hollow certainty settling in his chest as he stepped across the threshold.

The desk was a battlefield of parchment: stacks of missing persons reports tilting precariously, half-signed requisitions inked in hurried strokes, notes scrawled and abandoned mid-thought. The air still smelled faintly of ink and tea gone cold, as if Potter had only just risen from the chair. Draco’s fingers brushed the edge of the desk, grazing paper where the ink hadn’t even dried.

Why was it so difficult? He wondered bitterly, lips thinning as he let his gaze roam over the chaos. Why couldn’t Potter simply sit down with him, thrash it out, be done with it? Was this really all about that blasted quiz - one petty refusal, one slight to a hero’s pride? Potter’s wounded ego, nursing itself in silence, was building a wall Draco hadn’t even meant to construct in the first place. It was absurd. And yet here they were, weeks in, with a case unravelling between them.

At the very top of the pile sat a picture frame, its edges slightly smudged from being handled too often. Draco stilled, his hand hovering before he allowed himself to lift it. The moving photograph showed Potter and the boy - Teddy - laughing. Two heads bowed together in joy, matched in every angle and expression. The kind of happiness that was simple, unguarded. The kind Draco couldn’t remember ever existing in Malfoy Manor, not once, not even faintly.

For a long moment, he simply stared, the weight of it pressing something he didn’t want to name deep in his chest.

He hoped, against his better judgment, that Potter hadn’t walked straight into the trap Draco suspected was waiting. But if he had…for the sake of his son...he must return in one piece. Draco set the frame back down with care, lowering himself into the chair at his desk. He leaned back, gaze drifting over the heaps of unfinished work Potter had left in his wake. The quiet wrapped around him, taut with unease, every tick of the wall clock sharp as a knife.

He sat there, in the empty office, slight smell of rain and broom polish...surrounded by the debris of Potter’s ceaseless drive, and tried not to let the gnawing coil of worry show - even to himself.

The tick of the clock was broken by the soft creak of hinges. Draco looked up sharply as the office door swung open. A tall Auror stepped inside, his expression brisk, carrying the authority of someone who didn’t often waste time knocking.

“Potter here?”-The man asked, scanning the dim room.

Draco leaned back in the chair behind the desk, steepling his fingers like he owned the place.-“No. But you’ve found the next best thing.”-He gestured lazily at the opposite chair.-“Sit. State your business.”

The Auror hesitated, caught off guard, before lowering himself stiffly into the seat.-“There’s word from one of the guards stationed at the Edinburgh library - he sent up an urgent alert. Kingsley instructed Potter’s unit to respond to breaches at restricted repositories. We need his team there now.”

Draco’s mouth tightened.-“Potter's team isn’t here.”

“Where is he?”

“Gone.”-Draco said evenly, pushing away from the desk.-“Chasing a false lead in Leeds. Hours away. Convenient, isn’t it?”

The Auror frowned.-“Then what do I do...”

“I’ll handle it."-Draco interrupted, already rising to his feet.-“We’re not going to leave an open flank because Potter can’t read between lines.”-He swept past the Auror, cloak trailing like a shadow.-"Do you have any Aurors on your team to offer me for the night? Volunteers?"

He nodded.-"I will go get them."

"Meet in 10 by the autrium."-Draco said and went off to find Granger.

He found Hermione still in her office, papers tucked under her arm, pacing around her office like a battered wind-up toy, her face pinched with the same storm he’d seen moments ago. She straightened at the look on his face.

“What now?”

“Edinburgh restricted library.”-Draco said shortly.-“Alert from the guard. Another breach.”

Her expression shifted from exasperation to calculation in an instant.-“But...Potter’s in Leeds.”

“Exactly.”-Draco replied.-“So it falls to us.”

Within minutes, they had gathered Selwyn and Vance with a quick call, Hermione’s sharp voice cutting through the hush of the Unspeakables’ floor as she laid out the plan. Selwyn’s eyes narrowed, already bracing for trouble. Vance twirled his wand once, muttering something about travel wards and how he hated working with Aurors.

As they moved toward the departure point where three volunteering Aurors were waiting, Draco matched Hermione’s pace.

Hermione’s jaw tightened, but she nodded.-"I hope he is fine..."-She said more to herself than to him.

Together, the four Unspekables and three Aurors disappeared into the wards, heading straight for Edinburgh - into the heart of whatever chaos the Carrows had planned next.

Chapter Text

The Ministry passage spat them out into the shadowed atrium of the Edinburgh library. Cold October air bit at their cheeks, carrying the tang of damp stone and old parchment from the library beyond. Light rain fell in irregular taps against the fractured glass above, each drop sparkling briefly in the pale slivers of moonlight that sliced through the darkness. Stone arches, slick with moisture, loomed overhead, their surfaces worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain. The silence was heavy, broken only by the low groan of the wounded guard slumped near the entry, his blood mingling with puddles that reflected the ghostly glow of the moon. A faint, musty scent of mildew and forgotten books lingered in the air, and every echo of their footsteps seemed to be swallowed by the cavernous space, leaving them unnervingly alone in the rain-soaked gloom. The silence was cut only by the low groan of the wounded Ministry guard that had managed to take shelter behind a pillar slumped near the entry.

Hermione darted forward instantly, dropping to her knees at his side, ready to assist him. The rain-slick stone beneath her hands was cold and unforgiving, the scent of wet mortar sharp in her nostrils. Her wand flashed with diagnostic charms, golden sparks crackling and reflecting in the puddles around her. But before she could get a proper reading, a streak of green light tore across the hall, slicing through the fractured moonlight like a living blade.

"Down!"-Draco's hand closed around her arm, yanking her back behind a marble column just as the curse slammed into the tiles where she'd been kneeling, shattering them with a sharp, echoing crack. Tiny shards skittered across the floor, skimming her fingers. His breath hissed through clenched teeth, eyes wide and tense in the dim light.-"Are you trying to get killed, Granger?"

The faint, metallic tang of the magic lingered in the air, mixing with the cold drizzle that dripped from the arches above. Hermione's heart hammered as she pressed herself against the smooth, icy marble, every nerve screaming with adrenaline, the library's shadows closing in like a living thing.

Around them, chaos snapped into motion. Vance and Selwyn peeled off, fanning to the flanks with their wands already raised, the tips glowing faintly in the dim light. The three Aurors spread out in a precise, practised formation, shielding one another as their eyes swept the shadowed atrium for the source of the attacks.

The atrium was a hunter's maze: rows of broken desks, collapsed shelving, and balconies that cut the shadows into jagged, treacherous slices. Every surface was slick with rain, every corner a potential launch point for a spell. Perfect cover for curses to come from anywhere...and nowhere. Spells ricocheted off stone and glass, too fast to track, filling the air with the sharp hiss of hexfire and the acrid tang of ozone. Each explosion of light made their hearts jump, casting fleeting, grotesque shadows across the walls.

Hermione's hand twitched toward her bag, her voice urgent.-"Malfoy, please - he won't survive another minute without help. Cover me."

For a heartbeat, he looked like he might refuse - his mouth opening, the protest already forming. But then his eyes locked on hers, saw the stubborn fire there, the unshakable certainty that she would do it with or without him. His stomach tightened. Bloody Gryffindors.

He swore under his breath, then shifted, leaning just enough into the open to send two sharp hexes arcing into the shadows.-"Fine. But you get one chance, Granger. One. Move when I say."

Hermione nodded quickly, heart pounding in her throat.

Draco waited until the shadows revealed themselves again in flickers of red dust and muzzle flashes of light, then snapped off a volley of covering curses.-"Now!"-He barked, while unsleashing a series of Confringo hexes towards the upper balconies.

Hermione darted out, muttering a quick Protego Maxima shield around them, her satchel thumping against her side, slipping low across the rubble until she skidded beside the wounded guard. His robes were scorched, blood pooling darkly beneath him. She barely heard his groan over the roar of curses and the crack of shattering stone, but her wand was already in her hand, her other pressing hard to stem the bleeding.

Behind her, Draco's Depulso and Reducto curses cracked through the air, vicious and precise, a steady shield of fire holding back whatever dared to move too close.

He hated it. Every second she was exposed felt like a tether pulled taut, one breath away from snapping. But he didn't falter. If she were mad enough to risk herself, then he would be mad enough to keep her alive while she did it.

They weren't just outnumbered. They were being hunted - and every second spent frozen in fear was another second closer to death.

Hermione's spells stemmed the bleeding just enough; her hands were steady despite the chaos. She dragged the guard across broken stone, muscles burning, until she wedged him behind a fallen slab of masonry. His breathing rasped, shallow but alive.-"Thank you-..."

Draco stood over her, curses lashing out in precise arcs, his silhouette outlined by sparks and smoke. Dust and rain mingled in the air, cold settling into their bones. The guard slumped into the shadows, out of immediate reach of flying curses. Hermione pressed a final charm into place, then rose, wand already back in her grip.

Side by side again, they turned toward the fight.

Curses tore through the atrium like lightning, striking stone and splintering wood into a screaming shower of splinters. Hermione ducked low, nearly dragged forward by the sudden weight of her satchel as she pressed herself against the marble column Draco had shoved her behind; it was slick with rain and sprinkled with grit that clung to her palms. The air thrummed with unseen magic - hexes snapping from shadow, dying against balustrades, reappearing from some new slit in the dark before anyone could aim a counter-spell. Each burst left a metallic tang at the back of her throat and a ringing in her ears, as if the building itself had been struck.

"Bloody useless - we're firing blind."-Vance hissed from across the rubble, voice brittle with adrenaline. He stood hurling another Reducto at unseen enemies. While Selwyn and the Aurors kept an eye on the side opposite to them, harsher curses flew over their heads.

"I have got a plan..."-Hermione's hand fumbled in the cramped, damp interior of her bag, fingers numb from cold and fear, until they closed around something oddly soft and warm from being tucked away: a squat pouch, its orange logo half-smeared, the fabric rough between her knuckles. She felt something like a ridiculous, stubborn hope and yanked the tie free.-"Ron..."

"You're joking."-Draco said, breath fogging in the cool air, incredulity and something grim in his eyes.

"Not even slightly."-Hermione's jaw was a hard line.-"Ron made these as a prank - powder that clings to anyone hiding in the dark, it's fluorescent. Sneak‑Seeker Dust."-Her thumb caught the cord; she flicked her wrist. The pouch spun free, and the contents sailed up in a glittering arc. She paired it with a Vortex Aer charm to spread it everywhere.

For a beat, it looked absurd - red confetti against moonlit ruin - then the powder exploded inward, a cascade of tiny, fiery motes that hung and drifted with the typhoon spell that Hermione cast, scattering like cinders in slow motion. They smelled faintly of iron and something sweet and chemical; the sparks hissed as they met raindrops and stone. The first motes grazed a shadowed pillar and stuck, tracing an outline that hadn't been there a breath before. Then another outline bloomed on the balcony - shoulders, the angle of a neck - thirteen of them in all, each haloed in unnatural crimson like a burnished bruise.

Gasps and startled curses spiked through the atrium. The Aurors swore and flinched back as figures shambled, snapped into attention, suddenly visible in their ridiculous, glowing frames. One of the attackers threw up a hand, eyes wild beneath a hood; another lurched, revealing the glint of a knife. Spells that had been invisible moments before now had targets.

Draco's mouth twitched with something close to satisfaction.-"Clever. For once, Weasley's idiocy pays off."-His tone was small comfort against the roar of combat, but there was steel behind it.

Hermione didn't smile. Her knuckles whitened around her wand; rain speckled her lashes, making the world blur.-"There - they can't hide anymore."-She breathed, voice tight but steady and already throwing precise curses at them. The Aurors responded in a coordinated rush, light flaring from their wands, and the red halos shuddered as hexes found flesh and armour. The dust hung in the air like a promise - a ridiculous, dangerous, brilliant promise - and for the first time since the first crack of green light, they had the advantage of sight.

The powder clung, giving shape to the hidden figures, and Draco didn't hesitate. He stepped out from cover, the chill rain slicking the stone beneath his boots, wand raised. A streak of green light cracked across the atrium, hitting its mark with a loud, ringing snap and forcing one of the glowing outlines to dive behind a shattered bookcase. His second curse followed, crisp and precise, but it clipped only stone, sending shards spinning into the puddles at his feet.

"Too far."-He muttered through clenched teeth. They had the outlines, yes - but the distance and layers of cover still favoured the enemy.

The three Aurors flanking them - a pair of women with hawk-eyed precision and a broad-shouldered man from the higher department - answered in unison, their own spells slicing through shadowed corridors and ricocheting off wards and stone. Flashes of light illuminated the atrium like lightning without the storm, stark against the fractured glass above. But the imbalance was already evident: for every curse the Aurors sent, four came hurtling back, each one faster, sharper, more deliberate.

Draco felt the hot sting of air as a hex seared past his shoulder, singeing his robes, bruising him.-"They're organised."-He barked, eyes scanning the red outlines.-"Too bloody coordinated for common smugglers helping the Carrows."

Vance swore under his breath, ducking as a hex slammed into the pillar where he crouched, splinters raining down.-"Not smugglers. Look at their aim. Their timing. This is military training. Death Eaters or..."

Hermione's voice cut through the cacophony, sharp and steady even as her chest heaved.-"There aren't this many Death Eaters left out of custody. They could be Snatchers?"

Her words died as one of the crimson figures screamed a curse in a language Draco didn't recognise - harsh, guttural, and ancient. The spell struck the column Vance had been hiding behind, shattering it into a spray of dust and stone that coated their boots. He ran to Selwyn, who made space for him.

Draco's blood ran cold. He knew that accent - Eastern European, Balkan perhaps. Mercenaries. Wand-carriers who had fled their own wars and now stalked Britain's shadows for gold and promises. They weren't loyalists of the Carrows. They were opportunists. Worse, disciplined opportunists.

"Not Death Eaters, or Snatchers..."-Draco said grimly, forcing a hex toward one figure that ducked just in time.-"Mercs. Bought blades. Which means-"...He parried a streak of violet fire, shoved Hermione down, and the impact of the spell sent a tremor up his arms.-"...-someone's paying dearly to see this heist through."

The Aurors exchanged sharp, tense glances, the weight of the situation written plain across their faces. Outnumbered, partially blinded, facing thirteen mercenaries trained in ambush tactics - they were deeper than any of them had expected.

One Auror, brow furrowed, wand slick with sweat, made a hard decision.-"We can't do this alone."-He said. With a quick, practised flick, he cast a signal charm into the night sky. A ribbon of red fire shot upward, burning bright against the clouds, a flare from the Ministry calling for immediate backup. The spell lingered there like a promise. Leaving the mark of the Ministry like smoke over the air and rain of Edinburgh, reflected in rain-slicked stone and the wide, wary eyes of those left standing.

The atrium fell into a tense pause, the only sounds the hiss of residual hexes and the soft drip of rain. Every heartbeat thumped in their ears, counting down the moments until reinforcements arrived - or until the mercenaries struck again.

The flare in the sky brought with it a sudden, ridiculous flicker of something like pride in Draco. For once, he told himself, he was on the right side. Even if tonight they died in the hands of paid mercenaries, at least the mark in the sky said someone else would know they'd tried. The thought steadied him for half a breath - then a volley of curses snapped him back into urgency, the hiss and crack of hexes jolting his pulse.

The thought threatened to swallow him until something sharper cut through: realisation.-"They're stalling us."-Draco hissed, voice low, eyes scanning the crimson-lit outlines.-"They knew we'd come through the Ministry entrance. They're holding us here while the Carrows dig deeper. We have to get inside."

Hermione nodded instantly, eyes bright with fury and determination. Within moments, they regrouped at the central column. Two Aurors peeled off to cover the atrium, staying behind to ensure the mercenaries stayed there, spells flashing like lightning to keep the mercenaries at bay, while the rest slipped into the maze of corridors, smoke clawing at their lungs, flames licking across toppled shelves. The heat was stifling, the acrid stench of charred wood and scorched parchment thick in their throats.

As they paused in a hallway just beyond the column to catch their breath, Draco's gaze fell to the floor, and he lowered his illuminated wand toward it. A strange, thick liquid shimmered across the cracked stone, dense and mirror-like, reflecting the flickering lights of their wands and the smoke above. It was fresh, glistening, as if it had been spilt moments ago.

Draco crouched instinctively, wand tip hovering just above it.-"This...it's fresh."-He muttered, voice tight.

Hermione crouched, touching another puddle; it looked like footsteps.-"Heavy, silver, enchanted somehow...but definitely recent. It has to be the Carrows. Let's follow it."

Draco searched his pockets for a vial unsuccessfully.-"Your bag, does it have a vial?"-He asked Hermione.

Hermione nodded instantly and handed it to him quickly. Draco gathered some and quickly pocketed it, his eyes bright with determination.

She led their way, following the trail of liquid...They found them in the west wing.

The once-quiet reading chamber had become a charnel house. Shelves lay toppled, scrolls trampled and curling black at the edges, the air heavy with the suffocating stench of burning paper. At the centre, a single chair stood like a grotesque stage, and upon it the librarian was bound, her body taut and trembling. Her face was pale and slick with sweat, eyes wide with fear, every muscle coiled against the invisible bindings. A gag cut her cries into muffled, broken sounds, her damp raven dark hair clinging to her temples.

A curse tore through her body, bending her back unnaturally. She convulsed violently, gasping through the gag. The air itself seemed to flinch, thick with the metallic tang of blood and magic.

Alecto Carrow loomed over her, wand levelled, a grotesque smile carved across her face. Her laugh was high, jagged, like glass cracking under a hammer, echoing through the ruined Edinburgh's library and dancing over the flames that flickered across the charred wood.

Amycus prowled the shelves nearby, pacing like a restless wolf. His voice was low, coaxing, venomous.-"The keys."-He snarled.-"The passphrases. Tell us, and this ends. Just say it, and you can crawl back to your books, little mouse."

The librarian only shook her head, eyes watering, chest heaving.

Amycus leaned in, shadow cutting across her face.-"No?"-His smile curled.-"Good. I prefer it the hard way."

Another flick of Alecto's wand and the woman buckled again, body arching as raw screams tore free despite the gag. The sound scraped down Hermione's spine like a knife, heart hammering in her chest.

Hermione's hand twitched toward her wand, instincts screaming, and she could feel Draco shift beside her - tense, ready. The remaining Auror looked equally sickened, pressing a fist hard against his chest to steady his ragged breathing.

Alecto laughed louder, stepping closer, exuding malice.-"You'll break."-She cooed.-"They always do. Every scholar has a threshold. Yours is coming. This is not worth protecting over your life, is it?"

Amycus sneered, wand twitching impatiently, sparks sizzling at the tip.-"Tell us, witch. Where's the way in? The wards? The codes? Answer, or the next one burns straight through your bones."

The librarian's eyes closed; she trembled violently. When she opened them again, there was steel there - thin, fragile, but unyielding. She shook her head once more.

Another Crucio slammed into her, twisting her against the ropes until her skin bruised. Alecto's psychotic laughter filled the chamber, giddy, merciless, echoing off the broken shelves and blackened walls.

Hermione's pulse hammered, every second precious. They were out of time. The two Aurors that they had left behind were nearing them in half defeat.

Her hand shot into her satchel and came up with two small black orbs from Ron's workshop.-"They need her alive."-She whispered, urgent.-"Without her, they'll never open the restricted archives. You and Draco grab her."-She advised Vance, and before anyone could stop her, she slammed them to the floor.

They burst with a hiss - Fred's invention. Draco remembers them from the time Potter used them to enter Slytherin's train compartments. It's impossible to see through; however, they had mapped how many steps would get them to the librarian and past the siblings...Darkness spread like a living thing, powder-fog curling through the shelves, swallowing sound, swallowing light.

"Move!"-Hermione whispered.

Draco and Vance darted forward, spells slashing blindly through rogue curses as they cut the librarian free. She sagged between them, half-conscious, her breath ragged. Behind the fog, Alecto shrieked in fury, firing wild hexes, Amycus cursing as the world dissolved into choking black.

Hermione led them through a side door, blasting it with a concussive Bombarda that shook the old stone walls. Smoke poured behind them, stinging eyes and throats, as they stumbled into the cold night air. The Edinburgh rain had returned, sharp and biting, plastering their hair and clothes, but at least for a moment they were alive - and free.

But salvation wasn't waiting.

The night itself seemed to writhe. A cold wind slithered through the courtyard, biting through soaked robes and numbing bones. It carried with it a sound - a low, rattling, eager intake of breath that set teeth on edge and crawled under skin. The shadows trembled, then coalesced. Dozens of Dementors emerged from the darkness on the horizon, drawn like carrion crows to spilt blood and fear. Their hooded forms pressed in on the battlefield, tall, silent, and implacable, the very air around them thickening as if the world itself had grown heavier. The sky seemed to freeze above, a shuttered void reflecting nothing but despair.

The Aurors who just escaped the black smoke faltered, their normally steady hands trembling, spells half-formed and flickering uselessly. The rescued librarian whimpered, clinging to Draco's arm like a lifeline, her breath coming in ragged, panicked gasps. Draco noticed she could not stand and fully carried her on his arms as if she weighed nothing. Hermione's knuckles were white around her wand, pulse hammering, every nerve screaming.

And then the Carrows stepped forward through the smoke, emerging like vipers from the haze, their laughter slicing through the unnatural silence like knives. Alecto's eyes gleamed with madness, Amycus's grin twisted with cruelty, and both raised their wands as if the Dementors themselves were merely the opening act.

Every instinct screamed: this was no longer just a battle - they were surrounded, hunted, and outmatched. The courtyard felt smaller, every shadow a threat, every gust of wind a herald of more terror to come. The chill of fear was absolute, and for a heartbeat, the night held its breath along with them..

It felt hopeless.

The courtyard was a trap, shadows writhing and wind biting through wet robes. The Dementors hovered closer, their hooded forms gliding like living shadows, sucking the warmth and courage from every heart. Spells screamed past, shattering stone and stone dust in the air.

Draco's mind raced, the broken woman still in his arms half-dead. He couldn't afford heroics - he needed a plan. Not for glory, not for bravery. Survival first.-"Listen!"-His voice was sharp, urgent, turning to the Auror who he knew could carry her in his arms.-"You take her. Run for the nearest Disapparition point. Here it's guarded, but you can get there once outside the library property. Go to the Ministry. Get backup. Now."-No backup had shown from their first flare...too much time had passed since then. Help might never arrive, he thinks.

The Auror hesitated, doubt flashing in his eyes. Draco's glare cut through it.-"No time to argue! Move!"-Handing her the whimpering woman.

Hermione, shaking off the Dementors' trance, breathed heavily and shouted.-"Take shelter at the stairway columns! Hide behind the pillars - they can't reach us there while we hold them off!"

The Auror and librarian sprinted toward the road that wound down the hill toward the city, rain slicking the cobblestones, slipping slightly with each desperate step. Draco's eyes followed them, calculating. Every second mattered. Every curse from Amycus or Alecto, every swoop of the Dementors could be their last if he misjudged the angle or pace.

Hermione crouched low, wand ready, scanning the courtyard.-"You two..."-She said to the Auror ladies.-"Hold the middle."-She then turned to the rest.-"Vance, Selwyn - cover the flanks. Draco, keep us in the shadows, keep their curses off our heads. I'll find a way out of this if I can."-Her leader voice was tight, guarded. She wasn't promising a heroic stand; she was promising survival, anyway possible till help arrived.

Vance and Selwyn, unspeakables through and through, didn't hesitate. Their eyes were hard, focused; they'd signed up to fight the impossible. They blocked advancing curses, forcing the mercenaries to adjust, buying Draco and Hermione a fraction of space.

Draco's jaw clenched as he calculated again - escape routes, cover, timing. He wasn't thinking of dying here tonight. He was thinking of the hill, the road, the city, the Ministry, and keeping everyone alive. But the cold of the looming Dementors was freezing the fingers that clenched his wand.

The Carrows' laughter echoed, mingling with the rasp of the Dementors' breath. Spells ricocheted off walls, stone splintering, magic hissing. Draco moved between columns, low, careful, nudging Hermione to shift left or right, never standing still long enough to be an easy target. Each movement was a compromise: protect, survive, buy time.

He swore under his breath.-"We survive...that's the plan."

The six of them - Aurors, Draco, Hermione, Vance, and Selwyn - became a living barricade, not for honour, not for pride, but because someone had to hold the line while the librarian and Auror fled. Every curse deflected, every hex returned, every shadow avoided was a heartbeat closer to safety. And for Draco, each heartbeat was a reminder: tonight, staying alive wasn't cowardice - it was necessity.

By the time Draco ducked behind a shattered pillar at the base of the stairway, the courtyard had become a nightmare of shadows and rain. They huddled behind the columns, drenched, exhausted, and tense, hearts hammering as the Dementors glided closer, silent and hungry.

Hermione's voice cut through the chaos.-"They're too close!"-She raised her wand, and a silver-white Patronus shot forward, piercing the darkness like a lance of light. She seemed to struggle till it took the form of a happy bouncing otter.

One by one, following her, the others followed, each claiming a pillar. Vance, Selwyn, and the two Aurors unleashed their Patronuses, not quite fully, all having struggled with their emotions at the moment, more like shimmering shields of silver chasing back the encroaching Dementors, keeping the cold at bay, if only for a heartbeat.

All but Draco.

He pressed himself further into the shadows behind his pillar, wand in hand, and lashed out with curses toward the Carrows who had gotten on top of a statue for a better view, and their mercenaries had joined, fire and green light flashing in the stormy darkness. Patronuses were useless to him; he had no light to chase away the creeping cold, only his hexes and the small margin offered by stone and shadow. There was no happiness left in them...only fear, dread, tiredness.

A stay curse grazed his forearm, his wand falling to the side. He crouched to reach it, unable to catch his breath, his back hugging the cold pillar as he stood his ground till the last breath.

The freezing rain fell in ropes, plastering his hair and robes to his skin, each droplet biting like needles. The Dementors were coming for him, and they knew. They smelled his past, the Dark mark buried in blood and fear. They circled closer, relentless, patient, feeding on the terror they sensed, drawn by his guilt and history.

Draco's heart pounded. Every sense strained. Every step, every breath, every twitch of the wand could mean life or death. He didn't have the warmth of a Patronus to shield him, didn't even try. He had only his cunning, his spells, and the cold clinging to the pillars. The courtyard was otherwise silent, save for the hiss of residual hexes, the splash of freezing rain, and the soft, dreadful swoosh of the Dementors closing in. Draco pressed back against the stone, calculating, breathing shallow, waiting, knowing that each heartbeat drew the cold closer.

He had no light, but he had magic. He had his will. And as the Dementors hovered nearer, he steeled himself: he would survive - or die fighting.

Lightning split the sky, a jagged streak illuminating the courtyard for a heartbeat. Draco's eyes caught something in that flash - a streak of motion, impossibly fast, a shimmer of light that cut through the storm. A broom? No, something else. Too bright, too fleeting.

The cold around him tightened, and the Dementor hovering closest - softly, insidiously - was already feasting on him, drawing the warmth, the light, the very sense of self from his chest. He hadn't realised how far his soul had begun to slip away, how fragile his happiness had become.

Then, in the next instant, the shimmer took shape: a stag, radiant, blue-white, solid and glowing against the black storm. It appeared between him and the five looming Dementors, its presence a sudden, impossible shield. The creatures recoiled, swerving back, hissing as the stag's light pushed them away.

Draco's hands shook. He hadn't even noticed that his legs had started to give out. He slid down the pillar, the stone cold beneath his back, every muscle trembling. He felt the icy weight on his chest lighten just slightly, but he didn't dare breathe easy. The Patronus shimmered before him, a living, breathing defence, and yet the edges of his mind still felt frayed.

He wasn't sure if he had lived or died in that moment, if the Dementor had claimed him entirely or if the faint pulse of warmth - the faint echo of happiness - was enough to keep him tethered to the world. His powers, raw and unstable, throbbed in his fingertips, unsteady, but the stag's light held.

For now.

Draco leaned back, legs giving out, every nerve trembling, every thought ragged. Lightning flickered again, reflecting off the frozen rain. He didn't move. He couldn't yet. He simply rested against the pillar, half-alive, half-lost, the stag's shimmering form keeping the Dementors at bay.

And in that flash of impossibility, he glimpsed something he hadn't let himself feel in a long time: relief. Fragile. Precarious. But enough to pull him back, if only for a heartbeat.

Between dozing and jolts of awareness, Draco barely registered the flicker of movement. His wand, almost on its own, shot up a spark of green light, deflecting a hex that streaked toward him. Pain shot through his arms, but the instinct to survive overrode everything else. He tried to sit up, shaking, every muscle trembling. The lightning he had glimpsed earlier - it had been help.

And then he saw it clearly. The streak of lightning, the broom - it had been Harry. His team, late but not too late, had arrived. The battlefield erupted in renewed chaos. Spells flashed, silvers and greens streaking across the courtyard, as Aurors and unspeakables fought every last mercenary. Amycus and Alecto had vanished, retreating into the shadows. Draco could hardly believe it. They had them.

Weak, cold, and shaking.-"Careful!"-Draco pushed himself upright, trying to cast a spell to help Vance, who nearly took a hex from behind. He lunged, wand slashing through the rain-slick air, heart hammering, muscles screaming. But it was too much. His legs buckled again, and he sagged back against the pillar, exhausted, the cold creeping into every joint.

The stag shimmered beside him, blue-white and impossibly alive. Potter's Patronus. It seemed to study him, patient, unwavering. Draco's chest heaved as he looked up - and there Harry was with his Airforce, descending his broom mid-flight, jumping and landing perfectly in the middle of the courtyard. Ten Aurors followed him, all bloodied and battered, uniforms torn, wands flaring, having clearly fought another battle before coming here. Harry's hands were raw, his robes torn, but he stood unflinching, lightning from above illuminating the chaos.

The stag's light held the Dementors back, shimmering against the encroaching cold, but Draco felt his body give out completely. Limbs slack, heart hammering, he slumped against the pillar. Relief, exhaustion, and disbelief washed over him all at once. He had survived this long, and now... now there was hope.

He fell, the storm and battle blurring into darkness around him, the Patronus still glowing, and the first real sense of safety in hours settling over his trembling body.

Hermione, Vance, and Selwyn pushed forward through the chaos, leaving the remaining Aurors to mop up the last stragglers. Most of the mercenaries had fled when they realised the tide had turned - the swarm of Aurors had arrived, relentless and precise. A few had been caught in spells, their curses cut short by flashing light and deflected hexes.

Draco sagged against the pillar, chest heaving, drenched in rain and exhaustion. Hermione reached him first, kneeling beside him and grasping his arm. She checked him for any injuries.-"You seem fine...and you've been brave."-She said, voice tight with concern and awe.

Vance leaned close, fingers brushing Draco's shoulder.-"Thanks."-He said quietly, voice low but firm.-"For the hex back there...nearly didn't make it."

Selwyn, with her arm wrapped in Hermione's clothe strip from her clock, silent as ever, simply clasped Draco's hand, the touch grounding him. Draco realised for the first time just how close they had all come, how narrow the margin had been between survival and disaster.

The blue-white stag - the Patronus - still shimmered beside him, a living sentinel. Its light had driven all the Dementors back, chasing them into the shadows, and now it rested quietly at his legs, watching over Draco. He could feel it in his chest, the faint tug of life, his soul lingering on the threshold, still frayed but tethered.

Draco exhaled slowly, the first time in hours that his body allowed it. The storm continued, rain lashing in ropes, but for the first time, he felt a fragile tether to the living world, to his team, to survival. Around them, the courtyard was littered with the remnants of the fight - shattered stone, spent spells, the scent of smoke and wet earth - but the worst had passed.

Hermione's hand stayed on his shoulder. Vance's grip was firm. Selwyn didn't speak, but his presence was enough. And the stag remained there beside Draco, silent and patient, a reminder that even in the darkest moments, there was still something to fight for, still a spark of light to hold onto.

Draco's gaze drifted upward to the stormy sky, to the flashes of lightning still cutting through clouds. He didn't move yet, didn't speak. He simply let himself rest against the pillar, the Patronus at his side, the knowledge that his soul - though strained - had not yet been claimed.

The courtyard was slowly clearing. The remaining Aurors moved with grim efficiency, rounding up the few mercenaries that hadn't fled, while the Carrows were long gone, vanishing into the stormy night. They saw two aurors helping the guard they had rescued. The rain still fell in icy sheets, soaking everyone, but the immediate threat had passed.

Harry finally arrived at the group's position, moving with that familiar intensity, eyes sharp. Hermione stepped forward, relief flooding her features, and threw herself into his chest.-"Harry-"

But his expression was cold, almost brittle. He held her at arm's length, gaze hard.-"Why were you here?"-He asked, voice low but edged with anger.-"You could have been killed. All of you. Who authorised this?"

Draco did not know if he shivered from the rain or from the coldness in Harry's tone...

Hermione's hands tightened around his robes, steady and fierce.-"We had to..."-She said.-"You were following that false lead to Leeds. The library was under attack. The librarian was in danger."-Her chest rose and fell rapidly, eyes bright.-"We saved her. The Carrows didn't get what they wanted."

Harry's jaw clenched, fury flashing across his face as he stepped away from her embrace.-"You could have been seriously hurt! All of you. I'm going to request Kingley that you're removed from this operation at once!"

Hermione's voice rose, unshaken.-"You can't! We did most of the saving tonight! The Carrows would have succeeded if we hadn't been here. We saved more than two innocent lives tonight. You were the one following a false lead when we told you it was wrong!"

Harry's anger sharpened, voice rising, finger jabbing toward Draco.-"And what about him? While your Patronuses were going up, he was left completely exposed to a dozen Dementors! Do you have any idea how close he was? Is this how you lead your team?"

Hermione froze, eyes wide, caught between defence and disbelief.-"Harry...we didn't have strong enough Patronuses tonight!"-Her voice shook, the tremor betraying the exhaustion and fear of the night.-"The Dementors - they were everywhere, at least a hundred. The fear... the darkness...I thought Draco could cast his own."

Harry's jaw tightened, the cold edge in his voice cutting through the rain.-"He's a Death Eater, Hermione!"

Draco's heart tightened...

Everyone's breath hitched as he continued.-"You know what that means! They can't cast Patronuses. They don't feed them happy memories when they give them that mark, do they? You left him out there - completely exposed - because you assumed he could handle it? Assumed?"

Hermione's hands curled into fists at her sides.-"Assumed? I made a choice in the middle of a battle! You weren't here, Harry. You were following your own lead to Leeds while the library was burning. Draco didn't ask to be out there alone - we all ended up there because it had to be done!"

Harry's eyes narrowed, voice louder, more pointed.-"And you think that excuses leaving him uncovered? You think I care about your heroic speeches right now?"

The words hit Draco like a physical blow, reverberating through his chest as if each one had been hurled with intent. He sank back slightly against the cold stone of the pillar, shoulders slumping. His gaze dropped to his wand, slick with rain, the wood seeming suddenly foreign in his hand. The torn sleeve of his robe rode up as he shifted, revealing the faint, angry black swirl of the Dark Mark, pulsing faintly in the rain. Shame twisted in his chest, tight and unyielding, as if the mark itself had come alive to mock him in that moment.

Hermione stepped closer, eyes blazing, her voice sharp and unrestrained.-"You're being unreasonable!"-She spat, her tone more than rebuke - it was the fierce, desperate outrage of someone who had seen what Draco had survived, what he had done tonight. She glared at Harry, but her gaze flicked to Draco as she tried to gauge whether he had heard him.

Draco didn't meet anyone's eyes. He could feel the weight of exhaustion pressing every bone, every nerve screaming from hours of battle, cold, and near-death. With the quiet but steady support of Vance and Selwyn, he rose, each movement measured, heavy with silent declaration. Every step he took was a boundary drawn in the storm, a message that he would not subject himself to judgment right now. He didn't glance at Harry once; he couldn't. The hurt, the disbelief, the betrayal - the knowledge that he and his team had done the impossible alone while Harry had chased a false lead - pressed him forward like stones in his chest.

Hermione lunged, hand stretching toward him, voice tight and urgent, almost breaking.-"Draco, wait...Harry didn't mean-..."

He stopped for the briefest fraction of a heartbeat, shoulders tensing, then exhaled through gritted teeth. His voice was low, steady, but carried the weight of finality, the sharp edges of betrayal tempered by exhaustion.-"I'll walk to London if that's what it takes...to get away from him."-The words fell like stone into the rain-slicked courtyard. His shoulders squared against the storm, eyes fixed forward, mind made up. The icy rain plastered his hair to his forehead, ran down his temples, but he didn't flinch. He moved with quiet, unwavering determination, leaving the confrontation behind, leaving Harry's words and judgment to fade into the storm.

Hermione's hand froze mid-reach, a pang of helplessness twisting her chest. She watched him go, every step heavy with unspoken hurt, and she felt the weight of guilt settle on her shoulders. Harry's anger had been unintentional, yes, but its impact had cut deep. Draco's trust, his sense of belonging, his fragile tether to the team - they had all been strained, perhaps broken. And she knew, with a sinking certainty, that tonight had left marks deeper than any Patronus or spell could erase. Words alone would not be enough. Not tonight.

Harry stood there, the rain running off his torn Auror coat, mixing with the blood on his knuckles. The courtyard was quieter now - the mercenaries bound, the Carrows gone, the Dementors driven back into the night - but inside him, everything was still a storm.

He wanted to shout again, to demand answers, but the words had already burned out of him. All that was left was the heavy, sick weight of what had almost happened. Hermione's pale, exhausted face. Draco crumpled against the pillar, the Dementors closing in on him. The Unspeakables team, bleeding, standing because there had been no other choice. He could still see it when he blinked. How close it had all been. How close they had all come to dying.

All because of him.

His fists clenched at his sides. He'd been so sure. So convinced of that damned lead to Leeds. He had argued, pushed, and insisted when Hermione warned him it was too thin, when Draco sent the notes that it was certain it was a trap. He'd wanted so badly to catch the Carrows tonight, to stop this once and for all, have them off this case, that he hadn't listened. Not really. And while he was chasing ghosts up north, they had been fighting for their lives here.

Hermione was right. And Draco... Draco had nearly lost his soul tonight.

Harry's throat tightened. He'd been angry at Draco, at Hermione - his best friend too, but the truth was there under it all - he cared. He cared because, despite everything, Draco had been fighting on their side. Yet he still called him a Death Eater...in front of all. He had made one mistake after another...and now he was strained.

He swallowed hard, the rain stinging his eyes. He couldn't remember exactly what he'd said - only the look on Draco's face when the words had landed. That flash of shame, of hurt. That look had cut deeper than any curse.

Harry wanted to go after him. To grab him by the arm, drag him back, tell him the truth: that he'd been scared, that he'd been angry at himself, not at Draco. That seeing Draco crumpled under the Dementors had terrified him more than he'd admit. That he could never have forgiven himself if any of them had died tonight.

But the words stuck, heavy and unshaped, behind his teeth. He stood there, watching Hermione, Vance, and Selwyn disappearing into the Edinburgh library, his chest tight, his breath uneven. He had tried to make sure everyone was safe. He had thought he was doing the right thing. And tonight, it had almost cost them all.

He pressed his palm over his eyes, the rain cold against his skin. He knew he was wrong. He knew Hermione was right. And Draco was hurt - because of him. Why had he said that?

The rain fell in sheets, cold and relentless, running in rivulets down his torn sleeves. He could still see Draco's back in his mind's eye - the set of his shoulders, stiff with pride and wounded resolve - as he walked away into the dark road that curved toward the forest.

Without thinking, Harry raised his wand. Silver light burst from the tip, familiar and fierce, coalescing into antlers and sinew. The stag pawed the cobblestones once before bounding after Draco, hooves striking sparks against the wet stone.

Harry sent it not to guide, but to guard. To walk beside Malfoy unseen, a shield against the hollow kiss of any Dementor still prowling the night. Just in case.

The Patronus shimmered faintly at the edge of the courtyard, its outline blurring as it dissolved into mist, chasing after the trail Draco had taken. Harry's wand lowered slowly, his throat tight. He stared at the empty place where Malfoy had been, where his own words had carved a wound deeper than any curse.

"I'm sorry."-He whispered into the rain.

The night swallowed the words whole. The stag was gone. Draco was gone. And Harry was left with the silence, with his anger cooled into something far heavier - guilt.

The road down from the Edinburgh library cut into darkness, the rain thickening into ropes that stung his skin and plastered his silver hair to his face. His legs felt leaden, every step slower than the last, but he forced himself on. He knew where he wanted to go.

Then he saw it...

A faint shimmer on the edge of the trees, light breaking against the dark - antlers, proud and unmistakable, striding with impossible calm beside him. The stag's hooves made no sound in the mud, its glow rippling like moonlight caught in water.

Draco stopped. For a long moment, he just stared, chest tight. Of course. Potter's Patronus. Sent to watch him, to guard him, to remind him that even now, he was nothing more than a risk, a liability to be shepherded like a child.

The words Potter had flung at him in the courtyard still burned in his ears. He's a Death Eater. They don't cast Patronuses.

Draco's mouth twisted, bitter. His fingers clenched around his wand, though he didn't raise it. What was the point? A Patronus was only a servant, nothing more than a shard of Potter's will. It couldn't speak, couldn't understand.

Still, the words slipped out, ragged in his throat.

"You shouldn't waste your light on me..."-He muttered to the silver form, voice raw. -"Go back to him. I'm not worth the bother."

The stag only watched him with calm, unblinking eyes, its glow undimmed by rain or bitterness.

Draco turned away first, shoulders bowed, forcing his steps forward. He hated how it followed, hated the warmth it pressed against the cold gnawing at his spine. Because some deep, unguarded part of him - too tired, too broken - was almost grateful.

Almost.

Draco apparated into the front yard of the Lovegoods' crooked house, the storm still clinging to him in ropes of rain and cold. His body trembled, battered and soaked, muscles screaming from the fight, every breath ragged. For a moment, he stood swaying in the wet grass, the glow from the windows spilling golden warmth across the mud like a promise.

The door creaked open before he could raise a hand. Luna was there, as if she had been waiting, pale hair loose around her shoulders, her calm presence a balm against the chaos still echoing in his mind. She smiled softly, not a word of scolding or question, only quiet recognition.

She ushered him inside without fuss, the warmth of the sitting room wrapping around him, the smell of herbs and woodsmoke softening the edges of his pain. Her sofa, worn and welcoming, was always open to him. He knew that. He had never forgotten.

He remembered her father's voice after the trial, calm and deliberate: "You are always welcome at the Lovegoods, Draco. Always." Xynophilius's words had filled him with a strange, steady pride then, and now, drenched and broken, that pride returned, mingled with relief.

Without a word, Draco removed his drenched cloak and boots, and he let himself collapse onto the sofa, letting his body surrender to the exhaustion that had been building for hours. The rain-soaked cold clung to him, the ache of bruises and cuts deep in his limbs.

Luna moved beside him, silent and unhurried, her wand casting a drying charm and draping a warm blanket over his shoulders. Her hands brushed lightly against his hair, the simple touch grounding him more than any spell could. The storm still rattled faintly against the windows, but here - inside this strange little house - there was nothing but warmth.

"You're enough."-She said softly, as though it were the most obvious truth in the world.

Draco closed his eyes, letting the warmth seep into him, letting the storm of the night fade. He allowed himself, finally, to be fragile, to rest, to exist in a space where he was accepted simply as himself. Luna stayed by his side, patient and steady, a quiet anchor to pull him back from the edge.

The words hung in the quiet between them, simple and unadorned, yet they struck deeper than any reassurance he had been given before. Enough - not perfect, not brave, not clever, not a Death Eater, not a spy, not a failure - but simply enough.

Draco felt his throat tighten. For so long, his worth had been measured in roles he was forced to play, in expectations he had failed to meet. But here, in the warmth of the Lovegoods' home, wrapped in Luna's steady certainty, he could almost believe it.

The streets of Edinburgh blurred under the rain, each step heavy, dragging through puddles, boots slick on cobblestones. Harry's cloak clung to him like a second skin, soaked through, torn at the edges, the weight of the night pressing into every muscle. He walked alone, though the city around him buzzed faintly with life, lanterns flickering in the wet mist.

He remembered the early part of the night with painful clarity: the false lead to Leeds. Not entirely false, he corrected himself, bitterly, as memory flickered. The Carrows' agents had been there. A trap, yes - but something had been caught, some evidence, some mercenary network disrupted. It hadn't been a complete waste. But it had been reckless. He had ignored warnings, ignored the instincts of those who had fought beside him for years.

He had argued, pushed, and insisted when Hermione and Draco said it smelled wrong.-"It's too thin."-Hermione had said.-"It's a trap."-Draco had been quieter, cautious underlines on the report from the investigation showing all the plot holes.

Memory twisted with guilt. Faces flashed: Draco, collapsing under the Dementors, wand trembling, eyes wide with fear; Hermione, every muscle tense, saving not only herself but the librarian and the guard, standing in defiance against the Carrows. And him - Harry - running after ghosts, missing the real danger until it had nearly been too late.

He could still hear the echo of spells, the hiss of curses ricocheting through the Edinburgh library in his mind, mingled with the choking presence of Dementors. He had been absent when it mattered most, and the weight of that absence pressed down now, heavier than the rain.

And inside, he hoped desperately that it wasn't too late to make it right.

Harry stopped in the square at the city's heart, where an empty fountain gleamed under the storm. At its centre stood a stone monument - two soldiers frozen in the midst of battle, swords raised, faces set in grim defiance. Their struggle was endless, immortalised in stone, each locked against the other, neither winning nor yielding.

Harry lowered himself onto the fountain's edge, rain dripping from his lashes as he stared at them. The two stone soldiers loomed above him, forever locked in combat, blades and shields poised in a moment that would never resolve. The image cut too close, a reflection of the night, of himself and Draco - enemies once, now fighting the same battle, yet never free of the weight of the past. It was as though the monument mocked him: endless struggle, endless mistrust, carved into eternity.

The rain fell harder, plastering his hair to his forehead, seeping into his clothes until every breath felt heavy with water and regret. He dropped his face into his hands, breath shallow, shoulders trembling, fingers digging into his scarred skin as though he could press the guilt away.

And in the cold stone clash, he saw no winner. Only the echo of a war that never truly ended.

Chapter Text

The dining room of Malfoy Manor had been pared back to something warm and inviting, though the chandelier still blazed and the portraits still loomed from the walls with their weighting history. Narcissa presided with regal calm, every gesture deliberate, as though she alone could will the old house into appearing less haunting.

Astoria sat poised beside her mother, pale green silk brushing the floor, her hands folded neatly on her lap. She was pretty, yes - elegant in the Greengrass way - but Draco couldn't shake the awareness of how carefully she mirrored her mother's posture, how often her gaze flicked toward her father before speaking. Mr. Greengrass himself sat tall at the head of the table, his eyes sharp despite the faint pallor of illness. There was pride in his gaze when it settled on Draco, pride that felt oddly undeserved.

The sleeve of Draco's white shirt shifted as he lifted his glass, the edge of a bandage showing beneath the cuff. Another wrapped his shoulder, stark against the fabric. The newspapers had made much of it only two days ago: Malfoy Risking Life in Edinburgh Raid. They had also, of course, included the name of the operation's lead - Hermione Granger. The Muggleborn War Hero.

Mrs. Greengrass did not say anything outright, but the trace of judgment laced every word.-"So much of your success, Draco, has come under the... direction of others, hasn't it? I read the Ministry's notice. Miss Granger seems... formidable."

The way her lips shaped the name made Draco's stomach tighten. He set down his fork with care, a tremor faint on his fingers.-"She is..."-He said, clipped but steady.-"Formidable. And more than competent at her work."

Astoria's eyes lingered on him, thoughtful, as if weighing the subtle defiance in his tone.

Mr. Greengrass, by contrast, smiled, his voice warm.-"You've made something of yourself after the war, Malfoy. That speaks more to character than anything your house once stood for. Many wouldn't have chosen the path you did."

Narcissa inclined her head slightly, accepting the praise as if it were her own.-"My son has earned everything he has. His place among the Unspeakables is not one given lightly."

Draco bowed his head, though the pride in her voice only made the air heavier. Each compliment sat on him like a weight. He gave polite answers where expected, never more than a sentence, his tone cool enough to close off further probing.

At last, as the last course was cleared and tea was poured, Mr. Greengrass leaned forward, his voice softer but pointed.-"It seems we are agreed, then. Astoria is young, but she will have every comfort here. And you, Draco, will have a partner who reflects well on your future."

The words pressed into Draco's chest like a stone. He set his teacup down, very precisely. His gaze slid to Astoria - composed, polite, her father's dutiful daughter - and then back to her parents.

"With respect."-He said evenly, though there was iron in the calm.-"I would not want to rush what is already settled between our families. Astoria deserves more than a hurried arrangement. I would prefer to know her better first."

Silence followed, not quite hostile, not quite accepting. Mrs. Greengrass's brows lifted faintly, but Mr. Greengrass only regarded him with the same sharp eyes as before, unreadable.

It was Astoria, finally, who gave the smallest of nods, her voice quiet but clear. She did not speak much, but his words had sounded like a temporary escape, and she had been willing to grasp onto them.-"That would be wise."

Narcissa's lips pressed thin, but she said nothing. The decision, it seemed, had been spoken into being.

The night air was cool in the back courtyard, a thin mist settling over the clipped hedges and pale flagstones. The Malfoy gardens were immaculate as ever - rows of yew trimmed within an inch of their lives, marble statues standing silent watch - but in the dark, with only the lanterns lit along the path, the grandeur felt strangely hollow.

Draco walked beside Astoria in silence for some time, his hands clasped behind his back. She kept her gaze lowered, skirts brushing the stones, her steps measured. The faint glow from the manor's tall windows followed them as they passed beneath the arched trellis, until even that faded and they were alone in the quiet stretch of the gardens.

They exchanged a few words at first - commenting on the meal, on the weather, on the flowers Narcissa had insisted bloom late into the autumn. But the words felt thin, brittle. There were two actors in a play whose script neither of them truly wished to recite.

Finally, Draco turned slightly, his voice low but direct.-"Tell me, Astoria. Is this what you want?"

She slowed, her shoulders tightening beneath her shawl. For a long moment, she didn't answer, then she exhaled softly, the mist curling from her lips.-"It's what my parents want. My father, especially."-Her eyes flickered toward the house, where his shadow no doubt lingered near the fire.-"He's been... unwell. I can see it, even if he won't say. I'd do anything to keep his pride in me. If this pleases him, then-..."-She broke off, biting her lip, then steadied herself.-"Then I will do it."

Draco studied her, the honesty in her voice cutting through the careful composure she had held at the table. She was young, yes, but not naïve. Bound by duty, same as he was. He felt an unexpected stab of sympathy.

"You'd rather be elsewhere."-He said quietly, not a question but a knowing statement, just like he was feeling.

A faint smile touched her lips, rueful.-"I'd have preferred to study. To follow Daphne, perhaps. But...my health won't allow it. My choices are smaller than hers."-She lifted her chin a little, as though bracing for judgment.

Draco looked away, the pale marble fountain catching his eye, water whispering through the night. He didn't want to push her further, didn't want to strip the last of her composure. So he gave her silence instead, the kind that offered space rather than demanded answers.

At length, it was she who asked, her voice softer now, almost uncertain.-"And you? Is this what you want, Draco?"

His laugh was short, humourless.-"It's also what my father wanted."-His hands flexed once at his sides, then stilled.-"And now my mother too. My hands are bound, same as yours."-He turned his gaze to her at last, his expression unreadable, his voice quieter still.-"Loneliness is not something a Malfoy prefers. But choice was never really mine to begin with."

For a moment, they simply looked at one another, two unwilling heirs tethered to the same fate. Then Astoria glanced down, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her shawl. Neither spoke again, the silence between them carrying more truth than their parents' endless praise had all evening.

They reached the fountain at the heart of the courtyard, its stone-covered edges slick with dew, water whispering in slow arcs beneath the lantern light. Coins gleamed faintly at the bottom, hundreds of them - faded, tarnished, some nearly black with age. Generations of Malfoys had tossed their wishes into this water, though Draco had never known one to come true. He had stolen a rock from the side of the fountain when he had been young...He used to carry it around in his pocket as a luck charm, thinking maybe that would get his wishes to come true.

He stopped at its edge, watching the water ripple. Then, with a sudden impulse, he turned to her.-"Make a wish."-He said quietly.

Astoria blinked.-"A wish?"

He nodded toward the fountain, handing her a coin that he took out of his pocket like a magician showing his finest trick.-"It's tradition. At least, that's what they tell children. Toss a coin, ask for something. Let the water bring it back to you."

She hesitated, studying him as if to test whether he was serious. When she found no trace of mockery in his face, she reached for the coin in his hand. Holding it between her fingers, she whispered something so low the words barely left her lips. Then she flicked the coin into the water. It struck with a soft plink and vanished into the heap at the bottom.

Draco watched her carefully.-"And what did you wish for?"

Her eyes lifted to his, and though her voice was even, something raw lingered beneath it.-"That we might find a way around this. That we could both get what we want, not what's been decided for us."

For a long time, he said nothing. The water's quiet ripple filled the silence. Finally, Draco leaned slightly closer, his voice steady.-"Then I'll do my best to make sure that wish isn't wasted."

Astoria's breath caught, a faint flicker of relief - or maybe disbelief - passing over her face. She gave the smallest nod, as though the promise mattered, even if it was fragile.

Draco turned back toward the manor lights, their glow pale and distant across the courtyard.

The agreement was simple enough on parchment made by their parents: Astoria would come to Malfoy Manor once a week, a polite dinner followed by some "time alone" in the gardens or drawing room, a chance for the young couple to grow more familiar before the inevitable engagement was formalised. Both families thought it practical. Respectable. Proper.

The grass by the lake was damp, but Draco didn't care. He'd discarded his tie, looping it lazily around his waist, and rolled his sleeves to the elbows. The bandages that wrapped his forearm and shoulder were stark against his pale skin, raw reminders of Edinburgh still burning under the cloth. Hermione had insisted he take time away from the Ministry, even filed the leave on his behalf. He hadn't argued. For once, he'd been grateful for her insistence.

Luna sat beside him on a flat stone, her hands gentle as she cradled a small, trembling newborn mooncalf, its eyes far too large for its soft head. She cooed to it in her lilting voice, tipping a small bottle to its mouth. The calf made faint, hungry snorts as it fed, tail twitching in the grass. Draco found himself watching it longer than he intended.

He told her about the dinner - about Narcissa's planning, Astoria's polite silences, the Greengrasses' veiled approval, and the way the air had felt thick with plans that had very little to do with his own choices. Luna listened, as she always did, not with interruptions but with that luminous attention that made it impossible to lie.

When he trailed off, her braid - one he'd half-clumsily woven into her hair earlier, at his request - slipped loose over her shoulder as she tilted her head toward him.

"If Astoria is kind to you..."-Luna said softly.-"You might as well fight for a second chance. A chance to decide for yourselves. Not to let other people keep choosing for you."

Her words caught him off guard. He stared at the dark ripples of the lake. The reflection of the moon fractured across the water, scattered, like choices broken into pieces no one had thought to fit together again.

Draco let out a slow breath.-"I can try...And what if it's already been decided for me?"-He asked, though his voice lacked its usual edge.

"Then you undo it."-Luna answered, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. She stroked the calf's silvery fur, her gaze still fixed on the ripples.-"You and Astoria both deserve to decide what your lives look like. Even if it's hard. Even if it frightens people."

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, almost against his own instincts, Draco thought of Astoria's quiet admission in the courtyard - her wish tossed into the fountain, the coin that vanished into the pile of others like a secret swallowed whole. She had wanted this second chance, too.

The mooncalf gave a hiccupping snort and butted clumsily at Luna's hand, and Draco found himself laughing under his breath. The sound startled him - it felt foreign, rusty. The mooncalf's breath came in soft puffs against her palm, and Luna smiled faintly as if listening to something only she could hear.-"You know."-She said after a while. -"You're not the only one who feels like that."

Draco glanced at her, sceptical.

"Harry was here the other night."-She went on, smoothing the calf's silvery fur.- "He looked... devastated. Like you did after Edinburgh. He said he felt helpless, that for all the battles he'd fought, he still couldn't stop people from being hurt. He wants so badly to protect everyone, but he's only just learning that control isn't the same as safety. Letting go of that - it's his first step, I think."

Draco's jaw tightened.-"Potter admitting helplessness? The world must be ending."

"He did."-Luna said simply, with that serene certainty she carried like a second skin.-"He was honest in the way people only are when they're very tired. He's still healing, the same as you."

Draco sat back, the tie at his waist loosening further as he slouched. For once, he had no sharp reply, only the uneasy recognition of someone else's scars laid bare.

Luna shifted, brushing stray hay from her robes as the mooncalf nuzzled into the crook of her arm.-"Your name came up last night."-She said softly, as though it were nothing remarkable.-"Harry mentioned you."

Draco stiffened, caught between curiosity and dread.-"Did he now."

"He sees you through the shadow of what's already happened..."-Luna continued, her gaze drifting toward the shimmering lake.-"And you see him the same way too, I have noticed. I've watched you both long enough to know - as my friends - it isn't really each other you're fighting. It's the ghosts you carry. Old fears, like boggarts. They twist what you see, until the person in front of you isn't really them at all."

Draco let out a sharp breath, part laugh, part scoff, though it lacked its usual bite.-"So what you're saying is, Potter and I are each other's worst nightmare."

Luna turned her dreamy eyes on him, unblinking, steady.-"No. Only the past is. The rest is still yours to decide."

The night was quiet, broken only by the soft lapping of the lake against the shore. Draco let himself sink into the stillness, the weight of the evening pressing against his chest. He had expected the dinner to be so different - anticipating a stiff, formal gathering, Astoria completely devoted to an engagement he had never wanted. And yet, she had hesitated, just as he had. They were mirrors of each other, cautious, trapped by expectation but not without will. Somehow, he thought, they could find a way out together.

Luna's presence at his side was a constant, quiet reassurance. Like a little sister, a fortune teller, a lucky charm - or all three at once. The bracelet she had wound around his wrist, now hidden beneath the bandages, radiated the faintest glow of unicorn hair. It hummed with healing energy, light and warmth threading through him, a small but persistent comfort.

Draco flicked his wand almost absentmindedly. Papiliones Revelare... Blue butterflies erupted into the night, fluttering across the lake's reflection. He smiled faintly, remembering the ones he had conjured on Harry's cloak once, a silent understanding, a moment of quiet camaraderie. Now they danced around the newborn mooncalf, a tiny spectacle of light and life, and Draco let himself be content in the simple magic of the moment, letting hope flicker in a night otherwise full of expectation and unseen burdens.

A few days later, Draco returned to his desk at the Ministry, the chill of early morning following him into the warm offices, his coffee steaming in one hand. Stacks of reports waited like silent witnesses, each one a reminder of the work that never stopped.

They had been removed from the Carrows case - a decision made not by Harry, but by Hermione herself. She had negotiated smaller assignments to fill the gap, practical but uninspiring. And for him, she'd assigned something almost absurd in comparison: the case of the missing unicorns in the Forbidden Forest.

He had been there when it started, investigating alongside Hagrid and Harry. He knew the terrain, the tracks, even the creatures' habits; he even had the blood sample from the case - but now, the work felt trivial. After everything in Edinburgh, after standing against the Carrows and their mercenaries, chasing unicorn trails felt almost like punishment.

Draco allowed himself a bitter smile. The Carrows case had been everything - the start of his career, the fight in Edinburgh a masterpiece of chaos and courage that he had never felt before, his first time fighting on the right side. Every member of the Unspeakables department had praised their work, even the Aurors. And now, it had slipped from their fingers, as if the weight of that night had been erased from history.

A knock on the door drew him from his thoughts. Before he could respond, a raven-haired girl entered, dressed neatly, ladylike, a presence at once calm and purposeful. She did not work here, he realised, yet there was something familiar in her stance. He had just been removing his coat when she crossed the threshold, and he gestured to the chair opposite his desk.

"Please."-He said simply.

Her face was the same, yet softened from the sharpness of that night in Edinburgh. The librarian. The young woman he had carried, almost literally, through the dark and smoke, through aimless curses raining from the Carrows' wands. The one he had insisted the Auror take to safety immediately, while he and his team held the line.

"You've...recovered remarkably."-He said, his voice low but steady.

"You too.."-She smiled faintly, eyes glimmering with gratitude.-"I came to thank you."-She said.-"For that night...if you and your team hadn't been there-..."-She trailed off, swallowing against the memory.

Draco's jaw tightened, gaze dropping to his desk. He knew exactly what she meant. Even if she had given the Carrows the keys and phrases, they would have killed her; their interference had not only saved the restricted knowledge but also her life.

He nodded once, sharply, the memory of fire, smoke, curses, and Dementors flashing behind his eyes.-"It was... necessary."-He said, almost to himself.-"You wouldn't have survived otherwise."

The room was quiet except for the ticking of the clock. Outside, the Ministry hummed with mundane life, unaware of the battles that had raged, the sacrifices made, the debt silently owed. Draco leaned back slightly, the weight of both pride and loss pressing at his chest. She had come to thank him, but he knew the truth. The debt was owed not in words, but in the shadow of that night, and in the memory of what had been lost and saved alike.

Harry had been passing by, intending only a quick visit to Hermione, when something caught his eye a few meters from Draco's office. He paused, pretending to check through a file cabinet, though every movement was calculated to give him a better view.

Inside, Draco's office held an unexpected visitor - a young woman, neat and composed, clearly not an employee of the Ministry. Recognition sparked in Harry's mind when he looked in detail; he remembered her from a brief declaration at the hospital days ago. It was the librarian from Edinburgh, her voice trembling yet sharp as she gave her statement. She had resisted torture, which he had noted as a strong trait.

Had she been here to help him with the Carrows case? The Unspeakables team weren't working on it anymore, so what was the point? Maybe she just wanted to check in - to make sure he was all right after the mess in Edinburgh. Or maybe, Harry thought bitterly, she was here for him. For Draco.

His gaze lingered on the closed door of Malfoy's office. The sound of quiet conversation drifted through the hall - soft, composed, polite. It didn't sound like work.

He watched as she sat up and approached Draco, who had risen slightly from his chair for a polite goodbye. She hugged him, brief but deliberate. Draco did not return the embrace with warmth, but neither did he reject it; he allowed it politely, as one might grant a favour, a courtesy extended. When she withdrew, she left something behind - a handkerchief, small and neatly folded, deliberately placed on his desk.

It was an intimate gesture, meaningful in a quiet, almost imperceptible way. A token, a memory, a trace - something more than casual civility, a personal acknowledgement rather than mere accident. Draco smiled faintly while she left, almost imperceptibly, and carefully tucked it into a secure drawer. The motion was meticulous, private, as though he were closing a door on a moment meant only for himself.

Harry felt a sudden, inexplicable heat rise in his chest, a mix of irritation and helpless covetousness. He had no right to it, yet the calm way Draco handled the gesture, the small, knowing smile he gave, made Harry boil for reasons he could not articulate. 'He's being polite. That's all it is. A simple courtesy. Nothing more.' But even as he told himself this, the image of Draco - composed, self-assured, untouchable in his control - gnawed at him. 'Why does it feel like he belongs somewhere I can't reach?'

The moment passed, and Draco returned to his work, focused and unreadable. Harry felt the shift immediately; whatever purpose had drawn him to Hermione's office had vanished, spoiled by the scene he could not explain or reconcile. Draco was seated at his desk, sleeves rolled up past a bundle of bandages, hands moving over parchment and reports with meticulous precision. His focus was absolute, unwavering, as if the world outside the office - changes, chaos, even memories of Edinburgh - did not exist.

There was no care for who had come or gone, apart from the bandages on his forearm and shoulder that peeked from his shirt like a steady reminder of the fight in Edinburgh. There was that quiet pride, the familiar gleam in his eye that had always marked him as a member of the Ministry who took his place seriously, who had clawed back honour and control.

And with it came the old charm - the one Harry remembered from schooldays: playful, teasing, confident, cunning, and entirely composed. It was there in the slight arch of his brow, the faint curve of a smirk as he read through the reports, the precision of a mind already calculating the next move.

For a brief moment, Harry saw all of Draco at once: the hardened Unspeakable, the survivor of impossible nights, and the boy who had once walked the hallways of Hogwarts with a charm that could disarm and enrage in equal measure. And in that flash, Harry felt a familiar, unreasoning pang of irritation - and something else he refused to name. Silently, he turned and walked back toward his own office.

Later, Hermione had found herself in Harry's office, since he had once again refused to come to her office; she suspected it was because of Draco, who had just come back from his sick leave. The office, for once, was arranged just the way it should be - neat, precise, every report stacked and each quill resting perfectly in its holder. A framed picture of Teddy perched over the desk, a small but vivid reminder of something warm amid the endless grind. This neatness, however, was an indicator that Harry was building yet another facade.

Harry was straightening the last stack of parchment when she arrived, striding in with that determined, piercing look that made him instantly sit up straighter.

She paused, eyes scanning the unnaturally tidy room, then raised an eyebrow.-"Is this your way of hiding, or just keeping your mind busy while you try not to think about something?"

Harry didn't answer. He just gave a half-smile, fussed with a pen that was already perfectly aligned, and muttered.-"Paperwork builds character."

Hermione's question about his spotless office still lingered in the air when she crossed her arms and fixed him with that all-too-familiar look - the one that meant she wasn't just here for idle chat.

"Just because I left the Carrows case to you."-She said, voice sharp.-"Doesn't mean we won't collaborate on future projects. You're not sidelined, Harry. We'll work together again."

Harry nodded quickly, swallowing hard.-"Right...."-He said, voice tight. He knew better than to hesitate - Hermione's scowl had the kind of promise that made even Ron pale. 'Anything but the Carrows...' he thought grimly.

"Good."-She continued, her tone softening only slightly, though her eyes still held steel.-"Which means... You need to go apologise to Malfoy. Talk things through. Figure out how you two want things to work for future projects. This-..."-She gestured around his perfectly ordered office, pointed and direct.-"...-will not work otherwise. That was our agreement when my team stepped back from the Carrows case."

Harry blinked, caught.-"I remember..."-He said after a pause.-"I... have a plan."

Hermione arched a brow, unimpressed.-"You don't need a plan, Harry. Not strategies or spells - you need to admit your own grown-ass feelings properly."

He flushed, rubbing the back of his neck.-"I have some things to give him."-He said carefully.-"That can... spark the conversation from there."

Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes as she glanced at the neatly stacked reports again.-"Well, that could work - if he's willing to listen. I hope it does. Have it done by the end of the day."

When she left, the office felt suddenly too quiet. Harry leaned back in his chair, staring at the framed photo of Teddy and the neat stacks of parchment. The thought of facing Draco made his stomach twist, but Hermione was right - he couldn't hide in his office forever...

Harry stepped out of his office, each footfall echoing faintly in the quiet corridor. Draco's office was just a few doors down, but already his chest felt tight, a nervous knot tightening with every step. He rehearsed the words, the apologies, the careful phrasing he'd spent the last few days crafting at the back of his mind.

He wanted to take a step, but paused. A memory flashed unbidden - Draco's faint smile as he carefully tucked away the handkerchief the librarian had left behind. The gesture had been so small, so deliberate, and yet Harry felt the sting of something he couldn't define, why it felt like a weight on his lungs.

His stomach churned. The way Draco had remained composed, polite, utterly himself, while carrying the weight of that night, made Harry's carefully constructed courage falter. He remembered the tilt of Draco's shoulders, the precise movements, the faint glimmer of pride he carried even in exhaustion. And then memories from the night in Edinburgh when he walked away...

Harry's hand fell to his side. The words he'd planned, the apologies he'd rehearsed, all dissolved into a jumble of hesitation. His heart raced, and the memory of the handkerchief burned brighter in his mind than any sense of reason.

He pressed against the wall beside the door, pressing his forehead to the cool glass of a random empty office. The mix of feelings inside him twisted and churned: guilt for leaving Draco in danger, frustration at himself, and an unfamiliar, inexplicable pull toward the other man.

For a long moment, he simply breathed, letting the rain-soaked memory and the echo of Edinburgh nights replay in his mind. Then, slowly, he straightened his shoulders, knowing that eventually he would have to step inside. But not yet - not while the weight of that image still held him rooted in place.

He walked away.

Harry ducked through the familiar, creaking gate of the Burrow, his heart hammering - not from the walk, but from the thought of what Hermione would do if she discovered he still hadn't spoken to Draco. She would have his head on a plate.

Ron didn't ask questions. He simply guided him to the kitchen table and plopped him into a chair as if he'd been expected all along. Before either of them could speak, Ron began filling two glasses with Firewhiskey, his steady hand a quiet anchor.

"We drink."-Ron stated plainly.

"I'll drink. Maybe then I'll forget which one of us is supposed to be apologising."-Harry joked, having briefly told Ron what this was about.-"But hey...Brilliant plan, Ron. Let's pickle our brains before I go talk to someone who already thinks I'm an idiot."

"No way I'm discussing Malfoy while sober, so... bottoms up."-Ron shoved a glass toward him with a grin.-"Here's to courage and bad decisions."

"Right, because nothing says healthy conflict resolution like Firewhiskey."-Harry muttered, raising his glass anyway. He drained the first glass, grimacing as the liquid burned down his throat. Ron, unfazed, poured another without hesitation.-"If we're drinking every time Malfoy drives me mad, we'll need a bigger bottle."

Harry took down another, wincing at the burn, and leaned back against his chair.-"Okay... so I chickened out."-He admitted, his voice slightly muffled.

Ron nearly choked on his own drink.-"You chickened out? The saviour of the wizarding world? Honestly, mate, what did Malfoy do, sneer at you too gracefully?"

Harry shot him a weak, whiskey-fueled glare.-"Shut up. Only I get to call me a pussy."

Ron grinned, leaning forward.-"Oh, that's rich. At least you're honest about it."

Harry snorted.-"Honest? I'm a brave, heroic wizard... who nearly threw up at the thought of facing him. That's got to count for something."

"Yeah."-Ron said with a smirk.-"Heroically pathetic."

Harry waved his glass in dismissal.-"I prefer 'strategically cautious,' thank you very much."

"Sure."-Ron said, raising his own glass.-"But if I were Malfoy, I'd bet on you spilling that drink all over yourself first."

Harry groaned and slammed the glass down, sending a splatter of whiskey across the table.-"Very funny. I'll keep that in mind when I'm dodging both hexes and existential dread."

Ron laughed, clapping him on the shoulder.-"Come on, mate. Misery loves company, and we're practically drowning in it."

Harry grinned weakly, accepting another refill.-"Yeah... thanks for the moral support, you unhelpful git."

"Anytime, mate. Anytime."

Another glass slid across the table, and then another, the edges of the kitchen blurring with each swallow. The Edinburgh night, the handkerchief, the librarian - it all folded into a haze that made Harry giggle uncontrollably.

"You think... You think I'm... hopeless, don't you?"-Harry slurred, pointing vaguely at the ceiling.-"With Malisss..."-He hissed.-"Malfoy... and the hand... kerchief."-He hiccupped, waving his wand aimlessly.

Ron leaned back, smirking.-"Oh, you're hopeless, no doubt. But yes, I do think that. Look at you - flailing, drunk, and sad-eyed."

Harry gasped, clutching his glass dramatically.-"Sad-eyed? Me? No! Brave... heroic... mis...misguided!"

"Misguided, definitely."-Ron agreed, topping off his own glass.

They clinked their glasses together, Firewhiskey sloshing dangerously. As Harry's head lolled forward, his mind looping back to Draco and that infuriating piece of fabric, Ron's eyes glinted with mischief.

"You know... I reckon that librarian didn't just leave it there by accident."

Harry's ears practically twitched. A prickle of panic cut through the haze.-"What... what do you mean?"

Ron's grin widened.-"Think about it. She gave it to him, right? Maybe... It's a sign. You know... for him to thank her. Privately."

Harry froze mid-reach, his drink trembling. He swished the contents angrily, refilled it, and downed it in one go, trying to purge the image from his head-the way Draco had smiled as he tucked the delicate fabric away, his quiet composure making Harry's stomach twist.

"You're glowing red, mate."-Ron observed cheerfully.-"Don't tell me you're jealous."

"I... I am not!"-Harry sputtered, wobbling.-"It's... It's nothing like that!"

"Another one?"-Ron asked, holding the bottle like a weapon.-"Come on, one more for courage. One more to stop thinking about Malfoy like a lovesick idiot."

Harry snatched the offered drink, his voice low.-"Honestly, I'd rather wrestle a Hungarian Horntail blindfolded than let my brain wander into Malfoy territory."-He tipped the glass back with a grimace.-"At least the dragon wouldn't make me feel like a complete fool after unwrapping chains from its feet and setting it free into the world."

Then, the door slammed open. Hermione stood there, eyes blazing, hands on her hips.

"What on earth are you two doing?"-She barked.

Harry tried to straighten up, only to sway in place.-"Nothing... nothing... just... stargazing!"-He slurred, waving vaguely at Ron.

"Stargazing?"-Hermione's voice sharpened.-"Harry! Did you talk to Draco?"

His head drooped.-"I... I... haven't yet..."

Before he could explain, Hermione's hand shot forward, the edge of her report file connecting sharply with his chest.-"I knew it!"-She snapped. Ron, who was also in the line of fire, got hit as well.

He blinked, bewildered.-"Why me?"

"You're enabling him!"-Hermione shot back without missing a beat.-"And that's wrong!"

Slumping into a haze of alcohol and guilt, Harry tried to stumble forward for a hug, muttering apologies that sounded like mush. Hermione crossed her arms, exasperated, while Ron just shrugged, clearly uncertain how he'd ended up on the wrong side of someone else's argument. She let Harry lean on her for a tense moment before huffing.

"You're ridiculous."-She muttered, though the edges of her voice softened slightly.

Ron, still holding his glass, added.-"I think we're all ridiculous."

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose.-"You two are impossible."-She sighed.-"And Harry, stop pretending you're above it - you've been obsessing over this for months."

Harry groaned, burying his face in his hands.-"I just... I can't... obliviate me, Hermione, please!"

Ron doubled over, laughing so hard the table rattled.-"Oh Merlin, he's pathetic! Harry is chickening out because he saw a chick visit Malfoy at work."-He snitches him out to Hermione, who laughs at him, shaking her head.

"Harry, Harry, Harry."-Hermione says, crossing her arms knowingly.-"You are beyond help, I fear. But you have to deal with it."

Harry waved his wand dismissively.-"I hate both of you..."

"Mate, if Hermione says you have to deal with it, you deal with it. That's the law."-Ron said.

Harry buried his face in his hands again.-"I'm not ready to be a grown-up about this!"

Hermione leaned forward, her voice firm but gentle.-"You'll never feel ready. You just have to do it. Face him. Talk. Apologize. You'll feel better after."

Harry peeked through his fingers at her.-"You're enjoying this way too much, aren't you?"

"Absolutely."-She said with a smirk.-"But only because I know it'll work. You can't run from this forever, Harry."

He slumped back, groaning into his glass. With a reluctant sigh, Harry set his jaw.-"Fine... I'll do it. But I swear, I'm never drinking Firewhiskey before a heart-to-heart again."

Hermione rolled her eyes, grinning.-"You'll live. Just... try not to choke on your own courage."

Ron snorted.-"Good luck, mate. You're going to need it."

By the time Harry woke up the next morning, collapsed on the drawing room's sofa, the hangover gnawed at the back of his skull, a dull pulse from too much Firewhiskey and uncomfortably too little sleep. He stripped off the uniform, wrinkled from the night before and stepped into a cold shower. The water bit at his skin, shocking him awake, and gradually sobered him, though the headache remained stubbornly lodged behind his temples. Teddy was staying with his grandmother today and which allows him to take some extra time for himself.

Coffee was next - a steaming cup pressed between his hands, freshly brewed. He dressed in his tailored Airforce Auror uniform, Kreacher takes his time to fix each uniform to fit him meticulously, better than Madam Malkins would ever manage, the fabric crisp and immaculate. Though the chill bit through the morning air, he didn't bother with the top clock; he'd be Floo-ing to the Ministry, and he was hoping not to go out in his broom in the cold mid-October.

The package he had prepared sat on the table, small but weighty with significance. With a flick of his wand and a careful incantation - Reducio Praegrandis - he transfigured it into a pocket-sized parcel. He had seen Draco perform the spell when picking up the Vanishing Cabinet and remembered it precisely, imitating the subtle, fluid motion that had made it look effortless.

Harry winced slightly, massaging his temple. The lingering ache from the hangover was sharp enough to make his head throb with every movement; it reminded him of when his scar would send jolts through his brain...He gripped the pocket-sized package tightly, adjusted his uniform, and, with a deep, steadying breath, Flooed into the Ministry, the world around him snapping into its bustling, ordered chaos.

Draco had been enjoying the rare luxury of a lazy morning, sprawled in the low sunlight that spilt across his office. His attention drifted over the stack of letters in front of him, scanning for any reply from Hagrid about the missing unicorns. He tapped his quill against the edge of the desk, mind wandering between the mundane and the lingering chaos of Edinburgh.

A soft knock at the glass door drew him out of his reverie. Please not another fan, he thought with a half-smirk, glancing toward the frame. But the figure in the doorway wasn't what he had anticipated.

Harry.

His grey eyes found the green ones like magnets; they held their gaze a bit too long.

Harry leaned casually against the doorway, but even in his posture, Draco noticed the Auror precision - the neat, tight lines of his Airforce Auror uniform, the faint dampness of strands clinging to his hair from an early shower. Something about him was... arresting, even this early in the morning. Draco's lips twitched, both annoyed and... not entirely indifferent. Draco was staring, he knew...the way he leaned on the doorframe, head hung in shame like a child who had just been told they cannot eat sand...Harry, he looked younger for once. Maybe the fact that he was not wearing his usual cloak, which hung around him like a hero's cape and added years to his posture... Or the fact that he was giddy, his hands fidgeting with his wand, when they were not tangled in his hair, brushing stray strands behind. He looked young; he looked his age. Not a saviour, just a boy.

He exhaled sharply, huffing through his nose.-"Come in."-He muttered, though the edge of his voice was tempered by an unspoken hope that the meeting wouldn't be unbearably awkward. 'Too early for this', he told himself. And yet, deep down, a quiet part of him wanted this to go as smoothly as possible.

Draco leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms. He decided on a simple strategy: keep quiet. Let Harry do the talking. If there were apologies, explanations, confessions... let them come from him. Draco would remain measured, composed, and - if he could - entirely unflappable.

But as Harry stepped fully into the office, the soft scrape of his boots against the polished floor, Draco's pulse betrayed the calm he tried to wear. He swallowed, adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, and waited.

Whatever this conversation was going to be, Draco promised himself, he wouldn't make it easier than it had to be.

Harry cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses nervously, and twirled his wand from hand to hand as if coaxing words from the air. Draco's gaze sharpened, arms crossed. Of course, he has a speech ready, Draco thought, probably even a neat stack of cards courtesy of Granger. Still, the silence stretched too long, and Harry looked... uncertain.

"So..."-Draco said dryly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.-"I suppose you intend to carry on with whatever carefully rehearsed declaration you've conjured. Did Granger prepare any note cards for you, or is this all from memory today?"

Harry froze, wand still spinning, then flushed.-"Well... I - uh-... " He cleared his throat again, rubbing the back of his neck.-"I was... hoping to, you know, sit through this... if a chair had been offered to me."-He gave a small, shy smirk, the lingering shadow of Edinburgh still evident in the way his eyes dropped for a moment to where his bandages still wrapped healing curse wounds.

Draco raised a brow, silently weighing whether this would be a long, drawn-out confession session or just another awkward visit. With a faint sigh, he gestured toward the chair. Harry sank into it gratefully, hands gripping the edges.

He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again, and another awkward pause stretched. Draco's smirk softened into quiet exasperation. 'This is going to take all day', he thought, shaking his head, and finally he returned to the morning post, muttering under his breath about hopelessly shoelaces.

The quiet was broken by a soft knock on the glass door. Vance appeared in the frame, holding a steaming mug of coffee.-"Morning, Draco."-He said, voice low.-"Thought you might want a refill."

"I already have one."-Draco replied without looking up, the cup near his elbow still steaming. He cast a glance at Harry, who fidgeted awkwardly in the chair, and added.-"But you can leave it for the guest."

Vance's eyes flicked toward Harry, narrowing slightly, the edge of disdain still sharp after Edinburgh.-"Right."-He said, voice tight.-"For the guest."-He set the mug down deliberately, muttering something under his breath as he passed by, leaving the room with the air of someone who still hadn't forgiven the chaos from nights ago.

Harry blinked, took in the half-scowl, and muttered under his breath.-"Lovely first impression...Does all the department of Unspeakables hate me now?"-He shifted in the chair, careful not to spill the coffee, the heat grounding him while his words stumbled somewhere between apology and self-consciousness.

"Yes, we even have a competition going; Who hates Potter the most. Strong candidates for first position...Here I used to think I held that medal."-Draco, for his part, didn't look up from the parchment he was scanning, letting the tension hang thick in the office, only the faint curl of his smirk betraying the amusement he felt at the young Auror's discomfort.

Harry did not comment further, the words having just been teasing and having no actual venom in them. He took the coffee cup and took a sip, deciding he did not like it, his eyebrows creating a faint line between them.-"It's so bitter..."

"Its how I drink it, that's why."-Draco dismissed his complaint as he took a sip of his own coffee.

More silence followed. Draco had extinguished another meaningless conversation. Harry huffed, jumping back on track, and he gently pulled a small bundle from his pocket.

Harry set the miniature, brown-wrapped bundle gently on Draco's immaculate desk, wedging it carefully between neatly stacked reports and the half-finished cup of coffee. Draco's brow furrowed, about to tilt his head and ask a concerned question, when Harry took his wand out again and prepared his wrist for a charm, as if practising the movement before casting it, he then casually muttered the spell: Reverto Reducio Praegrandis.

The tiny package shivered for a heartbeat, then swelled, unfolding itself until it returned to its original size, the paper creasing slightly as the contents seemed to demand attention. Draco's eyes flickered from the expanding bundle to Harry, suspicion mingling with rare, quiet curiosity.

"Go ahead...open it."-Harry said, leaning back on his chair. Crossing his arms and tucking his wand between his arms.

Draco's eyes lingered on Harry for a fraction longer, noting the faint tremor in his hands, the way he'd executed Reverto Reducio Praegrandis - precise, controlled, almost casual. It was the very spell Draco had once used in his presence; this was the reverse spell... something he had assumed was beyond Harry's grasp. Yet here it was, performed cleanly, confidently. Draco didn't comment, only offered a measured, questioning look.

"Teddy found these."-Harry said simply, voice low.-"At Grimmauld Place."

Draco's quill froze mid-stroke, suspended above the parchment. One pale eyebrow arched.-"What is this, Potter? Some sort of trap?"

Harry exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples as if the weight of the world had just pressed down on his skull. He removed his glasses and set them aside, a small gesture of surrender. Draco took a quick mental note of what his face looked like without his glasses, quite uncanny, having gotten used to seeing him with those glasses all the time.-"Just... open it, Malfoy. I have not packed a bunch of scorpions promise."-He said, the words flat, resigned, yet carrying an unspoken urgency.

Draco tilted his head, the curiosity in his sharp eyes belying the suspicion still coiled in his chest. With deliberate calm, he reached for the bundle, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, though his fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary, betraying the rare flicker of interest - something more than duty, something quietly personal.

Draco gave a soft, exasperated huff, tugging the twine loose with deliberate flair, unwrapping the parcel as though performing a stage trick. Out spilt a small heap of objects: a barn owl feather, a crumpled Honeydukes candy wrapper, a sketchbook frayed from age, yellowing pages of parchment - and as he shifted them aside, more items emerged. A shapeless rock, a shiny Muggle penny, a handwritten note, and a Chocolate Frog card bearing the name Albus Dumbledore.

Draco's fingers lingered on the note. He stilled, remembering one item after another as he read it slowly:

"Today I made a feather fly on its own, it was like the magic Mom and Dad do. I waved my hand, and it went high in the sky. I will not tell anyone for now; this has to be our secret. Tomorrow I will make it fly higher and higher, till I can show my mom what I can do!"

Beneath the note lay a small wooden athame, its boyish name - Draco - carved deep into the grain.

For a long moment, Draco said nothing. His jaw tightened, his eyes flicking over each piece as though they were shards of glass. Perhaps it was because Harry had found them and gone through them, or perhaps because he hadn't meant for anyone to see these remnants of a childhood that had been so carefully hidden, so carefully neglected. These were his memories - small victories, secret experiments, tiny pieces of joy he had never been allowed to fully experience.

A quiet tension gripped him, the mixture of shame, nostalgia, and a faint, reluctant warmth. He hadn't expected these fragments of his past to confront him today, to make him feel both exposed and... almost tenderly alive.

Draco leaned back slightly, letting the items rest before him. The rigid line of his shoulders softened, though only just, and for the first time that morning, the memories didn't sting - they simply were.

Draco's pale eyes didn't leave Harry's face, his grey eyes studying the subtle flickers of expression - hesitation, guilt, a trace of something fragile he didn't often allow anyone to see. The silence between them stretched, thick and tangible, like the space before a duel.

Finally, Draco broke it, voice low but edged with curiosity and wariness.-"Where... where do you want to go with this?"-His gaze flicked to the objects still spread across the desk.-"With... these..."-His hand hovered, not touching, just acknowledging them.-"They were meant to stay buried, weren't they? I... I understand that maybe this messes with your floorboard plans at Grimmauld, but... some of us had memories there, too. This... what you're doing..."-He hesitated, searching Harry's face for some sign, his green eyes so soft he could feel the wind of the forests in them.-"...it's strange. Almost like... like you want to torment me. No...not me, the child that used to be there...in those."

Harry's hands clenched loosely on the edge of the desk, his shoulders tight. He said nothing at first, staring at the scattered fragments of Draco's past as if their weight could crush him. His mouth opened, closed, words caught in a throat still hoarse from yesterday's confessions.

Harry exhaled, finally meeting Draco's pale, scrutinising eyes.-"This... isn't about tormenting you."-He said slowly, carefully, each word chosen.-"I thought... maybe you'd want them back. Teddy... he was very keen on adopting the toys for himself, but..."-He paused, letting the weight of the gesture settle.-"...they belong to you, after all. Not me."

Draco's jaw tightened slightly, his fingers brushing over the edges of the scattered objects as if testing their reality.

Harry continued, voice softening, almost hesitant.-"You decide what to do with them. If you want them put back... back where they've been hidden all these years, I can do that. If you want to keep them with you, that's fine too. The choice is yours. I would not know how important they are to you. If they have been hidden from you, or you hid them yourself."

Silence stretched again, but this time it wasn't heavy with suspicion or accusation. It was measured, patient, a quiet offering of trust. Harry's gaze lingered, steady yet unassuming, leaving the weight of the decision entirely in Draco's hands.

Harry leaned back slightly, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if to gather his courage.-"I know... I'm probably the last person you want to see today-or, well, maybe always."-He said, voice low but steady, eyes flicking to Draco's carefully composed expression.-"But that shouldn't... shouldn't cloud your judgment about any of this. About these, or... or my intentions."

Draco's gaze didn't waver, though a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed a flicker of something unspoken - curiosity, perhaps, or grudging acknowledgement.

Harry exhaled, the words coming easier now.-"I'm not here to make you angry."

Draco's eyes lingered on Harry, unflinching, sharp, but tinged with something heavier, almost a quiet ache.-"You remind me of my father."-He said simply, the words low, precise, almost clinical in delivery.

Harry blinked, caught off guard. He had expected criticism, maybe sarcasm, maybe the usual edge Draco carried - but not this. Not the weight of a comparison that cut so deeply yet so subtly. He stayed composed, though, fiddling unconsciously with his wand in his lap.

Draco continued, voice quieter now, almost confessional.-"I just... I don't want that for Teddy. I don't want you to be like... like Lucius was for me. Controlling. Always deciding what's right for everyone else. Always thinking you know better. My father..."-He took a deep breath.-"...thought he was protecting me. Most of the time. I think - you have to make a choice - at a certain point - of who you want to be."

Harry's fingers tightened around his wand, not in anger, but in tension, in the silent awareness that Draco was speaking truths he had never voiced aloud before.

"You need to work on yourself."-Draco added, gaze steady.-"For him. For anyone you... care about. You can't always be the one pulling strings, guiding, pushing. It's not... healthy. Not for you. Not for them either. People like you, Potter... but even you could one day find yourself all alone, intolerable."

Harry's eyes lifted to meet his, and for the first time, the usual layers of sarcasm, deflection, and bravado felt heavy, useless even. He swallowed, silent, letting Draco's words settle, turning them over in his mind, aware that he had been confronted not with anger, but with the kind of raw, piercing honesty he rarely allowed himself to face.

Harry had been staring at his bandaged forearm the entire time, watching the fading bruises and faint curse still lingering, watching the way his platinum hair lay on his pale skin, the way his expressions were genuine, how his lips showed no sign of slyther... as though they could somehow anchor his scattered thoughts. Slowly, a small, almost rueful smile tugged at his own lips. Awareness spread through him, soft but insistent.

"I guess... I just needed to hear that out loud."-He admitted, voice low, tinged with self-reproach and relief.-"I know I have this... issue with controlling situations. I've always done it, probably too much."-He paused, eyes flicking toward Draco, steady and unyielding.-"But... for Teddy? For him, I'd give my life without a thought. Anything remotely like what you just described - assuming, controlling, treating him as I might think I know best - that's crossed out of my list of parental duties entirely."

Draco studied him for a long moment, expression softening, tension easing from his shoulders. Finally, a subtle, genuine smile curved his lips.-"I hope I'm wrong."-He said quietly.-"And that you are right... for the sake of your son."

For a heartbeat, silence hung between them - weighted, yet not oppressive. And somewhere in that space, Harry felt a strange lightness, a cautious sense that perhaps some truths spoken aloud could finally start to heal old habits, old fears.

Harry's gaze dropped to the bandages again, voice low, weighted with frustration.-"I know you believe the centaur's words - that darkness still lingers in my bones, that it's waiting to take over. I can't change what people believe, not after everything I've messed up these past few weeks. I'm sure you've already crossed my name off every mental list of tolerance."

He let out a long, bitter sigh.-"Mainly... that's why I've been avoiding this. Because I'm painfully aware... of the position I hold in people's lives, of what I'm expected to do for them. I thought helping you - that was all you ever wanted. The trial, this position, your reputation... that's all I've been doing all year, since the war... helping others."

Draco's voice cut softly, but firmly.-"Not everyone wants to be helped."

Harry sank further into his own misery, head dropping slightly.-"That's all I know to give. What else could I ever give to you? I cannot revive the dead, or go back far enough in time to change the course of history. I cannot save everyone the way they want - or need - to be saved. You and I... we hated each other. Rivals. Death Eater and Chosen One. Two sides of a coin. Two poles never meant to cross."

Draco's eyes narrowed, gaze steady.-"You're wrong again."

Harry blinked, startled by the quiet certainty in Draco's voice.-"I... what do you mean?"

"You think fate drew lines so rigidly."-Draco said slowly, voice carrying both steel and something softer beneath.-"That we are confined to the roles we were born into, the histories we carry... that we can never meet as equals. You're wrong. We can, if we choose. That's the difference. And maybe... that's what you've been missing all along."

Harry's chest tightened, a storm of guilt, hope, and disbelief battling within him. He had come here expecting rebuke, judgment, perhaps even the finality of Draco's resentment. Instead, he found a subtle, defiant possibility - one that made him both tremble and, in a way, breathe.

Harry's gaze flicked down to the bandages peeking from under his collar, a sharp reminder of the chaos and near-death that still clung to him like a shadow. He let out a long, ragged breath, the sound trembling just slightly.-"That night in Edinburgh..."-His voice was low, uneven, carrying more than a hint of exhaustion and guilt.-"...I thought I'd been too late. And... I think, more than anything, it scared me. Really scared me."

He ran a hand through his damp hair, brushing strands from his face, and finally looked up at Draco. His eyes were heavy with unspoken words, haunted by memory.-"I never meant to be harsh. I..."-He faltered, swallowing thickly.-"...I don't think an apology could ever lift the weight of the things I said. I forgot - sometimes I forget - that I'm just human. That I stumble, that I fail, that I... make mistakes."

Draco let out a slow, deliberate breath, as though he'd been holding it for years. His pale fingers hovered over the edge of the desk, curling and uncurling, before he finally spoke.-"You say that..."-He murmured, voice low but cutting.-"Like you've only just realised you're human too."

His eyes flicked over Harry, taking in the damp hair, the too-tight uniform, the tremor in his hands, how scared he had been to get angry like that, he remembers the way he spoke to Hermione, who he knows would trade his life for without thinking twice... The corner of Draco's mouth tugged into something not quite a smile, not quite a sneer - somewhere in between.-"This soul you've got now, Potter..."-He went on softly.-"...-this one's yours. You decorate it however you like. You fill it with whatever you choose. But don't pretend you're somehow exempt from the rest of us. If you thought mistakes were above you... maybe Edinburgh was just your overdue wake-up call."

There was the faintest, dry ghost of humour in his eyes now, and it slipped into his voice like an echo of their schoolyard sparring.-"Sorry you had to learn about mistakes and consequences so late in life."-He said with a quiet, sardonic huff.-"And now you don't even have half a soul of darkness to blame it on. It's just you, Potter. Just your own soul. No Dark Lord. No prophecy. No convenient shadow to point at."

For a moment, Draco's expression softened completely - a flicker of something almost like empathy breaking through the cool mask.-"It's a strange thing, isn't it?"-He added, his voice quieter now.-"Realising you've been human this whole time."

Harry blinked, sensing a way of expression from Draco that he had only seen so far on Luna, the words sinking deeper than any apology or explanation he'd managed to form. His chest tightened, heart thudding in a mix of shame and relief. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, he didn't feel the weight of expectation pressing down from every angle - Ministry, the war, his own failures. He felt the raw simplicity of Draco's truth settle over him.

"I... I never thought about it that way."-Harry admitted quietly, voice rough. He ran a hand over his bandaged forearm, still tender, and looked up at Draco, really looked, for the first time without shame or defensiveness.-"I've been trying to fix everything, save everyone... and I forgot that I'm allowed to just... be."

Draco's smirk softened, almost imperceptibly.-"Be human, Potter. How hard can that be, hmm?"

A small, rueful smile tugged at Harry's lips, the first genuine one since Edinburgh.-"I guess... I'm lucky you're still here to point that out."-He murmured, and despite himself, there was a hint of warmth in his tone, a fragile acknowledgement of trust.-"People usually walk on eggshells around my feelings."

For a moment, the air between them wasn't tense or accusatory. It was just... real. Harry felt the corners of his mind unclench, the endless loops of guilt loosening. And for the first time, he realised he could face Draco - not as an enemy, not as a rival, but as someone who could see him for who he truly was, mistakes and all.

Draco leaned back slightly, letting his shoulders relax for the first time since Harry had arrived. His pale eyes softened just enough to betray the smallest flicker of approval.-"Don't think for a second that admitting you're human makes you weak, Potter."-He said, voice calm, almost casual.-"It's the people who refuse to face it who end up in the mud."

He tapped a finger on the edge of Harry's bundle, the one full of old keepsakes and memories.-"You don't have to save everything. Not everyone wants to be saved, not everyone can be. And if everyone waited around for a saviour to come and save their lives, no one would ever account for themselves."-Draco paused, measuring his words carefully.

Harry's chest lifted slightly, a breath he'd been holding finally escaping. He wanted to argue, to insist that he had failed so many, but Draco's calm certainty left no room for protest. Instead, he nodded, a faint smile brushing his lips.

Draco offered the tiniest smirk in return, the sort that held years of habit and pride, but also a quiet acknowledgement of something fragile and unspoken between them.-"Now..."-He said, tone neutral again.-"You can stop staring at my desk like it's a battlefield and start thinking about what you actually want to do with your own mess of a life."

And just like that, without grand declarations or melodrama, Draco had reminded Harry that even amidst the guilt, the mistakes, and the chaos, he could still choose how to move forward.

Draco's fingers hovered over the little Muggle coin, tracing its worn edge without picking it up.-"This."-He said quietly, voice almost conspiratorial.-"I found it on the sidewalk one day. Just... lying there. It seemed so trivial, but..."-He paused, eyes darkening slightly.-"My father... he always hated things like this. Muggle things. Thought them beneath us, unworthy, dirty even. I... learned very early not to show interest. Not to speak of it. To hide what I cared about."

He pressed his thumb lightly against the coin.-"So I hid it. Put it on the floorboard, one of the few things I could call my own without fear. Perhaps... the last thing I ever truly managed to protect."

The weight in his words made Harry's throat tight. It wasn't just a coin - it was a small rebellion, a fragment of a boy's defiance, a memory carefully preserved in secret. He looked at Draco and, for the first time, fully understood that the bundle was not just objects, but pieces of a life shaped by caution, fear, and small victories.

Harry said nothing at first, simply letting the silence between them hold the gravity of the moment. His fingers twitched slightly on the edge of the desk, as if wanting to reach across and acknowledge the depth of that quiet, defiant memory.

Finally, he whispered.-"It's yours once again."

Draco let the words linger, the barest hint of a softening in his pale expression. He nodded once, almost imperceptibly, before leaning back in his chair, allowing the conversation to settle into an uneasy, but fragile, understanding.

Draco shook his head, holding the feather gently between his fingers. His gaze drifted to the Chocolate Frog card with Albus Dumbledore's picture, a faint, wry smile tugging at his lips.-"I kept it... because it winked at me."-He murmured, voice low.-"It would show up from time to time, strike a pose, then vanish. My father...he hated him."

For a moment, he closed his eyes, then, with the barest flick of his wrist, the feather lifted into the air, hovering as if caught in an invisible current. It twirled slowly, spinning gently in the quiet of the office, echoing a memory of the boy who had once made it fly on his own.-"I showed signs of magic very late in life; it would always make my parents mad. There was a time they would argue I could not even do magic."

He shook his head again, a mix of disbelief and exasperation.-"And of all people... you had to come across them."-He said softly, almost to himself, the weight of private memories brushing against the edges of his voice.

The room was still, the floating feather a fragile testament to a childhood Draco had never fully been allowed to claim - and now, shared, in a quiet, unspoken truce with Harry.

Harry's voice was quiet, careful, almost hesitant, as he broke the lingering silence.-"Is... is this how you wanted to be remembered?"

Draco's gaze lingered on the floating feather for a long moment before flicking back to Harry. His pale eyes, normally sharp and calculating, softened slightly, revealing something almost... vulnerable.-"Remembered?"-He echoed, the word tasting strange on his tongue.-"Perhaps... I just wanted someone to see this part of me. The rest... they can take it or leave it, I have got nothing to prove to anyone but that little boy I used to be."

Draco's pale eyes lingered on the small collection of objects, and for the first time, he spoke of their intended witness.-"I... I suppose I wanted someone to see this. Not everyone. Just... someone who would understand. Someone I could... be myself around, even as a child. That's why I kept it hidden. That's why it was meant to stay buried."

Harry nodded slowly, letting the words settle.-"And now?"

Draco shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips.-"Now... I think I'll keep them. Safe, yes, but seen. By someone who... might actually care about what these meant."-He paused, his gaze flicking to Harry.-"Did... Teddy like anything more than the rest?"

Harry hesitated for a moment, then chuckled softly.-"It was the broken broom. I had come around to fixing it one day, he has learned how to fly before even being able to walk properly."

A real, proud smile spread across Draco's face.-"Another seeker in the making, it seems."-He said, teasing.-"Runs in the family, I suppose?"

Harry laughed, the sound light and unburdened, a stark contrast to the weight that had lingered over their last encounters-"Definitely does."-Seems they both missed noticing how easy speaking has become now.

Ernest appeared at the glass door, breathless and wide-eyed, his cloak askew and a faint sheen of panic across his forehead.-"Potter - finally! I've been looking everywhere. There's been a disturbance in Bristol; Shacklebolt wants you down there immediately."

Harry blinked; the moment between him and Draco snapped like a thread pulled too tight. He stood, already reaching for his wand.-"Right. Tell him I'll be there in a minute."

Ernest nodded and all but sprinted off down the corridor, leaving the door swinging slightly on its hinges.

"Do Aurors know how to knock?"-Draco joked as he rose from his chair, gaze sweeping over Harry as he straightened his uniform.-"You're not wearing your cloak?"-He asked, tone deceptively casual but laced with that familiar, knowing edge.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck.-"Didn't think I'd be chasing anyone on a broom today."-He muttered.-"Figured it'd be a quiet, normal morning."

Draco arched an eyebrow.-"You and quiet normal mornings could never coexist."-Then, with a soft sigh, he pulled his own cloak from the stand by the desk and extended it toward him.-"Here. Might hang a bit long on the edges, but it should do."

Harry hesitated only a moment before accepting the olive branch that he had offered, maybe as a thank you for returning the items he had found. Their fingers brushed - brief, warm, accidental - and he cleared his throat quickly, pulling it on. The cloak smelled faintly of coffee and ink and something sharp and clean that was unmistakably Dracos' perfume.

"Thanks."-Harry said, already halfway out the door.-"I'll bring it back - promise."

Draco smirked faintly, watching him go, the hem of his own cloak swishing awkwardly around Harry's boots.-"You'd better."-He murmured under his breath, settling back into his chair.-"That one's my favourite."

And as Harry disappeared down the corridor, Draco found himself smiling - quietly, despite himself - at the absurd image of Potter rushing into danger, cloaked in black.

When the echo of Harry's footsteps faded down the corridor, silence settled over Draco's office once more - thick, lingering, and strangely full.

He let out a slow breath and lowered himself back into his chair, eyes drifting toward the now-empty spot on his desk where the bundle was still open. The edges of parchment still bore faint imprints from where Harry's hand had pressed, deliberate and careful, as if he'd been afraid to disturb anything too much.

Draco's gaze lingered there longer than he intended. His cloak - the one Potter had just left wearing - hung ghostlike in his mind's eye, its absence somehow louder than its presence had ever been.

He leaned back, fingertips brushing the feather that still rested by his quill, one of the small relics from his childhood that had somehow resurfaced today of all days. Strange, how things buried so long could rise again - not just objects, but memories, feelings he thought he'd long since filed away under irrelevance.

"Reducio Praegrandis."-He murmured under his breath, the words echoing softly through the office. Harry had remembered that spell. Observed it once, months ago, and learned it. A faint, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of Draco's mouth. Potter - still watching, still learning, even when he pretended not to.

He turned the feather between his fingers, watching it catch the light, and wondered what on earth had driven him to walk into his office with those things. Penance? Guilt? Or something quieter - something that couldn't be explained by duty or debt.

The thought unsettled him.

He set the feather down carefully, precisely, and drew his attention back to his paperwork. But the words on the page blurred, shifting into the image of a boy in a too-long cloak, dampness still clinging to his hair, fumbling for the right words, offering apologies that seemed too heavy for his voice.

Draco sighed and rubbed his temple.

It was ridiculous, he told himself. Potter was ridiculous. This entire day was ridiculous. And yet, as he glanced once more at the empty space beside his coffee cup, a strange, uninvited warmth spread through him - something dangerously close to gratitude and admiration.

The office was quiet again, but it wasn't the same kind of quiet. His cloak was gone, his desk lighter by a few old ghosts, and something else - something unspoken - had been left behind in their place.

Draco leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the door Potter had just walked through, and for once, didn't mind the silence.

Chapter Text

The Bristol night stretched open and endless before him, freshly washed by rain. The clouds had long since dispersed, leaving behind a sky so clear it could almost hurt to look at - ink-dark and spattered with stars. The full moon kept pace at his side, a pale companion riding the horizon as Harry soared above the quiet countryside.

He felt light - lighter than he had in months. The air was crisp, sweet with the smell of wet earth, and his broom moved beneath him like an extension of his own will. The modifications he'd made - the extra parts, the magical tools used for runes etched in secret, charmwork layered over long nights - made the blackwood handle hum like a living thing. It responded to every tilt of his wrist, every weight shift, carrying him effortlessly through the open sky.

He looked at the full moon, and it seemed to dare him. With a grin, Harry leaned forward and whispered to himself.-"Race you, then!"-Before shooting toward the moon. The world blurred into silver streaks and whistling wind. He banked left, dove sharply, then rose again in a wide arc that set his heart pounding. For the first time in a long while, he wasn't chasing anyone, wasn't being chased - just moving for the sake of feeling free. His soul...This was his soul, only his...He did not have half a darkness to use as an excuse. He had made Harry realise...This was his... His...This moment, this feeling, this world, and this fleeting joy...And he could not let anyone take it away from him, so he leaps forward with all his force, like a nightingale in the clear skies...He is lightning...His voice is carried by the winds as he screams to freedom...Freedom! He screams at the top of his lungs, and is not othered by which winds witness and which trees whisper of his insanity. 

Draco's cloak trailed behind him, the soft black fabric billowing like a living shadow. It smelled faintly of something elegant and warm - black coffee beans, rain, and the parchment of his office. It was too fine for flying, really, but Harry tugged it closer all the same, noting the way his initials are embroidered on his sleeve in fine silver. The warmth of it wrapped around him like a charm, shielding him from October's chilling bite. He let out a quiet breath that was almost a laugh. Trust Draco Malfoy to have a cloak that could make even the wind feel polite.

He angled upward again, then cut power entirely from his broom, his feet kicking himself sotly from the handle, letting himself fall. The broom stayed obediently at the place where he had slipped away from, as gravity pulled him earthward, the rush of air roaring in his ears, the cloak wrapping him like silk as he opened his arms to hug the wind. For a few seconds, there was only the freefall - the dizzy, wild sensation of being suspended between sky and ground. Adrenaline, he lived for it. He thought of Draco. Of what they had fixed that morning. Of what still lingered between them - unspoken, unresolved, but somehow lighter.

Draco had told him to work on himself. And he would. For once, Harry Potter made himself a promise not born from duty, but from choice.

He whistled sharply just before the ground blurred too close. In a blink, the broom responded - his little invention, a charm-triggered recall, like Accio - it flew on its own and caught him smoothly, hovering inches above the earth. Harry laughed then, breathless, the sound echoing into the night.

Alive. Unburdened. The air around him seemed to hum with quiet possibility.

He tilted his head back, eyes tracing the moon.-"So."-He murmured, still smiling.-"Where has fate brought us now. Colleagues? Old Rivals? Old schoolmates..."-A pause. A softer breath.

The night, of course, offered no answer - but somehow, Harry didn't mind.

Harry stayed there a little longer, hovering just above the dark field, the sound of the wind whispering through the grass below. The broom hummed faintly beneath him, alive with stored magic, waiting for his next move.

He tilted his head, the borrowed cloak still wrapped around his shoulders. The weight of it was strangely comforting - too soft, too fine, and yet somehow steadying, like a presence that refused to vanish with the daylight. He could almost imagine Draco sitting at his desk again, surrounded by neatly stacked files and half-drunk coffee, pretending not to care, chin tilted high, full of pride.

"Something else..."-Harry said quietly to the moon this time, the smile ghosting at the corner of his mouth.-"Maybe."

A breeze swept past, cool and clean, tugging the cloak and ruffling his hair. He let it carry him upward once more, rising until the ground was just a blur of silvered mist below. The horizon stretched wide, waiting.

When he finally turned his broom toward London, night had gotten darker and darker, and stars had fully lit the sky. Somewhere beyond that skyline, Draco would be in his office again. Coffee, quills, that maddening composure. Harry felt a flicker of warmth at the thought - uninvited but not unwelcome.

He adjusted his grip on the broom, the cloak brushing against his hands. And with that, he dove into the breaking light of the faraway city.

By the time Harry touched down at the Ministry, the world above had gone still again - moonlight spilling over glass and stone, the Atrium deserted except for the faint echo of his boots. He still wore Draco's cloak, its weight settling like memory across his shoulders, brushing the floor slightly. He told himself he was only returning it - tying up loose ends before the day ended - but the thought didn't feel quite honest, even to him.

Draco's office was dark when he arrived, a single lamp still burning low against the window. Empty. For a moment, Harry almost left the cloak folded over the back of the chair and went home. But before he could, Vance passed by, half-startled to see him there.

"He's still in the building."-Vance muttered sluggishly, tone clipped.-"Down in the labs. You're not cleared for that level, though, so don't bother."

Harry offered a tight smile; clearly, none of the men wished to be talking to each other.-"Wouldn't dream of it."-As he watched him go.

He waited in his office instead, lingering like a forgotten ghost. And while waiting, he let his eyes wander into the little world that Draco had surrounded himself with.

The office was cleaner than any Auror's could ever be, predictably precise - papers stacked like geometric shapes, quills aligned like soldiers. Yet there were small signs of life here too: a coffee cup, circle stains on the polished wood of his desk from where other coffee cups had previously been placed and spilt,  a loosened tie draped over a chair, a faint scuff of boot polish near the desk. The office had a couch that was mainly used to hold more books and paper stacks. Opposite to it, there was a blackboard where a few case clues had been written; he could bet they had not been there that morning, he must have written them during the day. Harry wondered where the handkerchief was tucked away, how often had it crossed Draco's mind...Harry paced once, twice, before stopping near a corner of the desk where a few folders sat slightly askew.

The Carrow Case.

He frowned, flipping one open - not prying, not really, just... curious. The pages were marked in Draco's handwriting, sharp and elegant. Updates, cross-references, sightings. Information that was recent - too recent.

Harry's brows drew together. The case had been reassigned days ago. Draco shouldn't still have access to these.

He barely had time to piece the thought together before the door opened behind him.

Draco stepped in, arms full of books and parchment, the faint scent of dust and potion ingredients clinging to him. His expression was unreadable - tired, perhaps, but steady. He caught sight of Harry immediately.

"Here for the cloak, I assume?"-Draco said, tone clipped but not unfriendly.

Harry turned, holding the cloak out slightly before setting it on the chair.-"Yeah. Thought I'd catch you before you left. It's freezing outside, would not want you catching a cold because of me."

Draco nodded, putting his books down on a couch where he usually stacks all sorts of extra stuff.

His gaze flicked toward the files again.-"You're still working on this?"

Draco followed the look, then exhaled slowly, setting his own stack of papers down with practised calm.-"Forgot to return them."-He said simply.-"They've been sitting there since the case was reassigned."

This was still a topic that had not been fully cleared between the two of them. Draco had wanted the case; he had worked for it, almost died fighting a battle that had not been his to fight in the first place, and Harry, in a way, had taken it away from him.

Harry raised an eyebrow, clearly a lie; the information there was updated a day ago.-"Forgotten, or not ready to let go?"

The silence that followed stretched thin. Draco's expression didn't shift, but something in his eyes did - a flicker of irritation, or maybe conviction.

"This case isn't yours anymore."-Harry reminded quietly.-"You know that."

Draco didn't answer. He moved instead to tidy the pile, his movements sharp, deliberate.

The lamplight caught in his hair as he spoke, finally, almost too soft to hear.-"Some things don't stop mattering to the world just because someone says they should."

Harry didn't have an answer for that - not one that wouldn't sound like Ministry protocol. So he just stood there, watching as Draco gathered the papers, that familiar tug of contradiction stirring again somewhere beneath his ribs. He wanted to argue, to remind him of boundaries - but he also understood. More than he cared to admit. The bandages on his arm and shoulder, too, were a harsh reminder.

Draco didn't look up as he added.-"If you're done policing my filing habits, Potter, you can leave the cloak on the chair. I have work to return to."

Harry smirked faintly, despite himself.-"Of course. Wouldn't want to disrupt your... system."

Draco's lips twitch in annoyance.-"You already have."

Draco didn't reply anymore to Harry's jab about the Carrows' file. He simply adjusted the stack in his hands and placed it neatly on the desk, as if tidiness alone could erase the question.

Harry watched him for a long moment, lips pressed together, some old irritation flickering - then softening into something else. Maybe respect. Maybe the faintest flicker of amusement. Harry did not want to end the day like this...Not after what they had settled that morning between each other.

Then, with a lazy flick of his wand, he said.-"You know, for someone who preaches against control, you're quite bad at letting things go."

Draco's eyes narrowed, sharp and cool.-"And for someone who preaches rules, you're appallingly bad at following them. My office is off-limits after hours; you should not be here."

"Then I guess I'm already in trouble. Better call an Auror to handle the situation...oh wait, I am standing right here."-Harry said, smirking with a bit of self-entitlement.

"Potter."-He said finally, voice tight with equal parts irritation and disbelief.-"Did someone hang you upside down on the way here? Or is your hair always... like that?"

Harry laughed at that, easing the tension.-"I may have taken a dive off the broom at warp speed. Hair doesn't hold up well under extreme gravity, apparently."

Draco's lips twitched into a smirk, eyes glinting with amusement.-"Ah, typical Gryffindor logic - throw yourself at danger first, think later, maybe once you have kissed the ground."

Harry paused at the door, one hand on the frame, and gave Draco a last word.-"Thanks for the cloak and kind advice... though next time, don't make me owe you one."

Draco's eyes narrowed, lips twitching with a smile.-"You'd better not, Potter. Or I'll find a very creative way to collect."

Harry grinned, ducked out the door, and called back over his shoulder.-"Try me, Malfoy."

The door swung shut behind him, leaving Draco staring after the echo of his laugh - and fighting the smallest, most inconvenient smile.

The Ministry was quiet - far quieter than usual. The kind of silence that wrapped itself around the corridors like a heavy blanket, making every creak of the floorboards sound louder, every scratch of a quill feel out of place.

Draco sat at his desk, head bent over a stack of letters, though his thoughts were far from the parchment before him. A single file from the case of Hagrid's unicorns had caught his attention earlier - something small but out of place, a note that might connect to the lingering questions from the Carrows case. He had tucked it carefully into the bottom drawer of his desk, out of sight, beside a neatly folded handkerchief and several silver vials sealed with stoppers of wax and charm.

His eyes drifted to the handkerchief now, pale and clean but carrying the faintest trace of residue on its edges. The librarian who had come to thank him the day before had pressed it into his hand as she left. She had been there for more than gratitude. Her voice had trembled, her words careful, as she shared what she'd learned - scraps of information others might have dismissed, details the Aurors would have laughed off as superstition and delirium after the torture she endured. But she had known, an unspeakable would understand, Draco had listened. Because buried in her ramblings was something that fit. Something that tied her strange, uncertain claims to his own investigation.

He would study her lead until the end, no matter how improbable. It was already tangled up with the missing unicorns, the residue had uicorm blood as an ingredient, he had found out that day at the labs when testing it. For the next step, though, he needed more. And for that, he had to wait. He only hoped Hagrid could still manage a legible letter.

Draco leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. The quiet of the office pressed down on him. He reached into his satchel almost without thinking, fingers closing around a cool, familiar shape.

A galleon. But not just any coin. He turned it in his hand, and the faint light from the enchanted lamps caught the engraving:

One favour - One time - Harry Potter.

It was the only one he hadn't delivered. The Knut had gone to Weasley, the Sickle to Granger. Each piece held a different meaning, forming a small hierarchy of gratitude and quiet reconciliation. But this one... he couldn't bring himself to let it go.

Potter had just today stepped forward with a shard of respectability towards him... But really, what use would Harry Potter have for a favour from Draco Malfoy? Potter wasn't the one who needed saving. He had never been. He was the saviour, the one the rest of them followed out of the dark.

Draco exhaled slowly, turning the coin over once more before slipping it back into his satchel. It felt heavier than gold had any right to be. He rested his hand briefly on the drawer with the unicorn file, the handkerchief, and the vials inside, then closed it softly.

Tomorrow, the letter from Hagrid would most certainly come. And maybe - just maybe - the threads would start to make sense.

The next day was slow; he had taken the day off, by his mother's request, even though still waiting for Hagrid's letter to come through at home. The Malfoy gardens were all light and white that noon - pale peacocks drifting between the rose bushes, the fountain murmuring softly under the shade of the cypresses. Draco and Astoria walked slowly through the gravel paths until they reached the fountain's edge. The scent of blooming roses hung in the air, heavy and still.

They sat, as they often did, not needing to fill the silence. Draco turned a small grey stone over and over in his hand - worn smooth by years, its edges dulled.

Astoria's gaze followed the motion.-"Is it important?"

Draco looked down at it, the corner of his mouth tilting faintly.-"You could say that. It used to be part of this fountain, I think. I took it when I was little - thought it might keep something of the fortune the fountain had, with me. I hid it in the floorboards at my grandparents' house when I was little. Potter lives there now...He had found it, and returned it."

Astoria smiled faintly.-"He would."

Draco's fingers tightened around the stone for a moment before he set it carefully back into a gap near the base of the fountain, where it seemed to fit perfectly.-"It belongs here."-He said.-"Not with me."

They sat quietly again, the sound of water filling the pauses between words.

Her gaze turned toward the roses.-"They diagnosed me with the blood curse when I was eight. There's no real cure. Just... potions to slow the process, ought you need to know this, my parents did not want to disclose that information till we were...official, but I think it's important you know."

Draco didn't look away from her.-"You've tried any cures?"

"Some."-She said.-"Most were experimental. My father refused to let me test anything new - said it was too dangerous, that we had to wait for proper approval."-A bitter smile touched her lips.-"He thought if he locked me up long enough, kept me safe enough, the world couldn't touch me. As if isolation were medicine."

Draco's thumb brushed over the rock absently. He understood that kind of fear too well - the kind that masqueraded as love but felt like imprisonment.-"Perhaps he was afraid of losing you."-Draco said quietly.-"But fear doesn't heal anyone."

Her eyes flicked to him.-"And what would you have done?"

He hesitated, then met her gaze.-"I would have tried anyway. Even if each cure failed."

Astoria's expression softened, though her tone was still guarded.-"You sound certain."

"I am."-He said. Then, after a pause.-"If you can get me your healers' files - the data, the potion compositions - I can look into it. I'm not a healer, but I know enough alchemical theory to start cross-referencing. Maybe there's someone in the Department of Mysteries or at St. Mungo's who's seen a case like yours. My family knows some great minds in healing."

Astoria looked at him - really looked at him.-"You'd do all that, knowing there is no real outcome?"

Draco shrugged, trying to sound casual.-"It's a puzzle. And I've grown rather fond of solving puzzles."

Her eyes softened, though a flicker of disbelief lingered there.-"You're kind, Draco. But I've lived with this curse long enough to know hope can be... dangerous."

He met her gaze, the faintest ghost of a smile touching his mouth.-"Hope's always dangerous. But sometimes it's the only thing that keeps us moving."-After a while, Astoria spoke.-"My healers say I'll live a long while yet. Just... not long enough to grow old. The blood curse doesn't end quickly - it just takes more of you, little by little."-Her voice was calm, practised, as though she'd said the words too many times to feel their sting anymore.

Draco's gaze flicked to her, sharp but full of quiet defiance.-"There has to be a cure, I'm sure of it."

Astoria gave a small, almost wistful laugh.-"You sound like my father when he still believed that."

"He gave up too soon."-Draco said simply.  He shrugged lightly, gaze drifting back to the fountain.-"I can't promise to fix it. But I can promise to try. It's what I do best - try to solve things that shouldn't be solvable."

Her smile was small, and there was a kind of peace in it.-"We're very different, you and I."

"I know."-Draco said, looking down at the rock in his hand. 

They sat there for a while longer, talking of small, inconsequential things - weather charms and Quidditch scores, a book she'd been reading, a potion he'd been testing. Harmless topics, neatly folded between them like a polite distance neither wanted to disturb. The kind of talk that stayed safely away from what loomed unspoken: the future neither of them was ready to imagine together.

Astoria's voice was soft, measured - the kind of calm that comes from someone who had long accepted the limits of her time. Draco listened, nodding in the right places, watching the way the noon light caught in her hair and the white peacocks drifted silently through the rose bushes beyond. She had a way of existing gracefully within her boundaries. He envied her that.

This - this quiet, deliberate companionship - was nothing like the time he spent with Luna. With Luna, everything was different. With her, nothing needed sense or order. Their talks could stretch from the patterns of moonlight on cauldrons to the disastrous results of their failed Animagus transformations. They would argue over the temperament of mandrakes, laugh about which one had tried to bite them hardest, and then dissolve into conversations that made no sense to anyone else. Madness, maybe - but the good kind. The kind that breathed.

With Astoria, there was structure, control. Every sentence seemed weighed, every silence measured. Everything was real, tangible, almost painfully so. And yet, part of him longed for that other world - the one of nonsense and wandering thoughts, where meaning didn't need to be defined, where he could simply exist without expectation.

He turned the small stone in his hand - the one Harry had returned to him, the one that had once fit between the floorboards of Grimmauld Place when he was still a boy pretending to bury love in the dark. The cool surface pressed against his palm, grounding him. Without thinking, he leaned forward and set it back into its missing space along the edge of the fountain.

It belonged there, he thought. Just as some things - and some people - belonged to moments, not futures.

The sunlight slipped lower, turning the marble gold. A peacock's call echoed somewhere behind the rose bushes. Draco brushed a speck of dust from his robes, glanced once at Astoria, and then at the small stone now back where it belonged.

For now, that was enough. They walked back into the Malfoy Mansion.

The Burrow was its usual brand of chaos that evening-laughter spilling from the kitchen, the smell of Molly's stew thick in the air, and the faint, rhythmic thumping of the ghoul somewhere upstairs. Harry sat at the worn kitchen table, keeping an eye on Teddy, who was crawling a few feet away. In reality, his mind was replaying the bizarre events of the previous day, the return of Draco's childhood keepsakes, their talk, his advice about his life and future... and the ghost of a real, non-malicious smile on Draco Malfoy's face. It was the first time they had spoken without insults being the primary goal, and he had no idea what to make of it.

Hermione slipped in through the back door, hair slightly windblown and eyes sharp with that end-of-the-day gleam that meant she'd been working too long.

"Harry."-She greeted him warmly before smiling down at Teddy, whose hair had turned a bright, Weasley-like ginger the moment he'd entered the house. Harry was gently holding the boy's hands, trying to encourage a first step that Teddy seemed determined not to take. Hermione dropped a stack of parchment on the table with a sigh before sitting beside him.-"I've just come from the Department, and I realised-Merlin, I completely forgot something."

Harry looked up from Teddy, who had decided plopping onto the floor was far more interesting than walking. A faint smile touched Harry's lips, but his eyes were distant.-"That's rare."

Hermione gave him a flat look, then reached into her bag and pulled out a small, sealed plastic container. Inside was a dark scrap of fabric, stiff where something had dried and hardened over it.

"The piece of cloak you found in the forest with Hagrid a month or so ago."-She explained, her tone shifting back to professional efficiency.-"The one damp with that odd residue. It never made it into the files for the unicorn case I assigned to Draco. I meant to hand it to him days ago."

At the mention of Draco's name, Harry felt a strange jolt in his chest-a mix of the old, familiar irritation and a new, unsettling curiosity. He couldn't help but picture Draco's smirk as Harry had left after dropping off his cloak. Not to mention that...Malfoy had lent him his cloak... no hidden intentions, just...something he could not name.

He gave up on trying to balance Teddy on his feet.-"You mean it's been sitting in your office this whole time?"

She winced, brushing a stray curl behind her ear.-"I know, I know. I've been swamped. Anyway, he's been buried in the labs lately, running tests on the unicorn samples, so I haven't had the chance. He's incredibly dedicated. Honestly, I've been impressed."-She offered the container.-"Thought you might pass it along."

Harry handed the squirming, babbling boy to Hermione and took the evidence bag. The plastic was cool against his skin, but it felt charged with potential. An excuse. A reason. He'd been wondering how his next encounter with Draco would go - if they would revert to their usual cold silence or if that strange, playful truce would hold. Now, it seemed, he wouldn't have to wonder for long.

Hermione watched him closely, settling Teddy on her lap, her mouth twitching like she was holding back a smirk. She saw the look on Harry's face and misinterpreted it as nervous reluctance to face his old rival.

"Could be a good excuse to talk, you know. Professionally."-She said, her voice softening with friendly encouragement.

Harry tore his gaze away from the container, trying for nonchalance. He couldn't possibly explain to her what had happened - the talk, the items, the cloak. She'd either over-analyse it or, worse, tell Ron, who would never let him hear the end of it. This fragile new dynamic felt like it could shatter if he even spoke its name.

"Professionally, right."-He managed to say, the words feeling inadequate.

Hermione only smiled, shaking her head as she bounced Teddy gently.-"Just... be civil. I know Edinburgh was a mess, but you're both adults. Don't mention any handkerchiefs..."-She joked, trying to lighten the mood.-"That's all I ask. He's doing good work, Harry. I really hope our teams can work together one day."

"You and Ron will be the kind reminders of my embarrassment every living day of my life."-He groaned, dropping his head into his hands. The groan was genuine, born from the sheer, confusing complexity of it all. How was he supposed to be "civil" and "professional" when his last conversation had ended with half a threat and a laugh?

Hermione didn't notice the conflict in his eyes. She saw his reaction as proof that he was still struggling with his embarrassment and avoidance. She didn't realise that Harry was no longer avoiding a confrontation. He was navigating something far more complicated: the bewildering possibility of peace. This small, forgotten piece of evidence wasn't just a nudge toward a first step; it was a push toward the terrifying, uncertain second one.

The next day, Harry slipped quietly into the Ministry, the sealed plastic container clutched lightly in his hand. Today, he was not fighting himself about whether he should enter the glass office or avoid responsibility. He found Draco at a corner of his office he rarely used - where the large blackboard had been set up for calculations and diagrams. Papers were scattered across the floor and draped over chairs, some stacked in precarious piles, others splayed open as if he'd been consulting them mid-thought. The sight was chaotic, yet oddly compelling.

Draco's arm, no longer swathed in bandages, showed faint swelling from the healing, subtle but noticeable, as well as on his shoulder. His crisp white shirt had the sleeves rolled up, revealing a faint dark mark that he had not bothered to hide anymore, like he usually does. His eyes follow his chalk-powdered hands, apart from his boyhood ring, and a pale silver bracelet stood around his wrist - Harry blinked, surprised; he had never thought of Draco as a jewellery wearer. The tie he usually wore with meticulous care had been tossed carelessly in another corner of the office, adding to the unconventional scene. Even his hair was less controlled than usual, tendrils falling across his forehead as he moved with absorbed concentration.

Harry's gaze lingered on him, the air thick with an unfamiliar warmth, the glass office bathed in sunlight. Draco bent over the board, chalk in hand, scribbling equations and arcane calculations at a speed Harry couldn't hope to follow. Symbols and numbers danced across the blackboard in a precise, almost hypnotic order, forming a lattice of logic that Harry only partially understood. And yet... it was fascinating. There was something undeniably... youthful about Draco in that moment - like a schoolboy absorbed in a problem, unaware of anything else in the world.

For the first time, Harry didn't see the office as a battlefield, didn't think about papers as territory or strategy. The rigid lines of reports, the meticulous desk setup, all of it had melted away in this corner, in this moment. Instead, he saw Draco, genuinely in his element, showing off a different kind of skill - one that was intellectual, focused, quietly impressive.

Harry exhaled softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. He realised he was enjoying this - the way Draco moved, thought, and existed here, without armour or expectation. It was... human. Vulnerable, confident, brilliant, all at once. And it made the simple task he'd come for - the piece of cloth - feel suddenly monumental.

He stepped forward, careful not to startle him. Draco, lost in the chalkboard's maze of numbers and symbols, didn't notice him immediately. And for a moment, Harry allowed himself to just watch - this side of Draco Malfoy was rare, unguarded, and it captivated him more than any battle ever had.

Draco's chalk paused mid-stroke, and he froze as a shadow fell over him, turning around quickly, his hand pausing over his wand.

"By Merlin's - do Aurors even know how to knock?!"-He shouted instinctively, spinning on his heel.

Harry blinked up at him and fixed his posture, caught in the half-startled expression on Draco's face. His voice was calm, but Draco felt his stomach tighten - of course, it was Harry Bloody Potter. Again. The second time, he'd dared to invade this office like it belonged to him.

Draco straightened, brushing a hand down his shirt as he regained his composure-"Potter."-He said, voice cool, though a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his surprise.-"State your business. And do try not to startle me next time. One mistake in calculation here, and I have to go back to one plus one equals two."

"Malfoy, good morning to you too."-Harry tilted his head, looking around at the chaos of papers and the sprawling blackboard with a mock-serious expression.-"Has your office been attacked by a fleet of owls? Because it looks like a magical bomb went off in here."

Draco rolled his eyes, returning to the blackboard with an exaggerated flourish of his chalk.-"No, Potter. This is called work. Something you might remember exists once in a while."

Harry shrugged and, deciding to take the hint, eased himself onto the couch that Draco usually used to balance precarious stacks of papers. He cleared a small spot, letting the soft leather cradle him as he drew his wand from his pocket. -"Right, right. Just... checking. Figured I'd make myself comfortable while you finish conquering the universe, one equation at a time."

Draco's eyes flicked toward him. For a moment, his usual reserve softened, though his voice stayed clipped.-"Don't get too comfortable, Potter. State your business."

Harry settled back with a quiet chuckle, letting the faint tension between them ease into something lighter. The cloth in his hands suddenly seemed secondary - at least for now.

With a few precise flicks, he began sending the crumpled papers skittering across the floor, clearing a path without disturbing anything that looked important. Draco's eyes flicked up from the blackboard, silver bracelet catching the light each time his hand moved. Harry just noticed Malfoy was left-handed; but most curious, he held his chalk the way no one would ever think to hold the chalk, how peculiar it seemed, and mainly it looked weird; he had not noticed such a thing at school. 

Draco shrugged it off, and he simply said.-"As long as you don't move anything critical, Potter."

Harry grinned faintly, twirling his wand between his fingers.-"Noted."

Draco's lips twitched in the faintest hint of amusement, but he didn't reply, turning back to his calculations. After a few moments, Harry tilted his head, curiosity overtaking mischief.-"So... how did the case with Hagrid go?"

Draco let out a quiet, controlled sigh, rubbing at the corner of his forehead.-"His barely legible letter arrived yesterday...He didn't find what I was looking for."-He admitted. His chalk scratched across the blackboard again, leaving neat, looping marks that made Harry wonder how much of it he actually understood.-"He combed the forest thoroughly, checked every nook and glade. But... It's been months. I fear anything that could have led us here has been washed away - or trampled over by centaurs' hooves."

Harry's fingers drummed lightly against his wand, the couch creaking under his shifting weight.-"So... it's a dead end? Or close enough to make you panic quietly?"

Draco's eyes met his for a fraction of a second, sharp but not unkind.-"Close enough to make me wonder if we're already too late. If anyone had taken the lead months ago, perhaps..."-He trailed off, the sentence unfinished but the worry there.

Harry leaned back, letting out a quiet breath. He didn't offer the words to comfort Draco - he had learned that some silences were more powerful than any encouragement - but his presence, relaxed but attentive, seemed to fill the space beside him.

For a long moment, the only sound in the office was the scratch of chalk on the blackboard and the faint rustle of paper as Harry continued clearing the floor.

Harry leaned forward slightly from the couch, curiosity sharpening his tone.-"How far into the case were you, then? Any leads?"

Draco didn't look up immediately, eyes scanning his calculations before answering, measured and precise.-"Too far to go back now. We've tested the blood I collected a month ago."-He tapped the blackboard with the chalk.-"It belonged to a fully grown unicorn, as I had suspected back when we first came across it, if you remember. It was a fully grown unicorn and not the calf that went missing."

Harry frowned.-"Which...?"

"Which means."-Draco continued, his voice quiet but firm.-"This isn't a one-off. Whoever is killing these unicorns is doing it repeatedly. Periodically."-He paused, letting the weight of the discovery sink in.-"Hagrid can't keep count. He doesn't know how many unicorns might vanish - they hide, they breed in shadows. We can't even be sure if other forests have seen similar cases."

Harry swallowed, the implications settling like a cold weight in his chest.-"So... we're dealing with a pattern. Someone's deliberately targeting them over time for bad intentions, of course."

Draco's lips pressed into a thin line.-"Exactly. And that pattern... it won't stop on its own. We have to catch it before it escalates further. These creatures are protected by tight laws; anyone who dares kill such pure creatures already has a cell number reserved in the dungeons of Azkaban."-His eyes flicked up briefly at Harry, sharp and intent.-"That's why I couldn't afford to waste time. Every delay matters."

Harry nodded slowly, letting the information settle, the room heavy with urgency. Even amidst the casual chaos of scattered papers and humming quiet, the stakes felt immediate - and the distance between them, momentarily, narrowed by the shared responsibility.

Silence settled over the office, punctuated only by the scratch of Draco's chalk against the blackboard and the occasional rustle of paper. Harry leaned back on the couch, letting his gaze wander - not out the window, not to the stacks of reports - but to Draco himself.

The sunlight fell through the high windows, catching in his hair and making the strands gleam like spun silver. Harry blinked, startled by the sudden sharpness of the thought. He had seen a similar illusion before, on Fleur... Does that make Draco...Veela-like? No... not quite. That couldn't explain it. It was just... him. Somehow effortless, somehow commanding attention even while absorbed in numbers and notes.

Harry shook his head slightly, trying to dismiss the odd, fluttering feeling that had crept up.

Yet he couldn't tear his eyes away. Every movement, every faint frown of concentration, seemed to pull him further into an orbit he hadn't expected to enter again. And with that realisation came a flicker of something else: an awareness of how absurdly, how unreasonably, invested he had become in simply watching Draco Malfoy work.

He cleared his throat softly, half to himself, half in an attempt to shake the distraction, and reached for the small, sealed container in his coat pocket - the piece of cloak Hermione had given him.

Harry tried to focus on the case, but he couldn't help noticing the way the sleeves of Draco's crisp white shirt were rolled up, the faint silver bracelet catching the light, and the collar unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of collarbone. His hair, tousled from the morning's work, gleamed faintly in the sunlight streaming through the tall windows. Bloody hell, Harry thought, he looks like he's been carved out of marble. 

Maybe because his skin was too pale, definitely that. Ghosts would be jealous of his paleness. 

Harry rubbed his temples, blinking against the sudden light of the Ministry office, trying to make sense of why his mind kept wandering toward Draco's tousled hair.

Draco's voice cut through his thoughts, smooth and faintly amused.-"Potter, they really should've taught you that staring isn't a particularly polite thing to do when someone's back is turned."

Harry snapped upright, heat creeping up the back of his neck. Merlin, caught.-"I wasn't-..."-He began, too quickly, then forced himself to steady his tone.-"I was just zoned out, somewhere far... thinking."

Draco arched a brow, not convinced, one corner of his mouth twitching.-"Did not know you could achieve such a thing."-He then went back to writing.-"Are you here to stare and admire, moop about your life choices or something worth my time, like actual business?"

Harry exhaled sharply, deciding not to take the bait.-"Actually, I'm here for a reason."-He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out the small plastic evidence bag. Inside, a scrap of dark cloth lay folded and brittle at the edges.-"I found this during the check near the forest when we went with Hagrid months ago. I had given it to Hermione; she meant to attach it to your file, but-well, she forgot, and I thought it might still be worth bringing."

Draco turned fully then, eyes narrowing in sharp focus.-"What is it?"

Harry stepped forward, offering him the bag.-"Probably nothing. But... it was caught on a branch not far from where we found the unicorn blood residue. Could be nothing, could be a clue."

For a heartbeat, Draco's expression was unreadable. Then, quick as a hex, he snatched the bag from Harry's hands and tore it open, ignoring the faint protest of plastic. The dried scrap of cloth came free between his fingers, brittle but intact. He held it against the sunlight, turning it with a precision that bordered on reverence - like it was something sacred, or dangerous.

"You should have given this to me immediately upon entering my office."-He said sharply, the words cutting clean but not cruel. Urgency burned brighter than accusation in his voice.-"Merlin, Potter, if you'd been any slower, we'd be moving backwards."

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the sudden intensity in Draco's eyes.-"I wasn't sure it would help-..."

"It might."-Draco cut in, already moving to the blackboard, the piece of cloth clenched between his chalk-covered fingers.-"This could tie the whole case together."

Harry watched him, half in admiration, half in awe at how quickly the man came alive with discovery. Whatever flicker of distraction had existed moments ago was swallowed whole by the gravity of the case once more. Still, somewhere beneath the rush of purpose, Harry couldn't shake the faint echo of Draco's earlier words-staring isn't polite. He wasn't sure if the warmth rising in his chest was embarrassment... or something far more inconvenient.

Draco's eyes gleamed with focused energy, the fabric still pinched between his fingers. Harry watched, hesitant, then added quietly.-"When I found it... It was still damp. Not much, but enough that I thought it might've been exposed to something. Rain, maybe. Or..."-He hesitated, thinking back to that strange shimmer the cloth had caught under his wandlight.-"...something else."

Draco's head snapped up, eyes sharp and alive in an instant.-"Damp?"-He repeated, voice quickening.-"You're certain?"

Harry nodded, startled by the sudden urgency in his tone.

It was like watching a switch flip. Draco moved before Harry could blink-swift, precise, and entirely absorbed. He crossed the office in a few long strides, yanking open one of the lower drawers in his desk. Glass clinked faintly as he pulled out a series of small vials and sealed containers, each labelled in fine, neat handwriting.

"Of course."-Draco murmured to himself. He muttered a soft curse, gathering the tools into a leather satchel with practised efficiency.-"Even if it's dried, molecular absorption leaves a chemical signature. I need to get to the labs quickly."

Harry stood there, equal parts impressed and bewildered, watching Draco's hands move with a kind of artistry. He wasn't sure whether Draco was talking to him, to himself, or to the air - but it hardly mattered.

"You... can really tell that?"-Harry asked, his voice more curious than sceptical.-"From something that's already dried out?"

Draco snapped the satchel closed, his expression tightening with the thrill of the chase.-"I don't 'tell,' Potter."-He said, his tone clipped but not unkind.-"I prove. That's the difference between guessing and knowing."

Harry almost smiled.-"Right. Of course. Silly me - forgot I was in the presence of a genius."

Draco's eyes flicked to him, a flicker of amusement ghosting through his features before vanishing beneath his professional mask.-"Flattery won't mask the fact that you and Granger have stalled me for days. Withholding evidence."

"Wasn't trying to."-Harry replied easily, and it was the truth.

Draco rolled his eyes, swung his satchel over his shoulder, already moving toward the door, all brisk purpose and sharp focus. Harry straightened from the couch, stepping into his path just enough to catch his attention.

"Listen - if you need anything with this..."-He said, gesturing to the cloth now secured in Draco's hand.-"Let me know. I found it, after all. Might as well be useful."

"I'll let you know."-Draco said quietly. Then, with a faint smirk, he added.-"Though I'm not sure how much use an Auror will be in an Unspeakable's investigation - unless I need someone to trip over the evidence again."

Harry huffed, somewhere between exasperated and flustered, running a hand through his hair as if that might settle something - his temper, his pulse, his thoughts. But before he could summon a proper retort, Draco was already gone - his footsteps sharp and quick against the stone floor, fading toward the corridor that led to the labs. The door swung once on its hinges before falling still, and yet the room didn't quite feel empty.

The air still hummed with his momentum, charged with that strange current Draco always seemed to leave behind - half challenge, half gravity. Papers on the desk rustled faintly, disturbed by the breeze of his exit, and Harry could almost imagine that if he reached out, he'd still feel the echo of him there, in the space where words had failed to catch up.

He stood there longer than he meant to, staring at the empty doorway, listening to the quiet settle back in.

Merlin, when had Draco Malfoy learned to leave a room like a storm?

And worse - when had Harry started feeling like the ocean afterwards, restless and wide and waiting for the thunder to return?

Chapter Text

The Quiet Between Storms...

Harry had taken on too much, too young. Responsibility was a cloak he'd never learned to take off, its weight settling on his shoulders before the plaster dust of the war-torn world had even cleared.

Grimmauld Place - Sirius's old home, a Black legacy that had once reeked of dark magic and the suffocating scent of decay. He had taken it upon himself to reshape it, to physically scrub the story history had etched into its walls, like the portrait of his mother. The scent of damp rot and bitter resentment had been painstakingly replaced by the clean, sharp smell of lemon polish and fresh paint, but sometimes, in the dead of night, he thought he could still smell the dust of ages sighing from between the floorboards.

His weapon had changed after the war too; it was now a hawk-feather quill, his battlefield the quiet, lamplit hours after midnight. He had written article after article, his words a silent rebellion against the stark, simple narratives the world had settled on. He reshaped them...Sirius and Regulus Black - he wrote of them not as traitor and hero, but as two constellations that shone so bright they burned themselves away too soon. He did the same for Severus, painting a portrait of begrudging bravery so complex that most editors sent polite rejections, uncomfortable with a truth that wouldn't fit neatly into a headline. Though not everyone wanted to read it, the steady, rhythmic scratch of his quill on parchment became his penance.

A year and so had passed, the seasons turning with a steadiness that felt alien to him. He was now an Auror with the Airforce - a branch where the wind over the North Sea was a physical thing, a blade of ice against his exposed skin. The Prophet wrote about him constantly, their cheap ink staining his fingers with a new set of titles: The Boy Who Lived, The Man Who Saved Us, The Lightning Auror. But the papers didn't tell most of the whole truth.

He had broken things off with Ginny not long after the war. It wasn't a shouting match in the chaotic warmth of the Burrow, but a slow, quiet unravelling in the sterile silence of his new home. There was no bitterness - just the hollow ache of distance, the feeling of two people growing in opposite directions. She was fire and Quidditch and a life that roared forward; he was a collection of ghosts held together by duty. For a while, he had sought refuge in Romania with Charlie, an excuse to save a dragon's life from chains of Gringotts and reunite it with its family... He was drawn to the primal heat of the dragon reserve, the smoky scent of bonfires, and the rough, steady warmth of Charlie's calloused hands. It hadn't lasted, but it had left him with something - the sharp, clean clarity of knowing what he did and didn't want.

Now, when he wasn't patrolling the skies or writing under a pseudonym, he came home to Grimmauld Place. To Teddy. The duty of a father having caught him just as unprepared as fighting dark lords.

Teddy was the one light in the house, a supernova of squealing laughter and small, sticky hands reaching for everything he shouldn't. His presence filled the ancient rooms with the sweet smell of milk and baby powder, the sound of his babbling echoing where only grim portraits had hung. Harry took care of him most of the time; nights and weekends were his, leaving Andromeda and her own grief to breathe, a quiet, dignified shadow, and a much-needed rest. He read him stories, the paper worn soft beneath his thumb, and told him about his parents in soft whispers that felt like prayers. And when Andromeda picks Teddy up again before he goes to work, the silence that follows is a physical blow, deafening and vast. The orphan that reminds him so much of himself, and at the same time, none. He treats him with such warmth and love, the warmth and love he never got from his "family", from the Dursleys... There was not a world in which Harry had thought of ever treating Teddy less than a part of his own heart, as his own soul, as his own son.

The walls of Grimmauld seemed to exhale when the house emptied. Sometimes George would crash on the sofa, his grief a tangible thing too heavy for the Burrow's relentless cheer. Ron and Hermione came by almost every single day; if he did not visit them, they would visit him, bringing the familiar scent of her parchment and the sound of Ron's easy laughter. Molly stopped by more often than she needed to, her arms full of casseroles that tasted of home and a worry that clung to him long after she'd left. Even some of the old Order members dropped in from time to time for a drink and a story by the fire of the drawing room.

But every night, when the laughter faded and the fire burned to glowing embers, Harry would make his way up the creaking staircase to the master bedroom. The silence there was thicker, the air colder. He'd take the small vial of Dreamless Sleep potion Luna continuously brewed for him - it smelled of moonpetal and night-blooming jasmine, faintly sweet and strange - and swallow it down. The potion tasted of bitter herbs and a forgotten memory. Then he'd lie there, on sheets that always felt too cold, eyes fixed on the ornate patterns of the ceiling until the world finally dissolved into a soft, dreamless void.

Sleep came, but it never felt like rest.

And though he had opened the house to everyone, a sanctuary for the grieving and the lost, when the night fell quiet again, there was no one waiting for him in the vast, empty bed. Only the echo of his own breath in the dark, and the ghosts of those he could never quite stop trying to save.

Lately, the Dreamless Sleep potion hadn't been working the way it used to. Perhaps his tolerance had grown too strong, his mind too stubborn. Or perhaps, after so many nights of forced, velvet blackness, the draught had simply revoked its mercy.

Now, when Harry slept, the dreams pushed through the frayed, threadbare veil of the potion. They were half-formed things that flickered like dying embers, yet they left scorch marks on his memory by morning. The specific images slipped away with the pale dawn light, but the feeling of them remained, a toxic residue in his veins: the oppressive, suffocating press of heat, the acrid taste of smoke in the back of his throat, the frantic, rabbit-pounding of his own heart.

Sometimes, he saw fire. Not the comforting crackle of the hearth in the Gryffindor common room, but the kind that lived and breathed - the kind he'd seen in the Room of Requirement, when it had roared after them with teeth and faces. It rose up in his dreams, a shrieking, coiling serpent of pure malice, swallowing everything he had painstakingly rebuilt. And always, always, he stood frozen, his feet fused to the ground, a leaden weight of old failures pinning him in place, unable to move, unable to save anyone.

He would wake with a choked, ragged gasp, the sheets twisted around him like serpents, soaked in a cold sweat. His lungs would burn, a phantom agony, as if he'd truly been breathing in the flames.

Tonight was no different. The dream had come again - shrieking flames devouring the pale blue walls of the nursery, Teddy's imagined laughter twisting into screams - and before he could think, Harry was already out of bed. His bare feet hit the cold, ancient floorboards with an icy shock, the sound of his own frantic, tearing breath loud in the silence as he raced down the hall.

The nursery door flew open with a bang. Teddy was there, small and utterly safe, curled up in his crib like a hibernating dormouse, his tiny chest rising and falling in the soft, whisper-thin rhythm of peaceful sleep. The sight hit Harry like a physical blow, a stunning spell that recalibrated his entire being. He stood there in the doorway, chest heaving, until the frantic thunder in his ears began to slow, until the violent tremor in his hands finally faded.

Only then did he let himself breathe.

The room was dark and still, the soft blue glow of a charmed mobile casting gentle, dancing shadows of stars and constellations on the walls. It smelled faintly of milk and chamomile. He leaned his forehead against the cool wood of the doorframe, wiping a hand over his face.

It was fine. Teddy was fine. Everything was fine.

But it didn't feel that way. Not really.

The cracks were showing - thin, spiderwebbing fractures in the dam he had built to hold back a tide of memory and fear. The sleepless nights, the clink of glass as the potion bottles piled up on his bedside table, the hollow echo in the silent house... all of it was catching up to him. He was a monument to a victory he couldn't feel.

Harry Potter, the saviour of the wizarding world, couldn't even save himself from his own mind.

No matter how many people he rescued, how many dark wizards he sent to Azkaban, the shadow inside him didn't fade. It clung to him - a cold spot deep in his chest, a weight behind his ribs, a weariness buried in his bones. The centaur had been right that day months ago in the Forbidden Forest, his voice a low prophecy: The scar may fade, but the darkness will linger.

And so it did. He crossed the room, the floorboards groaning softly under his weight, and pressed a gentle kiss to Teddy's warm forehead - a silent promise, a grounding touch. Sleep would not come again tonight. He knew that.

Returning to the master bedroom, he didn't get back into the cold, empty bed. He stood instead before the huge bookshelf that lined the far wall, the cool, hushed air of the library-like space a stark contrast to the fire in his memory. His fingers, steady now, traced the gilded spines of ancient tomes. He wasn't looking for bedtime reading. He was looking for an answer to a question he couldn't yet form. To a situation that only happened in his dreams...

He pulled down a heavy, leather-bound volume on advanced defensive magic, its pages smelling of old parchment and binding glue. He set it on his desk, beside the trial files of Death Eaters and war criminals. He went and picked up more on elemental transfiguration. He wasn't searching for curses or hexes. His eyes scanned cramped, archaic script and complex diagrams of wand movements that looked like an Orchestra Maestro or an intricate conductor's baton swings, lingering on chapters about containment, about wards that didn't just repel but tamed, about spells that could command the very elements to counter an unstoppable force.

He was searching for a way to fight a fire that could not be extinguished.

The next day, after a long and numbing shift at the Ministry, Harry found himself at the Lovegood home. The air out by the lake was cool and still, carrying the scent of wet grass and lilac blooms clinging to the evening damp. Luna was sitting cross-legged near the water's edge, her pale hair drifting like spun moonlight in the breeze, and braids had formed in her hair as if by invisible hands. She cradled a tiny, trembling mooncalf in her lap. Only a few days old...

Its mother hadn't survived the birth. The newborn was all spindly legs and enormous, glassy eyes, shivering weakly as Luna coaxed it to drink from a small bottle, her voice a soft, continuous hum of reassurance.

Harry sat beside her, his movements slow and careful so as not to startle the creature.-"Is he... alright?"-He asked, his voice a low murmur.

"She's just a bit lost."-Luna said without looking up, her focus entirely on the calf.-"Her mother has just gone ahead on the next part of her journey. It takes them a little while to get used to it..."

Harry could feel his throat tighten. How such a small creature could have such a tragic beginning, too. How fleeting and fragile this life was.-"Souls, they hang by thin threads, even the softest winds can tear them..."-Luna whispers, her eyes fixed on the sky over the lake.

Harry hugged her softly, not to disturb the little one in her lap. He only let go after the time felt right to let go. She passed a hand through his arm, looking at the bracelet around his wrist, the unicorn hair, like brittle silver. She smiled proudly.

Together, they fed the calf in a comfortable silence. The lake shimmered, a sheet of hammered silver under the first rise of the moon, and for a rare moment, Harry felt no rush to fill the quiet. When the mooncalf finally drifted to a twitching, milky sleep against Luna's legs, she turned to him with that gentle, unblinking curiosity of hers.

Harry searched his pockets for something he had brought, pulling a small, neatly stoppered vial from his coat. The faintest swirl of iridescent mist coiled within the glass, like a bottled galaxy.

"I've brought you more of that perfume."-He said softly.-"The Amortentia blend, I have finally perfected it completely; this should be better than the last."

Her eyes widened with the kind of pure, unvarnished wonder that always made Harry smile despite himself.-"Oh, how beautiful. Have you given it a name yet?"

"Yeah."-He said quietly, watching the bottle catch the light.-"I named it after you. Lunalight. It's... not something I'd ever sell, but I am glad it exists."

"What does it smell like to you today, Harry?"-Luna asked, her gaze serene.

He brought the vial closer, inhaling. The scents were familiar, grounding.-"It changes all the time. Broomstick polish, chamomile. And... rain-soaked earth after a long flight."-He paused, the last scent new and surprisingly potent.

Luna's smile softened.-"To me, it smells of softest trace of wildflowers after rain, and something warm that reminded me of summers at the edge of the orchard with mom and burnt sugar from my father's favourite cookies... You bring too many gifts, you know. You don't have to."

Harry's gaze drifted toward the lake, its surface now a perfect mirror for the sky.-"I'll never be even with you. Not in a hundred years. You saved me more times than anyone knows."

They lay back then, side by side on the cool, damp grass, the stars beginning to appear one by one like scattered diamonds. When Buckbeak swooped overhead with a soft, inquiring cry, Luna laughed and reached up a hand to greet him, careful not to startle the mooncalf awake. Harry couldn't help but join her laughter-the sound felt rare and unfamiliar on his own tongue, bubbling up from a place he'd almost forgotten existed.

Later, they rode Buckbeak out across the still water, the rhythmic beat of his powerful wings breaking their reflections into a thousand shimmering pieces. They spoke about nothing and everything: whether Wrackspurts were responsible for Ministry bureaucracy, the future of Chudley Cannons, they even spoke of a certain Scamander, a new addition to Luna's life and the strange, quiet ways the world healed itself after being broken wide open.

When they landed again and lay once more beneath the vast, star-dusted sky, Harry's momentary lightness had begun to fade, leaving a familiar ache in its place.

"Luna..."-He said after a long pause, his voice low and rough.-"I may not need your potion, the Dreamless Sleep...anymore. They've stopped working."

Luna didn't move, but he felt her gaze turn toward him in the dark, calm and knowing while she adjusted her cloak around the sleeping mooncalf on the soft grass.-"I know. I could tell the last batch didn't quite settle in your aura; you still looked tired."

"I was just hopeful..."-He let out a shaky breath.-"It's just a matter of time before it all comes crashing down. Everything I've been holding back with it... It feels like I'm holding a wall back with my bare hands, and my fingers are starting to slip. I don't know what it'll do to me when it breaks. Whether it will drown me, or - maybe - it'll change me. Make things lighter."

Luna was quiet for a long while, her fingers tracing the constellations only she could see in the grass beside her.

"The mind gets tangled in things that are held too tightly, Harry."-She said softly.-"Sometimes you have to let go just to see what was really there all along."-She turned her head, her pale eyes finding his in the moonlight.-"Maybe it's both. Maybe the flood is what washes the river clean. Sometimes the light only comes through the cracks."

The moon rose higher, a perfect silver disc in the inky blackness. Harry stared up at it until the crushing weight on his chest began to ease, not gone, but lessened, as if Luna's words had made space for him to breathe around it.

For the first time in months, he didn't reach for the little vial on his bedside table that night.

Three days slipped by.

Three dreadful days slipped by, each one a carbon copy of the last, measured out in the silent, impersonal hum of the Ministry. Harry found excuses to walk the quiet, marble-floored corridor of the Unspeakables' department, each trip a small, pathetic pilgrimage. A report for Hermione that could have been sent by memo. A trip to the archives on the floor below that he didn't really need to make. Each time, his path would conveniently take him past the dark, impenetrable glass of Draco's office. A path he used to avoid, but now would seek...

It remained a still life of controlled chaos: the papers occasionally moved, the blackboard a frozen storm of calculations. The air inside seemed held, breathless, the faint scent of coffee and old parchment slowly fading with each passing hour. Beyond it, the warded passageway that led to the labs was a silent, shimmering barrier that felt like the end of the world.

He wasn't cleared for the labs. No Auror was. The rational part of his brain, the part that had written a hundred reports and understood protocol, accepted this. If Draco needed him, he'd come. Harry told himself that was fine. Logical. Expected. He could picture it clearly: Malfoy down there, surrounded by the clink of glass and the scent of ozone, his mind burning hot and bright, tireless and obsessive until he either found what he was looking for or consumed himself in the process. He'd seen that same restless, desperate drive to prove himself in their school years, a fire that could forge brilliance or burn everything down.

But the rational part of his brain was losing the argument. Logic didn't ease the tight, cold knot that had settled in his chest, a feeling that grew heavier every time he walked past that silent corridor.

He hated the waiting. It was a corrosive acid in his veins, a feeling of utter helplessness. For years, his entire identity had been forged in the crucible of crisis; he was the one people called, the one who acted, the one who broke the rules because he was the only one who could. He was the emergency contact for the entire wizarding world.

And now, he stood outside an office that wasn't his, like a key for a lock that didn't exist, useless and uninvited. He was a weapon left on the shelf. The worst part, the part that stung with a sharp, specific humiliation, was being left out of this particular case - by Draco Malfoy of all people. The one person he was never supposed to need, never supposed to work with, was the one person who now held all the answers, and he was doing it utterly, completely, and infuriatingly alone.

He told himself it was professional curiosity. Just that. Nothing else. That he had handed that piece of cloak he had found, and it had moved Draco like this, not leaving the labs for days...

But the hollow ache in his chest, a cold, empty space right beneath his ribs, was a language far more honest than words, and it spoke of something else entirely.

The day had unravelled before it even properly began.

The morning patrol had been a mess - a grey, numbing confrontation in the shadow of a Muggle high-rise where a pack of loose dementors had drifted, drawn to the ambient misery of the city. Since the change in Azkaban law, they were a scattered, unpredictable plague. He'd cast his Patronus, and Prongs had burst forth as always, a stag of incandescent silver, driving back dozens with a wave of warmth and memory. But then, for a fraction of a second, it had flickered.

A terrifying stutter in the light, a momentary dimming that felt like a betrayal deep in his bones. No one else seemed to notice, but Harry saw it. He felt it, a gut-wrenching lurch, a crack in the one weapon he had always been able to trust. His focus wavered, and in that instant, Kingsley's voice had cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding.

The Head Auror had cornered him back at the Ministry, his deep voice leaving no room for argument.-"You're done for the day, Potter. Go home. Rest."-There was an unspoken pity in his eyes that was worse than any reprimand. Harry felt like a faulty instrument being sent away for repairs.

But rest was not what he dreaded; it was the attempting to rest that terrified him. He knew sleep would not come, like it had not for three nights so far, and even if it came, it was restless, and he was running through forests that burned behind him, and falling from heights that seemed to have no bottom.

So he hadn't gone home. Instead, he spent the rest of his day locked in his office, a self-imposed exile. He'd barricaded himself behind stacks of ancient tomes he had picked up nights ago, the air growing thick with the scent of old parchment and dust. He hunched over the spellbooks, his eyes scanning archaic text as he searched for answers to the question that was now screaming in his mind.

His fear was a cold, specific thing: that the light inside him, the very thing that defined him, was finite. That one day, he would reach for it and find nothing left.

The books offered no comfort, only dense theory and spells far beyond his understanding. By afternoon, when the words began to swim and his head ached with the strain, he gave up. He couldn't find a magical solution to a problem that felt like it was carved into his soul.

So he swept the heavy case files and arcane texts from his desk. Unlike the fractured pieces of his own mind, a broom was a system of logic. It could be understood. It could be fixed.

He replaced the chaos of his thoughts with the ordered pieces of a disassembled handle charm module, a small, battered toolbox, and the familiar, smooth wood of his broom. The room slowly filled with the faint, grounding smells of polish and spell-oil. He'd told himself it was just to "fine-tune the enchantments," but truthfully, tinkering was easier than thinking. It was a way to impose order on at least one small corner of his world.

Somewhere between carefully soldering a new rune onto a silver clasp and recalibrating the stabiliser charm, he'd begun humming - low and tuneless, something half-remembered from Bowie's Starman, the melody a quiet thread of sound in the oppressive silence. The steady click and tap of his tools, the faint shimmer of magic lacing the air, became his rhythm, his focus.

His office door was ajar - just enough for the warm, golden light of his desk lamp to spill into the cool, blue-lit corridor, a subconscious crack in the fortress he had built around himself for the day.

Draco knocked once.

Then twice.

Nothing.

The sound of his knuckles against the oak faded into the hum of Ministry corridors, swallowed quickly by the layered quiet of late evening. He waited, one hand still poised midair, irritation flickering briefly across his face. Typical. He'd expected as much from Potter - no sense of decorum, no respect for working hours, or for doors, apparently.

But then, as the silence stretched, something caught his attention. A sound, faint but rhythmic, filtered through the wood. A few uneven clicks, the gentle scrape of glass on stone, and - of all things - a low, tuneless humming. Potter's humming.

Draco frowned. It was almost... familiar.

He hesitated again, glancing once over his shoulder down the empty corridor. The lamps along the walls burned low, their flames flickering in muted gold. The hour was late enough that even the maintenance elves had retreated from this floor.

If Aurors didn't bother with protocol and knocking, neither would he.

He placed a hand on the doorknob, fingers brushing against the cool brass, and pushed. Draco leaned in, the dim light spilling across the threshold, and stopped dead.

The sight before him caught him completely off guard.

Harry hadn't noticed him.

He was bent slightly over the desk, wand in hand, the light from a hovering charm washing his skin in muted gold. The glow caught the edge of his jaw, the curve of his wrist, the faint sheen of sweat gathering at his temple. His sleeves were rolled past his elbows, ink smudged along one forearm, a scatter of parchment and quills orbiting him in slow, silent disarray. His hair - hopelessly untamed - fell into his eyes through his glasses, as he leaned closer to the parchment, his uniform unbuttoned, not as neat as usual, muttering something under his breath.

It was, Draco thought with a flicker of ironic amusement, almost poetic - Potter, of all people, caught in a moment of pure, unguarded focus. No audience. No spotlight. Just movement and breath and light.

For a moment - longer than he would ever admit - Draco simply stood there, watching. The sight was... disarming. Unexpectedly human. There was a softness to it, a fragility he hadn't expected to see in the man who had stood unflinching before Voldemort. This version of Potter - tired, absorbed, unaware - felt almost like a stranger.

Something in Draco's chest tightened, unfamiliar and unwelcome. He wasn't sure what to do with it.

He cleared his throat. Quietly - but with enough edge to slice clean through Potter's reverie.

Harry jerked upright, wand clattering lightly against the desk.-"Bloody hell, Malfoy-..."

Draco's lips curved faintly, his voice calm, precise, and laced with that unmistakable drawl.-"Fascinating. Turns out you don't hear knocks either. Must be a Ministry-wide epidemic."

Harry blinked, heat rising to his cheeks.-"You could've said something-..."

"I did."-Draco replied smoothly, stepping further inside, eyes flicking briefly to the half-reassembled broom.-"Several times. You were too busy... serenading your equipment, apparently."

Harry groaned under his breath, running a hand through his hair, smudging his forehead right above his scar with black wood polish.-"It's called working, Malfoy. You should try it sometime."

"Oh, I have."-Draco said lightly, gaze still on the broom and at the foreign parts that had been etched into it, though a glint of amusement lingered beneath his words.-"You'd know, if you ever left your office."

For a heartbeat, the air between them felt charged - that same strange pull from days before, inverted now. Draco, the observer. Harry, the distraction. And both of them, for one suspended moment, caught in the quiet realisation that they'd traded places without ever meaning to.

Harry rubbed a hand over his face, smudging a streak of soot he hadn't realised was still there. Draco leaned against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed.

"You're not on night patrol?"-He asked, his tone measured but edged with curiosity.

Harry shook his head, still catching his breath.-"No. Morning was bad enough. Had to deal with a pack of dementors that got too close to the Muggle district. Shacklebolt told me I'd be an idiot if I tried to go back out tonight after that."

Draco's expression softened almost imperceptibly. He let his gaze drift to the desk again - to the open toolbox, the runes half-carved, the broom already gleaming.

"Ah..."-Draco said quietly, almost to himself.-"So rather than rest like a sensible person, you decided to fix something that doesn't need fixing."

Harry looked up, meeting his eyes.-"Keeps my hands busy."

Draco gave a faint, almost amused exhale.-"And your mind distracted."-He murmured. He stepped closer, pointing toward the picture frame sitting on Harry's shelf - the one of him and Teddy.-"Small advice, Potter. Go recharge. You can't outrun exhaustion by pretending it's something you can polish."

Harry huffed a laugh that was more breath than sound.-"You sound like Hermione."

"She's right more often than you'd like..."-Draco replied dryly, though his eyes lingered a moment longer than necessary on the photo before returning to Harry.

Harry leaned back in his chair, studying him.-"You didn't come here to tell me to take a nap. What happened?"

Draco hesitated. Then, with a careful exhale, he stepped forward and rested the satchel he'd been carrying on the corner of the desk.-"Something happened."-He said at last. His tone was quieter now, steady but weighed down.-"But you're not going to like it."

Harry's eyes narrowed slightly, weariness fading under instinctive tension.-"Try me."-He said, gesturing to the chair across from him.-"Sit. Tell me."

For a moment, Draco looked as though he might refuse. But then, something in Harry's quiet sincerity must have shifted the balance. Draco pulled out the chair, the sound of it scraping softly against the floor as he sat.

"I need to go back to the Edinburgh Library."-Draco said abruptly, his voice steady but charged.-"The scene is still red-taped, but what I'm looking for - it's in there. Somewhere."

Harry's head snapped up, disbelief flashing across his tired face.-"Absolutely not."

Draco frowned.-"Potter let me fin-"

"No."-Harry cut in, firmer this time.-"That site's sealed, Malfoy. You know how this works. No one gets through the tape until the Ministry closes the review. The Carrows case is no longer your-"

Draco exhaled sharply, irritation flaring in his eyes.-"Will you just listen before you go all righteous on me?"-His tone was louder, the sound slicing through the air. The faint patience he'd held onto up to that point evaporated, replaced by a sudden, controlled fury that made Harry still where he stood.

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the intensity in his tone.

"This isn't about the Carrows case."-Draco went on, his voice dropping lower, more deliberate.-"Not entirely. This is about my case - the unicorns. Hagrid's herd. The one we thought was just poaching, ritual harvesting, whatever idiocy we wanted to label it."

Harry's expression shifted, wary now.-"What about it?"

Draco leaned forward, eyes gleaming with something sharper than frustration.-"The blood. It wasn't being taken for ritual work or for trade. Whoever - or whatever - did it was collecting it for something worse."

A chill went through Harry.-"Define worse."

Draco's eyes met his, pale and unflinching.-"I can't. Not in words. But I can show you. The samples I tested are still in the Unspeakables' lab - they're there until I log my final report. But I need to go back to the Library first. There's something in the records that connects the pattern. I know it."

Harry folded his arms, his voice level but firm.-"Then I need to see the samples. I can't take this to the Department without proof."

Draco gave a humourless laugh.-"You'll have proof when you let me back in there."

"No, not without seeing it for myself, Malfoy."-Harry said after a pause, his tone sharper than he meant.-"So forget about it, stick to your own investigation."

Draco blinked, surprise flickering across his face before settling into irritation.-"You're joking. You can still come to the labs with me; I can show you."

Harry shook his head once, the movement tight.-"Clearance only. No exceptions. The last time an Auror crossed that boundary, half the floor was locked down for a week."

Draco let out a long, pointed sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.-"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Potter. Use your brain."-He leaned closer, voice dropping into a low, cutting murmur.-"You still have that invisibility cloak, don't you? Perfect time to use it, this is worth more than strolling through Hogwarts with Peeves chasing after you."

Harry hesitated, the corner of his mouth twitching.-"I'm not sneaking into the Department of Mysteries, Malfoy."

Draco tilted his head, studying him with a faint smirk.-"What's this? The Chosen One's gone soft?"

Harry frowned.-"I'm not soft. I'm cautious."

"Cautious."-Draco echoed, the word tasting like mockery.-"Please. You faced down the Dark Lord and won, but a locked door has you trembling? Honestly, Potter, you're afraid of a little rule-breaking now?"

Harry's brow arched.-"You think calling me names is going to work?"

Draco's smile widened, slow and deliberate.-"I think you hate being told you're scared. Always have."-He stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough that Harry could feel the weight of it.-"Prove me wrong."

Harry met his gaze, something between challenge and laughter flashing in his eyes.-"You wish."

The words hung between them, sparking something unspoken.

And then...

A shimmer from underneath the desk, a soft pull of fabric, and Harry vanished.

Draco blinked. Once. Twice. The space where Harry had stood was empty, the faintest ripple of displaced air lingering in his wake. He hadn't even seen him move - just the blur of a hand reaching under the desk, the whisper of fabric, and then nothing.

And yet-...

Something tugged at the back of his hair. A brief, playful nip, like a phantom touch. Draco jerked his head around, eyes narrowing, but there was no one there.

A memory flickered, sharp and unmistakable. Hogsmeade. Snow crunching under boots. Potter, under his cloak, hidden, probably smirking, leaning close just enough to snag a lock of Draco's hair before letting a snowball fly. The laughter of Harry's friends, the chaos, the sting of snow against his face - and the way Potter had always known exactly how to get under his skin.

Draco exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening as the air beside him stirred. He could feel him there, unseen but present, the faint brush of magic humming against his sleeve like static. Even invisible, Potter was himself: clever, infuriating, impossible to ignore.

A ghost of irritation curled through Draco, and yet beneath it, something sharper: a pulse of recognition, of memory colliding with the present, that made his pulse quicken in a way he hadn't expected.

Then Harry reappeared in a shimmer, pulling the cloak off in one smooth motion. His hair - already unruly - stood at impossible angles, and with a quiet huff, he raked his hand through it, as if that would make it better. It didn't.

The gesture was thoughtless, familiar. Too familiar. The same tousled hair. The same careless confidence.

Except now the boy was gone. The man before him was quieter, heavier somehow - the laughter replaced with something wearier, but the defiance? Still there. Always there.

Harry caught the look, one brow raising as he adjusted his sleeve.-"What?"

Draco blinked, composing himself, tucking the memory back where it belonged.-"Nothing."-He said too quickly.-"Just... déjà vu."

Harry smirked faintly.-"It's not polite to stare, Malfoy."

Draco rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a reluctant twitch.-"You're insufferable, Potter. You had it on standby the whole time... You just love to torment me."

Draco knew...It hadn't been just to torment him. That faint tug at his hair, invisible and fleeting... it was meant to remind him. Remind him the old Harry was always there and ready...

Harry's grin widened, faint and knowing.-"What can I say? Some habits die hard."

He flipped the cloak with practised ease. The cloak shimmered in his hand, and before Draco could react, Harry draped it over himself in a fluid motion. In the blink of an eye, he vanished.

Draco blinked, caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief.-"You really are impossible."-He muttered under his breath.

A soft, playful voice came from... nowhere.-"Lead the way."

Draco froze for half a heartbeat, then shook his head, lips twitching with the ghost of a smirk.-"Of course."-He said, gathering his own composure.-"Follow my lead - and try not to vanish on me again before we even leave the office."

The words were professional, but beneath them, a faint pulse of amusement lingered, a reminder that even in the quiet of the office, Potter could still reach him - seen or unseen.

They moved through the corridor, the walls narrowing into quiet stone. The air outside the Unspeakables' wing was dim and cold, the kind of silence that swallowed footsteps and made every heartbeat sound too loud.

The guard stood at his post - tall, motionless, eyes fixed ahead. The faint blue light from the runes shimmered across his uniform. Draco straightened, mask slipping easily into place, every movement precise.

He approached with the measured calm of someone who had done this a hundred times before, though he could feel it - the faint shimmer of magic at his back, the ghost of Potter's invisible presence keeping pace just a step behind.

"Late shift again..."-Draco murmured coolly, flashing his credentials with a flick of his wrist. The guard gave a grunt of acknowledgement, barely glancing up.

A faint gust of air brushed past Draco's shoulder as Harry slipped through the archway - soundless, unseen, heartbeat quick as spellfire. Draco's throat tightened despite himself.

Once the hum of the wards settled, Draco pressed his wand to the sigil carved into the stone. The runes pulsed, then stilled. The heavy door eased open.

Only when the seal clicked shut behind them did Harry reappear - cloak sliding off in one effortless motion, hair tousled, grin crooked with adrenaline.

Draco blinked again, this time slower.-"You really don't waste time, do you?"

Harry shrugged.-"You said to use my brain."

Draco's mouth twitched - half disbelief, half reluctant approval.-"I honestly doubted you had it to begin with."

The air in the lab was colder, charged with the hum of enchantments and the faint metallic scent of magic at work. Light glimmered off rows of glass instruments, silver veins of runes pulsing softly across the walls. They were vast, the air smelling faintly of ozone and something metallic.-"The entire Ministry budget must go down here."

Draco didn't look up, having seen the view too many times this past few days.-"This is the heart of the Ministry, Potter. Better here than in the pockets of the corrupt."-He said quietly, almost reverently.

He led Harry to a section of the lab filled with neat rows of small glass containers.-"This is where I've been experimenting."

The side he was working on was filled with heavy tomes, calculation files, failed experiments left on the side, stacked finished cups of coffee, Dracos' journal on top of all, its dark leather catching light more than everything else on the table.

He pulled a shawl from the satchel.

Harry tilted his head.-"A shawl?"

Draco ignored him, lifting a small vial and pouring a pale, shimmering mixture over the fabric.-"This recreates what mixture I and Granger collected the night of the battle with the Carrows at the Edinburgh Library. And the mixture from a handkerchief the librarian gave me. And finally..."-He tapped the piece of cloth Harry had found.-"This connects them and completes the chain."

Harry knew the handkerchief, not the story behind it, although he had assumed what it may have been...He just realised he may have been far off the mark.

The poured like molten silver, the mixture soaked into the shawl. Draco's voice dropped into a lecture-like cadence.-"You know how mirrors are made?"

Harry blinked.-"I will sound so stupid to say I don't."

Draco's eyes tracked the shimmer.-"Muggles created mirrors. They take a thin sheet of transparent glass and coat it with a chemical mixture - traditionally a solution of silver nitrate or other metallic salts. As the liquid dries, it forms a reflective layer. That layer is microscopically uneven, which is why light bounces off in a coherent reflection rather than scattering randomly."-Draco preaches as Harry's brow furrowed.-"Once hardened, the metallic layer turns slightly bluish-green. That's because the metal oxidises, creating a thin film interference effect-basically, the film changes how light waves interact with each other. The reflective property comes entirely from the metallic layer, not the glass itself. The glass is transparent; the reflection is generated by the chemistry."-Draco said, eyes flicking to the shawl.-"Now...Watch."

Harry's jaw dropped as the transformation happened in real time. The shawl didn't reflect light - it vanished. He stared in disbelief as the hand Draco had placed beneath the fabric disappeared along with it.

Draco's voice sharpened slightly.-"It works on the same principle as a reflective potion, but inverted. Instead of creating a reflection, the chemical mixture binds to the fibres of the fabric and changes how light travels through them. The fibres become effectively invisible. Anything in contact with the treated material - like my hand - disappears from sight. It's not perfect."

He paused, letting the weight of it sink in. His tone was calm, but a spark of intensity lingered in his pale eyes.-"The effect lasts only a few hours, depending on the brewing. But for the Carrows, that's more than enough time to bypass the library's internal security, locate the librarian, and ambush her.

"The main ingredient for this potion is unicorn blood - specifically, from young unicorns. They probably tried using adult blood at first, but it didn't last long enough. I also replicated this experiment, and it would not last more than one hour. That's why they came back a second time and stole a newborn, leaving behind fragments of their failed invisibility cloaks."

"The piece you gave me? It had adult blood. The one the librarian gave me... young unicorn blood. That's why it held its effect longer."

Harry's mind raced.-"She... she gave you the handkerchief, it had the mixture on it, then why did she not say that when we took her declaration at the hospital?"

"She did...maybe because she trusted me over some thick-brained Aurors who took credit for all the work we did that night."-Draco confirmed.-"When she came here to bring it by, she swore no one would believe her. It had once been damp with the mixture. She swore it turned invisible in her hand - moments before the Carrows disarmed her and tied her up for information. That confession alone gave me enough to piece it all together. I had my doubts all along."

Harry was at a loss for words.-"So... you replicated it."-Harry breathed, voice low.-"You actually made it work."

Draco inclined his head slightly.-"Yes. And now you understand why the unicorn blood wasn't random. Everything we've seen - the thefts, the patterns - it's all connected. This... This is how they create the advantage they need."

Harry swallowed again, staring at Draco in a mix of awe and incredulity.-"You... You actually did all this, from a dried mixture and pieces of clothes."

Draco's lips twitched, faintly amused at the understatement.-"Of course I did."

Harry could only blink, completely unable to look away, as the invisible shawl swayed gently - proof of horrors crafted from unicorns and the brilliance of one meticulous, obsessed Unspeakable. Harry blinked at the shimmering, now - vanishing shawl, then cautiously asked.-"So, this is like my cloak?"

Draco carefully dropped the shawl onto the table, quickly wiping his hands on a clean cloth. Then, almost reverently, he picked up Harry's invisibility cloak.

"I mean... is it the same principle?"-Harry stated, questioning.

Draco shook his head, his voice dropping into that deliberate, measured cadence.-"A little secret, Potter - but no. This isn't the same thing."-He leaned slightly closer, eyes glinting.-"For your cloak, it's the knitting pattern. The weave itself is enchanted to bend light around the fibres. Here..."-He gestured to the back of the cloak.-"These are very old... very old knitting patterns. Patterns that cannot be replicated. Artisan unknown, though legends say it was... Death itself. A mere myth, I would suggest."

Harry already knows the legend.

Draco waved a hand dismissively, but the intensity in his eyes didn't waver.-"Many articles and tomes suggest that knitting patterns can act as a final unlocking mechanism for magic and runes. It's not about the fibres or the cloth - it's about the sequence, the runes encoded into every stitch. The cloak you carry... elegant, functional. This... artisan-level craft."

Harry set the cloak down, a small smirk tugging at his lips.-"I don't remember you being so... encyclopedic back at Hogwarts."

Draco's smirk deepened, a hint of amusement curling the edge of his words.-"Training for the Unspeakables tends to root knowledge deeply into one's brain, Potter. Back at Hogwarts, I was far too busy studying hexes to make people's lives miserable - a hex at a time, naturally."-He paused, eyes glinting with mischief.-"Even then, I had a liking for trivial knowledge. But it mostly included... nicking socks hexes, minor annoyances, nothing of this sophistication."

Harry shook his head. His grin faded, replaced by a furrowed brow.-"Then you have all your answers here...why do you want to go back to the Edinburgh Library?"

Draco hesitated before handing Harry back his cloak.-"The problem."-He said simply, his voice low, measured.-"Is that knowing what I just explained isn't enough. I need... proof. Concrete proof."

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"The librarian, she saw her handkerchief disappear when she wiped traces of their dripping cloaks in one of the library hallways."-Draco continued, eyes narrowing.-"Moreover, she mentioned that once the Carrows had discarded their invisibility cloaks, they didn't put them back on. They're still in the library somewhere - but no one found them at the time the library was being searched, because they were invisible."

Harry's jaw tightened.-"And now?"

"Now..."-Draco said, a slight edge of hope in his voice.-"The potion has faded. I should be able to locate them. Identify them. Link the two cases together - the Carrows and the unicorns."

Harry's stomach knotted. Linking the cases... it meant he'd be pulled back into the Carrows investigation. He opened his mouth, ready to voice his concern, but Draco spoke again before he could finish.

"If what I just said is right."-Draco said, his tone softening.-"I will not intervene in the Carrows case any further. Since... this is what you want, just-..."-His voice faltered ever so slightly.-"I know I'm not in a place to ask for favours, but I need to go to the library and find out for myself."

Harry sank into one of the steel chairs near the lab table, the weight of everything pressing on his shoulders. The faint hum of the equipment filled the silence, and the dim blue light from the containment wards cast shifting shadows across his face.

Draco noticed the hesitation instantly. He recoiled slightly, arms crossing, his silver bracelet catching the light.

Harry could swear it looked odd around his wrist, yet familiar.-"Look, I don't want you to go back there; it is still dangerous."

"You don't seem ready to change, Potter."-He said flatly.-"You can't let go of that obsessive need for control. Not even when it could help solve a case - or find new leads for your own."

Harry's jaw tightened, his eyes fixed on the floor.

"I'm going to Edinburgh."-Draco said sharply, every word precise.-"With or without you."

Harry looked up at that, the quiet in his voice more dangerous than any shout.-"You can't. It's against protocol. I, for one, won't allow it."

Draco's composure cracked, anger flashing across his face.-"Since when does Harry Potter care about protocol?"-He snapped.-"Harry Potter - the same boy I caught hatching a dragon egg in Hagrid's hut in first year. The one who flew a flying car to school. Who broke into the Department of Mysteries? Who sneaked into the Restricted Section? Who disarmed a professor, lied to an Auror, stole a Hippogriff, helped a criminal escape..."-Draco took a sharp breath, his voice laced with years of frustration.-"Merlin, shall I keep going?"

Harry's lips twitched, but his gaze fell away. He folded his arms over his chest, the dark, unbuttoned Auror uniform stretching tight over muscle and frustration alike. Draco stared at him, breath uneven, waiting for an answer.

Instead, Harry said quietly.-"Draco Malfoy. The same boy who was terrified during detention in the Forbidden Forest. Who ran screaming to his daddy when Moody turned him into a ferret. Fell off a broom when disguised as a dementor during a Quidditch match, got Bat-Bogey Hexed by - what did you use to call Ginny - Weaslete, yes, that, I remember to...Shall I go on?"

Draco froze.

Harry's eyes lifted, hard now, sharp enough to cut through the silence.-"You're quick to point fingers, Malfoy. But tell me - what changed for you? Why should I trust you with a blindfold on?"

A beat of silence stretched, thick and cold. Draco's expression, which had been alight with frustration, smoothed over into a mask of pure, indifferent ice. He took a deliberate step back, creating distance.

"What changed, Potter?"-He said, his voice dangerously soft.-"Is that I no longer feel the need to prove myself to anyone. Least of all to you."

The answer was a dismissal, a shield slammed down. Harry's jaw tightened. It was the one thing he couldn't stand - the mystery, the walls he still couldn't get past. Fine. If Draco wouldn't let him in, he would take control of the situation himself.

"Alright, then. Don't."-Harry said, his own voice turning clipped and professional.-"You want to get into the library, but you can't without an Auror. I'll go. I'll investigate on your behalf and report back what I find."

The change in Draco was instantaneous. The icy composure shattered, replaced by a white - hot fury. His hand flew to his wand, pulling it from its holster with a speed that made Harry's own fingers twitch.

"You will do no such thing."-Draco hissed, the tip of his wand glowing faintly in the dim lab.-"This is my case, my evidence, my lead. You will not touch it."

Harry held his ground, his Auror instincts kicking in.-"I'm not giving you a choice, Malfoy. I can't authorize-"

"Then I'll give you one."-Draco interrupted, taking a menacing step forward.-"Either I Obliviate the last forty minutes from your memory right here, right now... or I scream. I'll scream so loud that every guard in the Ministry will hear that an unauthorised Auror has breached the Unspeakables' labs. How long do you think it will take Shacklebolt to suspend you for that?"

Blackmail. Harry's blood ran cold with anger. He slowly raised his hands in a placating gesture, forcing a calm he didn't feel into his voice.

"Alright, Draco, calm down. Let's just talk about this."-He said, taking a slow, deliberate step closer. Draco's wand remained steady, his eyes narrowed, watching Harry's every move.-"There's no need for threats."

Another small step. Harry was now just within arm's length, his expression earnest, his posture non-threatening. Draco's knuckles were white around his wand, his entire focus on Harry's face, waiting for the argument.

He never saw the flick of Harry's wrist.

Expelliarmus.

The spell was non-verbal, a silent burst of will. Draco's wand flew from his hand, clattering against the marble floor a few feet away. Harry didn't even look at it. His eyes were locked on Draco's, whose face was a canvas of pure, undiluted shock.

For a long moment, the only sound was the low hum of the magical equipment. Draco was wandless. Vulnerable. The threat had evaporated, leaving only a tense, fragile silence in its wake.

"Now that we've dispensed with the theatrics."-Harry said, his voice low and even.-"Let's try this again."

Draco's lips parted, whether in defiance or disbelief, Harry couldn't tell. The air between them was charged - too close, too hot.

And then Draco did the only thing left to him. He drew in a breath - deep, sharp - and Harry saw it coming a second too early.

Draco was going to scream.

Harry moved without thinking.

His hand came up, covering Draco's mouth, his other arm wrapping around him in one swift motion. The force of it pulled them flush together - chest to chest, breath to breath. Draco stiffened, a muffled sound of something he had tried to say, lost against Harry's palm, his eyes flaring with anger and something unspoken.

"Don't."-Harry whispered, his voice rough, the word more plea than order.

Draco's heart hammered against his chest, matching the rhythm of Harry's own. Every breath between them felt like a current - magnetic, dangerous.

The struggle stilled. Draco did not fight to get free; he just stood there.

For a heartbeat, the Ministry and its secrets ceased to exist. There was only the echo of two names and the silence that bound them.

Draco didn't move.

He didn't even flinch. The world had gone impossibly still around him, narrowed to the press of Harry's hand against his mouth and the weight of his arm holding him steady around his waist.

The warmth hit him first. It sank through his robes and into his skin, sharp and startling, the kind of warmth that didn't belong in the cold sterility of the Unspeakables' labs or near Draco's skin. Harry's breath was rough and uneven against his temple. His pulse, steady and strong, was where his chest met Draco's. The air between them felt alive, and Draco could feel his own heartbeat struggling to find a rhythm that didn't betray him.

He hadn't been going to scream. He hadn't even truly meant to threaten. He'd only wanted - needed - to be heard. For once.

But now words were useless against Harry, he could not listen to reasons.

Harry's grip was sure, unyielding, and Draco could feel every reminder of what the years had made of him - rough palms, the faint tremor of muscle under control, the kind of strength that came from holding too many lives together for too long. Draco's breath hitched, shame and something else curling in his chest. He didn't know whether it was the shock of being restrained or the unfamiliar comfort of it.

He had spent years rebuilding himself brick by brick, layer by layer - measured, polite, deliberate. Every decision was a chance to prove that he was not that boy anymore. Not the coward. Not the son moulded from fear and name and duty.

Did it all even matter if no one saw it? If no one believed him.

The sleepless nights had carved hollows beneath his eyes, nights spent bent over runes and records, chasing truths that might earn him a place again among people who had long since moved on. He was so tired - tired in the bones, tired in the breath. Tired of fighting ghosts who never answered back.

And now here was Harry Potter, holding him like some kind of reckoning. Draco felt the sting in his eyes before he could stop it. The pressure behind them wasn't rage - it was weariness. The deep, aching realisation that he could build a thousand better versions of himself and still be the boy no one believed had changed.

Harry must have seen it. Just a boy, not a monster... His gaze softened - barely, but enough. The fight drained from both of them at once, leaving only the hum of the Ministry wards and the soft, uneven rhythm of their breathing.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Then, slowly - carefully - Harry let his hand fall away.

Harry hadn't meant to notice. But he did.

The glint of a tear threatening to break free at the corner of Draco's eyes - barely there, but unmistakable - caught the light like a spell about to break. He froze. The sharp retort on his tongue faltered, and what rose instead was something softer. Concern. Guilt.

"Draco..."-He murmured, his voice low, careful, like one might speak to something fragile.-"You need to breathe."

He kept his hand steady against Draco's shoulder, not restraining now, just grounding him. He could feel the tremor running through the other man's frame, a taut string stretched too long. Draco's breaths came shallow, uneven. Harry waited, patient, until the rhythm began to settle, until the rigid line of Draco's shoulders eased by a fraction.

"There's no need to panic."-Harry said quietly.-"Alright? You're fine. I am sorry if I crossed the line."

Draco let out a sound that was halfway between a scoff and a sigh. The edge of it was bitter, but his voice, when it came, was small.-"I wasn't panicking."-He muttered. But his shoulders said otherwise - the slight slump, the way his gaze fell to the marble floor instead of meeting Harry's. He stepped back, letting Harry's hands fall away from him.

Harry hesitated. He could see it then - the hurt that lingered beneath the exhaustion, the way this moment had scraped at something raw. The realisation hit him like cold water. Draco hadn't been fighting him. He'd been fighting to be seen. To be heard by him.

"I know."-Harry said softly.-"I know. I just..."-He exhaled, running a hand through his hair.-"I shouldn't have disarmed you. I just - acted. I thought-..."

"That I'd hex you?"-Draco's mouth twisted faintly, the ghost of a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes.-"Maybe you should have."

Harry shook his head.-"No. I should have listened."

For a long moment, neither spoke. The air between them shifted again - less sharp now, but heavy with what hadn't been said. Draco's posture softened, though the lines of strain still cut deep around his eyes. When he finally looked up, there was a flicker of something close to understanding in his expression... and a trace of something that looked like betrayal.

Harry caught it instantly. It hit him square in the chest.

"I accept it."-He said, and his voice was quieter now, almost hoarse.-"I meant what I said. I accept it. All of it. Whatever you're doing down here - it's not a threat. I know that."

Draco blinked. Slowly. The words seemed to hang between them, too heavy to fall.

Harry gave a faint, tired half-smile, rubbing at the back of his neck.-"And besides... I was thinking of how we could sneak in."

That made Draco look up again, confusion flickering briefly through the haze.

"Into the Archives."-Harry continued.-"It has to be tonight. Tomorrow the reconstruction begins - everything in that wing will be sealed off, maybe for months. If there's something down there, some clue that ties to your case or mine, we'll lose it."

Draco's throat worked as he swallowed, still trying to catch up with the shift in tone.-"You're serious."

"Deadly."-A faint, weary grin tugged at Harry's lips.-"But I'm tired, Draco. Merlin, I'm so tired. And I'm guessing you are too. I wish we did not have to do this tonight..."

Draco managed the smallest of nods, the weight in his chest easing, if only slightly. The pain was still there, the ache of being misunderstood, but beneath it, a fragile thread of something else - acceptance, tentative and real.

Harry stepped back, just enough for air to pass between them again.-"But, sure, we go tonight, but I need to be home before Teddy returns..."-He said, his tone steady now, decisive.-"And...No No theatrics this time, threats, blackmail."

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Draco Malfoy didn't argue.

Harry finally bent down.

The marble was cold beneath his palm, smooth and unforgiving as he picked up Draco's wand. The wood was still warm, thrumming faintly with the remnants of its master's magic. For a long moment, Harry turned it between his fingers, old friend, he and the wand - then held it out, handle first.

It wasn't dominance. It was an offering. A truce.

Draco didn't move. His gaze flicked between the wand and Harry's face, grey eyes sharp with calculation, but something softer flickered beneath - hesitation, weariness, the faint tremor of someone who had been holding himself upright for too long. Pride warred visibly with reason.

At last, he reached out. Their fingers brushed. Just once. Dry warmth against roughened skin - an accidental spark that neither of them had prepared for. The air between them shifted, heavy, charged with too many things unsaid. Draco took the wand, his grip steady but his hand trembling ever so slightly.

"Don't ever do that again."-He said. The words were low, deliberate, but the edge of his voice frayed on the final syllable. It wasn't quite anger anymore - something rawer lingered beneath it.

It wasn't shouted. It didn't need to be.

The words were low, calm, deliberate - and yet they carried a weight that stopped Harry cold. The edges of Draco's voice frayed on the last syllable, not with anger, but with something stripped bare. Something human.

For a moment, Harry could only stare at him. The demand didn't sound like a threat - it sounded like a plea dragged through pride, like someone who had spent years rebuilding the pieces of himself and refused to let them shatter again.

Harry's instinct was to argue, to explain, to fill the space. But the look in Draco's eyes - steel-grey, bright with exhaustion and something dangerously close to hurt - held him still.

So instead, he bowed his head slightly. A gesture so small it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else, but in that silence, it felt like a surrender. Not of power - but of understanding.

Silence fell again. The hum of the magical wards filled the space between them, the faint crackle of static in the lab lights like the echo of their unspoken thoughts.

Draco’s shoulders eased as he turned away, the stiffness in his frame finally breaking. He busied himself with the small motions that filled silence - straightening a stack of parchment, closing a drawer with careful precision, adjusting the strap of his satchel. The movements were measured, deliberate, but when he exhaled, the breath that escaped him felt too heavy for the gesture. It sounded like surrender - or perhaps something quieter, something closer to acceptance.

He lingered for a heartbeat, his back to Harry. The warmth of the contact from earlier - that desperate closeness, that unguarded moment - still burned against his skin. Shameful, almost. Not because of what it was, but because of what it meant: that part of him had wanted it to linger.

Behind him, Harry’s gaze softened - just for a second, barely enough to be seen. The lines of tension around his eyes loosened, the sharpness in his stance dimming into something almost thoughtful. Then, just as quickly, the Auror returned: composed, steady, unreadable.

Still, beneath the calm, a flicker of unease remained. Draco Malfoy had a way of unsettling him - not through danger anymore, but through something stranger, more human. Every instinct Harry had ever trusted told him to stay guarded, to question the why of everything. And yet, here, in this rare quiet, some small part of him whispered the opposite. If it felt right, it had to be right.

The air between them hummed with that fragile understanding - not peace, but the shape of something that could become it.

And as they stood beneath the sterile, glowing lights of the lab, the silence grew full instead of empty. They both knew, without saying it, that the real danger no longer lived here in the Ministry halls.

It waited elsewhere - in the forgotten dust and whispered magic of an abandoned library in Edinburgh, where all their unanswered questions waited, too.

Chapter Text

The world folded back into shape with the faint crack of Apparition, Draco's soft grasp released his arm - cobblestones, cold air, and a sky veiled in slow-moving clouds appeared before them. The city was mainly hushed. Far off, the sea whispered against the cliffs. Above them, the moon broke through in shards of light, gilding the edges of the square and the silent, empty fountain that stood at its heart. Harry had been the one to choose the Apparition place; his heart and memory brought him there at the feet of the monument.

At the fountain centre, two stone soldiers stood locked in endless battle, blades frozen mid-strike, their faces carved in a shared, grim defiance. They were mirrors, hewn from marble: a reflection of struggle, of opposites bound, of a fight with no winner and no loser. The air was cool and clean, smelling faintly of salt and damp stone.

Harry moved to the fountain's edge and sat, the cold of the marble seeping through his Auror cloak. First, they needed a plan. He stared at the monument, the echo of another night - one filled with the hiss of spells and the choking cold of Dementors - still ringing in his ears. The guilt of his absence then was a physical weight. But tonight was different. He was here now. And he was here to protect Draco.

Draco lingered a few feet away, his coat a dark silhouette against the moonlit stone. His eyes, sharp and analytical, traced the lines of the soldiers.

"Of all the places in Edinburgh."-Draco said at last, his voice cutting cleanly through the quiet.-"You chose one a fifteen-minute walk from the library."

Harry didn't look away from the statue.-"It was the only place I remembered."-He said, his voice low, hollowed out by the memory.

He took a slow breath, forcing the ghosts of that battle back down.-"The walk isn't long. Uphill, through the forest. The ministry must have put at least two guards for each entrance. We can enter from the front and leave from the back, using the invisibility cloak."

Draco moved closer, stopping beside him but not sitting. The silence that fell between them wasn't empty; it was filled with the hum of unspoken things, the charge left over from their confrontation. The warmth of Harry's hand on his mouth, the solidness of his arm around his waist - it was a memory Draco's body had refused to forget.

"Edinburgh is so cold, and it's only just November."-Harry said more to the fountain than to Draco.-"So cold."

"Potter."-Draco said, his tone measured, devoid of its old malice.-"What happened in that library...It wasn't your fault."

Harry's jaw tightened, those were the words he did not what to hear. He finally turned his head, his eyes meeting Draco's in the dim light.-"That doesn't make it right."

"No."-Draco agreed softly.-"It doesn't. But we're here to find what is right. Now."

Harry gave a short, humourless laugh and looked back at the stone soldiers, forever locked in their struggle.-"If something goes wrong in there-..."

Draco cut him off with a nod.-"I know. We deal with it together-..."

"No."-Harry interrupted, his voice suddenly hard, stripped of all but command.-"You run. Understood?"

Draco froze. The word hung between them, impossible. Run. For years, that word had been a brand of shame, a synonym for cowardice. To hear it from Harry Potter, the boy who ran toward danger as if pulled by gravity, was a dislocation of his entire world.

"You're serious."-Draco breathed, searching his face.

Harry's gaze was unwavering, his green eyes catching the moonlight.-"If it's a choice between this case and your life...There is no choice. You run."

A flicker of something - disbelief, irony, perhaps even a sliver of warmth - crossed Draco's face.-"Never thought I'd hear you say that."

"I learned the hard way."-Harry murmured, his eyes drifting back to the eternal combatants.-"Sometimes the brave thing... is just to live. You learn to stop caring about the things that used to matter - pride, dignity, being right. What does it matter when people die?"

The words settled between them, heavier than the stone they sat on. Draco watched him, the sharp, analytical mind of the Unspeakable recording the weary lines around Harry's eyes, the slump of his shoulders. He saw the man from the lab, the one who disarmed him with ruthless efficiency and then, moments later, looked at him with a startling, unguarded concern.

"You treat yourself like a resource to be spent."-Draco said, the observation slipping out, quieter than he'd intended.-"As if there isn't supposed to be a you left when it's all over."

Harry's breath hitched, a barely audible sound. He said nothing. A long moment passed. The whisper of the fountain's unseen water was the only sound.

"I am running out of sanity."-Harry whispered back to the stone soldiers, the fact that he was here with Malfoy enough to question his sanity, or what was left of it. The clock over the church tower hit 09:00. Teddy would be home by 10:30; they had to quickly finish this mission. He finally pushed himself to his feet, the brief moment of vulnerability shuttered away. The Auror was back in his stance, steady and resolute. But the confession lingered in the air, a fragile truth offered in the dark.

They stood there for another heartbeat, the statues their silent witness. Then, without another word, they turned and began the walk. The forest path waited, a dark line leading up the hill toward the library. The moon shone bright enough to pierce the canopy in shifting patterns of silver and black.

Words were no longer necessary. The weight of what they had said - and what they hadn't - by the fountain was enough to carry them through the silence. Two men, walking beneath a sky full of stars, each carrying the other's words like a ceasefire held against the dark. The forest path stretched uphill, winding between dark trunks and underbrush that brushed against their legs as they walked. The moon cut through gaps in the canopy, silver shards catching on wet leaves and the edges of Draco's coat.

Harry kept his eyes forward, scanning shadows, listening for the slightest disturbance, but his mind refused to stay on the forest. It kept drifting back to Draco: the subtle tilt of his shoulders, the way he moved with both care and quiet precision, the faint tension in his stride that spoke of restraint even now. Harry stole glances, committing everything to memory - the curve of Draco's jaw under moonlight, the pale set of his neck, the steady beat of his steps.

Draco walked a half-step behind, eyes flicking to Harry. Not openly, not enough for Harry to notice, but enough to trace the movements, the care in his gait, the subtle way Harry paused to let Draco keep up, the faint protective tension in his shoulders. Draco's chest tightened. The man before him was the same Harry he had known - impulsive, intense, all force and weight - but softened somehow by experience, tempered by loss, more patient.

The memory of the lab - metallic tang of potions, shimmer of invisibility, Harry's hand heavy on his mouth, the press of his arm around Draco's waist - hung between them like mist. Cold November air brushed against their cheeks, but it only sharpened the awareness of warmth that had lingered, like a secret shared too late to name.

A fallen branch cracked underfoot.

The sound was sharp, violent in the quiet. Harry's wand was out in a fluid motion, his body angled protectively before Draco's. Draco mirrored the action instantly, his own wand raised, his back to Harry's as they scanned the darkness in a seamless, practised orbit. Nothing moved but the whispering leaves.

After a long moment, Draco lowered his wand, though his posture remained tense.-"You're jumpy, Potter."-His voice was a low murmur, barely disturbing the air.

"Just careful, Malfoy."-Harry replied, his own voice tight as he holstered his wand back on the strap around his thigh. The brief, shared danger had pulled the tension between them taut as a wire.

At the last bend, Harry slowed entirely, letting Draco catch up fully. Their shoulders brushed, just once, and both flinched inwardly at the contact - small, electric, impossible to dismiss. Draco did not speak. Harry's eyes never left the path, but he felt Draco's gaze like a physical presence at his back, assessing, observing, memorising.

They arrived at the library, a dark mass against the moonlit sky. Two guards leaned against the walls, caught in the grey space between vigilance and fatigue. The door up front had been shattered during the battle, and it now laid wide open. Just as expected. Harry drew the invisibility cloak from his bag, quickly unfolding it with one quick motion.

"Under."-He murmured.

Draco slipped beneath it without hesitation. The space was tight, deliberate. Harry was immediately aware of the heat from Draco's side pressing against his own, the faint, clean scent of his robes, the faint ink and coffee scent, the shared breath clouding in the small space. As they crouched low, Draco flicked his wand. A soft hum of magic, almost imperceptible, spread around them. Muffliato. The sound of their boots on stone dulled to a whisper.

Harry's brow furrowed in surprise. He hadn't thought of it. The subtle effectiveness, the quiet competence of a muffling charm - it was a stark reminder of the sharp, meticulous man from the lab. He would definitely use this technique in the future.

Their movements became a single, flowing shadow. They slipped past the drowsy guards unnoticed, Harry's fingers brushing Draco's side as he adjusted the cloak's drape. Draco didn't flinch or pull away. The contact was a simple, physical fact, an acknowledgement of proximity that hung between them, charged and unspoken.

Once inside the vast, ruined atrium, Harry let the cloak fall from their shoulders. The air was cold and still. Shattered columns rose like the bones of some great beast, scarred with the remnants of past battles. One pillar caught Draco's attention - its base was still stained dark where a guard had bled out. His eyes lingered on the mark, his expression unreadable. The guard had survived thanks to Hermione; she had insisted that she could help him mid-battle.

Harry stepped closer, his own voice a low murmur.-"Do you... know exactly-.?"

"Other side."-Draco cut him off. The words were sharp, precise, not aimed at Harry but at the space ahead. His eyes were fixed on the far end of the hall, his focus absolute. It wasn't an insult; it was a command born from the visceral need to control this single, dangerous variable. It was his way of saying, Here, on this ground, you follow me.

A ghost of a smile, wry and tired, touched Harry's lips. He didn't feel challenged; he felt a strange sense of deference settle over him. Ceding control had never been his strength, but here, now, it felt right. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod and fell into step behind him.

Draco led them through the echoing hall, his memory a flawless map. He moved with a taut grace, his gaze sweeping every shadow, every broken piece of stone. He was reliving it - the path that had led to the Carrows' captive, the scent of dark magic, the glint of the shimmering liquid through the hallway mixed with the Carrows' footsteps.

Harry followed, his wand held loosely at his side, keeping a low light alive to guide them through the unlit hallways. He watched the tense line of Draco's shoulders, the deliberate, careful placement of his feet.

Draco stepped deeper into the library, eyes scanning the fractured expanse. Columns lay toppled, jagged at the base; splintered shelves leaned at odd angles. The floor was mottled with dust and the faint remnants of Hermione's black prank-orbs, scattered like frozen sparks.

He knelt, brushing a fingertip along a faint smear of liquid - trampled, overlaid with footprints from Aurors and others who had passed through since the battle.-"If we'd stayed on this case..."-He muttered, the words low, almost bitter.-"If Granger and I had been on the case... We could have found it weeks ago."

Harry said nothing, eyes moving constantly, wand at the ready. Their safety mattered more than pride - or blame.

Draco rose, brushing dust from his hands, and began moving with deliberate, measured steps.-"It's here somewhere."-He said, voice quiet but certain.-"The Carrows discarded it... they didn't care where. Just slipped it aside when they no longer needed it. Keep your eyes open."

Harry had already started scanning the area. The cloak they sought was likely tattered and forgotten, but it had to be here. He noticed the subtle way Draco's jaw tightened, the quiet focus in his gaze, the precise way he moved through the wreckage, reconstructing the path the Carrows had taken.

Draco stopped in the middle of the ruined library, where the librarian had been tied up, letting his eyes sweep over the chaos. Fallen columns, shattered shelves, the faint black blinding dust from Hermione's orbs - the scene was a skeleton of the battle, silent now, waiting for them to interpret it.

He exhaled slowly, the sharp edge of his focus palpable.-"The librarian said the Carrows came in from the back. One of them restrained her while the other stayed silent, invisible, until the other had her tied. They moved like this..."

He lifted his hands, tracing arcs in the air, fluid but deliberate, mimicking the gestures the Carrows had used. His movements were sharp, practised - hands pinching imaginary ropes, guiding invisible feet, tilting heads as though reading the librarian's terror.

"The first one - he held her here."-Draco said, crouching, turning slightly, already taking his cloak off and throwing it on the crook of his arm.-"Her arms bound, her legs pinned. They didn't reveal themselves until the last moment, she said. Then, the other... the one who had been scouring- threw their cloak aside. Dramatic. Deliberate. To intimidate, to mark their arrival. She remembered every movement."

Draco had suddenly straightened, lifting his own cloak as if it were weightless. Harry's brow furrowed, watching, heart thumping at the intensity in Draco's posture and acting skills, as he made a dramatic throw. He spun as if dancing, tracing the arc the Carrow's invisible form would have taken, and then, in one swift, fluid motion, he threw his own coat across the ruined floor, arm extended in a flourish of precision, as though he were tossing the final key to their puzzle into the world.

Harry blinked, instinctively stepping forward.-"Fetch it for me."-Draco said, voice low but commanding.

Harry scoffed and moved toward the scattered debris. His fingers brushed against dark dust, broken bits of marble, and finally - the edge of dark fabric. The cloak had landed just a few feet from where Draco had thrown his own, a mirror of the Carrows' predictable movements. He picked it up carefully, letting the shimmer of concealed fabric catch the pale light.

Harry straightened, clapping softly, a grin tugging at his lips.-"That was... impressively precise. Every movement."

Draco's lips curved into the faintest smirk, and he gave a theatrical bow.-"I aim to please."-He murmured, a flash of humour under the weight of the library's ghosts.

Harry handed the cloak back to him, carefully smoothing the fabric.-"Here - your precision deserves its due."-He said. Then he reached into his bag, securing the other cloak they had found.-"And this one... I'll keep safe. I will take it to the ministry as evidence."

Draco's eyes flicked over him briefly, approving, before he adjusted his own cloak and turned back to the ruined library. His hard work had paid off; what he had planned had all been exactly like that. He could finally let the sleepless nights and tiredness catch up with him.

They slipped out through the back door, hands brushing the splintered frame still scarred from Hermione's bombardment that night. A guard had fallen asleep there. Harry pulled the invisibility cloak over their shoulders again, the familiar weight settling around them. Outside, the courtyard stretched under the same moonlight that had witnessed the chaos of their last battle here.

The memory hit Draco before he could stop it. His breath caught in his throat, the cold creeping into his chest as if it had never left. Dementors. Shouts. Firelight bouncing off stone and terror. He shivered, but the warmth at his side - Harry - anchored him to the present, to safety.

"We can follow the path I took that night."-Draco said finally, voice low but steady.-"There's an Apparition point just at the end of the forest line."

Harry nodded. He remembered all too well - the sharp words, the tension that had danced between them that night. His own voice had been cruelly honest. Death Eaters couldn't cast Patronuses. Draco's retort had been bitter, defensive: I'll walk to London if that's what it takes...to get away from him. He had meant away from Harry. And yet, here they were, working side by side.

At the forest's edge, Harry lifted the cloak one last time and stashed it carefully in his satchel. The cool November air rushed around them, brushing at their faces. They entered the trees in silence, the ground uneven, leaves and underbrush brushing their boots, wand tips raised, eyes scanning the darkness.

No words passed, but every movement spoke volumes. Each step was careful, measured; each glance sideways weighed, memorised. The forest was alive around them - branches whispering, distant rustling - but the only weight Draco felt was the quiet solidity of Harry at his side, and the memory of how far they had come in one night.

It began with the silence.

One moment, the forest was alive with the whisper of leaves and the distant rustle of unseen things. Next, it was utterly still. A profound, heavy quiet fell over them, swallowing sound. Then came the cold. It wasn't the crisp bite of autumn; it was a deep, sucking chill that leached the warmth from the air, from their skin, from the very marrow of their bones. Their breath plumed in thick, white clouds. Frost began to creep across the fallen leaves at their feet.

Harry felt it first - a prickle of icy dread that had nothing to do with memory and everything to do with instinct. He stopped, his body going rigid. His glasses slightly fogged by the sudden cold.-"Draco."-He said softly.

Draco had already frozen, his face pale in the moonlight, his eyes wide. He knew this cold now. He knew this silence. The chill in his soul.

They emerged from the shadows like smoke, like a circle of crows blacker than the night, their ragged forms gliding over the forest floor without a sound. A dozen of them. Their rattling, soulless breath was the only noise in the deadened world, a sound that promised only emptiness.

Harry's fear was a sudden, sharp spike - but it wasn't for himself anymore. The terror he'd felt as a boy, the dread of his own past, was gone. In its place was a white-hot, protective fury. He saw Luna's words in his mind - souls like fragile threads - and he knew, with absolute certainty, that he would not let them touch the one beside him. I will not let anything touch him. Not tonight. Not again. Not ever.

"Draco."-Harry's voice was a blade in the cold, commanding. -"Go. Run. To the Apparition point -now. I will hold them back."

Draco did not move, his eyes fixed ahead.

He shoved the satchel into Draco's chest, trying to propel him forward. But Draco's feet were rooted to the frozen ground. His wand hand trembled, not with indecision, but with a terror so profound it paralysed him. The Dementors were getting closer, the cold intensifying, whispering memories of the Manor, of screams, of failure.

The screams...

"I... I can't..."-Draco stammered, eyes locked on Harry's. He wasn't thinking of glory or orders now - only of the unbearable certainty that he couldn't watch Harry be swallowed by that darkness alone. He wasn't staying for the evidence. The thought that flared inside him was stark and absolute: Both of us, or none of us.

Harry's hand clenched around his wand. He searched for something inside him - a memory bright enough to anchor him, to build a Patronus from. But the old ones had dimmed. The image of his parents - their laughter, their warmth - flickered weakly, threadbare from overuse. He could feel the hollowness where light should be, a void that the Dementors eagerly tried to fill.

Not now. Not again.

He needed something stronger. Something alive. He needed to focus. But not with Draco's life on the line.

"Take the evidence and go!"-Harry shouted, voice roughened by strain. The air around them had turned to ice. Frost crackled at their feet, and the night itself seemed to breathe against their skin.

Behind him, Draco spoke - his voice breaking but fierce.-"No."-The word hung, trembling but unwavering.-"I'm not leaving you here alone."

Harry turned sharply, meeting his eyes - grey to green, both wild, both burning. And in that instant, something shifted inside him. The fear that had clawed at his chest found a new shape, a new direction.

The realisation slammed into him with the force of a physical blow: This isn't about surviving anymore. It's about not letting anyone be lost again.

He turned toward the oncoming tide of darkness. The Dementors circled like vultures, their cloaks whispering against the wind, their breath a soft, endless exhale of despair.

Harry closed his eyes - not to escape, but to reach.

And there it was.

Not the fragile glow of a happy past, but something fierce, defiant, alive.

The weight of Draco's hand clutching the satchel determined to stay. The memory of his voice - sharp, unyielding. The trust between them, forged in cold and fear.

That was enough.

He raised his wand, the word forming on his tongue like a promise, steady and certain.

"Expecto Patronum!"

Light erupted - not the blinding, silver blaze he once remembered from his youth, but something deeper, steadier, its edges pulsing like a heartbeat.

The form that stepped forward was a stag, yet changed - young, leaner, calmer, its antlers branching wider, its eyes reflecting not remembrance but resolve. The creature wasn't Prongs. It wasn't James's ghostly echo anymore. It was his - born from battles survived, from years of rebuilding, from love remade in quieter ways.

The new stag lowered its head, breath steaming, and charged the Dementors. The wave of darkness recoiled, shrieking, until the forest broke open with light. Frost melted from bark and stone, the air tasted of metal and rain.

Beside him, Draco stood unmoving, eyes wide, his fear dissolving into awe.

The stag turned once, briefly, toward Harry - and for a heartbeat, he thought he saw himself reflected in it: not a son, or a soldier, or a saviour, but simply Harry.

And when the last trace of shadow scattered, the silence that followed was clean, almost sacred. The stag remained watchful, gliding through trees.

"This way, Potter!"-He brought him back to reality, pulling him forward.-"The clearing - it's just ahead."

Harry made a mental note as they went: he'd send a team down here tomorrow morning, first thing first. The Dementors were finished in this forest. For good.

They stumbled through the trees in long strides. Draco had not let go of his arm. The stag stood behind them, a valiant guardian holding back the tide. Harry was shaking, the magic draining him with every heartbeat. Draco was their guide, his eyes fixed on the path.

They burst into a small clearing, the Apparition point. The stag gave one last nod of light before dissolving, and the darkness rushed in. The cold was absolute.

Harry grabbed Draco, his knuckles white, his body trembling with exhaustion. He steadied them both, forcing his mind to focus on a single destination. A safe place. The only place.

"Hold on."-He gasped.

With a final, desperate twist, the suffocating forest vanished, wrenched away with a gut-twisting crack.

The world folded back into the familiar sight of the London pavement outside Number 12 Grimmauld Place. They collapsed onto the cold stone, a tangle of limbs, gasping for the damp city air. For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged, desperate breathing, the echo of the forest's cold still clinging to their skin. They were out. They were safe. They were together. They lay on the sidewalk, fully hugging the pavement.

The damp London air was a shock after the soul-sucking cold of the forest. For a long moment, they just stayed there on the pavement, a heap of trembling limbs and ragged breathing. Harry pushed himself up first, his muscles screaming in protest. He looked down at Draco, who was still on his back, head tilted towards the sky, his silver-blond hair stark against the dark stone. He looked calm like that; one could have assumed he was dead by how pale and relaxed he looked. He was shaking, however, a fine, uncontrollable tremor running through his entire frame.

There was no other option. This was the only place.

Harry placed a hand on Draco's arm, a firm, grounding pressure.-"Come on."-He said, his voice rough with exhaustion.-"Inside."

Draco allowed Harry to pull him to his feet, moving with a stiff, delayed grace, h brushed his cloak from the dust of the sidewalk. He was pliant, his usual sharp edges worn away by shock, leaving only a quiet, unnerving stillness. He swayed, and Harry's arm instinctively wrapped around his waist to steady him, while he took his wand out of the holster.

Harry balanced Draco softly with one arm, and with the other, he pointed his wand at the space between numbers 11 and 13. With a quiet tap, the air shimmered, and Number 12 Grimmauld Place bloomed into existence, not as a grim spectre, but as a house that looked lived-in with the warm lights from inside shining into the streets. Another tap of his wand and the front door clicked open, spilling a rectangle of warm, golden light onto the pavement.

The warmth hit them first, a tangible wave that felt like a physical embrace. It carried the scent of home - of aged wood, beeswax, and the faint, comforting aroma of brewing tea. It was the scent of a place that had been healed.

Harry guided Draco over the threshold, kicking the door shut behind them. He led the still-silent man through the hallway and into the kitchen. The room was the heart of the house's transformation: warm, spacious, with wooden cabinets and gleaming copper pots. Harry led Draco straight to the hearth, and with a flick of his wand, a fire crackled to life.

The sudden crackle of magic was followed by another, sharper one. Kreacher appeared beside the table. He bowed low.-"Master Harry."-He rasped, before his large eyes fell on their guest. A flicker of recognition crossed his face.-"The young Master Malfoy. Kreacher is seeing that you are safe."

Draco's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly at the sight of the elf. A memory, sharp and unpleasant of him stealing his letters, flickered behind his eyes, but he said nothing. When Kreacher shuffled forward with a heavy woollen blanket, Draco simply gave a small, curt shake of his head, his gaze fixed on the fire.

"Just the tea, Kreacher."-Harry said quietly, understanding the silent refusal.

Kreacher placed a tray with a steaming teapot and two mugs on the table and Disapparated with another crack. Harry poured a mug of the dark, fragrant tea and pushed it into Draco's hands.

"Here."

Draco's fingers, trembling and stiff, closed around the warm ceramic. The contact seemed to ground him. He lifted the mug and took a long, slow sip, his eyes closing for a moment. After he set it down, the fragile shell of his professional composure began to reform.

"Thank you, Potter."-He said, his voice quiet but steady.-"For your assistance and the courtesy. But we need to get this evidence to the Ministry. It must be logged and processed."-He shifted, gathering himself to stand.-"Duty first."

Harry didn't move from his spot, his presence a quiet but immovable obstacle.-"No."

Draco looked up, not with anger, but with a weary frustration.-"This was a calculated risk. I'm not a wounded soldier in need of mending; the damage was merely emotional."

"I know what type of damage this is, what you call merely emotional...Is more dangerous than anything physical."-Harry said, his voice low and even.-"And you're still shaking. Look at your hands."

Draco glanced down at his own hands wrapped around the mug. The tremor was undeniable, a physical betrayal of the control he was trying to project. His jaw tightened.

"Well, work can wait."-Harry continued, his tone leaving no room for argument. He reached over and carefully took the satchel containing the Carrows' cloak.-"This will be safe here. First things first, I will bring it to the Ministry tomorrow, you can have your reports ready, and you can present it to Kingsley and Hermione; all credits will remain with you. Tonight, on the other hand, it looks like you'll fall apart if you take three steps."

Draco's mouth opened to protest, but the words wouldn't come. The adrenaline was gone, leaving only a profound, bone-deep exhaustion. The fight drained out of him, replaced by a glassy, weary resignation. He let out a long breath that had been pressing down on his lungs, and slumped back into the chair, the warmth of the fire finally seeping past his shock. He watched Harry place the satchel safely on the mantelpiece, then turned his gaze back to the flames.

He said nothing. The silence was his surrender.

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed the half-hour, its deep, resonant tones marking 10:30. The sound seemed to break a spell. Draco shifted in his chair, the warmth of the fire finally having chased the last of the Dementors' chill from his bones, leaving behind a raw, scraped-out exhaustion.

Harry shrugged off his Auror coat and dropped it unceremoniously over the back of a chair. The simple, domestic act felt jarringly out of place. This wasn't Auror Potter, his partner on a dangerous case. This was just... Harry. In his home.

"I'm going to change."-Harry said, already heading for the door and into the hallway towards the drawing room.-"Be right back."-He had said from the hallway.

This was his chance to escape. The warmth was a balm, but the intimacy of the space was beginning to feel like a cage. Draco pushed himself to his feet, the protest already forming on his lips. Thank you, I'm fine now. I must be going.

He couldn't stay.

He couldn't be an intruder in the life Potter had clearly built here, a life that was a complete and utter mystery. The thought of a Mrs. Potter, of a child, was a complication he had no desire to witness, tonight of all nights.

But before he could speak up, the flames in the drawing room fireplace, visible through the open doorway, the light sweeping into the hallway, roared to life, turning a brilliant emerald green. Draco froze, instinctively stepping back into the shadows of the kitchen, trying to make himself unseen.

"Good evening."-A woman's voice, tired but warm, drifted from the other room.-"He was an absolute angel, not a peep out of him the whole day today."

"He always is for you, turns into a monster the moment he lands on my arms."-Harry's cheery voice replied.

"I'll be by at ten tomorrow to get him, before work."-The woman said.-"Don't let him keep you up all night."

"Never."-Harry said softly.-"Goodnight."

The flames whooshed and died down. Silence returned. Draco's mind raced, processing the brief exchange. She's not staying. The immediate, logical conclusion was that they were separated. The thought settled uncomfortably in his chest, a strange mix of pity and profound relief.

He heard Harry murmur something soft, followed by the happy, gurgling babble of the young child. Then, a clear, delighted sound echoed in the quiet house.-"Da-da..."

Draco let the moment fade through the corridors of the house, the far giggles filling the house like a lifeline. Harry's entire world...the small bundle of joy. He tried to shake away the feeling it left at the pit of his stomach. But it had grounded itself there, rooted...

He decided to stay; he removed his cloak, putting it beside the chair where Harry had thrown his. His muscles were indeed still frail, not just by the night they had just encountered, but also by the other piled-up sleepless nights at the lab. He went back to the chair by the fireplace. He brushed some dust off his white shirt, gently rolling up the sleeves, then he looked at the Dark Mark...

He rolled the sleeves back down.

Harry's footsteps receded up the staircase, and then, after moments that felt like an eternity later, came back down.

When Harry re-entered the kitchen, he had changed into a simple grey jumper and dark trousers. The weary lines of the Auror were still etched around his eyes, but they were softened by something else - a proud, bone-deep contentment that seemed to emanate from him. He looked recharged, as if holding his son had refilled some vital part of him that the Dementors had drained away.

He sat down in the chair opposite Draco, noting the fact that he had removed his cloak, maybe a slight indication that he had accepted the offer to stay till he felt better. He leaned back, picking up his own mug of now lukewarm tea, warming it with his wand. He didn't ask questions. He didn't press. He simply sat, sharing the silence and the warmth of the fire.

Draco said nothing of what he'd overheard. It wasn't his place. He was an outsider who had stumbled past a curtain he never meant to look behind. He had come here as an Unspeakable on a case with an Auror. But somehow, he was now sitting in the kitchen of a father, world saviour who looked like he was about to drop some lore that was never heard before, and provide wits that could change the way he perceives life. The two identities felt irreconcilable, and the silence between them was suddenly filled with the vast, unspoken weight of a life he knew nothing about.

The clock ticked on, the steady rhythm filling the kitchen like the beat of some old, patient heart. Neither of them spoke for a long while. The fire had burned down to a low orange glow, the wood sighing softly with every slow collapse. Harry fed it a few more wooden logs and sat with his hands around his mug, his posture loose now, but his head tilted slightly toward the ceiling every time the faintest creak came from above. Draco could see the instinct of it - his sharpness, his alertness - always listening for the smallest noise from the nursery. The kind of vigilance born not from duty, but from love. Any slight cry would be his call for another lullaby.

When nothing stirred, a quiet relief softened Harry's face. For the first time that night, the lines around his mouth eased, the weight behind his eyes dimmed. The silence that settled between them wasn't uncomfortable. It was just... full.

Draco leaned forward, his temple resting against his hand. The table beneath him was old, worn smooth with use. His fingertips brushed against a dark patch near his elbow - a permanent stain, broom polish maybe, absorbed into the grain. He stared at it for a long moment, tracing the edge absently, the scent of ash and tea mingling in the warm air. On the table there was a familiar object...a worn tin of mints, he had forgotten its name, but he could still remember the taste. Who really even was Harry Potter anymore?

It was Harry who finally spoke, his voice quiet, even.-"So."-He said, the word almost a sigh.-"What do you intend to do with your case?"

Draco blinked, as if pulled back from far away. He straightened slightly, his hand falling from his face.

"The case."-He echoed, considering the phrasing.-"I intend to find out what happened to the unicorns. If I know the Carrows, they wouldn't have killed them all at once. The blood is too valuable; the creatures can regenerate it. They'd keep them alive as long as they could, as if feeding off them. They can still be found...saved."

Harry nodded slowly, eyes narrowing in thought, but didn't interrupt.

Draco's tone sharpened, the exhaustion replaced by something more deliberate, measured.-"I know this puts me back on your case, Potter. I don't intend to interfere with fieldwork. That's your department. I'd rather stay behind...the mind behind the work, not the muscle."

Harry's mouth curved, not quite a smile, but close.-"That's fine by me. We could use a mind like yours on this one."

Draco gave a faint, humourless huff.-"Flattery doesn't really suit you, Potter."

"Wasn't flattery, or at least not in the form of irony as you would take it... I mean it, props given when they're due."-Harry said simply, eyes still on him.

The clock struck eleven, its low chime threading through the quiet. Draco didn't look away this time. Neither did Harry.

For a moment, the world felt very still - two men bound not by friendship or duty, but by the shared silence of those who had faced too much and survived anyway.

Harry sat back, his gaze steady across the table. For a moment, the only sound was the low crackle of the fire and the quiet ticking of the clock. Then, without ceremony, he said.-"You were brave tonight."

Draco looked up, startled.-"What?"

Harry's tone didn't waver.-"You were brave. Tonight. And the night of the battle at the library. You didn't have to come back there for the evidence. You didn't have to stay when you did. But you did."

Draco gave a low, disbelieving laugh and looked away. The firelight caught on his profile, the faint sheen of exhaustion across his eyes.-"Brave."-He repeated, the word like ash on his tongue.-"Without you, I'd have lost my soul twice now. Does it even matter how brave I've been if what I fear most are a few ragged, cloaked creatures I can't even put a proper fight against?"

Harry didn't answer right away. The word fear lingered between them, heavy and sharp.

Then, quietly, he asked.-"Do you know what your biggest fear actually is?"

Draco frowned, the reflexive deflection almost visible in the tightening of his jaw. But he didn't lie.-"Not knowing."-He said finally.-"Dementors are... what I don't understand. I can't reason with them. I can't outthink them."-He stopped, the breath catching before he could finish.-"I don't know how to fight them."

Harry nodded slowly, as though that admission was more than he'd expected.-"Then maybe I could teach you."

Draco's head snapped up immediately, defensive.-"No. Absolutely not."

Harry's lips curved in a faint, knowing smile.-"You'd be surprised how often I've heard that before."

Draco didn't reply, still defensive, so Harry went on, his voice softening with memory.-"Back at Hogwarts - when I was teaching Dumbledore's Army and we practised in secret, everyone thought it was something only the greatest wizards can control. Most of them didn't even believe it would work at first. But it did. I myself had a good teacher. Remus Lupin taught me the Patronus Charm in the third year. First proper one I ever cast. I've never stopped respecting that knowledge since. The best way to do that is to pass the knowledge along. Especially to those who need it most to overcome a fear."

Draco leaned back slightly, watching him. The story, simple as it was, carried a warmth that Draco didn't know how to approach. A younger version of himself would have scoffed, called it sentimental nonsense. But now, sitting by Potter's fire, with the smell of smoke and old tea between them, it made an odd kind of sense.

After a moment, Draco said quietly.-"Maybe back then, as a student...I could have still learned it...But now...It's not a matter of learning, Potter. It's a matter of worth. Back then, I was still salvageable. But now... You know what I am. You were right, you know. All those nights ago. Death Eaters can't cast Patronuses."

Harry's laugh startled him - a brief, genuine sound, so human it almost broke the air; it was not mocking him, instead it was confronting, like the day Harry had hugged him at the Ministry corridor before his trial.-"You know."-He said, shaking his head.-"I was wrong about that too."

Draco frowned, confused.-"How so?"

Harry looked into the fire, his voice dipping lower, threaded with something reverent.-"I knew a Death Eater who could. And he could cast a beautiful doe Patronus."-He paused, eyes distant.-"Severus Snape."

Draco froze. The name landed softly but hit deep.

"If Severus had hope."-Harry said.-"Then so do you, Malfoy."

For a long while, Draco said nothing. The fire shifted, throwing light across his face, flickering between defiance and something far more fragile. Pride warred visibly with the quiet ache of wanting to believe.

Finally, he muttered.-"Even if I agreed, what would we practice with? Thin air?"

Harry's expression turned wry.-"Not quite. There's a boggart in my drawing room. Has been sealed in the desk since before I moved in."

Draco blinked, incredulous.-"Why the hell do you have a boggart in your desk?"

Harry gave a small shrug, the ghost of a grin crossing his face.-"It's been there a long time. Never quite got around to dealing with it."

Draco stared at him, trying to decide if this was madness or sincerity. The answer, he realised, was probably both. Of course, Harry Potter would make a pet out of a boggart. Talking about the same dude who rode a dragon out of Gringotts.

Harry leaned back slightly, gaze drifting toward the clock again - half past eleven now, the steady tick filling the spaces between their breaths. Time went smoothly between them, but it almost felt like it was slipping away.

"You don't have to decide tonight."-He said finally, voice low, almost tired.-"But if you want to... we can start tomorrow. After work."

Draco looked up from his hands, suspicion flickering behind his composure.-"Why?"-He asked.-"Why do you want to do this?"

Harry didn't hesitate.-"Because if you're staying on the Carrow case, even from the sidelines, this knowledge is needed."-His tone wasn't sharp, but firm - the quiet authority of someone used to leading others through dangerous ground.-"You saw what happened tonight. Dementors don't always come announced. I need to know you can hold your ground, even when I am not there to protect you."

Draco's eyes narrowed, a flash of pride stiffening his shoulders.-"And you think you can teach me that?"

"I think you can learn it."-Harry said simply. He wasn't smiling, but there was something steady in his voice - a calm certainty that cut through the space between them.-"I don't expect you to be brilliant at it. But even a faint shield can buy you time - enough to get away, enough to think. Sometimes that's all you need."

Draco didn't answer right away. The silence stretched again, the clock ticking on, the fire hissing softly in the grate. His hand came up, fingers rubbing absently at the edge of his sleeve - a gesture Harry had come to recognise as thought, or doubt.

Finally, Draco said, quietly.-"You make it sound easy."

Harry's gaze softened.-"It's not."-He said.-"But it's possible."

They locked eyes for a moment. Harry looked so sure of himself, more sure than even Draco was of himself. Draco exhaled through his nose, somewhere between resignation and acceptance.-"Tomorrow, then."

Harry nodded once, as if sealing a quiet pact.-"Tomorrow."

The fire sank lower, its light flickering between them - two men who had fought on opposite sides of the same war, now sitting in its long aftermath, trying to rebuild a language that wasn't made of suspicion or loss.

The clock struck midnight. Silence fell. Even breaths, alive and relaxed for once. Neither moved. They just stayed.

Draco left sometime after midnight. The fire had burned low, its glow dulled to a faint, amber shimmer that clung to the edges of the hearth. Harry hadn't tried to stop him, only nodded once as Draco pulled on his coat, as if understanding that words would cheapen the fragile stillness they'd managed to build.

When the door had closed behind Draco, the sound seemed to echo through the house - sharp at first, then fading into stillness.

Harry had stayed where he was. The fire in the kitchen had burned down to a low, steady glow, throwing long shadows across the tiled floor. The second mug of tea sat untouched on the table, steam long gone, its surface gone flat and grey. Across from him, the chair Draco had occupied was empty now, the faint imprint of his presence still visible in the soft cushion.

The quiet pressed in.

Harry's eyes lingered on that empty space - the ghost of conversation still hovering in the air. He told himself he was only thinking through the case, tracing threads in his head the way he always did after a long night. But that wasn't quite true.

He had appreciated the company.

He wouldn't say it out loud - not even to himself - but the truth settled heavy and real somewhere in his chest. The past hours had been strange: the trust, the fear, the fight, the silence. And yet, for the first time in a long while, he hadn't felt entirely alone in the work, in the memory of what they carried.

Now, with Draco gone, the emptiness was sharper. It filled the corners of the kitchen, settled over the table, and climbed the walls like fog.

He reached for his cup, found it cold, and set it back down without drinking.

The clock ticked softly above the mantle - slow, steady, unbothered by the weight of his thoughts. The fire cracked once, a small sound in a too-quiet house.

Harry leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand across his face. The fatigue crept in like a tide - not the kind that sleep could cure, but the kind born of years of vigilance, of carrying too much for too long.

He stared at the opposite chair again - at the space where Draco had been - and let out a quiet breath.

Tomorrow would come soon enough.

But tonight, there was only this: the fire's faint glow, the echo of company now gone, and the hollow stillness left behind.

The cold hit Draco the moment he stepped outside - sharp, bracing, clean. London at this hour was hushed, wrapped in the kind of stillness that belonged only to sleepless minds and ghosts. His breath misted in the air as he started to walk, hands buried deep in his pockets. The echo of his footsteps on the cobblestones filled the street, steady and alone.

He could have Apparated instantly - back to Wiltshire, to silence, to the emptiness of the manor that had become less a home and more a mausoleum of memory. But something in him resisted the immediacy of escape. The walk, the bite of the wind, the pulse of his own heartbeat in the cold - they grounded him, forcing thought into motion.

He replayed the night in fragments: the silver light of the forest, the glint of the Dementors' approach, Harry's voice cutting through fear with command and steadiness. The warmth of that kitchen, the soft sound of a child's laughter, the way the world had seemed to shrink for a moment into something unbearably human.

Why had he agreed to it? To this - to returning tomorrow night, to learn from Harry Potter of all people? It was reckless, absurd even. Trust had never come easily to him, and yet he'd found himself saying yes before he'd truly thought it through.

His fingers tightened in his pockets. Perhaps he was just tired. Or perhaps the night had undone him in some quiet, irreversible way.

He thought of Potter's eyes - the same fierce, untiring green that had once looked at him across a battlefield, now tempered with patience, with something dangerously close to belief. Belief in him.

It unsettled him.

Could he even be trusted? After everything - after the mark, the choices, the years? Could a man like Potter be so foolish as to think that trust was something Draco Malfoy could hold without breaking it? Without disappointing.

He stopped under a lamppost, the light washing his face in pale gold. The question lingered in the air, unanswered, forming clouds of breath that vanished as quickly as they came.

He's making a mistake, Draco told himself. He's always made them, hasn't he?

And yet, somewhere beneath the cynicism, something small - traitorous - whispered back: Or maybe you're the one who finally won't.

Draco closed his eyes, drew a slow breath, and with a faint crack, the night folded around him.

Chapter Text

Kingsley Shacklebolt's office was spacious but cluttered, the air thick with the tension of an ongoing crisis. Hermione Granger was already seated, her expression taut as she reviewed a sheaf of notes. Harry and Draco sat opposite her, a heavy silence between them. The exhaustion from the previous night was a physical presence, visible in the weary set of Harry's shoulders and the rigid, almost brittle composure Draco had meticulously constructed around himself.

"Alright."-Kingsley said, his voice a low rumble that commanded the room. As Head Auror, he'd seen enough late-night debriefings to know when the official story was only half the picture.-"Let's have it. The full narrative."

Draco began, his voice level and precise. He laid out the Unspeakables' analysis of the Carrows' movements, the function of the unicorn blood, and the purpose of the invisibility potion. He spoke with the detached authority of his profession, carefully framing every discovery as the result of departmental work. He slid the evidence bag containing the tarnished, potion-stained cloak across the desk, as well as the heavy reports file that connected the cloak to the unicorns that were stolen.

"This..."-Draco concluded, his tone clinical.-"Is the Carrows' discarded cloak. It confirms their presence at the Edinburgh site. Residual potion has been tested this morning, and it matches."

Kingsley examined it, his brow furrowed.-"Excellent work, Malfoy. My report says Auror Potter was conducting the fieldwork last night. We need the details of the retrieval."

All eyes snapped to Harry. He could feel the sudden, sharp focus in the room. He remembered Draco's masterful reconstruction and reenactment of the scene in the ruined library, a moment of pure, brilliant deduction. But admitting that - admitting they were there together, that Draco had led the charge - would invite a level of scrutiny Draco didn't need. He was not supposed to be there last night; he was taken out of the case.

Harry met Draco's gaze across the desk. It was only for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. He saw the flicker of vulnerability beneath the icy control and knew, with absolute certainty, what he had to do.

"That's correct, Kingsley."-Harry said, his voice smooth, pitching it for the official record.-"I was following a lead Malfoy's analysis had isolated."

He gestured to the pile of folders.-"I made a solo visit to the Edinburgh library to confirm his hypothesis. I located the discarded cloak during my search, as predicted by immaculate calculations made by Malfoy. The operation was straightforward, a direct confirmation of the Unspeakables' intelligence."

Hermione's eyes narrowed, not at the words themselves, but at the way Draco's gaze was fixed on a point just over Kingsley's shoulder, his expression utterly impassive. She knew Harry. She knew the careful cadence he used when strategically omitting the most important parts of a story. The silence from Draco only cemented her suspicion. And their shared looks, although subtle, had already been captured.

"Very well."-Kingsley said, seemingly satisfied with the clean chain of command. The lie was official. The pact was sealed.

Draco felt the warmth of that shield. To him, having someone have your back without saying a word, just by look alone, was unfamiliar...

"The core issue remains the unicorns."-Draco's voice cut in, pulling the focus back to the grim reality of the case.-"The Carrows require a continuous source. The blood is an active ingredient, not a one-time enchantment. Our analysis suggests they are still alive, held captive somewhere for this purpose."

Kingsley leaned back, his expression darkening. He turned his sharp gaze on Hermione.-"Speaking of which, Head of Unspeakables, how is it that your department is back on a case I explicitly pulled from your jurisdiction?"

Hermione met his gaze without flinching.-"With all due respect, Kingsley, the case has bled into our domain. The Carrows aren't just killing and capturing creatures; they're targeting obscure magical knowledge held in secure locations. That makes it our business."-She glanced at Harry, then back to Kingsley, her resolve hardening.-"The Department of Mysteries will provide the analysis. We will stay within our lines this time around."

Kingsley let out a heavy sigh, running a hand over his face. He looked at the three of them - his best Auror, the newest brilliant Unspeakable, and the woman who had to manage them both.-"I knew you three were going to be a troublesome team to deal with."-He stood, pacing to the window before turning back, his gaze resting on Harry.-"Potter, you coordinate all fieldwork. Granger, your team, and Malfoy, will manage the intelligence internally."

His decision was final.-"I need you to cooperate. This is your second chance - at the Carrows, and at working together."

"Sir, one final point concerning Edinburgh."-Harry interjected before Kingsley could dismiss them.-"The Carrows' activity drew something else to the forest. A sizeable pack of Dementors. They're a serious threat to the nearby population if they remain."

Kingsley's weary expression sharpened instantly. The professional mask was back, hard and uncompromising.-"Unacceptable. Potter, assign a high-level team. I want that forest cleaned by sundown."

"Understood."-Harry said, a quiet wave of relief washing over him.

The meeting broke up swiftly. As Harry and Draco moved toward the door, their eyes met again - a brief, profound exchange. It was a silent confirmation: We share this secret. We are bound by what happened last night.

The moment was fractured as Hermione stepped between them, placing a firm, professional hand on Draco's arm.-"Right, Malfoy. My office."-She said, her voice bright and commanding, already pulling him away. She turned back to Harry, offering a warm smile.-"Try not to cause too much trouble, see you later, Harry."

"You too, Hermione."-Harry replied, watching her lead Draco down the corridor. He was already launching into a dense, technical explanation of spectral residue analysis. But just before he turned the corner, his gaze flicked back to Harry one last time. He saw him standing there alone - the Auror, the father from the night before, the man who had shielded him without hesitation.

The debriefing with Hermione was as thorough and draining as Draco had expected. She dissected his analysis with a sharp, incisive intellect that left no room for ambiguity, her questions like scalpels paring away every assumption until only the core facts remained. When she finally dismissed him hours later, the afternoon was already beginning to fade, the light outside the Ministry's enchanted windows turning a bruised, hazy purple.

Draco walked through the grand, echoing space of the Ministry Atrium, the polished marble floors reflecting the dimming light. He felt hollowed out, the adrenaline from the night before replaced by a profound, bone-deep weariness. But it was Harry's lie that had settled in his bones. I was operating under the parameters Malfoy had established. A clean, simple falsehood that had severed Draco's personal involvement from the official record, protecting him with an ease that was both startling and unsettling.

He thought of the previous night, of the suffocating, paralysing cold of the Dementors. He had frozen. If it hadn't been for Harry, he would have been consumed. The memory was a shard of ice in his gut. It was a weakness he could not afford. The thought of Grimmauld Place later that evening, of the sealed Boggart waiting for them, felt less like a humiliation and more like a grim necessity. He would not fail again. He would not be the one who needed saving.

He reached the Apparition point, the gold filigree of the fountain glinting in the low light.

Before Grimmauld Place, there was another promise to keep. Astoria was waiting.

He turned on the spot, the world compressing around him in a nauseating rush. The sterile, echoing grandeur of the Ministry dissolved, replaced instantly by the familiar crunch of gravel under his boots as he appeared on the path leading to the Manor's entrance.

Inside, the house was silent. He went directly to his study. On the polished desk, beside a stack of books on blood curses that he had been studying and a golden galleon coin, lay the small, tightly rolled scroll of parchment from Luna's owl that morning.

He unrolled it again, her whimsical script a jarring contrast to the grim realities of the day. The lunar alignments for this month are exceptionally favourable, Draco. The veil between forms is thin... We should try again. This time we will do it your way. And may the start align without luck.

For months, the Animagus ritual had been a frustrating, abandoned secret. But last night had changed everything. The memory of his own paralysing helplessness while Harry stood as a shield of brilliant light was a fresh and humiliating wound. He, who had sworn to be a protector, had needed protecting. It was an imbalance he could not tolerate.

With a new, cold resolve, Draco crossed the room to a locked rosewood box. He took out a fresh mandrake leaf, its scent earthy and bitter. This was the first step, the one requiring a month of silent, constant dedication. He had abandoned it once. He wouldn't again. Placing the leaf in his mouth, securing it on the side of his cheek, he felt the familiar, acrid taste bloom on his tongue. It was a commitment. A promise.

Next came the dew, which he would collect each morning; he already knew the drill. Luna's analysis indicated the final day of this month, November, melting into December - the full moon would be a blue moon, indicating better odds...

He stood there for a long moment, the bitter leaf a constant presence in his mouth, the memory of his own failure a cold fire in his gut. The Animagus form was no longer just a complex piece of magic to be mastered, no longer an activity that had bound him and Luna. It was a necessity. The power to move unseen, to fight without being a target, and to stand beside Harry not as a liability, but as an equal.

With that resolve hardening inside him, he descended the main staircase and walked out into the backyard gardens. His mother greeted him briefly to remind him of Astoria's arrival.

The afternoon hung heavy, a bruise-colored sky stretched wide and low. The air carried the damp chill of late autumn, thick with the scent of turned earth and rose petals beginning to wilt. The cypresses rose like sentinels, their shadows tapering long across the gravel path that wound toward the fountain. Each footstep stirred the faint crunch of stone, swallowed quickly by the fog.

Draco waited beside the fountain. Its marble basin gleamed under the lanterns, wet and veined like old bone. The missing stone had gone back to its place and seamlessly blended in with the rest, as if he'd never left. Water fell in slow, deliberate ripples, each drop echoing against the quiet. Moisture clung to the air, beading against his cuffs, creeping beneath the collar of his coat until the fabric felt colder than skin.

He heard her before he saw her - the fragile hush of silk brushing against gravel. Astoria appeared beneath the archway of yews, her shawl pale as moonlight, her arms full of parchment and thin glass vials bound with twine.

"You came."-Draco said quietly, his voice slightly muffled.

"I had to."-She stopped a few paces away.-"And...I brought everything my healers kept - notes, trials, potions, records. Like you asking."

He stepped forward and took the stack from her, as well as the labelled vials, potions she had been given and even a sample of her blood. The parchment was still warm from her hands, heavier than he expected. He caught a glimpse of the labels: St. Mungo's Division of Experimental Ailments. Greengrass Family Archive. Restricted.

"You stole these from them?"-He asked, incredulous.

"Borrowed."-She corrected, a ghost of defiance on her lips.-"Without their knowledge..."

"Sly."-Draco gave a small huff that sounded like half a laugh.

"My father doesn't know. He would have said no. He thinks there's dignity in not trying anymore."-She admitted softly.

A small, startlingly unguarded smile touched his expression.-"You have no idea what you've given me."-He said softly.-"This - this could be the key. Enough data to test properly."-His eyes lifted to hers, sharp with sudden purpose.-"Thank you for trusting me."

"It isn't trust I'm short of."-She murmured.-"It's hope."

The words settled between them like mist.-"Then we can create hope."-He said finally, his voice quiet but sure.-"Even if I have to trade every favour my family still owns. I will have anyone who can help involved in this."

His certainty startled her. For the first time, a glimmer of hope flickered behind her eyes.

"My father wants the engagement settled before winter."-She said at last, her fingers twisting the hem of her shawl.

Draco's grip on the folder tightened.-"Does he, even after what we agreed upon during dinner?"

"He says it will ease his mind."-She said.-"He's unwell... If this keeps him at peace, then I'll do it."

Draco looked at her, his tone calm but with an iron thread beneath it.-"No, Astoria. You don't owe peace to anyone who buys it with your freedom."

She looked up, startled.-"You think I can refuse?"

"I think."-He said, his words measured, deliberate.-"That what they call duty, we might yet delay. Engagements aren't bindings - they're performances. A ring can be as heavy as chains, but it can always be removed."-His gaze held hers.-"And thrown into the sea."

A fragile sound escaped her, something between a laugh and a sob.-"You make rebellion sound easy."-She whispered.

"Nothing about it is easy."-He said, his voice softer now.-"But freedom never waits for permission."

She reached out, and her fingertips brushed his wrist in a wordless understanding.-"You give me too much hope."

Draco let the words hang; he knew he might be reaching for the stars, and if there was a chance, he would grab it.

The mist thickened, curling around their feet. Beyond the hedges, the manor's windows glowed faintly through the fog - one of them his, a small square of golden light watching the garden like a memory refusing to fade. For now, neither of them looked up.

The files Astoria had given him felt heavy in his hands, a tangible weight of secrets and desperate hope. When Astoria left, Draco walked back through the mist-shrouded gardens, the crunch of gravel under his boots the only sound in the deepening twilight. The bitter tang of the mandrake leaf was a constant, earthy presence on his tongue, a reminder of the promise he'd just renewed to himself and to Luna.

He entered the Manor, the grand, cold silence of the entrance hall wrapping around him. As he ascended the main staircase toward the Apparition point in one of the upper drawing rooms, his thoughts swirled, not with the Carrows or the case, but with the strange, intersecting orbits of the women who now defined so much of his life.

Astoria, with her quiet, fierce rebellion, entrusts him with her last chance. Hermione, a sharp-edged, brilliant force who now holds the reins of his professional life, demanding a precision he was determined to provide. Luna, with her unwavering, gentle faith, his partner in a secret pursuit of magic that felt more essential than ever. Their strengths were all so different - defiance, intellect, belief - but the relationships he was forging with them felt intricate, built on a currency of shared goals and a fragile, carefully navigated trust. He understood, on some fundamental level, the mechanics of these alliances.

But Potter... Harry was different.

Working with men, he realised, was an entirely different landscape.

It was less about the delicate architecture of trust and more about blunt force, about unspoken challenges and the stark, unyielding presence of history. And no history was more unyielding than his with Potter.

He paused at the top of the stairs, the cool marble of the balustrade beneath his hand. The last twenty-four hours had been a testament to that difference. Standing beside Harry in a crisis wasn't a collaboration; it was like standing next to a controlled fire, trusting it wouldn't suddenly veer and consume you both.

Now, he had to Apparate to Grimmauld Place for a lesson. The irony was so bitter it almost overwhelmed the taste of the mandrake leaf. For years, he had measured himself against Potter, always trying to prove he was his superior, his equal, anything but the boy who ran cowardly. And now? Now he had to walk willingly into his old rival's house and ask to be taught... He had to stand before him, vulnerable and admitting weakness, and let the man who had saved him teach him how not to be afraid.

He reached the drawing room, the air still and heavy with the scent of old velvet and polish. This was not a partnership of equals, not yet. This was something else entirely, something raw and undefined, built on the wreckage of their past.

Draco closed his eyes, focusing on the destination. He surrendered to the familiar, nauseating pull at his navel and let the darkness take him to his teacher's door.

The air in the square outside Grimmauld Place was still and damp like it had been the night before. He stopped short of the curb, exactly where the night before had ended with Harry's arm extended, steadying him after the Dementor attack. The memory was a fresh, mortifying heat in his face. He had let Potter... Potter hold him to the door, by the waist, like some damsel in distress. The heat only grew on his cheeks.

'It's not too late to leave,' a familiar, cynical voice hissed in his mind. He could Apparate back to the Manor, claim illness, or simply vanish. It would be easier than facing Potter in his own territory, admitting the weakness that the Mafoys were not supposed to possess.

But the shame of the previous night - the paralysis, the need for rescue - the hope Potter had given him was a more potent fuel than his pride. He needed the power.

He focused on the space between the threadbare Muggle houses, watching the air shimmer. He does not know how he is supposed to make the house appear he was not on the secret-keeper list. He knows it's hidden by the Fidelius Charm. He strains his memory for a clue on how Harry had done it last night, but his mind was too foggy, and all he could remember was the warmth pressing on his side radiating from the other boy.

On cue, with a soft, breathy sound that was less a crack and more an intake of air, Number 12, Grimmauld Place, slid into existence. Draco was shocked, wondering how that could have happened. He admired the subtle, seamless complexity of the magic, a brief professional distraction from the knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach.

Had Potter sensed his arrival?

He started up the short, stone steps. As he reached the front door, it didn't creak or bang; it did not even have a handle; it merely opened itself, quiet and inviting. A wave of unexpected warmth, thick with the scent of old spice, polished wood, and a faint trace of soot, greeted him just like the night before. He stepped across the threshold, leaving the oppressive nightfall behind.

He paused in the vast, gloomy hall. Above the silent stairs, he noticed the grandfather clock - a massive, dark mahogany sentinel. It read precisely eight o'clock. He was just in time. Harry must have returned from Auror headquarters shortly before.

From the drawing room, a soft melody drifted, filling the quiet house: a light, classical symphony played on an old gramophone, a strange choice for Harry Potter, yet perfectly suited to the house's attempt at peace.

Draco followed the music. He reached the double doors of the drawing room and raised his hand, tapping the heavy wood once, quietly.

"Come in, Malfoy."-Harry's voice called easily from within. Already expecting him.

The door opened with the same gentle magic that had admitted him to the house; the house and Harry worked like one sentient being. It seemed like he had managed to find the way to make this house obey him, like its true master. Draco stepped in, posture rigid, composure fully restored.

He remembered this place from his youth, a chilling labyrinth of dead ambition and dark artefacts. But Harry had done remarkable work here, keeping the house's imposing originality while stripping away the malice. The windows were clean, and the warm, soft glow of lamplight banished the shadows.

Harry sat at a large, heavy desk in the centre of the room, looking less like the Airforce Auror and more like a harried student. He was going through a stack of loose reports, his journal open beside him with pages of dense writing. The Daily Prophet, folded carelessly, sat nearby, full of the usual nonsense.

Harry looked up, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. The expression that greeted Draco was not competitive or suspicious, but simply tired and prepared. He had not yet changed from his uniform, indicating he most likely had just gotten there.

"Good evening, Potter."-Draco said, his voice clipped and precise.

Harry, without looking up, flicked his wand. The door closed silently behind him with a low, magical thud, sealing them both inside the room. The gramophone continued to play its soothing symphony, a polite, fragile shield against the confrontation to come.

Harry looked up, adjusting his glasses. A tired but purposeful smile touched his lips - polite, focused, lacking the competitive edge Draco had expected.

"Good evening, Malfoy. We can start in a few minutes. Make yourself comfortable."-Harry picked up a quill, dipping it in ink without taking his eyes off the report.-"I'm just finishing some notes for Kingsley. Because, you, Malfoy, have successfully stirred the entire Ministry alive with your unicorns."-He teased, the lightness easing the tension before returning to paperwork.

Draco felt a fractional, unexpected sense of ease. The teasing, unforced and almost collaborative, indicated this wouldn't be a tedious, moralistic lecture.

He shrugged off his heavy travelling coat, the velvet lining sighing softly, revealing his usual white button-up shirt and black pleated pants, nothing formal; he had not bothered with his tie and blazer, there had been no need for such an occasion. The movement within the house immediately drew the attention of the house elf.

A quiet, almost spectral Kreacher materialised at his side, his large, bloodshot eyes fixing on Draco's expensive tailoring.-"The master will permit Kreacher to take the coat."-The elf rasped, his bow low but filled with the pride of a Black house elf addressing a pureblood.

Draco handed it over. The gesture was reflexive, but he added.-"Thank you, Kreacher."

The elf froze. He blinked slowly, processing the two simple words. In the long history of Kreacher's servitude, appreciation from a pureblood master was nearly unheard of - a startling anomaly. Kreacher vanished quickly, taking the garment with him, a faint flicker of bewildered contentment crossing his wizened face.

Harry had simply smiled at the gesture, not looking up from his report, quite happy with the attitude from Draco.-"You know, I tried to set him free. He just wouldn't leave. It's his house too after all."-Harry added as a matter-of-fact statement, as if wanting to admit he wasn't holding an elf captive against their will, something he would never do.

"Loyalty to some comes not as duty."-Draco answered. He then exhaled quietly and consciously avoided the plush sofa by the fire. He didn't want comfort, nor to appear relaxed. He did not know what to do with himself while waiting for Harry to finish writing.

Inadvertently, his eyes were drawn to the wall, where the Black family tapestry stretched across the worn plaster, illuminated by the oil lamps on the walls.

He walked closer. He knew the pattern intimately - the intricate, blackened branches of old, great wizarding families. But this wasn't the tapestry he remembered. Harry had been at work here, and the restoration magic was formidable.

His hands brushed the tapestry softly where his mother's portrait was etched, a small smile on his lips.

The faces of those deemed "blood-traitors" - Sirius, Andromeda, and others - had been painstakingly repaired. Silvery threads gleamed new, names and faces whole again. It was a deliberate rejection of the family's hateful dogma. Draco traced the lines with his gaze, passing his own name and that of his mother. Their branches being among the last ones to still bloom.

Harry finally looked up, setting his quill down with a faint metallic clink against the inkwell. He noticed Draco's long, quiet stare fixed on the tapestry.

He put down his quill, leaning back in his chair.-"The tapestry. Quite a tricky bit of magic, repairing those missing threads. The magic had been deliberately destructive, you see. Took me ages to add the new ones myself."

Draco allowed himself a smile.-"I noticed. Fine work, Potter."

His gaze dropped to the lower sections, where Harry's additions lay. He spotted Nymphadora Tonks, whose image had been added, with pink hair and a solemn smile on her face, and below her, a new, tiny branch connected to her entry. A small child with the face of an angel: Edward Tonks-Lupin.

The soft, slightly melancholy symphony from the gramophone filled the drawing room. Draco turned from the wall.-"Edward..."-He asked, the name formal on his tongue.

Harry's tired expression instantly dissolved into a brilliant, unreserved laugh - a sound full of pride and tenderness that felt jarringly loud in the polished quiet of the room.-"Teddy."-He corrected and then stated.-"My godson."

Draco stood silent for a long moment, a thousand unvoiced questions buzzing beneath his composure. He disguised his curiosity with an uninterested look, but beneath his skin, his blood rushed restlessly to his brain. This was the child... The child Potter held day and night, his little world.

"Godson?"-Draco finally asked, clipped, precise. The term new on his tongue.

Harry nodded.-"Yes, you may be aware by now... I took on the responsibility of raising him after the war, when both his parents died."-Harry's voice came as a harsh reminder of what the war had left behind, but at the same time, soft, tender.

Draco continued to stare. The question that had burned in his mind since the visits at the Ministry - the identity of the small child - was answered.

Harry did not have a child of his own, but how much difference did that really make? His mind replayed the way he holds the child, the way he plays with him... the way he cares, how his body can be in the room, but his mind is elsewhere listening for any discomfort in the nursery.

Noticing the confusion that Draco's face wore, he softly continued.-"His mother was Nymphadora Tonks, your cousin. He is a metamorphmagus like her."-Harry resumed, looking at the tapestry, his eyes tracing the new lines, before going back to his reports.-"And his father was Remus Lupin."

Draco's eyes filled with a sudden realisation.-"Did he inherit his conditio-..."

"No Malfoy... He did not inherit his lycanthropy."-Harry said, looking up from his report.-"His doctors have already confirmed the blood inheritance."

Draco had been slightly relieved to hear that. He continued to look at the tiny tapestry picture. An orphan... He felt as if a weight was dropping in his stomach just thinking about it. -"You and him share quite a similar start."-He said in a low voice.

Harry looked back at Draco, his eyes clear, but the recognition Draco had shown did not pass unnoticed.-"You know."-Harry said after a long silence.-"Sirius wanted to make this house a home. For me. He never got to. But now Teddy's here - and somehow, the place feels alive again. I suppose I'm just trying to keep that promise. To be the kind of father who can make a child feel safe in a world like this."

Make the world a better place for their children to grow up in; that's what good parents do. The thought landed heavily in Draco's mind. Good parents don't tether their children to darkness, sacrifice them to the past through tradition. His gaze lingered on the restored tapestry, tracing the careful strokes that formed Sirius's face. The name stitched beneath it caught the light, and for the first time, he didn't see a reckless godfather - he saw someone who had tried, and failed, to keep a promise.

"I thought your mother would have informed you. After all, it's your family's lineage."-Harry said to fill the silence that formed after the fact.

Draco looked away.-"I was aware...but at the same time, I knew nothing."-He then focused on the small, embroidered face of Edward Tonks-Lupin on the tapestry, channelling all his complex emotion into a single, critical assessment.-"That's quite a commitment. You're very young to have assumed such a duty."-He stated, his tone clipped, as if citing a regulation.

Harry, who had gotten back to his writing, paused, looking up. He leaned against the polished chair, his expression softening as he spoke about Teddy.-"It was not forced upon me. It was entirely my choice to have him as my own son and to raise him."

Draco finally broke his silent assessment of Harry's life. He met Harry's gaze, his voice low and carrying the unmistakable weight of his family's history.

"A self-selected obligation, then. It avoids the mess of blood vows and legal contracts enforced by tradition. You must not be familiar with how that tradition works."-Draco allowed a thin, dry smile to touch his lips, a look of professional judgment mixed with genuine, if grudging, admiration.

"However..."-He continued, letting his gaze sweep over the restored, newly-connected sections of the tapestry.-"I am glad the pureblood fanatics have died in this house and have been rebirthed as such."-He gestured dismissively at the tapestry, acknowledging the moral victory Harry had achieved by choosing love and repair over malice and lineage.

"Unlike you assumed...I do know traditions. Sirius taught me all about them, but just as him I share the same disdain."-Harry studied Draco for a long moment, the shadows of the tapestry flickering across his features.-"But, I have to admit..."-He said slowly, quill poised above the parchment but not writing.-"I expected you to have fully embraced the old pureblood traditions by now. Your statement, however... proves otherwise."

Draco's pale face remained calm, almost unreadable. After a beat, he spoke, voice low, measured.-"Sometimes..." -He said.-"You open your eyes too late in life, Potter. But late is better than never."-His words hung in the air, quiet but resolute, a rare insight into the guarded space of his beliefs.

Harry nodded slightly, letting the observation settle. He returned to his reports, quill scratching across parchment.

Without looking up, he added, almost casually.-"There are some dark artefacts on the shelves if you want to keep yourself busy."-His voice carried a subtle note of knowing - he understood Draco's fascination with these objects. The same curiosity had often led him into trouble at Hogwarts or at Borgin and Burkes. Draco's eyes flicked toward the shelves, a faint gleam of interest catching in them, and he moved closer, absorbed despite the weight of the conversation they had just shared.

Draco moved closer to the shelves, his long fingers hovering just above the polished wood but never daring to touch. He let his eyes roam, cataloguing each object with the meticulous attention of a scholar and the thrill of a connoisseur.

One shelf in particular caught his gaze. Among fragments of burned parchment and twisted metal, he recognised them immediately: Voldemort's destroyed Horcruxes, their story had been all over the news, the relics Harry had collected after the war. A broken green locket, a broken wand, a ring missing a stone, a golden snitch, and a diary with a hole in it, the cup and diadem a recent addition, he knows Harry went hunting for them months ago around Hogwarts, at the time, such act had looked unexplainable to Draco, but now seeing the displayed here, it made much more sense. They are displayed there like trophies, for the sacrifice it had taken for each of them to be obtained and then destroyed, ones that once had beauty in them, but have now been covered in dark memories.

Basilisk fangs lay beside them, still gleaming faintly even in the lamplight, their sharp points a reminder of monsters long vanquished. Draco felt a chill run down his spine, not of fear, but of awe.

On another shelf, dark medallions, cursed trinkets, and odd, intricately carved artefacts shimmered with subtle enchantments. He was reading the runes etched on them. He had never taken Harry for a collector of dark magic, yet here they were, curated with precision and care in their little glass containers with wards around them.

Harry, standing at his desk, noticed Draco's intense scrutiny.-"Most of these came from Regulus. He was a collector... I have heard you share the same interest."-He said quietly, not looking up from his notes. The quiet comparison settling.-"I keep them as a reminder of the constellations that used to shine within the Blacks."

Draco's head tilted slightly, processing the words. There was reverence in Harry's voice, a fascination that went beyond simple collection - a curiosity for the history, the story, and the intentions of those who had held the objects before.

Draco allowed himself a small, private thrill. This was the side of Harry few had seen: careful, calculating, almost reverent toward objects of power and danger alike. And yet, Harry spoke of the previous owners - Regulus, Voldemort, the Blacks - with fascination, with a spark of the same obsessive curiosity Draco now felt for each piece before him.

For a moment, the tension of the evening melted away. Draco could indulge himself in studying, imagining, and piecing together stories from the objects. Each artefact, each cursed relic, was a puzzle and a story, and he was free to enjoy them without consequence. It was personal fun, quietly revelling in the dark elegance of history preserved, catalogued, and understood.

After some time in silence with only the music notes floating between them, Harry's quill hovered over the parchment.-"Funny... you look like this is the highlight of your week."

Draco let out a breath that sounded almost like half a laugh, a sharp exhale that carried more amusement than he intended.-"Might be."-He said, his voice low, measured. Then, after a beat, he added, almost reluctantly.-"I never thought... You were this... Interesting."

Harry's shoulders shook with quiet laughter, the sound breaking the serious tension of the drawing room.-"Yes. Of course..."-He said, leaning back in his chair, grin spreading.-"I am quite the shallow, mediocre guy, aren't I?"

Draco's lips twitched at the corner, a faint acknowledgement of the jab, but his gaze stayed on the artefacts, tracing their contours with renewed fascination. The rare moment of levity passed between them like a shared secret, a small reprieve in the weight of their work.-"Ah, modesty and self-deprecation - your greatest powers yet."

Harry let out a short huffing sound, half-laugh, half-exasperation - a sound Draco had never heard so close, so unguarded, and it carried a strangely friendly warmth that brushed against the edges of his chest, leaving a flicker of disarming surprise.

Draco's chest rose and fell slightly faster than before, though he would never admit the effect the quiet, unguarded laugh had had. A surge of something he didn't fully name - admiration? irritation? a private thrill - ran under his skin. The thrill of being challenged, of being seen, of facing someone who had always been both a rival and a mirror.

"You know, Malfoy."-Harry said, leaning back slightly in his chair, the movement casual yet precise.-"You've always had this... remarkable talent. The power to turn any patch of ground into a duelling pit between us, it is so hard to keep up."-His eyes twinkled with mischief, bright and sharp, scanning Draco like he was both a puzzle and a challenge, a rare teasing compliment layered with respect for old instincts honed in battle.

Draco's lips twitched, caught somewhere between a smirk and a scowl, his jaw tightening just slightly as he absorbed the words. His pulse ticked up in a way he hadn't expected, an echo of adrenaline from the many duels of their youth. There was recognition there - of risk, of recklessness, and of unspoken familiarity - mixed with something far less tangible: a faint, reluctant warmth, prickling beneath his skin.

His eyes locked on Harry's, searching for any sign of mockery but finding none. The playfulness in Harry's gaze mingled with something steadier, sharper - a quiet proof of skill, of experience, of a bond forged in shared chaos and challenge. Draco felt a flicker of awe, quick and restrained, that settled oddly alongside his irritation at being teased.

For a long, suspended moment, the room seemed to contract around them. The gramophone's faint symphony, the scent of old parchment and polished wood, the soft gleam of lamplight on the shelves - all of it receded into the background. There was only Harry, looking at him with that tease he had never shown before.

And even as he tried to mask it with a practised, composed tilt of his head, a thin smile teased at the corner of his mouth, betraying the faint but undeniable truth: he was exactly where he wanted to be, even if he wouldn't voice it aloud.

Draco cleared his throat, a faint stiffness in his posture.-"Sorry... I'm not very good at small talk. Do you mind if we skip on to the serious matter at hand?"

Harry nodded, respect clear in his eyes. He leaned forward, quill poised but idle, studying Draco with a quiet, assessing gaze through his round glasses.-"Fair enough."-He said, voice calm. Then, with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, he added.-"Although... for someone who considers themselves 'bad' at it, you're exceptionally good."

Draco's lips twitched - a brief, reluctant acknowledgement. There was a subtle warmth under the edges of his composure, a hint of the camaraderie and tension that threaded between them, but he recovered quickly, letting the professional mask slip back into place.

Harry sat up straighter, adjusting slightly in his chair. He was still in his Auror uniform, though the rigidity of the Ministry dress code had loosened here - his shirt unbuttoned just enough at the collar to let him breathe, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, coat tossed carelessly over the sofa, his wand somewhere buried under his journal.

The soft lamplight caught the sharp lines of his jaw and the sweep of his dark hair, lending him an effortless, almost understated handsomeness. There was a quiet strength in the way he moved, precise yet relaxed, that made even simple gestures - adjusting a quill, leaning forward over the desk - carry an unexpected weight.

Draco's eyes flicked to him, and for a fraction of a heartbeat, the professional barrier between them faltered. The sight, the casual authority, and the hint of vulnerability all collided into a single, compelling image, and Draco felt a subtle, almost imperceptible pull - part admiration, part unease.

Harry stood, moving toward the gramophone. His hand hovered for a beat, then lifted the tonearm, lifting one vinyl and sliding another in with the same deliberate care he applied to handling evidence in the field. The faint scratch of needle meeting record filled the room, the new melody a lighter, more playful counterpoint to the weight of their conversation.

"Right."-Harry said suddenly, his voice pulling Draco fully back into the moment.-"Let's talk Patronus Charm business."

Draco's eyes followed him, intrigued. He didn't stay stationary for a second - moving between desk and gramophone, adjusting papers, gesturing with his quill while speaking. The motion was so natural it seemed like part of the lesson itself.-"Interesting way of teaching."-Draco muttered under his breath, his voice quiet enough that Harry didn't hear.

Harry's words continued, deliberate and precise, even as he moved.-"The Patronus isn't just a spell."-He said, leaning on the desk and pointing at a parchment diagram from his journal. The other boy walked forward to look at it, Harry continued.-"It's a projection of your happiest memory, focused through intent and directed by the wand. The incantation alone is meaningless if your mind and heart aren't aligned. Think of it as... channelling energy through focus and emotional resonance, rather than brute magical force."

Draco's gaze tracked him like a hawk, noting every shift in posture, the rhythm of movement paired with instruction. He felt a mix of admiration and mild irritation at how Harry made teaching seem effortless while simultaneously drawing every ounce of attention toward him. His handwriting, a rushed but understandable writing, was paired with doodles and diagrams for easier understanding. Each motion - the leaning against the desk, the shuffle of parchment on his journal, the tilt of his head - became a lesson in presence, and Draco realised he had been watching more than listening.

Harry finally paused, glancing up as if sensing Draco's attention lingering more on him than the spell explanation. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at his lips.

Harry's gaze softened slightly, his tone gentle but precise.-"Before you even lift your wand to cast it, you need to understand the 'why'."

He let the silence fall for a second. Then proceeded.-"The Patronus is not a tool; it's an extension of your mind and heart. You can't force it. You can't trick it. The spell reacts to certainty, to clarity of emotion, to... the essence of what you hold happiest."

Draco raised an eyebrow, folding his arms.-"Happiest... memory. That's-..."-His voice caught slightly.-"...not exactly a straightforward concept for someone like me."

Harry's lips quirked in the faintest of smiles.-"I expected that. However, it's there, I am sure of it. It's not about luxury or childhood joy. It's not a prize or a possession. It's a moment that anchors you, that makes you feel... unshakably yourself. Sometimes it's subtle, almost invisible. Sometimes it's a quiet victory over fear, a choice that defines you. It can be a single breath, a glance, a word."

Draco's jaw tightened.-"So... I can't just think about winning a duel, or besting an opponent?"

"No."-Harry shook his head.-"That's surface control. You're looking for certainty. Something that radiates from the core of who you are. Fearless doesn't mean reckless; happy doesn't mean comfortable. It's... raw. Honest. It has to feel like the truth."

Draco's eyes flicked to the wand in his hand, as if it were a puzzle he needed to solve first.-"And... if I can't find it?"

Harry leaned back slightly, letting the weight of the room settle.-"Then you'll fail. But that's the point of this step - you understand yourself before you ask magic to obey you. No wand work, no incantations. You have to dig. Search. Feel. Examine what you hold dear, what makes your spine straighten when the world tells you to bow, what... keeps you moving forward even when everything is against you."

Draco was quiet.'What makes your spine straighten when the world tells you to bow?' The words were frustratingly simple and impossibly complex all at once. He had spent years controlling everything and being controlled - his reputation, his movements, even his thoughts. But here, Harry was asking him to let go, not outwardly, but inwardly. To find a part of himself that had never been touched by fear, by shame, by the weight of his family's history.

Harry moved to his drawer and pulled out a small vial of pale, shimmering liquid.-"Kreacher."-He called softly, and the house elf appeared instantly, bowing low.-"Tea, please. Two cups. And make sure they're warm, Malfoy takes his sweet."

Draco did not comment on the fact that Harry knew how he took his tea, and neither did he question why tea was their main concern at the moment.

Kreacher scuttled off without a word, and when he came back, the smell of tea filled the room. Harry picked up the cups, setting one in front of Draco and one for himself. He then uncorcked the vial and carefully poured a single drop into each cup, the liquid catching the light like quicksilver.

"I didn't realise a lesson in defence required refreshments."-Draco said softly, his attempt at sarcasm barely masking his nerves.

Harry slid a cup toward him, his fingers brushing the porcelain.-"Call it... part of the process."

Draco's eyes narrowed.-"What is this, exactly?"-He asked, suspicion cutting through his words.

Harry's expression remained calm, almost teasing.-"Not poison, if that's what you're thinking."

Draco arched an eyebrow.-"Not exactly reassuring, Potter. You do know most people don't survive drinking unknown potions from former enemies, right?"

"Then it's a good thing you're not 'most people.'"-Harry chuckled lightly, then lifted his own cup.-"I'll drink it first. If it's safe, you can take a sip."

Draco watched, tension flickering across his features as Harry raised the cup and drank. The liquid swirled warmly down his throat, and he set the cup aside with an approving nod, but slightly furrowed eyebrows.-"Delightful, though I think I burned my tongue... Apart from that, perfectly harmless. It's just a helping potion for this lesson. I came up with it some time ago for similar purposes."

Draco blinked, caught off guard by the unassuming ease with which Harry drank the scalding hot tea.-"...You brewed this?"-He asked, still sceptical but less hostile.

"Yes."-Harry replied, leaning back slightly, a faint smile on his lips.

Draco raised a brow, sceptical.-"You... brew potions? You, Potter - the boy who treated Snape's class like nap time, you do realise we went to the same school, right?"

"Well, people grow. This one was very simple, really. I've found lately that practising potions - even small ones - is a good way to train focus. This one, in particular, enhances memories and positive emotions. Think of it as... a nudge toward clarity, letting the happiest parts of your mind shine a little brighter."

Draco's lips pressed into a thin line, weighing the offer. Harry had demonstrated his trust by drinking first - an unspoken challenge and reassurance all at once. Draco lifted his own cup and took a careful sip. The taste surprised him: delicate, subtly sweet, and entirely pleasant, with a comforting warmth that spread through him.

"This... is fine, I guess. Was expecting it to taste like swamp water."-He muttered, more to himself than to Harry, the faint trace of a smile tugging at his lips.

Harry inclined his head, satisfied.-"Good. Now, drink all of it slowly. Let it settle. Don't rush. The magic is subtle; it doesn't command your mind, just eases it open. When you're ready, close your eyes. Let your mind find the memory that matters. Don't force it - just let it come."

Draco exhaled slowly, the warmth of the cup anchoring him. For the first time since entering Grimmauld Place, he allowed himself to focus inward, and not on control, strategy, or defence. He could almost feel the potion easing the edges of his guarded mind, inviting a memory he hadn't yet remembered to surface.

Harry leaned back slightly on the desk, the soft lamplight catching the edges of his dark hair, and watched Draco with calm, measured focus. His voice was low, steady, almost a gentle nudge.-"Alright, Malfoy. Close your eyes. Don't overthink it. Let your mind drift."

Draco's jaw tightened, a faint tension lingering at the corners of his mouth. He blinked slowly, the warmth of the tea sliding pleasantly over his tongue, settling into his chest.-"Drifting... right."-He muttered under his breath, more to himself than to Harry.-"Is this Defence or Divination?"

"Bit of both, maybe. You'll see."-Harry said, the corners of his lips tugging ever so slightly in amusement.-"Now... think of a memory where you felt... free. Where there were no obligations, no expectations. It could be anything - Quidditch, a place you liked to escape to, a friend... a lover, perhaps? Think, is there anything that made your chest lighter, your heart... less complicated?"

Draco's cheeks flared immediately, heat rushing up his pale skin. He snapped his eyes open, glare sharp, half-mocking, half-exasperated. He scoffed, a quick, clipped sound meant to deflect.-"You're remarkably nosy for someone claiming this is academic."

Harry's chuckle was quiet, low.-"Occupational hazard. Comes with trying to get people to feel things."

Draco shot him a flat look.-"And what exactly do you think I'm feeling right now?"

"Judging by the colour in your face?"-Harry said, eyes glinting.-"Progress."

The heat of the room had started to wrap him whole.-"Progress... I see, Potter. Even you have your moments of... unexpected success."

Harry's lips twitched in a barely suppressed grin.-"Focus on the memory, and remember you do not have to tell me out loud. Just... think of it. For yourself. No one's grading your work here."

Reluctantly, Draco let his lashes fall again, eyes closing as the warmth of the potion spread through him like a soft pulse, coaxing something tender beneath the armour he wore so carefully. A memory nudged itself forward - late afternoons on the Quidditch pitch, wind tangling in his hair as he dove through the air, chasing the Snitch. The exhilaration, the sharp, clean clarity of flight, the fleeting, weightless freedom - it made his pulse quicken and, despite himself, tugged at the corners of his lips.

Harry remained quiet, letting the soft symphony from the gramophone hum in the background, a steady, reassuring presence.-"Good..."-He murmured, voice low, almost intimate.-"Hold onto that feeling. Let it grow. Don't analyse it. Just... be in it."

Draco's hands clenched the cup a little tighter, the warmth seeping into his fingers, his face still tinged rose. He refused to meet Harry's gaze.-"This is so... ridiculous. If you breathe a word about these lessons to a living soul..."-He said, voice clipped but uneven, breath catching slightly.-"...I will hex you so thoroughly you'll-"

Harry's quiet laugh, teasing and warm, broke through the tension like sunlight through clouds.-"Not a word. This is our secret."

Draco exhaled sharply, cheeks still flushed, but allowed himself a fleeting, almost unthinkable thought: Potter makes even this... bearable.

Draco held the memory of the Quidditch pitch tightly, trying to feel the freedom again, letting the wind and the thrill of flight course through him. But even as he concentrated, a gnawing dissatisfaction settled in his chest. Every victory he recalled, every Snitch he had "caught," had always been marred by someone else's presence, someone else's claim. Even in memory, he had never truly been the one in control.

He opened his eyes abruptly, irritation flickering across his pale features.-"It's... not enough."-He admitted, his voice low, reluctant.-"Even this - this memory, it's hollow. It's never... mine."

Harry leaned forward slightly, hands resting on the desk, his expression calm but encouraging.-"Then keep looking."-He said softly.-"It's not unusual. Sometimes your first few attempts won't be strong enough. You have to dig deeper."

Draco let out a dry, exasperated laugh, the sound sharp in the quiet room.-"Dig deeper? At this rate, we'll be at it all night."

Harry's grin was faint, knowing.-"I don't expect this to be a one-night lesson. Tonight we're just going through theory - main concepts first. Understanding the mechanics of your mind, learning how to locate your happiest memory, and how to channel it. That's the foundation. The practical work, the real Patronus, will come later."

Draco's lips pressed into a thin line, irritation still simmering but tempered by resignation. He tipped the teacup slightly, the warm liquid reflecting the lamplight, and let the silence settle for a moment. He could already feel the potion stirring something soft in his chest, something patient, persistent. Perhaps, he thought, there was a way through.

Harry's gaze stayed on him, steady and unhurried.-"Tonight is about understanding yourself."-He added quietly.-"No pressure. No expectations. Just... exploration. We'll find your memory together."

Draco blinked slowly, letting the warmth of the words - and the potion - sink in. A grudging sense of acceptance settled in, though his posture remained taut, guarded, a subtle reminder that he was still Draco Malfoy.

Harry's voice softened, careful, patient, like he was guiding something fragile.-"Alright, Malfoy... let's try something different. Close your eyes again, if you haven't already. Forget anything you think you should feel."

Draco hesitated, jaw tight, but obeyed. He could still feel the warmth of the tea, the gentle thrum of the potion, the quiet hum of the gramophone, and somehow that made it easier to let the edges of his mind soften.

"Focus on a moment."-Harry continued, voice low, almost a whisper.-"When you felt... like yourself. Truly free, not defined by others, by expectations, by your family... something only yours. It doesn't have to be big. It doesn't have to be heroic. It just... has to be yours."

Draco's brow furrowed. His chest tightened as he searched for it, scouring years of carefully constructed memories. Finally, a small flicker surfaced: a night long ago, when he'd wandered the grounds of Malfoy Manor after the war, alone, after a storm had rolled through. The wind had tangled in the hedges, rain-slick leaves glimmering under the lanterns, and for the briefest moment, he had felt untouchable - hidden from eyes that judged, free from the weight of expectation. His pulse fluttered even now, the memory alive in him, delicate yet undeniable.

Harry's voice cut in, soft but teasing, drawing him back-"Feeling it yet? Or should I make you describe it for me?"

Draco's eyes snapped open, cheeks tinged pink, irritation flashing along with embarrassment.-"I'm not going to narrate my private thoughts, Potter."

Harry's grin was slow, knowing.-"I didn't ask you to. I'm just making conversation."-His eyes sparkled with a light that was teasing but not mocking.-"Though... if you ever wanted to... I'd be curious."

Draco's hands gripped the cup a little tighter, the warmth spreading through his fingers, the potion's subtle effect making his heart feel lighter than it had in... a long time. He exhaled, the tension in his shoulders softening just fractionally.-"This... is absurdly intimate for a first lesson."-He muttered, voice low, half amused, half exasperated.

Harry tilted his head, a teasing glint in his eyes.-"The best lessons usually are."

And for the first time that evening, Draco allowed himself to feel the stirrings of something entirely his own, unclaimed by anyone else - a small, quiet victory hidden behind the carefully measured walls he'd built around himself.

Harry reached forward without a word, taking the empty teacup from Draco's hands. His fingers brushed lightly against Draco's - a brief, unintentional contact that sent an unwelcome jolt through both of them. The porcelain clicked faintly against the saucer as Harry set it aside, but Draco's mind had already gone blank, the fragile memory he'd been holding scattered like dust in sunlight.

When Harry turned back, his expression was composed again - all professor now, though there was a trace of warmth at the corner of his mouth-"Alright."-He said quietly, drawing his wand.-"Try again. Same memory. Same focus. Just this time - add the motion."

He demonstrated slowly, the familiar arc and flick of his wrist cutting gracefully through the air, although he did not cast the actual enchantment.-"Don't rush the incantation. Feel it first - then say it."

Draco nodded stiffly, drawing his wand. The light in the room dimmed slightly as the gramophone's tune softened to a murmur. He inhaled, letting the faint scent of tea and parchment fill his lungs.

"Expecto Patronum."-He whispered, voice steady but unsure. The wand flickered - a pale shimmer, weak as fog at dawn - then faded into nothing.

Harry didn't speak immediately. He only tilted his head, studying Draco the way one might study a map - searching for the point where something had gone astray.-"The movement's not bad."-He said at last.-"But the memory isn't connecting. It's not... strong enough."

Draco's jaw tightened.-"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means."-Harry said gently.-"You're trying to think your way into the memory instead of feeling it. You can't force light by logic alone."

Draco scoffed under his breath, lowering his wand.-"Brilliant. So I'm just supposed to... feel."

Harry smiled faintly.-"Exactly."

Draco rolled his eyes, but closed them again anyway. Another memory surfaced - faint, brittle, half-lost to time. He saw himself as a boy, small and pale, running down the corridor of the Manor toward the gardens after a rare day his mother had laughed. It was so long ago it almost felt like fiction. The warmth in it was thin, fading even as he reached for it. When he spoke the words again, they came out quieter, heavier.

"Expecto Patronum."

Nothing. Only the whisper of air moving through the room.

He let out a long breath, shaking his head.-"There's no point. It's not there. Maybe it never was. I feel like-..."-His voice faltered, raw with something unguarded.-"...-there's no good left in me. No light."

Harry didn't interrupt, didn't correct him. He stepped closer, just enough for his presence to anchor the air. His voice was soft, steady, and entirely certain.-"There is."-He said simply.-"It's far, Malfoy. Buried deep, maybe. But it's there. You wouldn't be standing here if it wasn't."

The words hung between them - not loud, not forceful, but true in a way that cut deeper than anything Draco had heard in years. For a heartbeat, he couldn't look away from Harry's eyes, green and tired and unflinching.

The silence that followed wasn't empty. It felt like the space between breaths - the moment before something begins.

Draco's wand wavered again, a faint glimmer fizzing at its tip before sputtering out entirely. He exhaled sharply, frustration tightening his chest.

Harry stepped closer, careful, giving Draco a beat to react.-"May I?"-He asked softly, nodding toward Draco's hands and wand. Draco, after a moment's pause and a subtle shrug, allowed it.

Before Draco fully realised, Harry had moved just behind him. The sudden proximity made his spine stiffen - a flicker of surprise crossing his features - but Harry's presence was steady, measured.-"Relax your shoulders."-He murmured gently, letting his hands hover near Draco's wrists.-"Not so rigid. You don't need force. Magic flows better when it moves like water."

He guided Draco's grip lightly, showing the correct angle and tilt of the wand. His hands brushed Draco's only where necessary, teaching through touch. Draco felt a faint jolt at the contact, but Harry was careful, deliberate, professional, though undeniably intimate.

"See?"-Harry's voice was soft, almost confidential.-"Your wrist needs to move in an arc, yes, but fluidly. It isn't a whip; it's a channel."

Draco closed his eyes again, letting the warmth from the potion in his veins mingle with the nearness of Harry behind him. He could feel the subtle pressure of Harry's hands aligning his own, guiding the movement in small, precise increments.

Harry whispered.-"Imagine your memory as light inside you. The wand is just a conductor. You don't force it - you invite it out."

Then, crouching slightly to meet Draco's shoulder line, he opened his journal and flipped to a diagram. The parchment was full of sketches and annotations - delicate linework showing the flow of energy, the rhythm of wrist movements, even subtle posture cues.-"I keep these notes for myself."-Harry said quietly.-"Sometimes seeing the motion helps as much as feeling it."

Draco's fingers tightened subtly on the wand, following the illustration and Harry's gentle guidance. Every small correction Harry made - a tilt of the wrist, a straightening of the elbow, the flow of the arm - felt deliberate, almost intimate, but entirely anchored in the lesson.

He could hear Harry's breath close behind him, soft and steady, and though his pride bristled at being guided like this, the clarity in the instructions was undeniable. Magic wasn't about power here; it was about precision, emotion, and trust.

"Good."-Harry murmured, his hands retreating just enough to let Draco move independently.-"Now try again. Keep the motion steady. Let the memory flow through you."

Draco inhaled, the faint scent of parchment and tea still lingering in the room, and nodded. The arc of his wand felt different this time - lighter, more purposeful. He focused on the memory he'd chosen, faintly glowing behind his closed eyelids.

"Expecto Patronum."-He whispered, and for a heartbeat, a silver wisp appeared - faint, uncertain, but undeniably there.

Harry's presence behind him melted slightly, though he remained close enough to guide if needed.-"There."-He said, almost smiling into the quiet of the room.-"See? That's the beginning."

Draco's shoulders relaxed just a fraction, eyes still closed, a trace of awe threading through his usual composure.

"Keep looking."-Harry's voice came softly from behind him, steady, patient.-"There's more than one memory that can work. Don't settle for the first that comes to mind."

Draco let that sink in, and his mind drifted. Slowly, deliberately, he allowed himself to reach further back - to an end of summer afternoon at the lake, when he and Luna had sneaked away from the Manor. The sun hung low, brushing everything in molten gold. He remembered her laughter, the delicate weight of her trust, and how, without thinking, he had taken to braiding her hair, his fingers brushing against her silk-soft hair.

The memory unfurled like flowers in bloom: the smell of the water, the soft rustle of reeds, the faint tang of lake air, the warmth of the sun on his back. Their connection had been effortless, unspoken, the kind of moment that left him lighter than he had ever allowed himself to feel.

He could feel the blush creeping back onto his cheeks, but he didn't dare open his eyes. Harry, standing behind him, kept his hands lightly near Draco's shoulders, ready to guide if needed but letting him move independently.

"Focus on the feeling."-Harry murmured quietly, low enough that only Draco could hear.-"Not the details. Let it be simple. Let it be yours."

Draco's grip on the wand loosened, then steadied, following the guidance Harry had shown him. The arc of his wrist, the flow of the movement - everything began to sync, but it was the memory itself, soft and alive, that made his heart lift.

"Again."-Harry encouraged, patient, almost gentle.-"Let the memory carry the magic, not the spell itself."

Draco inhaled, letting the image of Luna by the lake fill him. He whispered, almost reluctantly.-"Expecto Patronum."

This time, a silvery wisp shimmered to life at the tip of his wand, delicate and bright, a reflection of the warmth and freedom of that long-ago afternoon. The shield flickered, unsure at first, but unmistakably there.

Harry's presence behind him was quiet, supportive - not intrusive, not commanding - but it anchored Draco in the lesson.-"Good."-Harry murmured.-"That's it. That's the memory connecting."

Draco let out a breath, his cheeks still tinged pink, a private smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It wasn't perfect yet, but it was his. And for the first time in a long while, the magic felt like something he could call entirely his own.

Harry's eyes softened as he watched the faint silver wisp shimmer and waver at the tip of Draco's wand.-"That memory... was it good at least?"-He asked, his voice low, calm, almost gentle.-"Do you think it can be tethered? Or keep looking?"

Draco didn't answer immediately. His lips curved into the faintest, secretive smile, a shadow of the blush still on his cheeks.-"It's the best one I have."-He murmured, his tone quiet but steady.-"It's light... moonlight."

Harry's eyes flickered, an almost imperceptible glitter in their depths. He didn't press, didn't ask who or what Draco called his moonlight, but the curiosity was there, sparking quietly behind his calm expression.

Draco, sensing the pause, allowed himself a small, teasing tilt of the head.-"And yours, Potter? What is your memory?"-His voice carried that subtle challenge - a boundary, a draw for trust, and a gentle prod all at once.

Harry blinked, caught slightly off-guard. He scratched at the back of his head, letting a faint sigh escape.-"It... has changed recently."-He admitted after a pause, his voice quiet but steady.-"The old one...was a memory of my parents; however, it had gone cold. Faded somehow. But I've found something else to hold onto, something alive."

Draco tilted his head, intrigued, but he didn't push further. He could see it - the hint of something personal, private, that Harry wasn't ready to share yet. He let the silence linger, warm with unspoken acknowledgement.

The room settled again into quiet - the soft patter of the gramophone in the background, the faint scent of tea, and the lingering warmth of potion and magic. The lesson was paused, but the connection, subtle and unspoken, had strengthened.

"So, it is... true?"-He asked, voice careful, almost testing.-"Memories can fade? Even the ones you think are... permanent?"

Harry nodded, leaning back just a fraction to study him, hands still relaxed but ready if Draco wavered.-"Yes."-He said gently.-"That's why you need to replace them, refresh them. Like oil in a lamp. If the flame dims, you can't rely on it."

Draco's brow furrowed, processing the idea-"So... if someone's memory goes cold, their Patronus could vanish entirely?"-He asked, voice low.

Harry's expression softened, almost fatherly in its patience.-"Not vanish entirely."-He said carefully.-"It just... won't manifest reliably. You can rekindle it, retrain it. You just need to find a memory strong enough to... fuel it. That's why we're doing this slowly tonight. Theory first, groundwork. The memory, the intention, the connection - it all comes before the wand."

Draco let that sink in, nodding slightly. The quiet wisdom in Harry's tone, the careful patience in his eyes, seemed to anchor him more than the potion or the flickering Patronus ever could.

Harry glanced at the clock on the mantle. The hands hovered at ten, Teddy would be back in less than half and hour. He noticed the tension coiled in Draco's shoulders, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, and the way his hands gripped the wand just a little too tightly. He knew the lesson had been draining, more than Draco might admit.

"All right, Malfoy."-Harry said, his voice calm but firm, carrying that quiet authority Draco had come to recognise.-"We'll pause here for tonight. You've done enough. Tomorrow... we'll practice with the Boggart. That will be closer to real conditions."

Draco's lips twitched, but he didn't argue. He was too spent, too caught in the residue of his own thoughts.

Harry continued, sliding the parchment from his journal toward him.-"Consider this your homework."-He said, giving him the diagrams.-"Perfect your memory. Strengthen it. Connect to it fully. The Patronus isn't just a spell you flick and hope for - it's a reflection of who you are when you allow yourself to feel light, hope... joy, even when it's hidden."

Draco's pale eyes flicked up at him, pocketing the folded paper.-"You expect me to... meditate on this?"-He asked, voice clipped but not entirely dismissive.

Harry smiled faintly, leaning back in his chair.-"Yes. In a way. You need to be emotionally prepared. The Boggart will be quite realistic compared to the real thing - the Dementor. Tomorrow, we'll simulate, but tonight, you build the foundation. If your memory isn't strong enough, your Patronus won't hold, and well, Boggarts can be a bit scary. It's that simple."

Draco exhaled sharply, the tension in his body loosening fractionally.-"Fine."-He muttered, though his voice lacked conviction - more a concession to exhaustion than acceptance.

Harry gave him a quiet nod.-"Tomorrow, same time. Be ready. And Malfoy... remember."-He added softly, his gaze lingering just a beat longer than necessary.-"There is light in you. You just have to let it reach the surface."

Draco's lips twitched into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. He didn't answer, but the weight of Harry's words settled with him, a quiet ember behind the lingering fatigue.

"Goodnight, Potter."-He said simply, the words clipped but carrying more warmth than he intended.

Draco stepped out of Grimmauld Place, the heavy door closing softly behind him. The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of rain on stone and the distant hum of the city. He let himself breathe it in, slow and deliberate, the bitterness of the mandrake leaf on his cheek a calm reminder, letting the usual tension in his shoulders ease just a fraction.

The cool air hit his face, carrying the faint scent of rain and the muted hum of the city. He inhaled slowly, letting the quiet darkness wrap around him, and for the first time in weeks, he didn't feel pressed by expectation, by duty, by the weight of being "Malfoy."

His thoughts, however, refused to stay quiet.

Harry.

The Auror uniform, sharp and deliberate, the way it hugged him perfectly without effort, the posture, the tilt of his shoulders, the calm authority in every small movement... Draco felt his chest tighten at the memory. He's so... composed. So precise. So impossibly magnetic. And he had leaned close - just close enough to brush against him while adjusting his stance, correcting his grip, demonstrating, teaching.

And then, unexpectedly, Teddy came to mind. He had assumed the boy was Harry's own. Now he knew it wasn't so. Still, the way Harry had carried him, soothed him, planned for him - chosen responsibility, not obligation - it was almost unfair. Harry had taken a life-altering duty upon himself and done it effortlessly, with joy, with care. The reckless Gryffindor from Hogwarts... he's gone. This is someone else entirely. And somehow, he's still him.

Draco's boots echoed softly on the wet cobblestones, but his mind was elsewhere, caught in the ghost of Harry's presence, the warmth of his teaching, the subtle patience in his touch. He hadn't expected to be unsettled like this - by a lesson, by posture, by guidance, by Potter himself. He had imagined critique, confrontation, maybe a reminder of past rivalry. Not this. Not the slow, insidious fascination of watching someone be impossibly competent, patient, and... attentive to you.

Heat rose unbidden to his cheeks. He flushed at the memory of Harry leaning just slightly closer, at the way his hands lingered near his own while adjusting, at the faint teasing glint in his eyes. Draco scolded himself silently - he was Malfoy. He was supposed to be unshakable. Yet the effect Harry had on him was undeniable.

On the quiet bridge over the Thames, Draco traced the ripples with his eyes, thinking of the memory he had chosen... and, reluctantly, of Potter, whose voice seemed to linger in the corners of his mind. He shook the thought, but couldn't stop a faint, private smile.

Yet, beneath the flush, a strange warmth settled. Draco realised, with quiet astonishment, that hope had begun to flicker. Not the shallow, fleeting hope he had known as a child - no, this was steadier, quieter, a small spark he wanted to nurture. Hope, and something more complicated, entirely his own.

He let the sensation sink in as he walked, the night stretching around him like a protective cloak. For the first time in years, he didn't feel tethered solely to expectations or legacy. For the first time, he felt... light.

The weight wasn't gone - but it was lighter. And for the first time in years, he walked not under shadow, but in a tentative glow... with Potter's presence echoing in his chest, whether he wanted it to or not.

Chapter Text

The fire was chasing him again.

It always began the same way - a whisper, a flicker, the faint crackle of warmth that felt almost comforting. Then it turned. The warmth bloomed into hunger, the whisper into a roar, and suddenly the fire was alive - snarling, seething, stretching claws of molten gold and scarlet that reached for him with terrible purpose.

This time, he was alone. No shouting, no spells, no desperate rush to save anyone. Just the fire and him - a quiet, intimate kind of death. It knew him too well now. He went towards it; he did not run. It hugged him close, wrapped around his ribs, seared through his lungs until breath and pain were one. It burned him whole, tenderly, almost lovingly, and he let it.

Harry woke with a gasp.

The ceiling of Grimmauld Place loomed above him, dark and shadowed. His body was slick with sweat, his throat raw, heart pounding against his ribs as though it could break free. The silence afterwards was the worst part - thick, suffocating, almost mocking in its stillness.

He pressed a trembling hand over his chest, feeling for the beat, steadying it. The fire again. Always the fire. Sometimes it was the Room of Requirement, sometimes the battlefield, sometimes faceless corridors where the blaze had no end. But it always found him.

He got up, not bothering with slippers or light. His wand hand still shook faintly as he made his way down the narrow staircase, the familiar boards creaking under his weight. He didn't need Lumos - he knew every shadow in this house by now.

He checked the nursery, and Teddy was curled and sleeping like a baby Niffler. Next, the kitchen welcomed him with its coldness. He filled a glass, gulped water like it might douse something still smouldering inside him. It didn't.

He didn't go back to bed. He knew how that story ended.

Instead, he wandered into the drawing room, drawn to the quiet red pulse of the fireplace. He crouched before it, coaxing life into the embers with a soft Incendio. The flames answered him - small, obedient, nothing like the wild thing that haunted his sleep.

He sank into the sofa, elbows on his knees, watching the fire dance. It should've been comforting. It wasn't. But he stayed anyway. He had studied books to find a counter spell to the Killing Flame, but he had not managed to find any. His fear, his nightmare, it was unbeatable. He had even checked the Ministry's library, even the restricted sections... Nothing.

Somewhere between the flicker of light and shadow, he thought of the day's lesson - of Malfoy's concentration, his restraint, the flicker of fear behind his composure. And how strange it was to see that reflection of himself in someone he used to hate.

The fire crackled softly.

He wondered if it would ever stop chasing him. Or if, deep down, he was the one keeping this fear alive.

The fire had softened sometime in the night, its wild glow reduced to the gentle pulse of dying embers. Harry's head had slumped against the sofa, his glasses half-tilted, the faint smell of smoke clinging to his clothes.

He'd dreamt again - not of the fire this time, but of standing in its aftermath, surrounded by ash and silence. It was a small mercy, though his body didn't feel any lighter for it. When his eyes finally blinked open, the grey wash of dawn was already pressing through the curtains. His neck ached. His limbs felt heavier than before he'd closed his eyes.

He rubbed at his face, the grit of exhaustion scratching behind his eyelids. The house was still, save for a soft, familiar sound from upstairs - a coo, then a faint laugh. Teddy.

That was enough to get him moving.

By the time he reached the nursery, Teddy was wide awake, small hands gripping the edge of his crib, a tuft of turquoise hair sticking out in all directions. The sight pulled something gentle from Harry's chest, a warmth that no nightmare could quite reach.

"Morning, trouble!"-He murmured, scooping the baby up. Teddy gurgled in response, his tiny fist clutching at Harry's collar like it was a lifeline.

The bath was quick but full of giggles, the kind that filled the corners of the bathroom and echoed faintly down the hall. Harry moved through the motions on muscle memory - the careful washing, the warm towel, the little wool jumper.

By the time they reached the drawing room, the early light had fully broken through the windows, scattering gold across the furniture. He'd lined the hearth with safety charms and stacked Teddy's toys neatly in a chest by the wall: a mix of wooden blocks, stuffed creatures, and a small enchanted broomstick propped proudly in the corner.

It had taken him weeks to charm the entire room - every sharp edge dulled, every fragile thing spelled to resist a toddler's chaos. He had reinforced the shelves filled with cursed items just in case. Kreacher had grumbled about "overprotective nonsense" but still helped overprotect, muttering under his breath how old wizards did not show so much concern to their children and they grew up just fine, as he polished picture frames and reinforced the toy chest. Now, the once-gloomy room felt lived in - warm, humming, safe.

Harry set Teddy down on the rug and watched as the boy immediately made a beeline for the broom. The toy hovered only a few inches above the ground, wobbling slightly as Teddy clambered on, his little legs straddling the handle with surprising confidence.

"Easy there, you're not trying out for the 'Montrose Magpies' team just yet."-Harry said, half-laughing as he followed him with his wand ready. But Teddy only shrieked with delight, his hair flashing bright gold as he pushed off the floor, floating shakily from one end of the room to the other.

Harry couldn't help smiling. The sight of him - fearless, grinning, eyes wide with wonder - filled the room with something that even sunlight couldn't quite capture.

He sank into the armchair near the fire, eyes never leaving the little boy. The warmth of the hearth brushed against his skin again, but this time it didn't burn.

Teddy had learned to balance on that broom before he'd learned to walk. There was something poetic in that, Harry thought - history repeating with them, but gentler this time. A childhood unscarred, not touched by an unloving family.

He leaned his chin into his hand, watching the tiny broom make another shaky loop.-"You're going to be trouble, you know that?"-He said softly with a proud smile.

Teddy laughed again - a bright, bubbling sound that rolled through the house like a charm breaking.

By midmorning, the drawing room was awash in light. Teddy's broom looped lazy circles through the air, his tiny hands never leaving it, his laughter carrying across the floorboards. Harry, seated at the old writing desk by the window, worked through the small pile of post that had arrived overnight.

The first envelope bore the English National Quidditch teams' crest, Ginny's familiar handwriting slanted across the parchment. He smiled faintly before he'd even opened it.

Harry,

We won the last two matches, which means you definitely still owe me that broom race. I expect payment in sweat, not Galleons. Also - I'll be stopping by tomorrow for a refill of that perfume you brewed. I've been living off the last drops, and Merlin forbid I start smelling like the locker room.
Hope you're sleeping better.

- G

Harry's smile lingered - soft, nostalgic, unbitter. They'd found an ease in the space between them, a friendship that didn't ache anymore. Ginny had her world - fast, bright, full of movement - and he was learning to be content in his.

He folded the letter neatly and set it aside, reaching for the next. Luna's handwriting was unmistakable: tiny, looping, almost musical.

Haz,

I dreamed last night of fireflies turning into candles - which probably means you've been having the bad dreams again. You should let them out, not hold them in. Maybe write them down and burn them. Ash is a good listener.
Tell Teddy hello from me, and give him a kiss on his bright curls.
With love,

Luna.

He exhaled through a small laugh, shaking his head. Trust Luna to sense things without being told. He tapped the letter thoughtfully against the desk, considering whether he'd actually take her advice this time.

The last was a more formal envelope - cream, wax-sealed, stamped with the emblem of The Quibbler. Harry broke it open, scanning the letter from Rolf Scamander, the new editor.

Potter,

Or shall I say, "James Evans" - your last piece on the dragons was a success. The issue nearly sold out within a week. If you have another article in mind - something about the Auror Department, or perhaps another one of your latest interests - I'd be eager to discuss it. Discretion, as always, guaranteed.

-R.S

Harry set the parchment down, eyes unfocused for a moment. He hadn't written as James Evans in months. The anonymity of it had once felt freeing - a way to say what couldn't be said under his own name. But lately... he hadn't been sure what he wanted to say anymore.

Across the room, Teddy squealed in delight, chasing a shimmering golden orb that darted just out of reach. Harry flicked his wand again, conjuring another - a tiny snitch that hovered playfully near the ceiling before swooping low, circling Teddy like a mischievous pet.

"Careful."-Harry warned gently, keeping his wand steady as Teddy reached out with both hands. The child's broom wobbled, but he steadied himself quickly, letting out a triumphant laugh.

"Show-off."-Harry muttered with a grin.

He leaned back in his chair, replying to the letters one by one - a note to Ginny confirming her visit, a reply to Luna promising to "burn a few thoughts," and a brief acknowledgement to Rolf promising to write something when he finds time from work to consider a new piece. Between sentences, he glanced up to track Teddy's movement, wand hand twitched to conjure new shapes, floating bubbles, soft flickers of light that burst into harmless sparks when Teddy reached for them.

By noon, the scent of toast and milk hung in the air as Teddy and Harry ate their late breakfast. Harry was not the best cook; however, his years of serving the Dursleys' every meal had prepared him for this.

A gentle green flame filled the room.

Andromeda stood by the fireplace with her usual grace, her expression a perfect balance of affection and authority.-"I hope he hasn't tired you out yet,"-She said, eyes flicking to her grandson, who was now trying to land the broom like a professional Chaser.

Harry smiled.-"He's been an angel, actually. A noisy, fast, terrifying little angel."

Andromeda's eyes softened as she crossed the room to lift Teddy from the broom.-"Say goodbye to Harry."-She murmured. Teddy waved, his hair flashing pink with excitement.

Harry crouched to ruffle his curls.-"See you tonight, little man."

And just like that, the house felt quieter. Not empty - but paused.

Harry lingered a moment longer, glancing at the letters neatly stacked on the desk, the faint golden shimmer still drifting near the ceiling. Then he reached for his cloak and wand, ready to face another day at the Ministry - the quiet hum of life at Grimmauld still echoing behind him like a promise.

The Ministry day stretched endlessly. By midday, Harry already felt like he'd lived three of them. Paperwork stacked on his desk faster than he could sign it, every report stamped urgent by someone who'd never set foot outside an office. The morning briefing with the Air Division was no better - half politics, half protocol - and none of it felt remotely like what he'd joined the Aurors to do.

His only reprieve came in the form of coffee with Hermione - and Ron, who still didn't technically work there, though Harry was fairly sure the Ministry had given up trying to escort him out.

Hermione had commandeered a corner table in the atrium café, parchment spread out in neat stacks beside her cup. Ron sat across from her, newspaper open, wand idly stirring sugar into his coffee while recounting an absurd Quidditch story of Ginny's with too much enthusiasm and not enough accuracy.

Harry sank into the seat beside them with a groan.-"If I have to fill out one more 'magical flight safety' form, I'm defecting."

Ron grinned.-"You say that every week, mate."

"And yet I mean it more each time."-Harry said, playing with his thin bracelet to keep his hands busy.

Hermione arched an eyebrow without looking up from her parchment.-"You could always apply for an administrative role."

Harry made a face.-"I'd rather wrestle a dragon."

Ron leaned back in his chair.-"You'd miss all the flying anyway. You love the broom work."

Harry didn't answer right away. He did love the flight - the rush of wind, the speed - but today, even the thought of the afternoon patrol made him sigh. What he wanted was something different: the quiet intensity of last night's lesson, the soft hum of a fire at Grimmauld, the way Malfoy had listened, eyes narrowed in concentration, the faintest spark of pride when he'd managed a proper wand movement.

Hermione glanced up, brow raised, looking at Harry's dreamy, zooned out face with concern.-"Maybe you just need a few days off. Proper rest, not just... more work disguised as 'research'."

Harry snapped out of it and took a slow sip, avoiding her gaze. Rest. Right. Sleep hadn't been rest in months - not with the fire coming for him each night, swallowing everything whole before leaving him gasping in the dark. But he hadn't told them that.

Just like he hadn't told them about Malfoy.

The thought flickered, unwanted but insistent. He'd meant to say something, really - to mention that they'd talked things out with each other, that he'd agreed to teach him the Patronus, that things had... changed. Except every time he tried to form the words, they stuck, maybe also because he had not told them about the second Edinburgh visit, which would explain why he is teaching Malfoy the Patronus charm, but Hermione would have his head for putting her teammate into danger again, or for crossing a red-taped field.

How did you explain this mess? The quiet understanding between them, the strange calm he felt in Draco's presence, the way it wasn't antagonism anymore but something more precarious - a balance. A curiosity.

So he said nothing.

Instead, he listened to Ron joke about the Georges' latest disaster, Hermione's gentle reprimand, the easy rhythm of familiarity that filled the gaps. It should've been comforting. But Harry felt apart from it - like watching through glass.

By the time Harry was back in the air that afternoon, cutting through the low November autumnal clouds over London, the city stretched grey and endless below him. His squad moved in formation - precise, efficient, utterly joyless. The wind whipped through his hair, froze his flying glasses, and for all the height and speed, he couldn't shake the ache in his chest. The sky outside was already dimming when he finally mounted his broom, taking to the air with the rest of his squad. The wind tore through his hair, the cold biting at his cheeks, and for a moment, he could almost breathe again.

Below, London stretched out in steel and shadow. He was supposed to be scanning for illicit enchantments and dementors, but his mind wandered - back to Grimmauld Place, to firelight and parchment, to Malfoy's hesitant smirk on remembering his best memories as he'd tried to summon a Patronus.

Harry exhaled through his nose, the wind carrying the sound away.

Merlin, he thought, gripping the broom handle tighter.-'I'd rather be teaching Malfoy.'

The realisation startled him - absurd and true in equal measure. But as the city lights began to flicker on far below, Harry allowed himself the smallest smile. Maybe the air would feel lighter once he got home.

By the time the patrol ended, the sun had long dipped beneath the skyline, leaving the streets cloaked in a blue-grey hush. The wind had lost its bite, but the air still carried that late-autumn sharpness Harry had grown to love - the kind that woke you up, even when you were running on fumes.

He cut through the last stretch of the route faster than protocol allowed, banking low over the rooftops of Grimmauld's neighbourhood. The day had been long, bureaucratic, and loud in all the wrong ways - and the idea of stepping into the quiet house, seeing Teddy's toys still scattered in the drawing room, was almost enough to soothe him.

Almost.

Because then he saw him.

A flash of pale hair in the distance, just at the mouth of the street - Draco Malfoy, arriving by apparition with all the poise of someone who'd never once stumbled in his life. His favourite cloak caught the faint lamplight, Harry could almost remember the scent his cloak held...His silver trim glinting as he straightened his collar, clearly unaware of the broom slicing through the sky above him.

Harry's lips twitched. He removed his flying glasses, putting them above his hair, focusing his bad vision to make sure he had not been mistaken. But he would know that posture, and that walk by the sound of the steps that echoed, even in total blindness.

He could've landed. He should've landed. But the impulse struck before reason could object - sharp, mischievous, utterly unprofessional.

He leaned forward, gripping the handle of his broom, the world narrowing to a single thought: 'Let's see how Malfoy handles a bit of air pressure.'

The broom roared as he dove. A streak of wind and motion, fast enough to ruffle the ends of Draco's cloak and send his carefully arranged hair briefly awry.

Draco startled - just barely - his hand twitching toward his wand before he realised who it was. His glare snapped upward, sharp and immediate, the picture of indignation framed against the dark. He stood there ready to fight, wand drawn, only for it to lower a second later upon recognition.

Harry slowed only once he'd cleared the block, laughter bubbling up before he could help it. He turned the broom in a wide arc, hovering back toward the street with a grin that was all teeth and mischief.

"Evening, Malfoy!"-He called down, feigning innocence.-"Lovely night for a stroll, isn't it?"

Draco's eyes narrowed, pale and gleaming in the lamplight.-"You're insufferable, Potter."-He said flatly, voice tight with the ghost of adrenaline. But the corner of his mouth - just barely - betrayed him.

Harry's grin widened.-"You should've seen your face."

"Childish, Potter. You are not even wearing your glasses. You could have run me over."-He said, putting his wand back on his sleeve.

"Effective, though, my eyesight is not that bad."-Harry shot back, still hovering just out of reach.

Draco exhaled through his nose, clearly torn between irritation and reluctant amusement.-"If you're quite done attempting to assassinate me with windspeed, I have a lesson to attend."

Harry tilted his head, pretending to think.-"Hm. Does your teacher mind a little delay?"

A pause. Then, with that elegant precision only Draco could muster:-"Ask him."

Harry laughed again - tired, exhilarated, lighter - and finally guided the broom down to the street beside him.

For a moment, just a heartbeat, the tension of the day slipped away.

Harry's straining eyes lingered on Draco, trying to make out of the blur his features, as he stood beneath the streetlamp, cloak settling with perfect ease, hair catching the glow just so. There was a natural handsomeness tonight - quiet, unassuming, the sort that didn't need grandeur to command attention. It struck Harry how steady he was, how patient, how impossibly composed in the face of... well, him.

Harry had just flown past like a lunatic, a streak of reckless energy slicing the air, yet Draco hadn't overreacted like he had once expected. Simple... measured, observing, enduring. And for some reason, that patience unsettled Harry far more than it should.

It wasn't arrogance that made Draco magnetic as it usually was - tonight it was his steadiness. His ability to hold himself in a world that seemed constantly ready to throw chaos at him. And Harry found himself noticing the little things: the faint line of concentration between Draco's brows, the slight tilt of his head, the way his shoulders seemed to tense under the cloak even when the wind teased it.

Harry realised, as he slowed the broom, that he had never seen Draco like this before - and that was not because it was mainly blurry due to his missing glasses, not during their endless duels or schoolyard arguments, not during sneering insults or sly jabs. This was a version of him that wasn't performing for anyone, that wasn't reacting out of pride or spite. And it made Harry think, with a quiet ache in his chest, that maybe - just maybe - he had never really seen Draco Malfoy before tonight.

For a fleeting second, he wondered what it meant that this man could remain unruffled while he himself was still a whirlwind of motion and impulse. And he caught the ghost of a small, subtle shift in Draco's expression, the faintest acknowledgement that he had noticed Harry's ridiculous stunt - and endured it without judgment. That simple endurance, that quiet acknowledgement, spoke volumes.

Harry exhaled softly, the wind tugging at his cloak.-"Bloody hell..."-He murmured, more to himself than to Draco.-"Since when did Malfoy become... this?"

And as he hovered there, letting the lamplight brush across Draco's face. Even as the adrenaline ebbed, a trace of mischief lingered in his chest, and he caught sight of Draco waiting at the edge of the lamplight. The pale hair, the straight-backed posture, the effortless calm - it struck him how naturally composed Draco looked, even under the unorthodox circumstances of Harry's late-night arrival.

Clearing his throat, Harry tried for a measure of civility, a gesture he rarely afforded himself.-"I know it was late... Hope it didn't bother you."

Draco tilted his head just slightly, silver eyes glinting in the lamplight. He gave a faint shrug, a motion so small it was almost imperceptible, yet it carried the weight of calm understanding.-"Not in the slightest, you seem unusually spirited tonight."-He said, his voice steady, measured. Then, after a beat, he added, almost as an aside.-"Potter being Potter, I suppose..."

Harry's lips twitched, a half-smile tugging at the corner.-"And that... means?"-He asked, curious despite himself.

Draco's expression softened with dry amusement, the barest smirk lifting one corner of his mouth.-"That you can't help yourself."-He said evenly.-"Never change, Potter."

Harry laughed softly, a low, easy sound that carried more relief than humour. He could see it now: the patience Draco had mustered, the quiet tolerance of his usual chaos, and how he had absorbed it without complaint.-"I suppose I should be grateful, then..."-Harry said, shaking his head, letting the broom hover beside him.-"For your understanding."

Draco's gaze remained steady, almost teasing in its subtlety, but there was warmth beneath it, a quiet acknowledgement that Harry hadn't expected.-"You'll find I'm... not easily fazed."-He said, and for a moment, the lamplight caught the pale gleam of his eyes, calm and watchful.

Harry, hovering above the cobblestones, felt the tension in his chest ease slightly. In that simple exchange, late at night, with the city hushed around them, the storm of adrenaline and mischief had softened into something quieter - something almost ordinary, almost... grounding.

Draco's gaze didn't leave the broom as they approached the street.-"That's... not standard Ministry-issued broom..."-He said, his voice clipped but curious, hands resting briefly on the handle as if testing its weight.-"My father used to mention how the Ministry had the slowest brooms in the world. A kind favour towards runaway criminals."

Harry grinned, tilting the broom just slightly to show a set of gleaming runes etched on the wood; his coat covered most of the mechanical parts he had added.-"Not standard-issued broom... I told Kingsley I would resign if my broom was ever that slow. He secretly agreed to let me personalise it. Did some modifications. Increased speed, reinforced the structure, added some experimental parts... but it's really heavy. I might be the only one who can even steer it without wobbling off the edge of the world."

"And highly illegal."-Draco arched an eyebrow, lips twitching with that faint, reluctant intrigue he only ever allowed himself when Potter was around.-"Is that a challenge?"

"Maybe..."-Harry said, dropping the broom with perfect control to hover a few inches above the ground. He stepped aside and gestured.-"Here - hold it. Let's see if you've got what it takes."

Draco's hands closed around the handle, firm but hesitant. The Broom didn't immediately obey, teetering, the weight of Harry's enhancements making it heavy. He shifted, adjusted his shoulders, frowning.-"This is... heavier than I expected. Guess one has to be worthy of your Mjölnir broom."

Harry laughed at the unusual joke, while taking back the broom from his hands with a practised ease, holding it like it weighed nothing, the sound of his laugh easy and teasing. He walked beside him as they strolled down the narrow street between Number 11 and Number 13.-"Told you. Not for the faint of wrist. But you're holding up better than I thought."

A subtle flick of Harry's wand, and the air shimmered - the usual illusory veil over Number 12 forming.-"Come on. You're a secret keeper now. Follow the pattern and remember it."-He said, voice low, guiding Draco's hands slightly as they practised the admission charm.

Draco followed, hesitance still in his movements, but the moment the magic clicked, Number 12 shimmered into existence with its usual, impossible shift. The hidden house now stood between the familiar 11 and 13.

Malfoy's pale eyes widened, lips parting just enough to betray genuine awe.-"Every time..."-He murmured, voice soft, almost reverent, as if seeing the house appear for the first time was a spell in itself.

Harry watched Draco's movements with a mix of amusement and quiet fascination as they stepped across the threshold of Number 12. There was still a stiffness in his shoulders, the lingering edge of someone who had spent years on guard, but the tension was easing, just slightly, as if the act of holding the broom, of performing the admission charm, had loosened something inside him.

Inside the house, the elf shuffled forward at the sight of them, eager, and Draco instinctively passed him his cloak.

Harry caught Draco's glance as the Malfoy muttered another "thanks" under his breath. It wasn't loud, not performative, just... genuine. Small things, Harry noted, that he'd never have expected from Draco before. Gratitude, acknowledgement, a softness around the edges.

As they moved further into the drawing room, Draco's eyes going straight to the mess he had made that morning, Harry noticed how he paused by the fireplace, his eyes sweeping over the room with an almost unconscious assessment, as though measuring its safety and comfort. And still, the aura of elegance, the careful control, was there - Draco, the pure-blood heir, never entirely letting the boyish pride go.

Harry let him have the lead into the room, taking in his movements. Even small gestures - the way he played with his signet ring when he had nothing to say or do, the faint flick of his wrist when brushing an imaginary speck of dust - were composed and deliberate, but softened by familiarity with the space.

Harry lingered near the desk, dropping his bag on the chair, tugging absently at the edge of his flying gloves with his teeth, before moving towards the gramophone. He opened its case and slid a vinyl on its enchanted turntables, dropping the tone arms over the vinyl. A simple symphony, some old vinyls he found in Sirius room when cleaning. It soothed him, he closed his eyes briefly as the music started... His shoulders ached beneath the weight of his patrol gear, the heavy Auror jacket clinging with the faint scent of wind and broom polish. He exhaled softly, running a hand through his hair - it was damp from the cold air, flattened in odd angles from the goggles.

"Er - give me a minute."-He said at last, glancing toward Draco.-"I need to change. Flying uniforms ' not exactly made for sitting around."

Draco, who has been staring quite intensely, arched an eyebrow, tone dry.-"I imagine not. All those straps and buckles - very practical for chasing dark wizards, less so for teaching. I mean..."-He paused, having not meant to say that out loud. He then regained composure, a tease in his eyes replacing the moment.-"Not to mention you look ridiculous. I see now why your hair is permanently cursed to look like that."

Harry huffed a laugh, amused despite himself, despite the fact he had just been made fun of, Malfoy being Malfoy, he thinks.-"Something like that."-He gestured loosely toward the sofa by the fireplace.-"Make yourself comfortable."

Draco ignored the sofa. He inclined his head, his eyes going to the usual shelves where the dark relics were displayed. He tried to be casual but polite as Harry turned toward the stairs. For a moment, the only sound was the soft creak of the old steps under his boots. He could feel Draco's gaze on his back, that careful, silent scrutiny that had become oddly familiar over these evenings.

By the time Harry returned, the stiffness had eased from his shoulders. He'd traded the dark Airforce uniform for a simple warm jumper and sweatpants, round glasses perched properly on his nose again; he had tried to tame his hair, but it had failed. He placed the broom and flying goggles neatly beside a smaller broom tucked against the wall - Draco's old one, gleaming faintly in the firelight after Harry's careful repairs.

Draco's attention snapped from the shelved directly, it caught on it almost immediately. He didn't say anything, not yet, but Harry saw the flicker of recognition - and something quieter beneath it, nostalgia, maybe.

It struck Harry then, as he caught the ghost of a smirk tugging at Draco's lips when he caught Harry watching him, that these little routines were forming a rhythm between them.

As they stood in the now-lively drawing room, Harry let the silence linger for a beat. Draco's eyes flicked toward him, sharp and assessing, but the edge was softer than before. And Harry, for the first time in a long while, allowed himself to imagine the possibility that this - this carefully measured, slightly guarded, and yet undeniably present Draco - could stay here, in these moments, a little longer than expected.

That broom. He recognised it instantly. He had known Harry had found it, tucked away in the floorboards, repaired it for Teddy - but now, seeing it in the light of the drawing room, besides a trunk of toys, he could fully appreciate the work. The wood gleamed, perfectly rejoined, reinforced in subtle ways that spoke of careful, patient craftsmanship. It was way smaller than Harry's, but somehow, in its own way, just as formidable.

Harry refreshed from his brief change, brushing back a few strands of hair, reading glasses on, looking exhausted but... magnetic. His usual vigilance had slipped slightly, replaced by a quiet, casual confidence. Even tired, even pale from sleepless nights, he carried an aura that made him seem unassailable, commanding, and effortlessly handsome.

Harry caught Draco still looking between him and the small broom, amusement flickering across his features.-"You've been staring."-He said lightly, though the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement, as if he'd known Draco would be caught.

Draco's lips pressed into a thin line, feigning nonchalance.-"...It's just a broom."-He said, but his gaze didn't waver.

Harry smiled and lifted the small broom up.-"Teddy likes zooming around the drawing room daily. The best thing I ever did was fix this broom for him. You should see him on it - thinks he's flying through the skies already."

"I bet he is..."-Draco's expression softened as Harry held his childhood in his hand, a shadow of memory tugging at the edge of his voice.-"At the time, my father told me it couldn't be fixed. Snapped clean in half when I fell from it. Said it was easier to replace than try to save it, he bought me a better one."-His tone wasn't bitter, just distant - familiar grief turned quiet.-"I didn't want to replace it. I wanted to keep it."

Harry looked up at him, gaze steady.-"Then I'm glad someone finally proved him wrong."-He said softly, and there was something there - something that made Draco's breath catch.

The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It felt... settled. The small broom gleamed between them, a quiet relic of childhood and choice, and Draco realised, with a start, that Harry had preserved more than the toy. What his father had not preserved for him. He'd preserved care... Love.

Draco tore his eyes away first, scanning the room as if to recover his footing. The drawing room was unrecognisable from the house's gloomy past - warm, bright, childproofed, alive.-"You've turned this into... what, a padded playground?"-He asked dryly, though there was genuine amusement in his voice.

Harry grinned, the kind that softened him entirely.-"Tempting to call it a fortress. But-..."-He leaned in slightly, voice dropping.-"No garden here. And Andromeda doesn't have one either. Options are limited."

"Ah."-Draco's mouth curved.-"So you're protective by necessity, not by nature... And it's not one of your controlling attempts... Merlin forbid the child gets to taste a bit of freedom around here."

Harry's laugh came low and easy.-"Work in progress... He gets to zoom - just... within reason. Besides, I can't childproof nature."

Draco smirked.-"You could try. Wouldn't put it past you."

"Maybe someday."-Harry said with mock solemnity and a tiny bit of sarcasm.-"But until then, he's safe here."

Draco's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer.-"It's... good. Seeing you like this."-His voice had softened almost imperceptibly. Then he looked away as if recalling a memory of his own.-"You should let him ride it outside someday, though. Open air, real sky. There's nothing like it. Especially for a kid, I would know."

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, a smile tugging at his mouth.-"I'll think about it. Maybe when he's older."

"Overprotective and cautious."-Draco said, shaking his head, though his tone was warm.

Harry arched a brow.-"You say that like it's a bad thing."

Draco's lips curved faintly.-"It's not. It suits you."

He paused, eyes glinting with a trace of humour.-"The whole Auror Airforce thing, too. Flying, chasing danger, breaking the laws of physics - fits you perfectly, really. You used to terrorise half my youth with your broom skills on the pitch; it seems only fair you made a career out of it."

Harry let out a low laugh, shaking his head.-"Terrorise? I call it healthy competition."

Draco arched a brow.-"You call nearly knocking me off my broom every single year healthy competition?"

Harry's grin deepened, that teasing gleam returning to his eyes.-"You stayed on, didn't you? Built character."

Draco snorted softly, but the fondness in his expression gave him away.

The words hung there for a moment too long before Harry broke the silence, clearing his throat.-"So does your job, it also suits you"

Draco looked mildly surprised.-"My job?"

"Yeah. Ministry man. Looks like you were born for it."

Draco's smirk faltered into something thoughtful.-"The thing is, though - I never really fancied being a Ministry man. Even as a child. My father did. It was all he ever wanted for me. But me... no."

Harry leaned against the edge of the desk, arms folded loosely, watching him.-"What did you want to do?"

Draco hesitated, eyes darting toward the window where faint twilight pressed against the glass.-"Quidditch..."-He admitted finally, almost sheepishly.-"But I wasn't good enough. Mostly..."-He exhaled softly, gaze dropping to the small broom still hovering near the hearth.-"Mostly, I just wanted to be happy."

Harry's throat tightened at the simplicity of it.-"You still could be."-He said quietly.-"Different time. Different rules."

Draco looked up at him, and for a moment, the room seemed to still - the air charged not with tension, but with something quieter, more human.

"Maybe."-Draco said.-"If I stop letting the past define the game."

Harry leaned back against the edge of the desk, the music lingering in the air, watching Draco, who was now by the fireplace, with that faint, unguarded warmth that sometimes slipped through when he wasn't trying to fill the silence.-"You know."-He said quietly.-"You'd probably still be good at it. Flying, I mean."

Draco huffed, glancing down as if the idea itself were absurd.-"Flying? I haven't been on a broom in years. And there no longer is a reward to doing so."

"Then fly for yourself."-Harry said simply.-"No teams, no trophies. Just wind and sky. Merlin, does it help sometimes."

For a moment, something in Draco's expression shifted - less guarded, less rehearsed. The hard edges softened, and Harry caught a glimpse of the boy he'd once chased through the air, laughing even in rivalry. Draco's gaze lingered on the floorboards, then lifted again, slower this time.

"It's unfortunately, never that easy."-He murmured.

Harry's lips curved faintly.-"Maybe it is. When you stop letting everything else weigh you down."

The words hung between them, quiet but steady, and in that stillness, Harry realised he was staring again - wondering when Draco Malfoy had stopped sneering and started listening. The change was subtle but undeniable, and it caught him off guard in ways he didn't quite have language for.

Draco's voice broke the silence, softer now.-"Come on, Potter, even you don't believe the words coming out of your mouth."

Harry's answer came with a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.-"Some days. The others... I fake it till I do."

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The air between them felt different - lighter, fragile, threaded with an understanding that neither of them had meant to build but somehow kept finding anyway.

Draco let out a quiet, amused breath, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.-"When did Potter get so wise? Does it come with the parenting manual?"

Harry chuckled, shaking his head.-"Something like that."-He said, voice dipping warm and wry.-"Mostly trial and error, though. Heavy on the error."

That earned a genuine, low laugh from Draco - quiet but real. The sound lingered longer than it should have, softening the room around them.

Harry froze for a moment, caught off guard by the sound - the real, unrestrained kind of laugh that slipped through before Draco could cage it behind his usual poise. It wasn't sharp or derisive, not like the ones Harry remembered from school. No smugness, no showmanship. Just... human.

The sound stirred something old in him. Memory. He could almost see it - the Great Hall, candlelight glinting off silver cutlery, Draco at the Slytherin table surrounded by his entourage, head thrown back in some effortless display of superiority, though a harmless laughter that used to always make Harry look up to see what was so funny over there. That laugh had always grated on Harry then, something too polished, too loud, a weapon disguised as charm. But this one - this laugh here in the quiet, tea, talk and vulnerability - was small and real and painfully fleeting, just a fragment of what it used to be...And how did he wish it had not changed so much.

Harry found himself wondering - had that happy boy ever truly existed? Or had he only imagined it between their rivalries, glimpsed it between the sneers and the quick wit? Maybe the truth was that Draco had always been capable of laughter like that, but life, legacy, and war had buried it too deep.

He wanted - Merlin help him - to hear it again. To draw it out, not by accident, not by surprise, but because Draco felt safe enough to let it happen. Because that sharp, beautiful light might still be in there somewhere, waiting for a reason to come out.

The thought left him both lighter and heavier, and when he looked at Draco again - head tilted, still half-smiling - Harry realised with quiet certainty that the sound of that laugh might haunt him for a long time.

Draco's gaze flicked up, and he caught Harry staring. Not the usual quick glance, not the look of mild irritation or idle curiosity - but that other look, the one that softened the edges of his face, that made his green eyes seem almost too aware.

"You've had that look for a while now... Ever since the war."-Draco said quietly, voice low enough that it could have been mistaken for casual observation.-"Like... like you're sad about someone else's pain."

Harry blinked, caught off guard, a faint flush creeping up his neck. For a moment, he had heard words only Luna usually forms. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, because what could he say? It was true, in part, and in part not - it wasn't just sadness for others, it was the echo of all the things he couldn't fix, the weight of the world he still carried, softened only when he saw someone start to heal in front of him.

Draco's eyes didn't waver, though, and Harry found himself compelled to meet them, to let the unspoken acknowledgement pass between them. There was something in the way Draco said it - neither accusation nor pity - that made Harry's chest tighten, in the quietest, most disarming way.

Harry's gaze softened, and he let a small, almost shy smile tug at the corner of his lips.-"There's a word for that..."-He said quietly, leaning just slightly closer.-"Empathy... noticing, feeling, caring about someone else's pain. And sometimes... it sneaks up on you, whether you want it to or not."

Draco's eyes narrowed, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.-"Empathy, huh?"-He said, tone half-mocking, half-curious.-"Sounds dangerously sentimental."

Harry chuckled softly, the warmth in his voice carrying something heavier beneath the humour.-"Maybe. But it can also be... powerful. And useful. You'd be surprised how far a little noticing can go."

Draco's gaze lingered on him, sharp but unguarded now, and for the first time in a long while, Harry felt that fragile, quiet connection between them stretch just a little further.

Harry, unable to bear such silence that had formed all of a sudden, almost too intimate, called for Kreacher, who appeared immediately from the kitchen, expecting instructions.-"Tea, please."-He said, voice calm.-"The usual - just like last night."

Kreacher came back, gnarled fingers grasped the tray, and Harry added a drop of the calming potion to each glass with a faint flourish of his wand.-"It has proved itself to work."-He murmured, eyes flicking toward Draco.

Draco didn't question it this time. He'd seen last night what the potion could do. Instead, he simply inclined his head, fingers brushing the rim of his cup as he accepted it.

"Have you practised at home?"-Harry asked softly, sliding into the armchair opposite him, posture easy, eyes sharp with gentle scrutiny.

Draco hesitated, then admitted.-"I... faced some difficulty. It's not as easy as it looked here."-He stirred his tea absently, gaze flicking to Harry.-"...But I do have a few main memories I could try now. I've chosen the ones I'll try to connect with the Patronus. See if it works against the Boggart."

Harry's lips curved into a small, approving smile.-"Good. That's exactly what matters - picking the memory that matters most. The one that lights you from the inside."-His eyes lingered on Draco for a heartbeat longer, just long enough to make Draco shift slightly, aware of the warmth creeping into his chest.

Draco took a slow sip of tea, the warmth spreading pleasantly through him.-"I suppose."-He muttered, voice quieter.-"That last night helped. More than I expected."

Harry's smile deepened, teasing but tender.-"Glad to hear it. Now... we'll see if all that practice pays off tonight."

Kreacher set the tray down and vanished again, leaving them in the soft warmth of the drawing room. Outside, the city's hum was distant, almost like it belonged to another world. Inside, for a moment, all that existed was the tea, the potion, the faint music from an old vinyl and the quiet anticipation of what was to come.

Harry watched Draco settle into the sofa across from him, focused on his tea. He'd brewed the potion days ago, partly for nights like this, when sleep refused to stay. It wasn't a dreamless draught - it never could be - but it helped now that nothing else helped. At least enough to let the nerves settle and the mind sharpen, and happy memories step through.

"I want to talk about the Boggart."-Harry said, voice low, almost conversational, though every word was precise.-"It takes shape based on your fears. That's how it works - it feeds off what your mind projects. You can't fight it blindly. You need a shield, something stronger, brighter... something you pull from memory. That's what we'll practice with the Patronus."

Draco stirred his tea, slow, deliberate, and Harry's eyes followed the motion. He loved the way Draco focused, even when the faintest edge of nerves was still present. He'd seen it before - the same intensity in the lab or his office while writing on the chalkboard, the same careful precision - but now it was different. This was personal.

"Start by thinking of the memory you chose."-Harry continued.-"The one you said you'd connect to the Patronus. Hold it in your mind. Don't rush it. That's what the Patronus feeds on - joy, clarity, confidence. Not just the image, but the feeling behind it."

He leaned slightly forward, voice softening, almost teasing.-"And if it doesn't work at first... that's fine. You're learning, not performing for anyone. Not for me, not for the Boggart, not even for yourself. Just... try. Trust the memory, and trust the magic will follow."

Draco's lips pressed into a thin line, jaw tightening slightly, a nerve forming on his forehead, but his eyes didn't waver from Harry's. The moment stretched, the warmth of the music and of the house around them like a shield. Harry took a careful sip of his tea, noting the familiar warmth, the faint effect of the potion settling into his muscles. He could feel it calming him too, easing the slight ache in his shoulders from patrol and sleepless nights.

"You ready?"-He said finally, not as a command. His gaze flicked to Draco, catching the small nod he gave.-"Whenever you're ready, we'll start."

And in that quiet, mundane moment - tea steaming between them, soft light spilling across the room, the faintest hint of exhaustion in Harry's eyes - there was trust. Fragile, unspoken, and entirely theirs.

Draco's hand hovered over his tea, fingers curling around the handle but not lifting it. His pale eyes flicked toward the desk where Harry stood, near the sealed drawer holding the Boggart. The air felt thicker somehow, anticipation and nerves mingling.

"What if..."-Draco began cautiously, voice low.-"...what if my biggest fear isn't... a Dementor? What if it's... something else entirely?"

Harry's lips tugged into a faint, patient smile, his posture relaxed despite the intensity in the room. He stepped forward, close enough that Draco could feel the faint heat of his presence.-"Then we'll deal with that too."-He said gently.-"We'll examine it, understand it, and make it work for you. You can tell me what you think it is."

Draco hesitated, swallowing.-"...It could be... Voldemort. Or... something darker. Something I don't want to even name."

Harry chuckled softly, low and warm, not mocking, but easing the tension.-"Alright. Let's examine each possible outcome, then. Voldemort as an outcome? He's dead. That's it. He can't hurt you or anyone anymore. Even if he appears, Boggarts can't actually harm you physically. The only way there's real danger is if it feeds too much on your fear. Something darker, well... What else is darker than death?"

Draco just shrugged, maybe weighing each possibility in his mind.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough to be intimate but steady.-"And as always... remember, you can ward yourself with the Boggart-Banishing Spell, the Riddikulus charm. Silly, absurd, something that makes even fear itself hesitate. You control the magic. You control the fear."

Draco's hands tightened around his tea, knuckles blanching.-"Riddikulus... think of something absurd?"-His tone was half scepticism, half curiosity, a thread of intrigue weaving through his careful reserve.

Harry nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips.-"Exactly. Fear doesn't stand a chance against a bit of wit and creativity. It's not just about courage, Draco. It's about cleverness, control... and a touch of humour. You've got both."

Draco looked away when Harry gave him the masked compliment. The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was contemplative, charged, and Harry could see Draco weighing the logic, the magic, and the possibility of success. He let him, patient.

"Ready to try?"-Harry asked finally, his voice soft but steady.-"I'll be right here. Step by step. And if anything gets tricky..."-He gestured lightly to the ridiculous ward idea, letting a faint grin peek through.-"...we'll get creative."

Draco's gaze flicked up, hesitation lingering but curiosity winning slightly over caution.-"I suppose..."-He murmured.-"I suppose I can try."

Harry's smile widened just enough to be encouraging, not overbearing.-"Good. That's all I ask. Also, only you will make direct eye contact with the Boggart, so once I cast the unsealing charm on the drawer, brace yourself, from this distance it's safe."

Draco nodded, putting the cup on the table and then stood at the safe distance that Harry had marked with a stacking block that he was sure belonged to the child.-"Any safe words?"-He asked a bit fidgety, opening a button from his shirt to breathe better.

Harry scratched his head with his wand, his eyes falling on a thin line of scar that appeared when Draco opened the button.-"Em...Help, I guess?"

Draco scrunched his nose, displeased.-"That's stupid."

The other boy shrugged.-"What do you suppose, then?"

Draco hesitated, then exhaled through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself.-"Something less ridiculous than 'Help,' surely. I'm not shouting that across a room like some damsel in distress."

Harry's grin widened.-"You prefer what -'Save me, Potter'?"

Draco shot him a look, equal parts disbelief and reluctant amusement.-"Absolutely not. I would rather let the Boggart consume me."

The quiet stretched again, their laughter thinning into something steadier - easier. Harry felt it in the air between them, that fragile thread of comfort that hadn't existed before. He gestured toward the marked line on the floor.

"Alright."-He said gently. His glasses gleamed from the lamplights.-"How about..."

Draco cut him off.-"What's your stag's name... Prongs was it?"

Harry was caught a bit off guard. How did Malfoy even remember that? He nodded.-"Prongs, yes, let's go with that. If you need me to cast the Patronus, just say that."

Draco confirmed with a firm nod.

Harry stood by his side now.-"Just stay behind the block, keep your wand ready. When I cast the unsealing charm, lock contact with the Boggart."

Draco nodded, rolling his shoulders once to loosen the stiffness in his posture. He glanced at the child's block, then back at Harry.-"You make it sound like this is an exact science."

"Not quite."-Harry said, tone soft but sure.-"It's more... trust. And timing. The rest we figure out as we go."

That earned him a faint huff, not quite a laugh but close enough. Draco's hand tightened around his wand.-"Alright then."-He said finally, voice steadier.-"Let's pretend I know what we are doing."

Harry's smile softened, the faintest warmth threading through his voice.-"Good. That's all I ask."

He lifted his wand slightly, glancing toward the desk drawer - the soft hum of anticipation rising in the air.-"Ready to try?"

Draco took one last breath, the faint sound of it catching in his throat before settling into quiet resolve.-"I suppose I can't turn back now."

Harry nodded, gaze never leaving him.-"No, actually, you can't."-He teased.

Harry took one quiet breath, wand raised.-"Sigillum aperi."

The charm whispered through the room, soft but resonant - and the drawer shuddered in response. Its seams quivered, hinges whining as faint wisps of dark vapour began to slip through the cracks. The air grew colder, the music sounding like it came from a faraway hole, the warmth of the lamps dimming slightly as though something unseen drew the light inward.

At first, it was just shadow - formless, drifting like smoke. Then the mist thickened, the darkness twisting in on itself until the shape began to coalesce. A tattered cloak, a hand like decay reaching forward.

Draco's breath caught.

The Boggart rose - and in a heartbeat, it was no longer mist. The shape towered before them, the faceless hood dipping low, the air heavy with that sickening chill. The sound was faint but unmistakable - the hollow, dragging breath of a Dementor.

Draco froze. His wand faltered slightly, eyes wide, transfixed on that empty darkness.

Harry stepped closer, steady and sure behind him.-"It's not real."-He said quietly, his voice a calm tether against the rising fear.-"Just breathe. You've got this."

He reached out, placing a hand on Draco's elbow, straightening it gently.-"Like that. Good. Don't let it in."

The touch seemed to ground him. Draco blinked, inhaled sharply - and the tremor in his wand arm stilled, focusing on his memory. His lips parted, forming the words, his voice breaking through the chill.

"Expecto Patronum!"

A burst of light erupted from his wand - thin but determined - forming the faint, wavering outline of a silver whirl. It flickered against the advancing Dementor, enough to make it falter, but not retreat. The shield shuddered, too weak to hold.

Harry saw it the instant before Draco spoke, the way his jaw tightened, the flare of frustration, rather than fear, his memory not enough to carry the weight of it.

"Prongs."

Harry didn't hesitate. His own wand lifted, the spell flowing from him like muscle memory, instinctive and absolute.

"Expecto Patronum!"

The stag burst forth - magnificent, radiant - its antlers catching the dim light as it charged the Dementor with a fierce, echoing cry. The Boggart shrieked in return, collapsing inward, its smoky edges folding violently until it was drawn back, retreating into the drawer from which it had come.

The moment the last wisp vanished, Harry flicked his wand sharply.-"Sigilla Eam."

The drawer sealed shut with a low, final click. The chill lifted. The lamplights flared back to life.

Silence followed - a deep, ringing quiet that settled between them like the aftermath of thunder.

Harry lowered his wand, chest still rising from the residual surge of magic. He turned toward Draco, who was standing still, pale but steady, the faint shimmer of light fading from his wandtip.

"You alright?"-Harry asked softly.

Draco exhaled, a slow breath leaving his lungs.-"I think so."-His voice was hoarse but calm, his composure returning in real time.-"For what it's worth... I didn't use the safe word lightly."

Harry smiled faintly.-"Wouldn't have blamed you if you had."

Draco glanced at him then, eyes sharp but touched with something warmer - not gratitude exactly, but recognition.-"You did warn me it'd feel real."

Harry nodded once, voice quiet, certain.-"Yeah. But you handled it."

The silence stretched again, softer this time. Draco's gaze lingered on the drawer, then on Harry - as if still weighing which had unsettled him more.

The air was still heavy with the echo of magic, the faint hum of the Patronus lingering in the room. The silver stag had not vanished with the Boggart's retreat; instead, it stood calmly beside Harry's desk, head bowed, the soft shimmer of moonlight rippling across its flank.

Draco watched it, his usual reserve slipping just enough for quiet wonder to show through. He stepped closer, not too near, but close enough to see the soft lines of light that defined the creature - elegant, alive, protective.

A small smile curved his mouth.-"How much willpower does it take?"-He murmured.-"To bring something like that out?"

Harry followed his gaze, eyes softening as the stag turned toward him, its translucent form reflecting faintly in his glasses.-"Not as much as it used to."-He said quietly.-"These days, I don't even think about the memory anymore. It just... comes."

He didn't add what the memory was - that it wasn't the laughter of his parents, or Sirius's proud grin, or even the golden light of a war finally ended. It was more recent. Simpler. The sight of Draco, pale and defiant, refusing to leave him when he'd been broken and afraid. That quiet, stubborn presence had become something solid - something that had found its way into light.

Draco tilted his head slightly, studying the Patronus as it pawed gently at the floor, the faint sound like wind against glass.-"It's changed."-He said after a pause, his voice soft but certain.-"It looks younger. Leaner. The antlers - smaller than before."

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the observation.-"You remember what Prongs looked like?"

Draco glanced at him, the faintest trace of a smirk ghosting his lips.-"Hard to forget. You've summoned him enough times to make an impression. This one's different. Feels... newer, somehow, it's not the deer you sent for me when leaving Edinburgh."

Harry looked at the stag again. Following the outline of light as it lifted its head, gaze steady, calm. Malfoy had been referring to the night of the battle with the Carrows. There was truth in Malfoy's words. It was different - gentler, less like a guide, more like a young warrior.

Draco's gaze lingered on the fading shimmer of silver, the ghost of the stag dissolving into the air like breath in winter. His voice was quiet when he spoke, but sure - thoughtful in a way Harry wasn't quite prepared for.

"This one."-Draco said, still watching the space where the Patronus had stood.-"Looks more like you."

Harry blinked.-"Me?"

Draco turned to him, expression more temperate than usual, though his tone carried that familiar edge of dry precision.-"It's calmer. Not as wild as before. Still powerful, but-..."-He paused, searching for the word.-"...-more... centred. Less burdened. Like it isn't carrying someone else's shadow anymore."

Harry's throat went dry for a second, his gaze drifting to the empty space near the desk where the stag had vanished.-"Maybe it is."-He said after a moment.-"Maybe I've changed too."

He hesitated, then added, half to himself.-"They do change, you know. Patronuses. Depending on the witch or wizard. Tonks's changed to a wolf when she married Remus. Bill's to butterflies when he met Fleur."

Draco tilted his head, that small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.-"Ah..."-He said lightly- "So does that mean you've made yourself a lover then, Potter?"

Harry froze.-"What-no! That's-..."-He cut himself off, heat blooming fast across his cheeks.-"That's not how it works."

Draco's grin widened, wickedly pleased by the reaction.-"Oh, I don't know. The way you say it makes it sound rather romantic. It seems it takes the shape of the counterpart, which would mean... A silver stag for your... special someone."

Harry's mouth opened, then closed again. He gave a short, helpless laugh, rubbing a thumb along the edge of his wand before glancing up.

"You give the Patronus too much credit."-He said lightly, though his tone carried that faint warmth he couldn't quite hide.-"It's not about romance, Malfoy. It's about... connection. What keeps you standing when everything else wants to knock you down?"

Draco only smirked, clearly enjoying himself.-"Relax, Potter. I'm only teasing. No need to quote the book for this."

Harry's lips twitched, half-amused, half-surprised by the insight.

Draco's gaze flicked toward the stag again, then back at Harry.-"Still, if it starts acting like a lover, I'll expect a full explanation. Not that I think you're capable of romantic... reasoning."

Harry choked back a laugh, heat rising to his cheeks.-"Malfoy!"-He warned, ducking his head, though a small part of him wondered how much Malfoy was teasing and how much he had accidentally hit something true.

Harry huffed out a breath, trying for nonchalance, but his pulse was unsteady, his skin too warm under the lamplight. If only Draco knew - if he had even the faintest idea. Because the truth was, Harry had used him as his memory. Not the Malfoy of old, or the one who scowled across classrooms, but the man in front of him now - steady, changed, alive. The image of him standing against the Edinburgh storm, pale hair soaked through, refusing to leave Harry's side. That had been enough to summon light.

And now, that same light seemed to burn behind Harry's ribs, uncomfortably bright, spilling into his face in a deep shade of red that the flickering lamplight couldn't quite hide.

He wasn't good at this - never had been. Not at lovers' talk, not at things that felt close to it. He only hoped Draco couldn't read him like a book.

But then Draco looked at him - really looked - and said, almost softly.-"You blush too easily, Potter."

Harry's laugh came out half-nervous, half-genuine.-"Yeah, well."-He said, rubbing the back of his neck.-"Occupational hazard, I guess."

Draco's smile lingered - small, unreadable, but warm enough to make Harry's heart trip over itself all over again.

Harry blinked, shaking himself from the moment, and reached for his cup - only to find the tea had gone cold. A small, frustrated huff escaped him.

"It happens."-He muttered, more to himself than to Draco, before looking up.-"Boggarts... they can be hazardous if you let them feed too long. The longer you linger in fear, the bigger, stronger they get. They feed off the panic, the uncertainty, until the thing in front of you isn't just an image - it becomes your fear itself."

He tilted his head, eyes scanning Draco's posture. The subtle slump of his shoulders, the way his hands gripped the wand a little tighter - it all spoke louder than words.-"Looks like... our tea's gone cold."-Harry added, tone careful, almost gentle.-"Means you're pretty deep in it."

Draco lowered his head slightly, the faintest shadow crossing his pale features.-"I thought... I thought it was something else."-He admitted quietly, voice tight but not quite breaking.-"...Seems I was wrong."

Harry gave a soft nod, his gaze steady but understanding.-"Doesn't matter. That's the thing about fear - it surprises you. Shows you what you're really holding onto."

Draco glanced up, eyes meeting Harry's, a mixture of relief and discomfort flickering there.-"So... that's it? Just... accept it?"

Harry's mouth quirked faintly, warm despite the chill of the moment.-"Not just accept. Face it. And remember - you've got someone standing right here if it gets... too heavy."

The words hovered, unspoken weight in the quiet drawing room, while the cold tea steamed faintly in Harry's cup as a reminder of the battle they were just beginning.

Draco's pale eyes flicked toward Harry, curiosity threading through the faint tension in his posture.-"And... what's your fear, then? The hero of the wizarding world must surely fear something."

Harry let out a quiet, low chuckle, almost ironic.-"I've faced it before as you may remember. Back at school, Lupin had us confront a Boggart in class - right in front of everyone. That's when I saw it for the first time, up close."

Draco's brow rose, a sceptical edge in his tone.-"That was years ago, Potter. Don't expect me to believe things have not changed since then."

Harry shook his head, firm but quiet.-"Not really. Some fears stick. The war... it didn't make mine any smaller."-He glanced toward the oggart, calm, unflinching.

Draco studied him, unconvinced.-"You don't even flinch around Dementors. Doesn't that mean it's changed?"

Harry gave a faint, rueful shrug.-"Maybe. Or maybe I just don't want to test that theory tonight. Sometimes it's smarter to be cautious, even if you think you've mastered it. For me, I would rather it stay hidden far in the drawer."

Draco lowered his gaze, turning the words over in silence. He didn't respond, but the quiet acknowledgement in his posture was enough - the weight of old fears, and the subtle care in how Harry faced them, filling the space between them.

Draco stepped back behind the small stacking block, the one that Teddy used as a makeshift marker, and adjusted his grip on his wand. Harry mirrored his position behind him, placing a steadying hand briefly on his shoulder, a quiet anchor.

"Ready?"-Harry asked softly, voice calm but firm.

Draco gave a brief nod, inhaling sharply before exhaling.-"As ready as I'll ever be."

Harry lifted his wand, his eyes briefly meeting Draco's in reassurance.-"Sigillum aperi."

A soft creak echoed from the drawer as the seal broke. Mist seeped out first, curling like smoke across the floor, then solidifying, coalescing into the familiar, chilling shape of a dementor. Its presence pressed immediately against Draco's chest, icy tendrils of fear threading through him.

Draco's wand rose with more confidence this time, his fingers steady though his breath caught. A silvery light flared from the tip, his Patronus forming. It was stronger, more defined than before, leaping from him in a bright arc. The shield didn't last as long as he might have liked - the effort drained him - but it held, pushing the dementor back, buying precious seconds.

The creature's shadow lingered, and it drew the screams out of his memory again, the tortures, the feeling of not being able to ease the tortured, relentless, and Draco's chest tightened; it would never go away, the feeling of guilt within him.-"Prongs!"-He called sharply, the safe word cutting through the tension like a bell.

Harry's wand moved in tandem, a silver light bursting forth from him as his stag materialised, rushing to the dementor and forcing it to retreat. Together, their Patronus corralled the dark shape back toward the drawer, where Harry sealed it once more.

"Sigilla eam."

The sound of the final charm resonated, the Boggart retreating with a faint sigh of resistance. The room fell into quiet, save for the soft, steady pulse of their own breathing.

Harry did not bring up the things he heard, and Malfoy seemed to be glad he had not.

Draco blinked, lowering his wand, and his eyes caught Prongs as the stag moved protectively toward him, standing alert and proud at his side. Nudging him with his antlers, although he was made out of mist, it seemed quite silly.

Draco's lips twitched upward in a smile that seemed to lift the weight of the encounter he had just had, amusement mingling.-"Keep your sentimental stag under control, Potter."-He said, eyes flicking toward Harry.

Harry's ears burned slightly, the faint flush climbing his neck. He glanced away, muttering.-"Just so you know, I am not controlling it... It has a mind of its own."

Harry noticed it immediately - the faint slump in Draco's shoulders, the subtle tremor in his hands, the way his legs shifted slightly as he sank behind the child's stacking block. Despite the sharp tongue, the confidence he usually wore like armour, the encounter with the dementor had drained him more than he let on.

Harry moved to the desk drawer, the soft scrape of wood a gentle punctuation in the quiet room. He pulled out a small chocolate bar, unwrapping it carefully, the scent of cocoa filling the space between them.

"Sit..."-He instructed softly. Malfoy obeyed, lowering himself onto the floor with a faint groan of fatigue, legs slightly trembling from the muscle strain. Harry handed him half of the chocolate.

"It'll help."-He said simply.

Draco lifted a brow, the faintest edge of curiosity in his sharp gaze.-"Help... how?"

Harry's lips curved in a small, almost shy smile.-"Remus used to give me chocolate after every failed lesson. Said it helps when you've spent too much energy trying to fight something that doesn't want to be fought."-His tone carried a quiet warmth, a memory shared without pretense.

Draco said nothing, only accepted the chocolate. He broke off small pieces, tasting them slowly, deliberately, letting the sweetness spread warmth through his chest. Harry watched him with that careful attentiveness born from years of fighting his own battles - an unspoken patience, a quiet reassurance, letting Draco simply be.

For a moment, the room was still except for the soft shuffling of chocolate wrappers, the faint hum of the lamplight and the scratching vinyl. And in that quiet, Harry allowed himself the small satisfaction of seeing Draco, unguarded just enough to recover, to breathe, and perhaps even to trust.

Harry settled on the floor beside him, leaning against the desk with a casual ease that belied the intensity of the lesson.-"You know."-He said softly, breaking the quiet.-"We've made a lot of progress tonight. More than I expected, honestly."

Draco's eyes flicked to him, a faint crease of frustration lining his forehead.-"I've used both the memories I could find brightest in me."-He admitted quietly, voice low.-"And they... still don't seem enough."

Harry shook his head, brushing a loose strand of hair from his eyes, his tone patient, almost tender.-"That's not how it works. It's not just about the memory or the spell. It's practice and patience. And timing. You're building something stronger than just a flash of light - it's resilience. Control. Focus."

Draco's lips pressed together, the tension in his jaw softening fractionally.

Harry's eyes met his, steady and calm.-"You should know that better than anyone. Something like... an Unspeakable."-He allowed himself a faint smile, teasing but warm.-"You've mastered patience and control your whole life, even if you don't always give yourself credit."

Draco's gaze softened, a fleeting acknowledgement of the compliment.-"Perhaps."-He murmured, almost to himself.-"Perhaps I am learning something tonight... after all."

Harry's smile widened, the warmth in his eyes subtle but real.-"Exactly. That's the point. Every time you face it, every time you try - even if it feels like it's not enough - you're getting stronger. You're doing what counts."

Draco let out a quiet, half-resigned breath, the chocolate wrapper rustling softly between his fingers.-"Then I suppose... It's worth another attempt."

Harry nodded, eyes glinting with encouragement.-"Exactly. And I'll be right here, every step of the way. But we will close it here tonight."

The room fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the faint glimmer of the silver stag outside the drawer, a sentinel of both fear confronted and progress earned.

The room had grown quieter, the soft glow of the lamplight casting long shadows across the floor. The silver stag remained near the drawer, a faint, comforting shimmer in the dimness. After a long stretch of silence, Draco glanced at the clock, eyebrows slightly raised.

"Almost ten."-He murmured, voice careful, measured. For a beat, he hesitated, then added, quieter, guarded.-"Teddy... he should be back in a few minutes, right?"

Harry looked up, tiredness etched into the lines of his face, but there was that quiet, proud smile there nonetheless. He nodded, slow, deliberate.-"Yeah. He'll be home soon. We'll close it here tonight. You're tired too. We'll continue tomorrow."

He leaned back slightly, a hand resting on the desk, eyes softening as he glanced at Draco.-"Wouldn't want Teddy walking into a dark, scary Boggart."

Draco allowed himself a small, wry smile, the edge of tension in his shoulders loosening.-"I wonder..."-He said, voice lighter now, teasing even.-"What a babbling child's worst fear could be... a giant talking pudding? A big The Teetering Tower of Blocks."-Draco says, picking up the block they have been using as a spot marker and dropping it with a muted thud.

Harry's shoulders shook as he laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, breaking the lingering gravity of the lesson.-"I would guess for him it would be The Stubborn Spoon. Picky eater that one."

Draco gave a small nod, brushing the hair from his forehead.-"I suppose that's enough for tonight."-He murmured, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.-"Night, Potter, till tomorrow."-He gathered his cloak and wand, casting Harry a quick, almost imperceptible glance of acknowledgement before slipping toward the door.

Harry watched him leave, the soft click of the door closing reverberating through the suddenly quiet room. He moved slowly among the scattered toys, gathering blocks, the tiny broom, and a few plush animals Teddy had abandoned in his usual exuberance. Each object felt heavier in the hush, a tangible reminder of the day's work - the lessons, the spells, the careful coaxing of courage from fear.

Sinking into the armchair by the fireplace, Harry let the exhaustion press down fully. The fire's warmth was comforting, yet the silence left space for thought, for reflection, for the sharp awareness that Draco's absence created in the room. His mind drifted involuntarily to the sharp angles of Draco's jaw earlier, the faint tension that had softened in the quiet, the brief moments of unguarded expression that had caught Harry off-guard more than once.

Prongs shifted beside him, lowering his silver head to the floor, yet Harry noticed the faint flare of his ears as they turned toward the doorway, toward the direction Draco had gone. The stag's gaze rose to the window, steady and unwavering, as though it wanted to follow, to chase the figure that had left a strange warmth behind. Harry's own eyes followed, though he remained still, almost afraid to break the spell of the quiet.

"Why are you so stubborn, eh?"-He murmured softly to Prongs, his voice swallowed by the room's stillness. The stag offered no answer, only the faint gleam of its eyes reflecting the firelight, waiting, patient, and unwavering - much like Draco had been tonight, and perhaps, Harry realised, always would be in some small, indelible way.

The emptiness of the drawing room pressed around him now, a quiet contrast to the brief surge of life and laughter that had filled it earlier. He thought of Malfoy's faint smirk, the ease of his movements when he wasn't under scrutiny, the subtle way he had leaned into the routines of the night without complaint. It was a fleeting thing, fragile and unexpected, and yet it lingered stubbornly at the edges of Harry's mind.

Harry allowed himself to sink fully into the quiet, letting the tension of the day release, the weight of his watchfulness, and the strange pulse of connection settle beside him. Prongs pawed the floor lightly, the silver shimmer steady against the lamplight, a sentinel in both fear faced and trust earned. Harry exhaled, letting the stillness and sudden emptiness define the moment, knowing the warmth and chaos of Teddy's return would break it soon enough.

Chapter Text

The lake was the colour of smoke around his feet. November cold bit at his ankles and toes, the cold climbing his calves like a spell meant to strip everything false. He told himself it helped with focus, a mimic of the chill only a true Dementor could give. His wand quivered in his fingers, silver breath forming a thin mist above the water. Behind him, Luna hummed, cross-legged on a tartan blanket, her hair catching the dawn like frost. They hadn't slept - hours spent on Animagus theory; in Ugandan diagrams of animagi transformation - from the people who first mastered it, as she insisted. The silence between them felt easy, companionable.

"Expecto Patronum."-He tried again. The charm broke apart, scattering across the ripples. He swore under his breath. Luna only smiled, as though failure were part of the lesson.

"It flickers because you're thinking too loudly."-She said.

He might have laughed if it weren't so accurate. The reflection that haunted him wasn't the lake; it was the glint of firelight on Potter's glasses, the warmth of a hand correcting his elbow, the ridiculous flush that had followed. The memory burned through the chill now, leaving his feet numb and his chest far too warm.

"Your Patronus."-She asked suddenly.-"What memory do you use?"

He glanced over his shoulder.- "I don't. Not effectively, apparently."

Luna tilted her head, moon-pale hair falling forward.- "That's not an answer."

He huffed, stepping out of the water to where her blanket was spread, shivering slightly.- "You first, then."

"My mother..."-She said simply.-"The day she showed me how to make light stay in glass. She said it was a way of keeping the sun when you needed it most."

When she lifted her wand, the spell bloomed instantly. And a white hare leapt into the wet grass, translucent and glowing as if the air itself had turned to snow. It circled them once before pausing, one paw raised, and for a moment, the world seemed built only of its light.

Draco sat down without meaning to, upsetting her careful ring of books. The hare's reflection rippled in his eyes, and he found himself whispering.-"It's beautiful."

The hare went to his side, settling by his feet. Luna smiled at the gesture of her hare towards her friend.-"She's proud of you."-Luna said. Her tone carried no question, as though it were a fact the world had quietly agreed upon.

He looked away.- "You always feel the best of people."

"It's easier to see the good when it's trying so hard to hide."-She answered, smiling.

The hare vanished, leaving the faint smell of cold and light behind it. For a while, they listened to the water touch the shore. Then Luna drew her knees to her chest.

"You'll find your memory."-She said.- "It doesn't have to be joy or ecstasy. Sometimes it's just the moment you realise you've survived, the moment you realise you were needed, wanted, seen..."

Survival...He had been living in it for far too long. The mandrake leaf itched against his cheek. He had pressed it there three days ago and had learned not to touch it, not to laugh too freely, not to risk the spell breaking before the ritual took root. The air was raw with the hour before sunrise - the time Luna called "the hinge between breaths." Dew was forming in the grass, a clear glitter he would soon have to drink.

Across the lake, Buckbeak's wings stirred the stillness, feathers scattering light across the water. His splash was violent and lovely, mingling with the soft lavender and gold of dawn. Draco found himself staring at it. Colours that belonged to lucid dreams - the soft lavender of early wakefulness.

Luna's voice brought him back.- "He likes you now, you know. Beaky..."-She said while they watched the creature fish from the shore opposite to them.

Draco smirked faintly.-"He liked the bribe of 100 ferrets I brought him, you mean?"

Luna laughed, hiding behind the heavy book.-"That too."

Draco wondered if maybe the memory of riding the Hippogriff for the first time would be a proper use for the Patronus charm; that moment had truly felt...freeing. But had it been enough?

Luna stopped him from sitting up from the blanket.-"Enough for tonight, it will drain you."-She said while pushing him to eat one of her father's pumpkin cookies.

Draco took one and braced for the odd taste, picking up one of the books from the side, flipping through it in the meantime.-"Any changes from last time?"-He asked.

Luna rummaged again through her bag, pulling out more things. She poured the dew she had gathered into two small glass cups.-"The Ministry textbooks you borrowed are much different from the Ugandan ones that Rolf lent me. Its as if they were setting us up for failure."

Draco huffed.-"Wasted months... Did you tell Rolf about this..."-He asked with an arched brow and an understanding look. He had noticed their little exchanges that Luna calls purely academic.

Luna had a faint blush in her cheeks, looking over the lake's surface while handing Draco the glass.-"He can keep a secret. We know that by now."

They drank together as the first sunlight touched the lake.

Draco traced a cold finger along the rim of his glass, watching the dew shimmer in the first slivers of dawn.-"Tell me, he must've taught you...Potter-..."-He began carefully, not wanting to break the fragile quiet.-"How do Patronuses... connect to one's spirit? The animals that appear, they're like Animagi, aren't they? A reflection of the soul?"

Luna tilted her head, eyes tracing the ripples of the lake, as though the answer might float there.-"In some ways, he did explain to us back in the DA."-She said, her voice soft but certain.-"Not everyone can cast a fully formed Patronus. A Patronus is an expression of who you are at your core - what you hold most dear, what drives you, what you protect. And yes, occasionally it will match one's Animagus form."

Draco's brow furrowed, absorbing her words.-"And... this is rare?"

"Not as rare as you might think."-Luna said, a trace of a smile in her voice.- "Your Patronus, if you ever conjured it freely, might tell you more about yourself than you realise."

He considered that, shivering as the lake water curled around his ankles.-"And... Harry's..."-He asked, as though the name carried some forbidden gravity even here.

Luna hesitated only for a heartbeat.-"His father's Animagi was a stag and his father's Patronus... it was also a stag, proving your first point in Animagi/Patronus connection."-She said.-"And so, when Harry first cast his, it became one too."

Draco blinked, frozen mid-motion.-"...It has changed recently, did you know? What do you suppose that means?"

Luna now had a thoughtful look on her face.-"He has not been well recently. I know he tries to hide it, but he is terrible at it."

Draco breathed in slowly.-"... He's hiding something."

Luna's eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful.-"What makes you say that?"

Draco's gaze went distant for a moment.-"Do you remember long ago... the centaur, the half-prophecy? About darkness lingering in him?"-He paused.-"It's like that. Only stronger now. He's... not well."

Luna said nothing at first, letting the words settle. Then she nodded softly.-"I feared as much."

Draco's jaw tightened.-"He tries to keep it hidden. But it shows. In small things... In his eyes."-He murmured, his voice low and even, though the words sounded almost like a confession even to himself.

The cold seeped further into his toes, and yet he barely noticed. The lake, the books, the dawn - all of it had faded, leaving only the weight of that quiet, unspoken revelation. He changes the subject quickly.-"Does the caster control their Patronus?"

Luna's expression remained gentle, unshaken.-"No... One cannot control their Patronus; it is instinct-based."

Draco said nothing for a long moment, letting her words sink, letting the light of the lake and the first sun touch the silver frost on his hair. In the stillness, he realized that what had happened last night with Potters Patronus had indeed not been Harrys command, rather than it had been his instincts. Those saviour complexes he hides like skeletons under his grim floorboards.

He arrived home before his mother woke. He did not Apparate to the drawing room - too risky, it would alert her. Instead, he Appeared outside the manor and began the familiar climb. The ivy-covered wall - enchanted since his childhood to burn him if he tried to do any mischief - grazed his hand. He winced, continuing his climb, then smiled, thinking of his cunning, careful mother.

Through the maze of rose bushes and flowerbeds, where white peacocks still slumbered, he moved quietly toward the fountain at the back. From there, he went straight to the owlery. His mail waited: a letter from his father in Azkaban about the arranged engagement with the Greengrass's; a few letters from family friends across Europe concerning Astoria's blood curse that he had been mailing on and off with; and some Ministry letters, none urgent.

He returned to his room in silence, Muffliato charm on his shoes to avoid waking anyone. He showered off the dew, the mud, and the faint scent of the forest that had clung to him much to his displeasure since the scent is quite the soothing kind.

He towelled off quickly, the warmth of the water doing little to chase away the chill that still lingered in his bones. Clothes dry, he sat at his desk and sorted through the letters. His father's script was harsh and deliberate, each word measured, as if the writer was weighing the weight of every sentence from behind bars. The engagement arrangements with the Greengrasses were reiterated, their tone formal and unyielding, leaving no room for debate.

The other letters concerned Astoria's blood curse. Various healers and old family friends wrote cautiously, some optimistic, others resigned. Draco's fingers traced the elegant handwriting, the careful loops and flourishes, and he could feel the subtle worry embedded in the words. Even here, surrounded by ink and parchment, the gravity of it pressed down on him.

He separated the letters worth following up on; the rest he put away in his drawer.

Draco exhaled, pressing his palms to the desk. He had to decide what, if anything, to do next. To watch, to intervene, or to wait - each choice carried its own weight. The Manor was quiet, almost oppressive in its stillness, and yet outside, the world was moving, unfolding, indifferent to the caution of one young Malfoy heir.

Draco dressed in his usual Ministry robes, the Unspeakables' emblem etched neatly into his shirt. In the pocket of his cloak, his fingers found the Protean charm coin. He twisted it absently, the cool metal sliding between his fingertips.

He had never delivered it to Harry. The thought of it lingered, a small, unfinished obligation, one that carried no obligation on Harry's part - one favour, one coin, for anything, ever. Draco knew Harry would never need to call in the favour, and yet the gesture remained incomplete, tucked away like a quiet promise.

Draco made his way first to the atrium café, the usual quiet hum of Ministry chatter providing a backdrop to his solitary ritual. He is greeted by a flock of Aurors, all too happy this early in the morning, his reply barely keeping up to it. A parchment unfolded in his hands, the morning newspaper crisp beneath his fingers. He skimmed the headlines, letting most of the chatter roll past - ministry politics, ministerial decrees, trivial appointments - but his eyes lingered on the Quidditch section.

He always lingered here. The results mattered, the strategy, the play, the skill. Everything else was filler - empty words from a lazy quill. And yet, today, the paper's tone irked him more than usual. Even though the National team had won the last game against Ireland, their quill had been ink mixed with poison, as they referred to the Seeker, Raymond's son, as a "hair of nepotism talent," their main Chaser, Ginerva as the "ex of the world saviour," they called the Keeper "as good as a cobweb net" and every other player reduced to a nickname that suggested nothing had been earned, nothing fought for. Draco's teeth pressed together lightly. The injustice of it grated, the tragedy of sloppy reporting cutting sharper than a poorly aimed hex.

He imagined Rolf Scamander of the Quibbler - eccentric, precise, infuriatingly earnest - reading this and spontaneously combusting from indignation. Draco suppressed a smirk at the image. The thought of the man's hair catching flame like some over-dramatic firework amused him in the quietest way. He makes a mental note to mention this next time they meet, just to prove his point.

By midday, the usual rhythm of the Ministry had settled over him - paperwork, faint murmurs through enchanted glass walls. When he reached his office, he found the stillness he needed.

He unrolled a piece of parchment, dipped his quill, and began to write.

The letter was brief - polite, measured, and worded with just enough purpose to hide its true intent. He invited Rolf Scamander to join him and Luna for a casual meeting near her lakeside home, under the guise of observing a few migrating water creatures recently sighted there. Creatures Draco had no real interest in, though he knew the topic would stir both Rolf's curiosity and Luna's quiet delight.

He reread the lines once, twice, ensuring nothing in the phrasing revealed more than it should. No sentiment, no implication - just a suggestion, the sort that could be ignored or accepted without consequence.

Satisfied, he sealed the parchment with a small charm and set it aside for posting. It wasn't much, really - a trivial arrangement, a minor favour. Yet, as he leaned back in his chair, the faintest trace of a smile crossed his lips.

Some debts, he thought, are best repaid quietly.

Luna deserved someone decent - someone who wouldn't mistake her quiet for fragility or her oddities for madness. Scamander, for all his lack of conversational grace, at least saw the world in the same strange hues she did. The man had the moral fibre of a Hufflepuff and the social instincts of a stunned pigeon, but he was kind. That counted for more than most things these days.

Draco smirked faintly to himself. Left to his own devices, Scamander would never ask Luna to meet outside the walls of the Editorial Department, not unless a rare creature or endangerment report demanded it. So Draco would simply... create the opportunity. A field visit. Professional. Innocent.

He tapped his quill once against the desk, satisfied, putting the envelope on a neat stack of letters he would later post. Matchmaking was hardly something he'd ever imagined himself doing.

He reached for his coffee cup, now lukewarm, and muttered under his breath.-"Let's hope she doesn't hex me for meddling."

A faint smile ghosted across his lips. He doubted she would. Luna rarely did anything as predictable as anger.

With the letter done, his desk suddenly felt too still. The morning's small schemes had left him restless, aware of how little there was to do. The Carrow case had gone cold - Edinburgh's arrests and escapes left a neat, unsatisfying silence in their wake - and the missing unicorn had stalled without new leads. Without fresh information, all he could do was wait. And Draco hated waiting.

He leafed through old case notes again, hoping something might move if he stared long enough. It didn't.

The idea came to him with the quiet inevitability of a good plan. If the Carrows were silent, perhaps their silence was worth studying. He needed the full file - the escape records, the mercenaries' interrogations, the people Harry's team caught in Leeds during the handoff, the Ministry transcripts, every overlooked detail.

By noon, he was standing in Hermione Granger's office, quill in hand, already half-buried in three separate stacks of parchment.

"More on the Carrows case?"-She asked without looking up.

He nodded once.-"Thought I'd review the Edinburgh escape. The reports felt... incomplete. We are missing something that is for sure."

She paused, considering, then reached for the proper folder.-"It's hefty, I have not had time to get a proper look at it."-She warned, sliding the thick file across her desk.-"But if you're determined to stay busy, I won't stop you."

He accepted it with a curt nod.-"I prefer it to staring at glass walls all day."

That earned the faintest curve of her mouth.-"If you ever find yourself between cases, Malfoy, the research labs are open to you. Any topic. Personal or otherwise. I can arrange clearance."

For a moment, he said nothing - just blinked, caught slightly off guard. Research access was no small gesture. The thought alone lit something in him, a quiet, familiar spark.

"I'll keep that in mind."-He said finally, voice even. But as he turned to leave, a faint gleam caught in his eyes, betraying more than he'd meant to.

By afternoon, he had absorbed every detail. Names, dates, inconsistencies - nothing escaped him, and yet nothing changed. The Carrows' trail ended in Edinburgh, their silence absolute.

Draco leaned back, eyes on the glass wall, surrounded by papers heavy with effort and emptiness. He had wanted a flaw in the record, something human to chase. There was none.

They would have to wait for the Carrows to resurface, to slip.

The thought sat bitter on his tongue. Waiting was the curse of their department: vigilance disguised as helplessness. He rubbed his jaw once, steady, resigned. Some walls simply refused to give.

He glanced at the clock and frowned. Nearly no time left to go home and change before heading to Potter's for their Patronus lesson. With a soft exhale, he decided there was little point - he'd go as he was, Ministry uniform and all.

Gathering his notes and wand, he headed to the atrium and Disapparated.

The sun had just slipped below the rooftops when he landed near Grimmauld Place, the street bathed in a low, amber glow. Yesterday, Potter had nearly run him over with that mangled, overpowered broom of his. The memory tugged a quiet, reluctant smile from him.

A complete madman, Draco thought, amused despite himself, and started toward the house.

Draco tapped his wand once, murmuring the admission charm Harry had taught him the night before. The front door clicked obediently, and he stepped inside.

"Kreacher."-He greeted quietly when the house-elf appeared as if on cue, snatching his coat with gentleness.

"Master Potter is upstairs, sir. You may wait in the drawing room."-And then left as he came.

Draco inclined his head and made his way there, footsteps soft on the worn carpet. But as soon as the doors swung open, he froze.

A certain redheaded girl stood in the middle of the drawing room, her wand raised and aimed directly at him. Her stance was firm, ready to hex him if he so much as took a step forward. She pivoted sharply as he entered, eyes flashing with a mixture of surprise and wariness.

"Malfoy?"

Draco halted, taking in the sight with a precise, calculating calm. His hand hovered near his own wand, though he did not draw it. So this is the welcome he gets, he thought, from someone he thought was long gone from Potter's life.

"Weasley?"

He remained perfectly still, assessing, every muscle in his body ready - but restrained. This was not the time for missteps.

Ginny's wand stayed levelled, eyes sharp, her leather gloves gripping it tight.-"What are you doing here?"

Draco tilted his head, keeping his expression neutral but curious.-"Much the same as you, I suppose. I'm here to see Potter."-He paused, noting the tension in her stance, the rigid set of her shoulders.

Ginny made a face that showed all, shock, mocking and confusion.-"Really?"

Draco continued his thought.-"Though, amusingly, I assumed... given your presence here, that break-up was strictly for show. Do you two do this often? Break, then appear at each other's homes?"

Ginny smiled, clearly having fun.-"Know your limits, Malfoy."

Draco's smirk softened, shifting into a lighter, teasing tone.-"Ah. Well, then. I shall assume this is all perfectly platonic and above reproach."-He said, stepping cautiously, still keeping his hands relaxed.-"Merely visiting a good friend, nothing more?"

"On point with your observation."-Ginny's mouth quirked in a cunning smirk, her fire-like hair catching the light of twilight like a lantern. It made sense to Draco that Potter would be interested in such fierce women. Potter had always liked a challenge.

Draco's eyes flicked to her, and for a fraction of a second, he allowed himself to catalogue the scene - the sharp tilt of her chin, the way her grip on her wand was controlled yet ready, the heat in her gaze that could ignite more than just sparks from a wand. He made a quiet note: Potter had a certain taste.

Of course, it was infuriating. Ginerva Weasley, the Quidditch star, clever, bold, completely unconcerned with social niceties, and entirely capable of making Harry flounder in ways Draco never could. He should have hated it - should have seethed - but instead, there was an unexpected flicker of something else, something like... acknowledgement.

That Ginny was here, after all this time, meant Potter's life remained as complicated and entangled as ever. Draco almost admired the stubbornness of it, almost envied the sheer human chaos Harry seemed to cause and to thrive on.

She stepped slightly closer, though not enough to lower her wand.-"And what about you, Malfoy? Why are you here?"

Draco gave a small, controlled shrug, the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes.-"I'm here on an invite."-He said evenly.

Her wand relaxed just a fraction, though she kept her posture alert.-"I see."-She said, voice softer now, less sharp.-"So, not here to cause trouble, then?"

"Hardly..."-He replied, tilting his head slightly.-"I have no interest in chaos today - just a calm afternoon, tea, and perhaps a touch of... education."-He let the words hang lightly, the dry humour hidden behind the formal tone.

Ginny lowered her wand just slightly, though her stance remained cautious. Draco stepped forward from the doorway where he had been lingering, hands relaxed at his sides. He cleared his throat, straightening his uniform with meticulous care.

"Congrats on the win against Ireland."-He said evenly, voice carrying no edge, just wanting to get it out there.-"Amazing results last night."

Ginny blinked, momentarily taken aback. She had expected his words to drip with sarcasm or sneer, but the tone was... sincere. For a heartbeat, she searched his face for a hidden meaning, some trace of mockery, but found none.

"Thanks."-She said slowly, lowering her wand fully.-"Were you there last night?"

Draco shook his head once, a small, deliberate motion.-"No. I only caught the results this morning. I wish I'd seen it, but-..."-He gestured vaguely to his uniform, the Unspeakable emblem glinting faintly in the light.-"...-work doesn't exactly leave room for hobbies these days."

Ginny's gaze lingered on the emblem, her expression shifting - less defensive now, a hint of genuine interest flickering through.-"So it's true, then. You're with the Department of Mysteries."

He gave a faint smirk, more reflex than arrogance.-"Apparently so."

"Well..."-She said, a small smile tugging at her mouth.-"Congratulations. Hermione talks highly of you, you know. Says you've got quite the potential."

Draco arched a brow.-"Granger said that?"

Ginny nodded.-"Shocking, isn't it?"

"Utterly."-He replied, but there was amusement in his voice now - a quiet, restrained sort of warmth that made the tension in the room ease just a little.

Ginny gave a small laugh before she could stop herself, shaking her head.-"Don't get all puffed up about it. She said it like it physically hurt her."

"That sounds more like it."-He allowed himself a quiet chuckle, a rare, brief sound that didn't quite reach smugness.

For a moment, silence settled again - less sharp this time, filled with the hum of the old house and the faint ticking of a distant clock.

Ginny crossed her arms. She was wearing a plain shirt and jeans, a noticeable youthfulness in her stance, studying him with a kind of reluctant curiosity.-"You've changed."-She said finally.-"Didn't think I'd ever see you and Harry in the same room without someone bleeding."

Draco tilted his head, eyes calm but alert.-"Neither did I."-He admitted.-"But things... change."-His tone was even, measured, but something in it hinted at truth more than pride.

She nodded slowly, her guard easing by inches.-"Guess war does that."

"It does."-He said quietly.-"And after it's done, you keep trying to figure out what's left that's still yours. I hope life is a bit gentler to us from now on..."

Ginny looked at him for a long moment, then said softly.-"You sound a lot like Hermione when you say things like that."

Draco rolled his eyes, tension breaking just slightly.-"Why does everyone keep saying that?"

A small laugh escaped her, light and unexpected.-"Because it's true."

He huffed a quiet breath that might've been amusement - or resignation.-"Merlin, help me then. I'm turning gradually into a Granger."

Ginny tilted her head, a small, knowing smile tugging at her lips.-"Careful, Malfoy. You don't need to change that much to be... tolerable."

Draco smirked faintly, adjusting his cuffs.-"I'll risk it... for the right company."

A brief, taut silence settled after their last exchange, the sort that follows when neither participant is quite sure whether to keep sparring or step back. Dust motes drifted in the afternoon light that cut through Grimmauld Place's heavy curtains, and the air hummed faintly with the residue of earlier tension.

Then Ginny broke it, voice edged with amusement.-"So you really work with secrets now? Figures. You lot always did enjoy hiding things."

Draco's mouth twitched.-"And you chase flying balls for a living. We all have our odd callings."

Ginny arched a brow, gesturing at his pale skin.-"At least mine involve sunlight."

He inclined his head in mock surrender.-"Touché."

The moment held, unexpected and disarming. Something in her grin - sharp, fearless - met the dry curl of his own. The tension thinned, traded for a small, reluctant laughter that surprised them both. It was the sound of two people who had spent years on opposite sides of a war discovering, for the briefest instant, that they could occupy the same air without barbs or ghosts between them.

So when the door creaked open behind them, and Harry stepped in, the scene that greeted him made absolutely no sense.

Ginny stood near the desk, her wand holstered, her hair catching the late light like a flicker of copper flame. Draco leaned against the edge of the table, arms loosely crossed, still wearing a faint trace of a smirk. He had heard the laughs...

Harry stopped short. His brain took a full three seconds to process what his eyes insisted on showing him: Draco Malfoy and Ginny Weasley - talking. Laughing. Not duelling.

Harry stood at the door. Two sets of eyes turned toward him, too quickly, both faintly guilty though for entirely different reasons.

For a moment, they all just looked at each other, waiting for someone to say something.

"Er - Right. Clearly, I've walked into an alternate reality."-He said, removing his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose.

Harry stepped in, hair half-damp and sticking up in all possible directions.

Ginny was leaning against the desk, arms crossed, smirk firmly in place. Draco stood near the desk too, posture relaxed, watching the scene unfold with the faintest trace of amusement.

"Well, well, well, handsome Potter..."-Ginny said, her tone bright and cutting in that familiar way.-"Look who finally remembered he owns a house."

Harry winced, running a hand through his half-dry hair.-"Sorry - I lost track of time. Just got back from work."

Ginny's eyes flicked pointedly to his damp hair.-"Clearly. Though I think you might've double-booked your afternoon."-She said, pointing at Draco.

Harry blinked, the words taking a second to land.-"That's... today?"

Ginny arched a brow.-"Unless you've discovered a new day between Wednesday and Thursday, yes. You promised a potion and a broom race."

A brief pause followed. Draco stood there watching this exchange happen.

Harry groaned under his breath.-"Right. Brilliant. Of course I did."-He said, walking up to her.

Ginny's smirk softened into something halfway fond.-"You'd forget your own name if Kreacher didn't shout it every morning."

Draco said nothing at first. He watched the exchange unfold with a studied calm, the kind he reserved for interrogations and delicate spellwork. But inside, something in him tightened - an unpleasant flicker of recognition. Potter's hair was still damp, the faint steam rising from his collar giving him an infuriatingly human sort of charm. Ginny's smirk, her ease in his house, her fingers brushing over Potter's arm as though she'd done it a thousand times - it was all maddeningly casual.

He told himself it was none of his concern. He wasn't here for this.

Still, his voice came out quieter than he intended, steady but strained around the edges.-"If it's inconvenient."-He began, straightening his cuffs.-"We can push our lesson to another day. You seem to need some time alone."

Both Harry and Ginny turned toward him.-"No."-They said at the same time. Both maybe answering to the second part of his statement rather than the first.

The word hung in the air, startlingly in sync.

Harry blinked, glancing between them as though only now realising how bizarre the entire scene had become.-"No, it's fine."-He said quickly to Draco, then he returned to Ginny.-"I - uh - I've got the potion ready anyway. But the broom race might have to wait. I'll make up for it another day."

Ginny waved him off, easy as ever.-"Don't worry about it. Will be at the Burrow till the end of this week, just show up when you have time."

Then she smiled, reaching out to nudge his arm playfully - a light, familiar gesture. It shouldn't have meant anything. Draco looked away, letting his expression smooth back into composure, though the air suddenly felt far too warm.

Harry moved toward the desk, still muttering something about being more organised next time. He pulled open a drawer - didn't bother to close it - and reached inside. The soft clink of glass drifted through the room as he lifted out a neat box the colour of deep red lacquer.

Draco's eyes flicked to it, curious despite himself. Whatever was inside, it clearly wasn't some casual trinket.

Harry crossed the room and held it out to Ginny.-"Here it is. I have perfected the mixture; last batch was the most successful."

Ginny took the box with both hands, careful as if it were something living. When she cracked the lid open, she inhaled lightly, eyes brightening.

"Oh, this is perfect."-She said, snapping the lid shut again.-"You've done it again, Harry. I'm obsessed. I will be back for more refills in the future."

Harry laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck.-"Just don't tell Hermione, I told her I stopped brewing it."

Ginny tucked the box under her arm.-"Alright, I'll let you two get to your mysterious lesson before I distract him any more."

"I'll walk you out."-Harry offered, already half-turning toward the door.

Draco glanced up sharply. A stirring feeling in his stomach. Potter wanted a few private words before she left; that was all. Perfectly ordinary. Perfectly uninteresting.

Ginny turned to him instead, extending her hand with easy warmth.-"Good luck with your work at the Department, Malfoy."

Draco managed a small, polite smile as he took her hand.-"You too, Weasley. Expecting more wins."

"You should come to a match sometime."-She added with a teasing grin.-"Even Unspeakables are allowed to watch. Tell Hermione I said it's for research."

He inclined his head, polite as ever.-"I'll... consider it."

She laughed softly, the sound light and effortless. Then she turned to Harry, who was still standing too close, still half-smiling in that way that made something cold and restless stir in Draco's chest.

And just like that, the two of them disappeared down the hall, voices fading toward the front of the house.

Draco was left alone in the drawing room. He tried not to listen into their private conversations that entered from behind the door.

For a moment, the silence felt too large, the open drawer across the room still gaping like an unfinished thought. He exhaled slowly, flexing his fingers once before crossing the room to the desk and quietly going to shut the drawer.

What he found inside gave him a look into Harry's life, briefly, a mess. Inside, he noticed the familiar Muggle mint metallic tin. He took it in his hand, the familiar wards written on top of it.

Barkley's.

He turned it over once in his hand, smiling faintly. A strange charm to ward a box of mints - typical Potter.

He set it back down.

But something else caught his eye - a glass bottle, full of shimmering liquid, the kind of iridescent blush that seemed to shift with the light. He hesitated, then lifted it gently.

Amortentia. Not a full brew, perhaps, but close.

Draco's brow arched. This does not make any sense....

When the door opened behind him, he didn't startle. He just turned slightly, the bottle still in his hand.

Harry stopped short at the sight, his damp hair now a mess of half-dried loops, sleeves rolled to his forearms, looking far too casual for someone who'd just caught another man rummaging through his desk.

Draco tilted the bottle between two fingers, the faint shimmer catching the light.- "A love potion, Potter? I'd have thought you were past needing one. The Chosen One shouldn't have to resort to alchemy for affection."

Harry blinked, then let out a small huff of amusement.-"It's not a love potion, Malfoy."-He said, stepping closer, the wet strands of hair catching the late afternoon light.-"It's a brew I developed... a perfume, actually. Derived from Amortentia, yes, but it's safe - completely harmless."

Draco raised an eyebrow, though the corner of his mouth twitched in curiosity.-"Harmless...If you made this, there's no way it's harmless."

Harry ignored the jab; he settled a few feet away from Draco.-"Ginny was here to collect some. She uses it before matches. It... helps her focus, calms nerves, makes her feel steady."

Draco studied him quietly, lips pressed together. There was a faint warmth in his chest he couldn't quite name, a twitch of something he'd rather not acknowledge. The way Harry said it - so matter-of-fact, so casually protective - it made him momentarily flinch.

Draco raised an eyebrow, the little vial turning slowly between his fingers.-"Potter, I watched you nearly sleep through half of Snape's lessons. Since when do you brew perfumes? Or potions at all?"-His tone was sharp, but the curiosity in his eyes was genuine.

Harry shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck.-"You're right. I was rubbish at it. Never had the patience, not really."-His mouth quirked - not quite a smile.-"I never thought I'd pick up a cauldron again."

He paused, watching Draco examine the vial like it might reveal its secret on its own.-"After the war, I found some of Snape's papers while we were clearing out Hogwarts. Notes about Amortentia. He wrote that the scent could be separated from the potion. No instructions, just... one line. It stuck with me. I don't know why. Maybe because it felt unfinished, like something he never got to do."

Draco's jaw tightened, but he didn't interrupt. He couldn't - he was fascinated, drawn in by the weight of the words and what they revealed about Harry, about the quiet ambition behind the casual tone. For all Draco knows, Harry Potter is all dense, brute force and no brain.

"I suppose I wanted to see if I could make it into something harmless. Something good. Not a love potion - Merlin knows we don't need more of those - but a way for people to feel... seen. To smell like comfort, whatever that means to whoever's near them."-He let out a short laugh.-"It wasn't about being clever. I just... I think I wanted to prove to myself, maybe even to Severus, that I could take something dark and turn it into something lighter. Something useful."

Draco tilted the vial toward the light, still frowning faintly.-"Trust you to turn a dangerous brew into something sentimental."-The words were meant to sting, but they lacked their old venom.

Before Harry could answer or even stop him, Draco uncorked it with a soft pop and sprayed a single mist into the air. The shimmer caught the light like a thin veil, then faded.

Draco drew in a cautious breath, letting it curl around him.

It hit him harder than he expected. The perfume wasn't just a scent. It was memory, longing, comfort - familiar and strange all at once. His shoulders stiffened, then eased, the tension unspooling in a way that made him feel... oddly exposed.

His expression wavered between shock and something softer, almost boyish, the kind of look Harry hadn't seen on him since they were children. For a moment, Malfoy wasn't the guarded man who had survived the war, but someone younger, staring into a memory only he could see.

The tension in his face melted into something quieter, something Harry would never have expected to witness: relief, tinged with melancholy. His eyes flickered shut, silvery liquid forming, then opened again, sharp as ever, though they glistened strangely in the light.

He faltered over words he hadn't expected to feel:-"It smells like-..."-He could not really name what he had just felt...He stopped, shaking his head, closing the door on the memory too fast.

But Harry had seen enough. There had been no mockery in that reaction, no sneer. Just a brief, unguarded moment where the potion had shown Draco the one thing that made him happiest - and loneliest.

For once, he held the vial carefully, as if it were something fragile.

Whatever he had smelled still clung to him - Harry could see it in the softened line of his mouth, the way he didn't quite meet Harry's eyes.

"You can keep it."-Harry said suddenly. Draco's head snapped up, startled.-"I've got more upstairs. More than I'll ever use."

Draco frowned, suspicion flickering. Why would he care if I had it?

"Why?"

Harry hesitated, then gave a half-smile.-"Because it's just a perfume, sure. But Luna said once it bottles kindness. And maybe that's what we need most now - after everything. A little reminder that not all magic has to hurt."

Draco's lips pressed together, and he turned the vial over once more in his hand before tucking it carefully into his pocket. The lingering fragrance wrapped around him, subtle and insistent, settling on his clothes, in his hair, and in the quiet space between them.

Harry had claimed his perch on the armrest of the old sofa, one elbow braced on his knee, while Draco leaned against the drawing room desk, the vial still in hand. Neither spoke at first, letting the silence stretch, filled only by the subtle, shifting fragrance.

Draco's eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable.-"And what about you, Potter? What does it smell like to you?"

Harry glanced up at him, caught off guard.-"Me?"

Draco felt the pull in his chest tighten - he hated how invested he already felt.

"Well, you brewed the damned thing."-Draco said, the words sharper than his tone.-"Surely you've tested it."

Harry exhaled through his nose, lips quirking faintly.-"It doesn't stay the same for me. Changes every time, like it can't make up its mind."

"Well, what does it smell like right now?"-He specified.

He hesitated, gaze landing on Draco's silver eyes.-"Smoke. Firewhisky. Something rougher, like dragon scales. Then it changes, momentarily, like the ground once it has rained... to coffee and...ink maybe? Hard to explain. It's not bad. Just... not what I expected."

The words settled between them, mingling with the perfume still lingering in the air. For a long moment, Draco said nothing, only watching Harry with a strange intensity, as though the shifting scent had revealed more than either of them intended.

Harry shifted on the armrest, fingers tracing the worn fabric as though grounding himself.-"Maybe it means I don't quite know what I want. Or maybe I'm just not built for the same kind of certainty most people have. I keep waiting for it to hold steady, but it doesn't. It shifts, like I'm always chasing after something just out of reach."

The words surprised him even as he spoke them, rawer than he meant to reveal. The perfume still clung to the air, restless and alive, echoing his admission.

Across the room, Draco studied him with that sharp, searching look of his, as though the instability itself had laid Harry bare in a way no duel ever had.

"Or maybe, it isn't about not knowing what you want. You've spent half your life making choices no one your age should have had to make. Always the hard path. Always someone else's need before your own."-His eyes flicked to Harry, sharp and assessing.-"It would be stranger if you were stable."

Harry let his gaze drift toward the window, the afternoon light catching the shimmer of the lingering perfume.-"I had the chance once."-He said quietly, fingers tapping the armrest.-"To go... follow a dream, I guess. Somewhere far, with someone I cared for."-He swallowed, voice low.-"But... there was always something waiting here. Teddy, Grimmauld Place, the Ministry... people who needed me, a world still raw with death, they needed a figure, someone that they could look up to as a saviour. A rogue dream isn't what I could chase at the time, and now..."

The words hovered, unfinished, as though even now Harry couldn't quite bring himself to say more. The shifting fragrance curled around them both, restless as his confession.

Draco's gaze lingered on Harry, curious despite himself.-"And... are you considering Weasley again?"-He asked, voice careful.

Harry didn't meet his eyes. Instead, he pushed himself up from the armrest, hands smoothing over the worn fabric as he began arranging the space for their lesson.-"No."-He said firmly, shaking his head.-"That's... a thing of the past."

Draco watched him for a moment, noting the certainty in Harry's tone, the way he moved with purpose. He said nothing more, letting the air settle between them as the first notes of their lesson began to take shape.

Harry moved with careful precision, placing a small toy block on the carpet.

"Stand here."-Harry said, pointing to the spot.-"Do not cross it. That's your anchor. This isn't about dodging the boggart. This is about holding yourself. Emotionally, mentally... physically. You step forward, you lose control, it consumes you."

Draco's lips pressed into a thin line. He watched Harry pace slightly, gathering a few wand-length markers along the floor, muttering as he went. His focus wasn't just on the objects - it was on Harry himself. Calm, measured, confident in a way that made Draco bristle and admire in equal measure.

"No calming potion tonight."-Harry continued, setting the last marker before moving towards the gramophone, without changing the vinyl, he dropped the tone arm, a simple melody lowly humming to life.-"I need you on your toes. I want it raw. I want you to face it as it is. You've done defensive exercises, spells, duels, everything with some buffer, some crutch. Not this. This is unfiltered. You'll need your mind clear. And your memory is sharper."

Draco tilted his head, catching the faint flicker in Harry's eyes as he spoke. That intensity, that meticulous control - it always unnerved him. A small shiver ran down his spine despite himself.

Harry crouched slightly, placing his own wand in his hand.-"Your control comes from here..."-He said, tapping his chest.-"Not your wand. Not your technique. Your reason, Draco. And don't..." -He waved a hand at the block.-"Don't step past it unless you mean to get consumed."

Draco shifted his weight, eyes flicking to Harry as he straightened from arranging the last marker. The faint light caught on the damp curls sticking to his forehead, the damp sleeves clinging slightly to his arms. Draco's lips quirked, and before he could stop himself, he said aloud, almost too casually:

"You won't be going easy on me tonight, will you?"

Harry froze mid-gesture, his cheeks flushing red almost instantly, and Draco felt a quiet thrill at the reaction.

He admired the stubborn set of Harry's jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes, the way the damp hair clung messily, the lean muscles flexing as he moved. His stupid, serious face - so infuriating, so distracting - made Draco's chest tighten just enough that he had to look away.

Harry's voice finally broke the silence, a little higher than normal, a little strangled.-"I - I'm not... I'm serious, Malfoy. This isn't-..."

"Yes, I know you're serious."-Draco said softly, voice almost reverent, though teasing at the edges.-"And yes, I'm looking forward to it."-He let the words hang, then turned his gaze back to the block marking his boundary. A tiny shiver of anticipation ran through him - not from fear, but from... well, Harry.

Harry, meanwhile, was still flushed, still stiff, clearly wondering if Draco had just meant the lesson - or something entirely different.

Harry nodded toward the block.-"Have you practised?"

Draco stepped forward, jaw tight.-"I have... but it's useless. Tried memories, nothing works."

Harry's mouth curved into a small smile-"Stop thinking so much with your brain. Think with your heart."

Draco raised an eyebrow.-"My heart?"

"Use it."-Harry said simply.

Draco shook his head.-"Seems like a waste of time."

Harry grinned.-"We have plenty of time to waste."

Draco closed his eyes, letting his heart suggest something. A flicker of a memory appeared - months ago, the Three Broomsticks, laughter spilling over butterbeer, Harry grinning like it was the easiest thing in the world to be happy.

Why is my heart showing me this? He wondered, frowning. How is this supposed to help? It doesn't even make sense.

Still, he let the memory fill him, the warmth of it, the absurdity, the ease. It felt... right, somehow.

Draco opened his eyes, planting his feet on the mark. His wand gripped tightly in his hand, he focused on the image - strange as it was - as the anchor Harry had asked for.

"Great."-Harry said, and without warning Draco, he pointed his wand at the drawer and opened it.-"Sigillum aperi."

"Wait, no..."-Draco had truly not been ready. He lifted his wand, but the mist that flew from the drawer had been quicker this time; the cold got to his hands before the warmth of the memory got to his heart.-"I'm not..."

Harry noticed his hesitation and got behind Draco.-"Focus on your heart only."-He whispered before stepping away and leaving Draco to face his fear alone.

Draco's knuckles whitened, but he didn't retreat. He held to the memory the sound of laughter echoing faintly in his mind. The spell surged weakly at first - just mist, no form - but it was his. He had no time to think...

When he cast the spell, it shot out like something that had been waiting to be captured for far too long. The misty shield of translucent blue that grew like an extension of his will... For the first time, the darkness hesitated, faltered against the silver haze curling from his wand tip.

The boggart shrank in size, but it did not yield.

Draco did not need to call the word; Harry already had his back.

"Expecto Patronum!"

The silver young stag burst forth in a blaze of light, antlers spanning wide, charging the creeping mist with effortless grace. The room filled with a hum - that deep, quiet sort of magic that felt older than words. The boggart recoiled, folding back into the drawer with a hiss of cold air.

Harry stepped forward, wand raised again.-"Sigilla eam."

The drawer snapped shut, the latch sealing itself with a muted pulse of light. Silence returned - sharp, clean, almost unreal after the chaos.

Harry lowered his wand slowly, the light fading from the room.-"You held it longer this time."-He said quietly.-"That's progress, Malfoy. Real progress."

Draco stood frozen, his chest heaving, a faint sheen of sweat at his temple. His wand arm trembled...Fear...Anger.

Harry noticed, he tried to mask his worry with a smile, but Draco's anger did not falter.

"You started it without warning..."-He said his hand now curled into a fist.

Harry met his gaze evenly.-"I know... But it worked. Look, I know you tend to think you memories a long time before using them... That's not how they are meant to be used... I thought about it last night and I came to the conclusion that this would be the best way to stop your mind from overthinking it..."

Draco let out a sharp laugh - not amused, not really.-"So your brilliant idea was to terrify me into instinct?"

Harry's brow furrowed, but his tone stayed steady.-"Not terrify you. Push you. There's a difference."

"Oh, I beg you my pardon all-knowing one..."-Draco said smug as ever, though his voice wavered slightly.-"Next time you want to push me, maybe don't unleash my worst fear without warning."

Harry took a step closer, quiet but unflinching.-"You didn't fall apart this time. You stood your ground."

Draco scoffed, though the edge had dulled.-"Because you were standing right there to save me when I didn't."

Harry shook his head.-"You already did the hard part. You held it long enough for me to finish it off - that's the best you've ever done."

Draco frowned, jaw tightening as if holding back words he didn't quite know how to shape. His pulse still hammered in his throat, the echo of that icy dread clinging stubbornly to his ribs.

He wanted to argue, to say Harry had no right to be this calm, this sure - but instead, his voice came out low, rough-edged.-"You have a very strange way of teaching, Potter."

Harry gave a tired half-smile.-"And you've got a very strange way of learning, Malfoy."

Harry's expression softened, the edge of command giving way to something steadier.-"Next time, I'll warn you. But you should know - warning or not, I'd still have your back."

Draco exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back as if shedding the last trace of fear. He did not admit it, but Harry had been right, and he had been a fair teacher, and the worst part was that it had worked. For the first time in their lessons, he had made some actual progress.

His mind, though, wouldn't leave him in peace. Every memory he'd tried before - all the neat, carefully chosen ones - had failed him. The prideful victories, the polished moments that should have worked, had rung hollow. They'd been safe. Controlled.

But tonight... his heart had done the choosing, not his mind. And what it had chosen...

Draco's jaw tightened. He hated it. Hated that the flicker of laughter over butterbeer, the sight of Harry's grin, that stupid warmth - that was what his heart clung to. Those were the memories that had power. The ones he'd never dare say aloud.

He lifted his wand again, fingers steady now, as if pretending he hadn't just learned something deeply inconvenient about himself.

Harry's voice broke the silence, calm but curious.-"Something shifted."-He said, stepping a little closer.-"You felt it too, didn't you?"

Draco didn't look at him. He adjusted his grip on the wand, focusing on the grain of the wood instead of Harry's face.-"Maybe."-He muttered.

Harry wasn't letting him off that easily.-"Good. Then figure out why. That's how you perfect it - you don't just cast, you deduce. What changed?"

Draco's jaw tensed. He knew the answer, but saying it aloud would be... unwise. He could still hear his own heartbeat echoing from the memory - the laugh, the warmth, the ease of it. All of it absurdly connected to the man now standing a few feet away.

He took a steadying breath, voice carefully measured.-"I stopped thinking. Stopped trying to force the right memory. Just... let it come."

Harry's lips curved slightly - not smug, but approving.-"You can't logic your way into a Patronus."

Draco flicked a glance at him, faintly annoyed, faintly something else.

Draco's second attempt burned brighter - the mist held longer, steadier, nearly shaping into something before flickering out again. He lowered his wand with a sharp exhale, frustration written across every line of his face.

Harry didn't move at first. He just watched him - really watched him - before asking quietly.-"Why are you angry at it?"

Draco blinked, still catching his breath.-"At what?"

"Your memory."-Harry said simply.-"You're fighting it. I can see it in the way you cast - like you're forcing it to behave instead of letting it do what it's meant to."

Draco stared at him, taken off guard.-"And since when are you a Legilimens, Potter?"

Harry smiled faintly, stepping closer.-"You don't need Legilimency to read someone who practically shouts his emotions through his wand. You're angry at it. Whatever you saw, you don't think you're supposed to."

Draco's jaw tightened. He wanted to scoff, to deflect, to say something cutting - but the words didn't come. Harry's gaze was steady, uncomfortably steady.

He looked away, muttering.-"Some memories aren't meant to exist."

Harry's voice softened.-"Maybe not. But sometimes those are the ones that make the strongest imprint."

Draco looked at him - like a man taking inventory. Harry Potter, damp hair still clinging to his forehead, the ridiculous earnestness in his eyes, the way his mouth tilted when he tried to be stern. The familiar, dangerous compulsion rose in Draco's chest like a tide: strike now, he thought, and perhaps the other fight - the one inside him - would quieten for a while.

It was absurd. He could imagine a dozen ways to make it happen. He could hex and shove and shout and perhaps, for an instant, the jangle in his ribs would stop. He could lash out and call it training. He could do anything but look like a man undone by a memory of butterbeer and a laugh.

The memory sat behind his eyes like a small bright stone: months ago, the Three Broomsticks, the glow of lamps, Harry laughing, he does not even remember why, and Draco pretending not to notice the way the sound lodged in his chest. For all his cultivated contempt for sentiment, that night had lodged there - the best memory he had, and the most inconvenient, the most random.

Harry, unaware of the private arithmetic running through Draco's face, blinked and then grinned in that way that always made the edges of everything soften.-"You look like you want to hex me into next Thursday."-He said, not unkindly, as if teasing could knock a sliver of the tightness from Draco's jaw.

Draco's eyes narrowed slightly, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. Great. He can read me like an open book, too, he thought, and somehow that made the flush in his chest worse.

For one irrational heartbeat, Draco almost did. He almost let a wand hand lift with the pretence of lesson correction and the intent of retribution. The thought was so ridiculous that it made him scowl at himself. He hated that he had even considered it. He hated more that the idea of hurting Harry - even to fix himself - landed like a stone in his mouth.

Instead, he let a laugh hiss out, brittle and too sharp.-"Hardly."-He said. The word had more steel than truth. He folded it into a shrug that was meant to look casual and failed only because his fingers were still white around the wand.-"I was merely contemplating your lack of tact."

Harry, noticing the faint tension behind Draco's mask, tilted his head, concerned now about the Patronus memory he'd prompted.-"You need to be softer on yourself."-He said quietly.

Draco's gaze met his, sharp and unyielding, though the corners of his mind softened.-"You've clearly never been so deprived of something good."-He said, the words almost gritted through his teeth.-"And then it shows up in the most random place that you never expect. You would be angry at a memory like that, too."

Harry gave a small, understanding nod.-"Yeah... I know that feeling. When something good sneaks up on you, it makes you want to shake it - and yourself - at the same time."

Draco ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply.-"It's... frustrating, isn't it? When something good appears out of nowhere, and you can't... quite hold onto it."

Harry tilted his head, eyes soft.- "All the time. It sneaks up on you, and suddenly you're questioning everything else."

Draco let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head.-"Yeah. This lesson... it's screwed me up more than I expected."

Harry gave a theatrical bow, one hand pressed to his chest.-"Why, thank you, Malfoy. Your gratitude is noted and... deeply appreciated."

Draco's eyes flicked to him, sharp and begrudging. A madman, a total numb-nuts.-"Shove off, Potter."

The words "shove off" tasted like lies, even to him. He hated how Harry could look at him, read him, and make him feel exposed without so much as touching him.

Harry, of course, had no idea. He just smirked, that infuriatingly charming grin, as if he could see right through Draco's self-control and found it... amusing. And Draco, for a fraction of a second, almost wanted it to be true. Almost wanted to admit that he didn't entirely mind.

Harry opened the drawer, and the faint mist of the boggart seeped out like smoke curling through the room. Draco took his position behind the block, wand gripped tightly, eyes narrowing at the faint shape beginning to form.

"Remember your mark."-Harry reminded him, voice calm but firm.

Draco inhaled, focusing on the memory he had finally learned to trust, the one his heart insisted upon. He raised his wand.

"Expecto Patronum."

He stepped forward instinctively, drawn by the power of the memory, and crossed the block. The boggart surged faster, twisting toward him with a hiss of cold air.

"Malfoy - step back."-Harry shouted, springing forward. His own wand flew up in a silver blaze.-"Expecto Patronum!"

The stag erupted from his wand, charging the mist, scattering it with brilliant force. The boggart recoiled, the drawer snapping shut as Harry sealed it with a soft pulse of light.-"Sigilla eam."

Draco's chest heaved, his wand trembling in his hand. Harry's eyes, steady and sharp, met his.-"You can't cross the line. It's not safe. A Patronus is a shield, yes - but if you get too close, it can still hurt you."

Draco swallowed hard, cheeks warm, the adrenaline leaving a residual jolt through him. He stepped back, repositioning himself carefully behind the block. His hands still shook, but the spark of control in his eyes was undeniable.

"Again." -Harry said quietly, backing away, wand at the ready.-"Within the line this time. Focus on your heart."-Silence.-"You alright?"-He asked, concerned.

Draco nodded, muttering under his breath.-"Fine."

The boggart hissed faintly from the drawer, but this time Draco didn't flinch. The memory burned behind his eyes - not perfect, not fully polished, but strong enough. He cast.

"Expecto Patronum."

Draco planted himself firmly, staying within the block. Light clashed with mist, and slowly, the boggart flew back a few inches, repelled by the shield.

Harry moved forward, wand steady, he first cast his Patronus and then sealed the dementor away with ease.-"Sigilla eam."

The drawer snapped shut, sealed with the familiar pulse of light. Silence fell, heavy and almost reverent, broken only by Draco's sharp exhale.

He looked at Harry and then at his silver stag, who he was sure nodded in his direction as if he too was full of pride, half-shell-shocked, half-relieved he said.-"I... I think that worked the best so far."

Harry allowed himself a small, approving nod.-"Better than worked. Real progress, Malfoy."

Draco said nothing, just flexed his fingers around his wand, still trembling slightly. The lesson was over for tonight, but the memory of it - and the strange, unspoken bond forming in the quiet between them - lingered far longer than he cared to admit.

Harry moved to the desk, leaning casually as he retrieved a small bar of chocolate. He broke it in half and held it out.-"Here. You've earned it. And I'd say our lessons have been going... surprisingly well."

Draco hesitated for just a second, then accepted the chocolate with a nod, eyes flicking away.-"Surprisingly indeed."-He muttered, more to himself than to Harry.

Harry's lips quirked.-"Maybe tomorrow we can do a proper wrap-up. See how far you've come. End on a high note."

Draco took a bite, the sweetness grounding him slightly, and felt an unexpected weight pressing in his chest. He wanted to feel relief, satisfaction even - but it was tempered by something far more complicated. The end is always bitter, he thinks.

He chewed slowly, eyes narrowing at the desk as if staring at it could untangle the jumble inside him.-"Right."-He said finally, voice tight but controlled.-"Tomorrow."

Harry's gaze softened, though he didn't comment on the tension he could clearly sense.-"Get some rest tonight. You'll need it if we're finishing this properly."

Draco nodded again, and for a brief moment allowed himself a small, private exhale. The chocolate was sweet, the lesson done - but the quiet weight of everything else... that, he realised, would follow him home.

Draco lingered, glancing toward the window as if checking the fading light, though his thoughts drifted elsewhere. Teddy would be back home soon. He didn't say it out loud - didn't need to - but the notion made him tighten his grip slightly on the chocolate bar.

He turned toward Harry, voice quiet, controlled.-"Thanks... for the perfume. Will have to test how well it holds."

Harry raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at his lips.-"Just don't go overusing it on dates, Malfoy. Might give them the wrong idea."-He teased lightly, eyes twinkling.

Draco's lips twitched, half-smile, half-roll of the eyes.-"As if I'd need your help for that."

Harry actually laughs.-"You never know, I can confirm it has a success rate."

Draco's eyes flicked to Harry, sharp and amused despite himself.-"Success rate, Potter? You sure this isn't something Weaslete already taught you?"

Harry's brow shot up, a teasing lilt in his voice.-"Hey, I step out for a minute, and suddenly you're both gossiping about my love life?"

Draco's lips curved into a faint, wry smile.-"Hardly anything to be discussed. So scarce, there's just tumbleweed rolling about."

Harry glanced at the clock, then back at Draco, a faint smile tugging at his lips.-"Priorities before sentiment, I suppose."-He gave a small nod.-"Goodnight, Malfoy."

Draco's lips twitched, a brief shadow of a smile crossing his face.-"Goodnight, Potter."

As he walked out, the lingering warmth of the room, the faint shimmer of the perfume still clinging to the air, and the unspoken threads of everything else... stayed with him.

Draco paused at the doorway, a flicker of unease crossing his features. He wished, not for the first time, that his mind had a switch - one he could press to forget everything he'd learned tonight. But deep down, a part of him knew he'd needed it. Every uncomfortable truth, every unexpected pang of awareness had chipped away at the old armour he'd worn for so long.

As he stepped into the cold night outside that house, he exhaled slowly, acknowledging that growth was never easy, even when it came wrapped in lessons he hadn't asked for.

Chapter Text

The next morning came like wind on a cloudy day. A wind that usually summoned the storm.

Draco had barely started down the corridor of the Manor when his mother's voice, sharp and deliberate, called after him.

"Draco, a moment!"-Narcissa's figure appeared at the bend of the hallway, her posture impeccable, her expression the perfect balance of warmth and command that had defined her for as long as he could remember.

He stopped, offering a faint nod, his mind already ticking through the myriad tasks he had waiting for him that morning.-"Yes, Mother?"

She walked briskly to his side, her gaze sweeping over him with practised scrutiny.-"Tomorrow, remember your meeting with Astoria."-She said, her tone casual but unmistakably pointed.-"And the Greengrasses have sent a date for the engagement. They intend to be here this weekend for the ring exchange."

Draco's jaw tightened slightly, a subtle but telling reaction. The pace of it all - so sudden, so ordered - felt suffocating. He knew he didn't have enough time to research Astoria's blood curse thoroughly before the engagement, and the thought of stepping into it unprepared set his teeth on edge. He could play along, of course; he always could.

"I will inform the Department."-He said smoothly, his voice steady even as his mind raced.-"For time off around the engagement, so I can attend without complications."

Narcissa's eyes softened, her expression momentarily breaking the composed exterior.-"Very well, Draco. I'll keep the gathering small, nothing extravagant."-She added, her hand brushing his shoulder lightly.-"I am proud of you, truly."

Draco inclined his head in acknowledgement, though his mind churned with thoughts he could not articulate. He didn't tell her that he did not want this engagement, that the notion of being bound to someone he barely knew, regardless of his duties, felt suffocating. He didn't know how to frame such a confession, even if he tried, so he remained silent, the words lodged somewhere deep inside him. His own plan, nascent and fragile, was still brewing, and he allowed himself a small, quiet satisfaction in knowing that not everything in his life had to follow the path laid out by his family. That he was also helping another person while saving himself.

He moved on, the echoes of his mother's pride trailing behind him, and with each step, the weight of reality pressed a little more insistently. His feelings were tangled, complicated, and unresolved, yet the day demanded focus. He would face the engagement, meet Astoria, navigate the family expectations - but privately, in the hidden chambers of his mind, he would continue to plot, to consider, and to reckon with what he truly wanted versus what the world demanded of him.

On the other side of London, Harry had barely stirred from the tangled sheets, the morning light filtering weakly through the curtains of his room. The exhaustion that had been creeping up on him over the past weeks - years, even - finally claimed its due. Every sleepless night, every hour haunted by restless dreams and memories he couldn't escape, had built into a weight too heavy to ignore.

He lay there, eyes half-closed, listening to the faint city sounds outside, each one a reminder that the world had gone on without him while he wrestled with shadows behind his eyelids. The nightmares had returned in force last night, vivid and insistent, leaving him drenched in sweat and hollowed out in the early hours. He hadn't even made it to his usual stretches or the simple rituals that usually anchored him to the day.

With a tired groan, he reached for his wand on the nightstand and scribbled a brief note to Shacklebolt, apologising for missing work, explaining only that he needed the day to recover. The note was swift, clipped, professional - Harry was nothing if not disciplined when he chose to be.

With a groan, Harry finally rolled out of bed, not toward work or the day's responsibilities, but toward the nursery. Teddy had been napping, blissfully unaware of the heaviness that weighed on his godfather. Harry lifted him gently from the crib, cradling the small bundle of warmth against his chest, and carried him up to his own room.

He set Teddy carefully on the bed, tucking a soft blanket around him so that the little one could drift in safety and warmth while Harry lingered nearby, doing very little. For the moment, it was enough to simply be there, letting the boy breathe, to anchor himself in something tangible and alive amid the fog of exhaustion.

With a quick flick of his wand, Harry summoned another piece of parchment and scribbled a brief note to Andromeda, letting her know he would take care of Teddy for the entire day. Kreacher, ever punctual and precise, whisked both letters away with a respectful nod, leaving Harry to settle into a lazy, unproductive stretch of the day.

He sank into a chair beside the bed, eyes lingering on Teddy as the boy shifted in his sleep, murmuring. The quiet of the room, broken only by Teddy's small breaths, became a sanctuary. Harry allowed himself to sink deeper into the reprieve, letting the weight of weeks, months, and sleepless nights settle into the background. For now, the world could wait. Today was for Teddy, for the simplicity of keeping him safe and warm, and for Harry to exist without expectation, without obligation, without movement beyond the gentle rhythms of the nursery.

Harry spent the entire day in a slow, unhurried rhythm, following Teddy's lead rather than any schedule or responsibility. The drawing room became their little world - soft blankets spread across the floor, stuffed animals scattered about, and Harry laughing quietly at the baby's delighted squeals as he batted at a toy or clapped his tiny hands.

At some point, Harry dragged himself to the kitchen to prepare something simple for them both - scrambled eggs, toast, and a little fruit. Teddy, perched safely in his high chair, watched with wide eyes, occasionally babbling as if giving commentary or encouragement. The simplicity of it - the mundane act of cooking, of feeding, of just being there - felt grounding in a way Harry hadn't realised he needed.

As the day unfolded, Teddy's joy was infectious. He seemed genuinely pleased to have Harry's full attention, not just a hurried morning, not just a caretaker half-distracted by work or worry. And Harry, watching the small, trusting eyes, felt a subtle, almost imperceptible charge of warmth run through him - a small but steady reminder that some good persisted in the world, that he could still provide care, affection, and presence without expectation.

That evening, Draco sat in his office, the quiet hum of the Ministry's distant activity doing little to calm the storm still churning inside him. His day had been maddeningly unproductive - no new cases to tackle, no clever manoeuvring to occupy his mind, nothing to distract him from the gnawing disquiet he carried. Even the familiar click of parchment and the scratch of quills from neighbouring offices seemed muted, distant. Selwyn and Vance had both called in their holidays, off to whatever personal lives they had. The floor felt empty.

He ran a hand over his face, letting his fingers press against his temples, trying to chase away the lingering residue of the Patronus lesson. The memory of the afternoon - the way Potter had seen through him, had guided him without forcing, and had somehow made him confront his own feelings in the raw - still clung stubbornly. It left a hollow, urgent ache, one he had no intention of admitting, even to himself.

There were practical matters to deal with, though. Hermione expected an explanation for the time off he would need around the engagement and the Greengrasses' visit. He had yet to find the words, had yet to frame a reason that wouldn't betray too much of the tangled turmoil within him and his life. And even the thought of broaching it - sitting across from her, steady eyes waiting, expecting accountability - made the pit in his stomach deepen.

He leaned back, letting his chair creak under the slow tilt. Part of him wanted to draft a perfect, logical argument: "Department responsibilities, pre-approved leave, engagement obligations." But it felt forced...settled...it was coming for him. It was coming for his freedom.

Draco stepped out of the Ministry atrium, the hum of the place still lingering in his chest like a distant heartbeat. Every time he tried to focus, his mind wandered back to the unfinished business at Grimmauld Place - the lessons with Potter, the strange pull of those afternoons, and the restless weight of his own thoughts that refused to settle.

He apparated quietly, the familiar jolt of displacement doing little to soothe the storm inside him. As soon as he entered the old, shadowed hallway of Grimmauld Place, he noticed it: laughter. Not distant, not muffled - but clear, alive, curling through the drawing room and spilling into the hall. Draco paused mid-step, letting the sound wash over him. It was disarming in its ease, the kind of laughter that could only belong to Potter, full-bodied and completely unguarded.

He moved forward cautiously, letting the shadows of the hallway shield him as he approached the drawing room. Hopefully, today, he would not find yet another redheaded girl waiting there, ready to fight him if needed. Pushing the door open just enough to peer inside, he saw Harry sprawled on the sofa, hair dark as the night and tousled, a faint golden light catching the curls at the back of his neck. Beside him, Teddy was perched comfortably on a pile of cushions, chubby hands reaching for a toy, bright eyes glimmering with delight. Harry's laughter came at something small, perhaps a silly gesture from the baby or a private joke between them, but it filled the space, warm and unhurried.

Draco's chest tightened unexpectedly. There was something about seeing Harry like this - soft, patient, entirely present - that unsettled him in ways he hadn't accounted for. It wasn't envy, not exactly. It was... the pull of something he wanted to understand, to grasp, and the strange ache of realising he was missing pieces of life he hadn't even allowed himself to crave.

He lingered in the doorway, watching as Harry leaned back, gently guiding Teddy's tiny hands to the chocolate he had set nearby, making sure the baby was comfortable and fed. The ease of it, the quiet authority and tenderness Harry wielded, left Draco almost breathless. Every detail - the way Harry's fingers brushed against Teddy's, the warmth in his voice, the faint rumble of amusement in his laugh - was a reminder of how alive, how human, Harry could be even in exhaustion.

For a long moment, Draco simply observed, allowing himself the indulgence of noticing, of being near without interfering. But the lessons still waited. He squared his shoulders, the storm in his mind tightening into focus. Pushing the door fully open, he stepped inside, silent but present, letting the warmth of the room wash over him as he prepared himself for the evening ahead.

Harry's head lifted slightly at the sound, eyes flicking toward him, a faint smile tugging at his lips even in the middle of his care for Teddy. Draco acknowledged it with a small nod, letting the moment settle over him before he moved fully into the room.

Draco's sharp gaze swept the room, noting the late light falling across the cushions where Teddy sat happily playing. He raised an eyebrow, his tone neutral but edged with curiosity.

"The child's home early today."-He said, stepping fully into the room.-"Did something happen?"

Harry shifted slightly, ruffling Teddy's hair with one hand while letting the baby settle against the sofa. He gave a small, tired smile, shoulders sagging just a fraction.

"No."-He admitted quietly.-"I didn't make it in today. Needed... a day off."

Draco tilted his head, studying him, taking in the bed-combed curls and the uncharacteristic stillness in Harry's posture.-"Not like you."-He murmured, more to himself than to Harry, as if noting the unusual weight of the day.

Harry shrugged, trying to mask it with a faint grin.-"Yeah... the tiredness finally caught up with me. Figured it was safer to stay here with Teddy than risk showing up half-dead at the office."

Draco's eyes flicked toward Harry, noticing the slight slump in his shoulders.-"If you're tired..."-He said, voice clipped but not unkind.-"We can leave it for another day."

Harry shook his head, giving a small, wry smile.-"No... I need this. Besides, Teddy seems to approve of the company."

Draco followed Harry's gaze and froze. The small boy crawling toward him - Teddy, a cousin he had only just learned existed, a child he had barely met until recently. The boy's tiny hands reached for his feet, trusting, fearless. Draco crouched slowly, unsure of the right way to respond, but keeping his movements gentle.

"Hey, trouble."-He murmured, voice softer than he had intended.-"We meet again."

Teddy giggled and leaned against Draco, unbothered by his unfamiliarity. Draco's stiff posture eased slightly, lips twitching in a brief, almost unnoticeable smile. For a moment, he allowed himself to simply be present, letting the quiet ease of the child's trust wash over him.

Harry, watching quietly, felt an unexpected warmth ripple through him. It was subtle, but insistent - a small, unnameable flutter at the edges of his chest. He looked away quickly, busying himself with Teddy's scattered toys, though the gentle scene between Draco and the boy lingered longer in his mind than he would ever admit.

Draco moved quietly through the room, his sharp eyes catching the little details Harry hadn't bothered to fix. A blanket draped crookedly over the arm of the sofa, a small pile of Teddy's toys scattered across the rug, a half-empty plate left on the side table.

"Hmm."-Draco murmured, more to himself than to Harry, his gaze lingering on the man.-"You really could drop any moment, Potter."

Harry, crouched behind the sofa trying to gather a stray toy, glanced up, cheeks flushed from effort.-"I'm fine."-He said, though the slight hitch in his voice betrayed him.

Draco raised an eyebrow, not pressing the point further, just letting the observation hang in the air. The quiet fatigue in Harry's posture, the careless disarray of the room - it all spoke louder than any words. The child demanded Draco's attention; it seems he demands that from anyone he comes in contact with.

Draco summoned a blank sheet from the desk on the other side of the room, folded it with crisp, decisive creases, and tapped the edges with his wand.-"Volatus Papyrum Grus."-He mumbled, the spell he himself had created, which keeps the crane flying for a long time with its magic.

Teddy clambered onto Draco's lap, squealing with delight at the paper crane. Draco's hands rose automatically to steady the boy, and Harry's eyes softened, caught by the ease with which Draco adapted to the tiny presence. In that moment, tired or not, Harry couldn't help but feel the weight of quiet admiration.

"I used to hate those cranes..."-Harry said softly. The memory is bitter between them. The cranes had mainly been used for malice in their youth.

Draco shifted slightly, settling Teddy more comfortably on his lap, his gaze flicking up at Harry.-"You should consider taking a proper break."-He said, his tone measured but firm.-"Get away from all this for a while... change the routine, recharge a bit. You - and the child - could both use it."

Harry looked up from where he was tidying, hair a little mussed, eyes tired but softening at Draco's words. He opened his mouth to protest.

Harry shook his head, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. He looked in dire need of a haircut.-"I don't need an extended break. I can manage..."

Draco's eyes narrowed slightly, unwavering.-"You think that, Potter, but if you don't take it... Your body will decide for you."-He let the words settle, firm and unyielding, though not unkind.-"Eventually, it won't be optional."

Teddy yawned in Draco's lap, curling closer, and Draco's gaze softened just enough.-"Better to step back now, while you still have the choice."

Harry hesitated, caught between stubbornness and exhaustion, and for a long moment said nothing.

Harry's voice was quiet but laced with a tired humour as he leaned down, lifting Teddy gently from Draco's lap.-"I know who needs a break...."-He said, nodding toward the small bundle in his arms.-"This little one. Off to bed."

Draco stayed seated on the carpet, shoulders hunched slightly.

Harry shifted Teddy slightly, easing him into his arms.-"I'll be back as soon as I put him to bed."-He said, a tired smile tugging at his lips.-"Shouldn't take long - he's pretty worn out from all the crawling around today."

Draco's eyes flicked toward the small bundle, then back at Harry.-"Sure, take your time."

Draco remained seated on the carpet for a moment longer, letting the quiet of the room settle around him. The soft click of the door closing behind Harry and the faint retreating footsteps echoed through the hall, leaving him in an unfamiliar silence. Slowly, he rose, moving toward the sofa, and for the first time since their lessons had begun, he lowered himself onto its cushions, positioning himself directly in front of the fireplace. The fire crackled low, warmth brushing against the chill in the room, and he allowed his gaze to wander.

The mantlepiece drew his attention almost instinctively. Photographs lined the surface: the DA in formation, their young schoolmates laughing cheerfully, the Order of the Phoenix standing proudly, faces of people who had fought for something larger than themselves, eyes bright with conviction and purpose. A smaller frame caught him off guard - a very young Harry, with his parents, untroubled in a way Draco had never seen him, without the scar, when life was normal... Beside it, a more recent photo: Harry and Teddy, the little boy's grin wide and unguarded, a bright pocket of happiness that seemed impossible to ignore.

He thought of his own fate, of the obligations that awaited him - Astoria, tethered to him in a bond negotiated by families, a chain of duty that left no room for doubt or deviation. He had no way out, not without scandal or upheaval, and the full life he might have imagined - freedom, choice, even simple affection - was already meticulously catalogued in the expectations of others.

A weight settled in his chest, a mixture of resignation and quiet melancholy. He thought of Harry, of the small, fiercely guarded happiness he had glimpsed in the boy's smile, the trust Teddy had given him so effortlessly. How easily it seemed to come to someone else.

For all the wealth, power, and legacy at Draco's disposal...Loneliness, he learned, was the one thing even a Malfoy couldn't buy his way out of.

He leaned back, eyes flicking once more to the photograph of Harry and Teddy. That small, shining bubble of joy was something Draco had never allowed himself to grasp. And yet, the melancholic truth remained: even with all the lessons, all the preparation, and all the self-discipline, he could not erase the ache of what might never be his. He had learned much, had grown in ways he hadn't expected, but the feeling in his chest refused to dissipate. It was as if every lesson with Harry left him sharper, more aware of both his own failings and the possibilities he dared not touch.

The fire popped again, and Draco drew a harsh breath. He could plan, strategise, and act on the surface - but beneath it all, the ache lingered, a quiet reminder that some things in life - happiness, love, freedom - could not be conjured, no matter how skilled a wizard one might be. He stared at the photograph, letting the melancholy settle around him like a cloak, and for the first time in a long while, he let himself sit with it.

Harry stepped into the drawing room quietly, the soft click of the door barely disturbing the low murmur of the fire. He found Draco sitting unusually still on the sofa, shoulders slumped, eyes fixed on the flames. Normally, Draco would have drifted elsewhere on the shelves or the dark relics, restless or pacing, but tonight he remained planted, wrapped in a stillness that spoke more than words could.

Harry lowered himself onto the same sofa, careful to leave a respectful distance. He propped his elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped, and let his gaze fall on the fire's cradle.-"Tired..."-He murmured softly, more to the fire than to Draco, the words carrying the weight of the day and the quiet ache of being stretched too thin.

After a moment, Harry glanced sideways.-"Tea?"-He offered, voice low.

Draco's answer came without looking away from the fire.-"Yes."

Harry called for Kreacher, who appeared with a faint crack, grumbling but obedient, and within moments returned with a tray - two steaming cups, sugar, lemon, and the faint comfort of routine. Harry handed one to Draco, fingers brushing lightly against porcelain before they settled back into the hush.

It was Draco who finally broke it.-"You haven't slept..."-He said plainly, eyes flicking briefly toward Harry.-"Have you?"

Harry gave a small, tired smile, shaking his head. The firelight caught in his eyes, dimming the green to something softer.-"Sleep doesn't come easy for me anymore."-He said quietly, almost like a confession.-"When it does... it feels more like death trying to take me than rest trying to help."

The words hung in the air - bare, unguarded. Draco looked at him for a long moment, the weight of them settling deep in his chest.

The two of them sipped their tea slowly, the quiet punctuated only by the occasional hiss from the fire. It was almost like a replay of that night after Edinburgh, after the battle with the dementors - except this time, the enemy had been reality, life, and all the little battles that came afterwards. And just like then, it had left them both hollowed out, drained in a way that sleep or distraction couldn't fully touch.

Harry finally broke the silence, his voice low but carrying across the space between them.-"You look worn out."

Draco let the words linger for a moment before letting a small exhale escape.-"I've... got a lot on my mind."-He admitted, eyes tracing the flames again.-"Maybe I need some time off from everything, too. From all of it."

There was no judgment, no probing, only the quiet acknowledgement of two people who had been stretched too thin, sharing a moment of fragile truce with themselves and each other. The firelight reflected in the cups, in their eyes, in the small, unspoken relief of being seen without pretence.

Draco leaned back on the sofa, letting his head fall against the cushions, a wry edge to his voice.-"Merlin damn you, Potter... got me all mixed up in your negative energy."

Harry didn't even flinch, his tone calm but teasing.-"Try living with it non-stop, Malfoy. You'd be flat on the floor within the hour."

Draco let out a short laugh, the tension easing just slightly, even as his mind continued to spin with everything they'd faced today.

Draco rolled his head to the side, letting his gaze settle directly on Harry's green eyes, beyond the glasses that frame them. Beneath the tired lines and quiet weariness, he could see it - the faint spark of fight, the controlled energy Harry still reserved, deliberately held back for him... for their lesson. Draco knew it, and even in the quiet, it stirred something restless within him.

Harry, across from him, let his eyes linger. The firelight caught Draco's features just so, softening the usual sharp angles, highlighting the vulnerability neither of them could openly admit. Both of them sat there, quietly exposed, carrying burdens the other could neither erase nor solve - struggles they would have to face alone, in their own way, with no magic to shortcut the work required.

Harry felt the weight of it, the intensity of holding Draco's gaze without a single word. No sparring, no teasing, no shields of humour - just quiet. It was almost painful in its necessity, this unspoken acknowledgement that they were both worn, both carrying things the other could see but not fix. In that silence, they simply... understood each other. And somehow, that alone felt essential.

Draco never admired Harry as the saviour of all; he was always untouchable like that, on a pedestal, carved from marble and gold, far where he could not reach...but here, in this quiet glow of the fire, he was just Harry: a man tired, human, flawed, sitting across from him, weary yet present. And that - just that - was what Draco had always admired. Not the legend, not the myth, but the person, simply himself, stripped of expectation.

Harry watched him quietly, taking in the subtle lines of tension easing from Draco's shoulders, the small, almost imperceptible ways he moved with more ease than yesterday. He could see the effort in every careful gesture, every measured word. It wasn't loud or dramatic - it was steady, deliberate, and it spoke volumes. Harry felt a quiet swell of appreciation; day by day, Draco was becoming... better. Not perfect, not fixed, but a better version of himself, and Harry recognised the work it took to get there. It was something to honour, even in silence.

Harry's eyes softened, lingering on Draco's face.-"There's that look again."-He said quietly, voice gentle but certain.-"Like you're feeling someone else's pain."

Draco's gaze flicked up, meeting Harry's. For a brief moment, he remembered his own words from a few nights ago. A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at his lips.

"Empathy..."-He murmured, and the word seemed to settle between them.-"Contagious, that is, Potter."

Draco straightened, shoulders rolling back as if shaking off the weight of the moment. Sulking wasn't his style for long. He took a measured sip of tea, then let his fingers dance along the wand, lifting it carefully from his lap. With a quiet flick, the fire in the hearth responded, curling and twisting into delicate shapes.

Flickering sparks became tiny fireflies, flitting and darting around the room, their warm glow reflecting in Draco's sharp eyes. He kept his movements precise, hands busy, a slight smirk tugging at his lips as he watched the flames obey him.

Harry leaned back, arms resting lazily on the sofa, allowing himself to simply watch. He didn't need words; the small display of control, creativity, and quiet focus was enough. A slow, impressed smile crept onto his face as one particularly daring firefly hovered near Draco's cheek before darting back into the glow of the hearth.

For a few moments, the room held nothing but warmth, the soft crackle of the fire, and the magic weaving between them - no lessons, no obligations, just the quiet, mutual acknowledgement.

Draco let one of the fireflies flicker out between his fingers before he spoke, voice quiet but edged with thought.-"The Carrows haven't surfaced again."-He said after a long stretch of silence, eyes still fixed on the hearth.

Harry shifted, straightening slightly, the easy calm on his face tightening just a little.-"No."-He said, tone steady but cautious.-"We're still keeping an eye on every major library in the country - Durham, Oxford, even the private archives up north. If they're still after that information, they'll have to show themselves sooner or later."

Draco's brow furrowed, the line between suspicion and unease faint but visible.-"Or they might've dared to steal it elsewhere."-He said quietly, his voice lowering as though the fire might overhear.-"Across the border. Somewhere less guarded."

Harry shook his head, firm this time.-"Unlikely. Every portkey in and out of the UK's been registered for years now. And if they've decided to try the Muggle route..."-He let out a small, humourless laugh.-"They're still tracked. The Ministry's got a whole new unit in place for cross-ministry cooperation. Our French counterparts are in constant contact too. There's not much room for them to slip through."

Draco nodded slowly, though his gaze lingered on the fire.-"You make it sound as if they've got nowhere left to go."

Harry met his eyes across the glow, voice quiet but certain.-"They don't."

For a moment, neither spoke again - the flicker of the fire the only movement between them. It wasn't victory they felt, but the heavy calm of vigilance, two men who knew too well that quiet never lasted long.

Draco let a small, approving smile tug at his lips, eyes glinting in the firelight.-"You really excel at this, Auror Potter."

Harry laughed softly, leaning back just enough to make it casual.-"Well, anything for the broom and the easy access to information."-He said, a teasing lilt in his voice.

Draco's smile widened, the corner of his mouth twitching as he shook his head.-"Ah, yes."-He said dryly.-"Everything a man truly needs."

Harry grinned, raising an eyebrow.

Harry chuckled, a sparkle of mischief in his tired eyes.-"Well, that - and a bit of luck."

They both lingered for a moment after the words faded, the soft clink of porcelain breaking the quiet as they drained the last of their tea. The fire had burned low, reduced to soft amber embers that pulsed gently in the grate.

Harry was the first to move, stretching slightly before rising to his feet. The tiredness that clung to him didn't fade, but his expression steadied - purpose returning like muscle memory. He set his cup aside and flicked his wand, the space before the fireplace shifting back into familiar order - the rug cleared, the sofa moved slightly back, shadows reshaping to give them room.

Draco watched him in silence, feeling that familiar, reluctant tug in his chest. The motion of Harry preparing the space - careful, practised, almost reverent - carried a strange finality to it. This was the last night, and yet neither of them seemed ready to let it be.

Harry glanced over his shoulder, catching Draco's gaze.-"One more time."-He said, softly - not just a command, but a question.

Draco rose slowly, straightening his sleeves, his usual coolness muted by something quieter, more thoughtful.-"One more time."-He echoed, voice low but certain.

They both knew it wasn't only about the Patronus anymore - it was about what these nights had become: the shared quiets, the slow dismantling of old walls, the strange peace they'd found in each other's company.

And though neither said it out loud, both were holding on just a little longer - drawing out the lesson, if only to delay the end.

Draco loosened his collar, shrugging off his jacket with a smooth, practised motion. The white shirt beneath clung faintly to his frame - crisp, simple, unguarded. As he opened up a button around his neck to breathe easier, Harry's gaze, unbidden, caught the faint, pale mark tracing down from Draco's neck toward his shoulder.

It was quick - just a flicker - but the recognition hit him like a quiet punch to the chest. One of his. One of the many ugly remnants left behind by their battle and anger, by choices neither of them could take back. He swallowed hard, the sound of the needle catching the groove of the record filling the silence like static before melody.

A slow, calming tune spilt softly through the room, curling around the low light and the smell of old wood and tea. Draco tilted his head side to side, stretching his neck, exhaling slowly through his nose. His wand was already in hand, his stance measured - every inch of him composed, ready, a soldier preparing for something that had long since ceased to be a battle.

Harry moved behind him, keeping a deliberate distance but close enough to steady him if things went wrong. His voice was calm, even.-"Whenever you're ready, Malfoy."

"Ready as ever."-Draco said, his tone cool, but beneath it was a quiet resolve that Harry had come to recognise - and respect.

Draco nodded once, gaze fixed on the drawer where the boggart waited, the soft hum of the music threading through the tension like breath before a plunge.

The air in the room shifted - poised between sound and spell, between memory and release - as Harry waited for the cue that would start their final lesson.

Draco inhaled deeply, eyes closed, the air still heavy with smoke and firelight. He could feel Harry watching him, quiet but intent, giving him space to summon the right thought. The memory rose up unbidden this time - uncalled for, yet insistent - laughter, soft light, the glow of The Three Broomsticks, Harry's hand brushing his by accident across the table. He hated that it was this one again, the one his heart clung to against all reason. But it worked.

When the faintest curve appeared at the corner of his lips, Harry didn't wait.

"Sigillum aperi."

The latch snapped open. A gust of icy air burst into the room, chasing away the warmth of the fire. The lights flickered, the shadows deepened, and the boggart took shape - the same tall, cloaked figure gliding forward, its very presence gnawing at the air.

Draco's breath hitched as the temperature dropped. Goosebumps raced up his arms, the whisper of dread curling down his spine. But he didn't falter. His wand rose - steady this time - and the first flash of silver-blue light erupted from its tip.

"Expecto Patronum!"

The spell burst forward in a shimmering shield, not yet a creature but far stronger than mist - bright enough to push the Dementor back several feet. It screamed, a hollow, shrieking sound that made the candles flicker wildly. Draco's grip tightened, the warmth of the memory pulsing behind his ribs - but the echo of doubt, that quiet why him? Why this? Slipped through.

And Harry saw it - the flicker, the hesitation.

Before the cold could close in again, Harry's voice cut through the dim.-"Expecto Patronum!"

The silver stag burst forth in full light, galloping between Draco and the Dementor. The creature recoiled, driven backwards, until the blue glow of the drawer swallowed it whole. Harry flicked his wand sharply:

"Sigilla eam."

The drawer snapped shut with a low thud. Silence fell again, the kind that left the room trembling faintly with the echo of what had just happened.

Harry turned to Draco, his voice low but not unkind.-"You hesitated."-He said simply.-"Just for a second...It was perfect but-."

Draco's breathing was still uneven.-"I-"

Harry shook his head lightly.-"You were close. Really close. But something pulled you back at the end. Can you think of... another, more stable memory? Maybe something that builds off the one you used - something that holds that same warmth, but runs deeper? That could anchor you longer?"

Draco didn't answer right away. He kept his gaze on the drawer, wand still loose in his grip, the warmth of the fire and the cold of the Dementor still colliding inside him. The idea of a stronger memory - an extension of that laughter, that ridiculous night - twisted his chest in quiet frustration.

"An extension..."-He murmured finally, his mind already tracing the impossible edges of what that might mean. His pulse slowed, the silence thickening between them. He was thinking - really thinking - and Harry, knowing that look by now, stayed silent and let him.

Harry didn't rush him. He simply watched - the way Draco's posture shifted, the way his breathing changed, the way something flickered behind his eyes that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with... something else entirely.

"Malfoy?"-He asked gently, a small smile curling at the edges of his voice.-"You look like you've thought of something."

Draco's jaw tightened.

He had - and Merlin, it was ridiculous.

Not a grand triumph.
Not a childhood sanctuary.
Not some sweeping revelation.

Just... a moment. A stupid, warm, quiet moment.

The glow of candlelight on Harry's face. The lazy exchange of jokes so trivial they shouldn't have mattered, and yet somehow did. The butterbeer they shared, its warmth still lingering on Draco's tongue as if memory alone could conjure taste.

It was absurd. Utterly. And entirely too intimate to admit.

His cheeks warmed - traitorously so - and his left hand fidgeted with the wand at his side, turning it once, twice, again. His body had always betrayed him faster than his mouth ever could. The hesitation, the flush... all of it spoke louder than anything he was prepared to say.

Harry noticed.

Oh, he noticed.

That probing smile returned - soft, curious, infuriatingly knowing. He tilted his head slightly, studying Draco as if trying to solve a puzzle he already half understood.

"Whatever that memory is."-Harry said, voice low.-"It must be a good one."

Draco swallowed, throat tight, and forced his gaze away - because if he met Harry's eyes in that moment, he knew he'd give everything away without needing a single word.

He cleared his throat, deliberately steady, painfully neutral.-"I'm - evaluating my options."-He said stiffly.

Harry's smile widened, slow and disbelieving.-"Mhm..."-He hummed.-"Is that what we're calling it?"

Draco's ears went hot.

Merlin, please help him.

"Ready?"-Harry asked, stepping behind him.

Draco nodded, raising his wand, shoulders tightening with focus.

Harry didn't stay back this time.

He stepped closer - close enough that Draco felt the heat of him at his back, close enough that Harry's hand lifted to adjust his stance. His palm landed lightly on Draco's shoulder, turning it just a fraction; his other hand brushed along Draco's forearm to angle the wand correctly.

The contact sent a jolt through Draco - sharp, electric, immediate. His breath caught, his balance wobbling for half a second as every inch of him lit up with awareness.

Harry noticed the shift in his breathing, the tiny falter in his grip.

"Easy."-Harry murmured behind him.-"You've got it."

Draco did - or he recovered it fast enough to pretend he hadn't unravelled for a moment. He locked his jaw, straightened, and forced his thoughts back to the memory. The warmth. The candlelight. The - Merlin save him - Potter.

The drawer snapped open. Cold surged out, lights flickered, the air tightened.

The Dementor glided forward, tall and hollow and hungry.

But Draco didn't step back.

Not this time.

The memory flooded through him, fiercer now - bright enough that the cold seemed to repel off his skin. His wand arm steadied. His voice rang out with startling clarity:

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

The shield burst from his wand in a brilliant arc of silver-blue. The force of it filled the room - bright, steady, unapologetically strong. The Dementor recoiled sharply, drifting back as though struck. It retreated before the shield alone, pushed relentlessly toward the drawer.

Harry didn't move a muscle. He didn't need to.

Draco held it.

He held it.

The creature retreated completely, swallowed by the drawer's darkness. Harry flicked his wand once, sealing it, but only after Draco had driven the Dementor all the way in himself.

Silence.

Then-

A warm hand clapped onto Draco's shoulder.

"Best one yet."-Harry said, voice threaded with honest admiration.-"By far."

Draco exhaled - one shaky breath, then another. His heartbeat was still wild, not from fear but from the memory he'd used to summon that kind of power. He lowered his wand, resisting the urge to wipe the sweat from his brow because Potter absolutely did not need any more evidence he was flustered.

"I hate that memory."-Draco muttered.

Harry blinked.-"Really? Because it seems to be working-..."

"It's ridiculous."-Draco cut in, eyes narrowing at the floor.-"Utterly impractical. Sentimental. I'm pretty sure it's unstable too. I must be dying if I'm forced to use something like that."

Harry's laugh - soft, surprised - broke the tension.

"Well..."-He said.-"No use fighting what's already settled in your heart."

Draco glared half-heartedly. He was not going to admit how much those words landed.

They tried again. And again.

And with each repetition, Draco's movements grew sharper, his focus steadier, the blue glow of the shield blooming faster, brighter. He no longer flinched at the crackle of cold, no longer lost balance when Harry adjusted his stance or murmured a correction at his shoulder. The memory - that memory - held. It anchored him, even as it unsettled him.

By the fifth attempt, Harry didn't need to move at all. He simply watched, arms folded, a quiet pride softening the lines of his face as the Dementor recoiled cleanly into the drawer without his wand ever lifting. All he did was cast the sealing charm.

When the latch clicked shut, Harry nodded once, slow and approving.

"That's solid."-He said, stepping closer.-"Stable enough to rely on now. You've got the hang of it."

He paused, rubbing the back of his neck with a faint laugh.-"Honestly... casting a Patronus is like learning to ride a bike. Once you've got it, you don't forget."

Draco lowered his wand and gave him a look of pure disbelief.

"A bike?"-He repeated.-"Potter, I have never ridden a bike in my life; your comparison sounds impractical."

Harry blinked, then snorted.-"Figures."

His grin crept in, warm and crooked.-"Well... that's all I can teach you in one night then. Patronuses, yes. Bicycles, no chance."

Draco scoffed in mock offence, but the amusement reached his eyes, the glow of the fire catching the edge of his smile.

Harry watched him, noting the ease in Draco's shoulders, the faint looseness in his stance. One week ago, he'd been stiff, guarded, untouchable - but now, relaxed, almost alive.

Harry felt a small surge of pride.

Draco straightened, taking a deep breath.-"One more time. Then we wrap it up."

"It is already really good."-Harry nodded, stepping behind him, careful to stand just behind the small toy block marking the safe distance.-"Ready?"-He asked, wand already poised.

Draco's eyes flicked toward him for a brief moment, then locked onto the drawer.-"I'm ready."-He said, voice tight but steady.

Harry cast the opening charm.-"Sigillum aperi."- The drawer clicked open, and the air seemed to thicken as the dementor slowly rose, dark and writhing.

Draco felt the familiar cold prickling his skin, the anticipation of fear tightening in his chest. He readied his mind to cast his spell one last time.

But something was wrong.

The dementor's hollowed eyes, instead of settling on Draco as always, shot past him and fixed on Harry.

Harry had not been paying much attention till that moment, partially sure of Draco shielding his vision. But now that his eyes had fixed on the Boggart, he could almost feel the warmth rise in his mind.

Draco's heart stuttered; this hadn't happened before.

He hesitated, wand trembling slightly, and that fraction of doubt was enough.

When he cast his Patronus charm, the dementor's form had already begun to twist, the shadowy figure elongating, writhing with heat and light.

A hiss slithered through the air, and Draco's blood ran cold.

The dementor was no longer a dementor - it had burst into flames that were entirely not his fear... but his old nemesis. Fiendfyre. The Killing Flame.

Harry's feet stepped back instinctively. His wand gripped tight.

The searing, chaotic fire that haunted Harry's nightmares, writhing, snapping, alive before him. He instinctively pulled Draco back and stepped to face it.

The sound of its hiss carried through the room like a snake, speaking in a language Draco barely understood. Parseltongue, he realised - though here and there, fragments of English slipped through.

"Walk through me... "

"You cannot hide... "

"I will find you..."

"You are darkness...there is darkness within you."

The flames danced and shifted, growing taller, licking the ceiling, filling the room with their oppressive heat. Draco could see Harry frozen, wand raised, eyes wide, every muscle taut. Yet what he did not expect was for him to move slowly forward, crossing the boundary of the toy stacking block that marked the safe zone.

"It's not real, Potter."-Draco whispered, heart hammering.-"Stop."

But Harry didn't respond. The fire hissed his name, promising release from pain, an end to his nightmares, a way to end all suffering that came from the deprivation.

Draco's stomach churned; he recognised the temptation, the familiar pull of despair. The fire's heat seemed to burn through the air, and when Harry's hand brushed past it, it scorched him through his sleeve. Harry didn't flinch. Draco's eyes widened. 'He's not even noticing the pain. '

Fear surged through Draco, sharper than any fear he had ever known. He lunged forward, catching Harry by the arm.-"Potter! Stop!"

Harry's eyes remained glassy for a moment, still locked on the Fiendfyre, the shapes taking those of all who had died before his eyes with no way to save them, but Draco's voice cut through the haze.-"It's not real."- He repeated, shoving Harry gently behind him, stepping in front of the flames. His wand was steady, breath measured, the tension coiling in his shoulders.

The fire hissed and twisted, morphing unnaturally, but as Draco held his ground, it wavered, then collapsed into the darkness of a familiar terror of the dementor, the manifestation of his own fear. His chest tightened, the cold creeping along his spine, but he didn't flinch.

He exhaled slowly, letting the warmth of his memory rise in his chest, a steady anchor against the panic clawing at him. With a sharp motion of his wand:

"Expecto Patronum!"

A brilliant, formless shield of silver light burst from his wand, expanding outward in a protective wave. It shimmered like liquid metal, enveloping the dementor and pressing it back, a radiant barrier of pure, unwavering focus. Draco's arms shook slightly from the effort, but he held the shield firm, keeping the creature contained.

Harry's gaze was fixed at a point far beyond the dementor, as the dementor backed toward the drawer, forced into retreat. Draco's heart pounded, every nerve taut, but he guided the shadow steadily, the light unwavering even as his breath came in sharp bursts.

"Potter!"-Draco said, voice tight but controlled. He needed his help to finish this. The dementor had been fully backed against the desk; all that needed to be done was to close the drawer, but he could not do both the holding back of the dementor and the sealing.

Harry did not respond, his wand loose in his hand.

"Potter!"-He tried again, but nothing, no response. He was starting to lose focus. Holding back something strong for too long.

Harry lingered in shock just behind him.

"Potter!"-His muscles ached.-"Harry!"-He yelled out.-"Snap out of it now!"

Harry blinked at the mention of his name, his eyes meeting Draco's amidst the struggle. He felt the life come back to his body, shaking himself free from the lingering terror. He raised his wand with determination; it took all the power he had left in his drained body to overcome the blockage in his throat to utter the words of the sealing spell.

"Sigilla eam."

The drawer snapped shut with a pulse of silvery light, the dementor vanishing instantly. The room settled into silence, the only sound the soft crackle of the fireplace. Draco lowered his wand, chest heaving, feeling the weight of the effort leave him slowly.

For a heartbeat, silence hung heavy in the room. Then Draco's gaze snapped to Harry, his first reaction erupting instinctively.

"Harry! What - what was that?"-He shouted, voice sharp and tense, stepping forward. His wand was still loosely gripped in his hand, but his attention was entirely on Harry.

Harry didn't answer. He remained on his feet only just, shoulders slumping under the invisible weight of everything he carried. Exhaustion and pain from the burn he had not even acknowledged till then overfilled him all at once. Without turning to Draco, he muttered softly, almost to himself.-"The lesson's over..."-And began moving toward the sofa, each step slower than it should have been.

Draco's eyes narrowed, heart pounding, as he followed him.-"What's all this about? How did you - how did you let it get that bad?"-He demanded, his voice tight with concern.

Harry didn't turn to face him. He simply kept walking, wand dangling loosely from his hand, the exhaustion in his movements stark.

Draco's eyes caught the moment just before it happened - the wand slipping from Harry's fingers, his legs threatening to give out under him.

"Harry!"-Draco lunged forward instinctively, catching him before he hit the floor.

The warmth of Harry's body pressed against him, heavy and unyielding. Draco's hands held firmly at the shoulders and waist, steadying him.

Draco shifted carefully, lowering Harry onto the rug with deliberate gentleness, making sure each movement was measured. His hands lingered for a moment on Harry's shoulders, steadying him, before he leaned down to check the fire wound along his arm, the angry burn still pulsating. The edges of his clothes were singed, the skin reddened.

Still, Draco knew this was caused by more than just a burn. He had seen Harry walk off battles with much worse than this. It had to be the exhaustion, from the struggle of sleep - it had all piled up, and now it showed in the slackness of Harry's body and the pallor of his face. His heart thudded uneasily as he glanced at him, the faint light of the fireplace catching the weary lines of Harry's features.

"Potter... Potter..."-Draco whispered sharply, nudging him gently, trying to coax him awake.-"Harry...Come on, wake up."

There was no response. His breath was shallow, eyes closed, utterly unresponsive. Draco's chest tightened, a cold thread of panic winding through him. His mind raced - what if this was worse than he thought?

He pressed a hand to Harry's cheek, then shook him lightly, voice rising just enough to be heard over the quiet crackle of the fire.-"Harry... You're scaring me - don't do this!"

Still nothing. Draco's heart fluttered painfully as he took a breath, trying to steady himself. He muttered under his breath, half to himself, half to Harry:-"Merlin, don't you dare, don't you dare leave me here with this..."

Kneeling beside him, he kept his hands lightly on Harry's chest and shoulder, unwilling to let go, counting his heartbeat against the stillness, hoping against hope that the man before him would respond.

Draco's jaw tightened as he adjusted Harry carefully in his arms, muscles tensing against the weight that was heavier than it should have been, all wiry strength now slack and unresponsive. He'd trained for moments like this - first aid, emergencies, carrying someone safely - but even with preparation, the sight of Harry like this made his chest tighten.

"Don't you dare die on me."-He muttered under his breath, his voice low but firm, as if speaking it aloud could anchor the man back to consciousness.

He called softly, almost commanding.-"Kreacher! Where is Harry's room?"

The house-elf appeared instantly, bowing, shocked at the sight before him.-"First room up the stairs, Master Malfoy."

Without hesitation, Draco adjusted his hold, careful to keep Harry's head supported against his shoulder, and started up the stairs, each step measured to prevent jostling him. The muscles in his arms burned, but he ignored them, focusing solely on getting Harry to safety.

Once inside the room, he lay Harry down on the bed with careful precision, keeping him as flat and comfortable as possible.-"Kreacher."-He said, voice sharper now.-"Fetch warm water, some gauze, and bandages. Quickly."

The elf scuttled off, and Draco sat beside Harry, brushing damp curls from his forehead. He checked the fire wound again, gently inspecting the scorched skin, noting the red edges but relieved that it hadn't blistered badly.

Draco's eyes softened just fractionally, though worry still lingered like a shadow.-"This isn't rest, Harry... not this way."

He waited, tense, as Kreacher returned with the supplies, each movement precise, efficient, but his hands never leaving Harry's side for more than a moment, ready to tend to him as carefully as a guardian could.

Draco's hands moved with precise, careful motions, tearing the rest of Harry's shirt away without hesitation, exposing the burn across his arm and shoulder. The flesh was raw, tender to the touch, and the faintly scorched hair clung to his skin. He ignored the cluttered bedside table, the half-empty bottles of Luna's dreamless draught, the potions promising sleep that Harry never found. All of it felt meaningless compared to the living weight of the man before him.

Draco worked in near breathless quiet, the only sounds the soft crackle of the fireplace and the faint clink of glass as Kreacher's supplies settled on the bedside table. Harry lay unconscious on the bed-too still, too pale, too heavy with the kind of exhaustion that didn't belong to any living man - and Draco forced himself to move, to act, before fear swallowed him whole.

He dipped the cloth into the warm water and wrung it out with steady hands that did not feel steady at all. When he pressed it gently to Harry's burned arm, the skin was hot - fevered - and the raw edges of the injury made Draco's stomach lurch.

"Bloody hell, Potter..."-He breathed, barely louder than the flicker of the flames.-"You really let it get this bad?"

Kreacher had said nothing after bringing the materials - only bowed, grief in his large eyes, and vanished. Draco wished, briefly, that he had stayed. It would have been easier to pretend he wasn't alone with this - alone with him.

He began cleaning the burn, sweeping the cloth slowly from wrist to shoulder. The closer he got to the top, the deeper the scorch ran, and Draco had to grit his teeth, muttering under his breath.-"Boggart burns don't get this deep unless the fear is practically carved into your bones..."

Harry didn't stir - not a flinch, not a twitch - nothing but shallow breaths and a faint crease between his brows, as if even unconscious, he was bracing for the next hit. Draco paused, cloth hovering over the injured skin.

Then he noticed it - the rest of him.

The torn shirt revealed more than the burn: scars layered over scars, old ones faded silver, fresh ones etched red, marks that spoke of war and missions and battles long after the world thought he'd finally earned peace. And the body beneath them...

Potter had changed.

He was heavy with muscle now, built from Auror training, missions, and conditioning that had clearly pushed him past reason. Draco brushed his thumb along the firm line of Harry's bicep, pretending it was only to check for swelling.

It wasn't.

He swallowed, throat dry. Harry's weight when he carried him up the stairs now made sense - solid, grounded, impossible to lift without committing his whole body to it. A strange, unwelcome heat stirred in Draco's chest, curling down to his hands, and he forced himself to look away.

He set the cloth aside and opened the jar of burn salve. The scent of it - pungent, herbal, familiar - steadied him. He dipped two fingers in and applied it carefully, spreading it in slow, soothing strokes that made Potter's skin glisten under the lamplight.

Harry twitched once - a soft, pained sound caught in his throat.

Draco froze, letting the pain settle before he kept going.

When the ointment was evenly applied, he reached for the bandage, lifting Harry's arm with both hands to wrap it. Even unconscious, Potter leaned slightly into the warmth of his touch, and Draco felt his breath stutter.

He wound the gauze from wrist to shoulder, every turn of the bandage an intimate choreography he hadn't meant to step into. His fingers brushed Harry's chest more than strictly necessary - checking tension, adjusting the wrap, smoothing the cloth.

When he finally tied it off, Draco allowed himself one moment - one - to rest his hand against Harry's jaw, feeling the faint tremor of fever beneath the skin.

"This is a ridiculous excuse for rest..."-Draco murmured, voice low and edged with fear he refused to name.-"You don't get to collapse and call that sleeping."

Harry didn't respond.

Didn't move.

Didn't even seem fully alive.

That thought made Draco inhale sharply.

He slid a blanket over Harry - tucking it around his torso, smoothing the fabric over his chest - and sat back in the chair beside the bed, never taking his eyes off him.

Draco's jaw tightened, a sharp pang of frustration and sorrow twisting in his chest. How had no one noticed this sooner? How had his friends - those closest to him - let Harry's mind be corroded, let him be pushed to this brink without seeing it? His fingers brushed softly across the pale skin, lingering on the tense line of his jaw and the faint shadow beneath his eyes.

Harry himself had been the one to explain it to Draco - quietly, almost off-handedly, on one of those late nights when their lessons had drifted into conversations rather than drills.

He had told him that some Boggarts didn't stay harmless illusions. Not when the fear ran deep enough. Not when the mind supplying the image was fractured, exhausted, stretched thin.

A Boggart fed on terror; if the terror outweighed logic, outweighed the sense of "this isn't real," the creature could manifest harm - real harm. Cuts, burns, frostbite, bruising. The magic shaping it blurred dangerously into reality when the mind behind it was weak enough.

Harry had known that. He had taught that.

And still... it had been his fear that spiralled past sense. His fear twisted the boggart into something that burned him. His fear that turned the lesson on its head.

Draco had only understood the full weight of that warning when he found Harry lying half-conscious, skin scorched and pale, the creature's fire still echoing on him.

And he had understood, too, with a cold clarity:

Harry Potter wasn't just haunted. He was hurting badly enough that his own mind could turn against him.

He rested his hand there, cold and steady, as if he could transfer some of his own strength through the touch. This man, this boy, lying unconscious before him - so fragile in this moment, yet so impossibly strong in the life he had carried. Every line of worry, every scar, every sleepless night was etched into him, a testament to endurance no one else had fully recognised.

He let his hand linger against Harry's cheek, steady and protective, a silent vow that tonight, at least, he would not let anything harm him further.

The faint, restless cries drifting from the nursery tugged Draco's attention away from the bed. At first, they were soft, almost muffled by the corridor walls - but they sharpened, fragile and insistent, and he straightened immediately. Harry was in no state to move. Draco was the only one left standing, the only one who could respond to the child.

He cast one last look at Potter - still as stone beneath the blanket, breath shallow, brow tight with pain - and rose from the chair. His footsteps were quiet as he crossed the room, but behind him, Harry's fingers twitched, as though some part of him felt Draco leave.

Draco entered the nursery, and the cries grew clearer - thin, trembling sounds of distress that didn't belong in a house meant to be safe. Teddy's small face was red with frustration, little fists opening and closing as though reaching for comfort that hadn't yet arrived. Draco let out a slow exhale, gathered the boy into his arms, and held him close. Teddy's tiny hands found the front of Draco's robes, clutching weakly.

"Alright, little one... enough of that."-Draco murmured, though his voice was gentler than his words.

He rocked the child with a natural ease that surprised even him.

Draco hesitated only a moment before deciding he wouldn't leave Harry alone like this - not when his breathing was shallow and his dreams visibly restless. Cradling Teddy carefully, Draco carried him back into Harry's room.

The sight that greeted him made his chest tighten. He had only left him alone for a moment.

Harry was still half-drowned in unconsciousness, head turned toward the sound of Teddy's cries without truly waking. His fingers twitched weakly against the sheets, as though reaching for a comfort he couldn't quite grasp. His brows were drawn, trapped in the pain of nightmares even sleep couldn't shield him from.

Draco crossed the room quietly, sat in the chair beside the bed, and shifted Teddy into the cradle of one arm - leaving his dominant hand free should Harry need him. Teddy whimpered once, rubbing his face against Draco's robes.

Instinct - old, buried, but not forgotten - rose in Draco's throat.

He began to hum.

Soft at first, threaded with old magic and older memory, the tune was almost foreign on his tongue. But the lullaby unfurled with memory, with warmth he hadn't touched in years. A tune that had drifted through Black nurseries for generations, passed from mother to child like an heirloom. Narcissa had sung it to him - rarely, quietly, only in the moments when safety had felt like something real. Andromeda had sung it to her daughter... and years later, taught it to Harry.

The sound drifted through the dim room - gentle, slow, threaded with a tenderness Draco didn't realise he still possessed.

Teddy stilled almost immediately. His breathing evened. Little fingers loosened. Sleep claimed him in moments, fragile and deep.

Harry's mind was fogged, heavy, tangled in remnants of nightmares - fire licking at his heels, screams echoing in empty halls, Teddy crying somewhere he couldn't reach...

But slowly... slowly... something else began to press through the haze.

Music.

A soft hum, warm and familiar, floated to him like a memory wrapped in light. The lullaby. And in its wake, Teddy's cries softened... then stilled... then disappeared entirely.

Harry's breathing eased.

Even unconscious, his body recognised the lullaby - recognised safety. His breathing steadied, the lines of pain in his brow smoothing just slightly. His eyes remained closed, too heavy to lift, but his head turned faintly toward the sound... toward Draco... toward the steady warmth filling the room.

Draco kept humming, his thumb brushing slow circles across Teddy's small back, gaze resting intermittently on Harry's face.

As the final notes of the lullaby faded into the quiet room, Teddy slept deeply against Draco's chest.

Through the haze of exhaustion, Harry's eyelids fluttered as he drifted between dozing and wakefulness. His arm throbbed faintly from the burn, a sharp reminder of the night's earlier chaos, but his attention could not help but be drawn to Draco by the window. The firelight caught the pale contours of his face, highlighting the unusual gentleness in his expression. He winced when he tried to shift slightly, the memory of the burn-pricked pain fresh.

Draco, noticing the subtle movement, paused mid-sway, eyes meeting Harry's with quiet command.-"No sudden moves..."-He murmured, voice low but firm, a tether grounding Harry even in his half-conscious state.

Harry blinked slowly, too tired to respond in words, and simply watched Draco's careful movements - the way his fingers adjusted the baby's blanket, the soft sway of his shoulders, the measured exhale that kept both the boy and the room calm. It was a fragile, intimate scene, stitched together by trust, fatigue, and the quiet understanding that even in the darkest of nights, someone would watch over you.

His gaze drifted toward Harry, assessing him with that same careful attention.-"You need to stay still."-He reminded again, softer this time, almost like a whisper meant more for comfort than command.

And in that shared, fragile quiet, Harry allowed himself a rare, unguarded moment - a fleeting glimpse of safety, of warmth, of connection - while Draco remained the steady sentinel of the night.

Draco sank slightly in the chair beside Harry's bed, Teddy still balanced carefully in one arm, the small boy finally asleep in the warmth of Draco's hold. Harry raised his other hand to cover his face, letting out a shuddering, heavy exhale that seemed to carry the weight of months - years - of sleepless nights and unspoken battles.

"I... I'm sorry..."-Harry whispered, voice cracking. Over and over, the words spilt from him, punctuated by the tightening of his hands over his face, as if trying to hold himself together.

His eyes brimmed with unshed tears, the heat of exhaustion and fear making him tremble. Draco reached across, his free hand settling over Harry's bandaged arm with a firmness that grounded both of them.

"It's fine..."-Draco said quietly, almost to himself as much as to Harry.-"A bit of fever. Rest, and you'll be better."

Harry's voice broke further, muffled behind his hand.-"I... I can't rest! It won't let me rest! That darkness - it's... It's screwed me up."-Finally, he let his vulnerability slip past all defences, the truth of his fear and exhaustion laid bare in the quiet room.

Draco's gaze softened, fierce and protective at once. He shifted slightly, adjusting Teddy in his arms while the other hand held Harry's.-"Then you leave this place..."-He said firmly.-"Go somewhere. Anywhere. Rest. Find some peace. Be strong for your godson."

"It's too late."-Harry whispered, voice thin and raw.

Draco shook his head, voice steady, eyes locking onto Harry's even as the small tremor of fear in him threatened to break through.-"It's never too late. You need rest. You've not rested since the war, I have seen it myself. You have not once stopped running since all that loss, all that grief. You can't bury it under more work, more rebuilding ruins, and expect it to disappear. Holding onto your past...these are the words you preach to others, Potter, but fail to follow for yourself."

Harry stayed silent, his tears finally finding the courage to fall, trailing down his neck as his chest rose and fell unevenly.

Draco's voice softened, a quiet, unwavering certainty cutting through the darkness that clung to Harry.-"I'm going to tell Hermione about tonight..."-He said gently, his usual tone now completely gone, replaced by something caring.-"And that is not as a threat, not as an order. But because you need your friends to help you stand. You can't do this alone."

Harry's lips parted in protest, a weak, strained whisper.-"I haven't... I haven't told her any of this."

"That's exactly why it hasn't been solved..."-Draco replied firmly, letting the weight of his words settle in the room.-"You don't have to face it alone, Harry. It's not weakness - it's surviving. And you deserve to survive."

Teddy stirred slightly in Draco's arms but remained asleep, as if the calm radiating from Draco's presence had seeped into the small body as well.

Draco rose carefully from the chair, cradling Teddy for a moment before stepping to the other side of Harry's bed. He lowered the boy gently onto the empty space, arranging blankets snugly around him so he would stay warm and secure. Teddy's small hands twitched in sleep, and a soft sigh escaped his lips, already drifting back into slumber. Draco lingered for a heartbeat, watching the peaceful rise and fall of the boy's chest, then moved back to Harry's side, his expression firm, resolute.

"Kreacher."-He said, his voice low but commanding as he summoned the house-elf once more as he wore his cloak.-"Go to the Burrow. Wake Mr Weasley and Miss Granger. Explain what has happened. Bring them here immediately. Their friend needs their help."

Harry's eyes widened as he tried to sit up, protest already forming on his lips.-"Draco - wait! Not like this... I-"

"No."-Draco interrupted firmly, cutting him off.-"You don't get to argue. Not now. You need them here. You need to rest. I won't let you carry this alone another second."

Harry's shoulders slumped, a mixture of exhaustion and helplessness softening his resistance. He wanted to refuse, to insist he could handle it, but the quiet steel in Draco's gaze made the words stick in his throat. Draco's hand settled over Harry's, reassuring yet firm, a tether keeping him grounded.

Kreacher, bowing low, scuttled off immediately, leaving the room in a tense, expectant quiet. Draco returned his attention to Harry, who finally gave a slow, reluctant nod, his exhaustion outweighing his stubborn pride.

"Good."-Draco murmured, leaning back slightly, still holding Harry's gaze.-"They'll be here soon. You rest. That's all you do."

Harry exhaled, the weight of surrender settling over him, and for the first time that night, he allowed himself to relax, even if just a fraction, against the steadfast presence of the man at his side.

Draco straightened, moving with careful precision as he prepared to leave the room before his friends arrived. He knew Ron well enough - if he saw the state Harry was in, he wouldn't listen to reason and would probably blame Draco.

Harry stirred slightly, trying to sit up as Draco reached the door.-"Draco... wait."-He said, his voice hoarse but firm.-"You've been... I - thank you. For everything."

Draco paused, the faintest flicker of a smile crossing his lips. He crouched slightly, brushing a loose strand of hair from Harry's damp forehead.-"This isn't farewell."-He said quietly. He slipped his hand into his pocket and withdrew a small golden galleon, warm and catching the firelight.

He set it gently on Harry's bedside table, the coin landing with a soft clink.-"One favour - one time."-He murmured, his gaze meeting Harry's, steady and deliberate.-"Harry Potter. Whenever you need me... call."

Harry's fingers twitched toward the coin, staring at it in disbelief for a moment.

Draco gave a small nod, lingering just long enough to ensure the weight of the gesture sank in.-"Do get a haircut soon."-He says, but the tone does not sound like a joke. Then, without another word, he straightened fully, cast a quiet protective charm over the room, and slipped out, leaving Harry staring at the coin, heart pounding, mind racing, and the warmth of Draco's presence still lingering in the air.

Harry stayed frozen for a moment, the golden galleon still warm on the bedside table, the echo of Draco's presence lingering in the room like a quiet weight pressing against his chest. The child stirred slightly beside him, snug in the blankets Draco had arranged, a gentle, untroubled reminder that some small piece of life went on even in the chaos of his mind.

Then came the sound of footsteps - urgent but not panicked - and Hermione stepped into the room, Ron not far behind her. Harry braced, half-expecting scolding, questions, perhaps even anger, but instead Hermione simply crossed the space to his side and enveloped him in a hug. No yelling, no accusations, just quiet understanding.

Ron, where Draco had once stood. His eyes went to the coin, which shone with familiar words, after a brief moment of hesitation, mimicking Hermione, wrapping Harry in a strong, grounding embrace.

Ron leaned back slightly, resting his forehead against Harry's shoulder.-"We're here for you."-He muttered, voice low, grounding. Harry let himself breathe in, let the tension in his chest ease just a fraction.

Hermione stayed close, hand pressed against his arm, voice quiet but firm.-"We'll get through this. As always."

"As always..."-And for the first time that night, Harry allowed himself to sink into the warmth and care around him, letting the mess in his mind ease just enough to remember that he wasn't entirely alone.