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The war had been over for two years, but it still clung to me like soot. London was gray that day—too loud, too alive—and I was just trying to buy potion ingredients without hearing someone whisper Death Eater under their breath.
The bell above the door to the apothecary chimed when I walked in.
And there he was.
Harry bloody Potter.
Sorting through a shelf of burn ointments like an ordinary person, like he hadn’t once carried the weight of the world and my family’s shame on his back.
Our eyes met.
I froze, instinctively bracing for the sneer, the disgust, the reminder that I would never be forgiven. But he didn’t sneer. He smiled. A small, uncertain thing. It looked like it surprised him too.
“Malfoy,” he said softly, voice lower than I remembered, steadier. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”
“I live here,” I replied before I could stop myself. “Not in the shadows, if that’s what you mean.”
He laughed under his breath. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
And somehow, I believed him.
Harry held out his hand. Hesitant. Honest.
"My name's Potter, Harry Potter."
My throat went dry. I wanted to walk away-to cling to the armor that had kept me breathing. But the part of me that had been starved for kindness for so long whispered, yes.
So I took his hand.
"Hello Potter, my name's is Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."
And just like that, my world tilted.
~~~♡~~~
He found me again the next day, of course.
Potter always had a talent for showing up where he wasn’t supposed to.
I was tucked away in the quiet corner of a Muggle library I’d discovered by accident. No one there knew my name, and that anonymity was intoxicating. I could read without the weight of history pressing on my back.
Then the chair across from me scraped, and his voice—familiar, irritatingly warm—filled the air.
“You read Muggle books now?”
I looked up. “Trying to be less of a disappointment, Potter.”
“Harry,” he said. “If we’re… whatever this is, call me Harry.”
The word felt strange on my tongue. “Harry.”
He smiled at the sound of it, like it meant something. Maybe it did.
He sat with me for hours. We didn’t talk much. We didn’t need to. Sometimes our knees brushed under the table, and every time, I told myself it was an accident. But when he didn’t move his leg away, neither did I.
The library closed at dusk.
As we walked out together, the sky blushed purple, and I realized—for the first time in years—I wasn’t angry. Not at him. Not at the world. Not even at myself.
That scared me more than anything.
~~~♡~~~
It started with rain. London always smells like forgiveness when it rains.
Harry invited me to his flat. Said it was just tea, just company.
But the moment I stepped inside, I knew I’d already lost control.
Everything was warm. The air, his eyes, the way he said my name like it wasn’t cursed anymore.
We sat close, too close, knees touching, mugs forgotten. He told me about nightmares—ones that still woke him screaming. I told him about silence—how it rang louder than any curse.
When he reached for my hand, I didn’t flinch. Not this time.
His fingers were calloused, grounding.
“Draco,” he whispered, searching my face for permission.
I should have stopped him. I should have thought of my father, my family, my obligations. But for once, I didn’t think at all.
When his lips met mine, it wasn’t fireworks—it was relief.
It was the sound of two people finally exhaling after years of holding their breath.
I let him kiss me. I let him hold me.
And when he did, the world went quiet.
For the first time since the war, I felt like I’d come home.
Not to Malfoy Manor. Not to legacy.
But to him.
I didn’t know it then, but that would be my undoing.
Because the cruelest thing about love is how easily it feels like salvation—
until it becomes the very thing you have to survive.
~~~♡~~~
Harry’s flat always smelled like burnt toast and soap. I found it comforting, which said a great deal about how far I’d fallen.
He was in the kitchen, wrestling with a pan that had clearly declared mutiny. I leaned against the doorway, arms folded.
“You know, Potter, the flame goes under the food, not on top of it.”
He turned, spatula in hand, hair a mess. “You always this smug before breakfast?”
“Yes,” I said, stepping forward, “but only around you.”
He grinned. “Flattering.”
“I was aiming for honest.”
“Same thing, isn’t it?”
That’s how it always was between us. Banter sharp enough to draw blood, but soft beneath it. The world outside was full of people who still hated what I represented; inside these walls, he made it feel like I could be someone else entirely.
He slid a plate toward me—eggs, tragically overcooked. I sat, pretending to inspect them like a potions essay. “You’re trying to kill me.”
He laughed, dropping into the chair opposite me. “Eat it before it eats you.”
I did. And despite the taste, I smiled.
“See?” he said, nudging my knee under the table. “Told you I could make you smile.”
“You didn’t make me. I allowed it.”
He smirked. “I’ll take it.”
We talked for hours—nothing of importance. The new shop opening on Diagon Alley, how Weasley’s jokes were getting unbearable, the strange way owls sometimes flew sideways in heavy wind.
But it was the kind of talk that stitched small pieces of peace into a man who thought he didn’t deserve any.
When I left that night, he kissed my temple before I Disapparated. It was such a small thing—gentle, almost careless—but I felt it all the way down to the part of me I’d buried under years of guilt.
I went home humming under my breath. I hadn’t done that since I was a child.
~~~♡~~~
A couple of days later
It was now normal for me to stay a night or two at Harry’s flat.
Harry was still asleep when I woke. He’d kicked off the blanket sometime in the night; his scar was just visible beneath his hair, pale and old. I traced the air above it, close but not touching.
“Creeping over me again, Malfoy?” he murmured, eyes still closed.
“You make it too easy.”
He laughed quietly and rolled onto his side. “You were watching me.”
“Only because you drool.”
He opened one eye. “Do not.”
“You do. It’s tragic.”
He sat up, hair pointing in ten directions, and tugged me closer. “I could prove you wrong.”
“Potter, if this ends with me being late for work, I’ll hex you into next week.”
He kissed me. “Worth it.”
And maybe it was.
We spent the morning doing nothing—properly, gloriously nothing. He made tea that was too strong, I fixed it with too much sugar, and we sat by the window watching the rain blur the glass.
He talked about maybe joining the Aurors again. I told him I thought the world owed him a rest.
“And you?” he asked. “Still brewing things for people who pretend not to recognize you?”
“It pays the rent,” I said.
“You could do anything, you know. You’re clever enough to rebuild your life however you want.”
I tilted my head. “And what if this is how I want it?”
He looked at me for a long time then, eyes soft and searching, as if he could see every part of me I tried to hide. “Then I’ll stop telling you what to do.”
I smiled. “Finally.”
He reached out and brushed his thumb along my jaw. “You still look at me like I’m going to disappear.”
“Maybe I just can’t believe you’re still here.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He just kissed me again, slow and deliberate, until my heart stopped thrashing for escape.
If there was ever a day I wished I could bottle like a potion, it was that one.
~~~♡~~~
The owl arrived in the afternoon, silver seal gleaming against the gray sky. Malfoy crest. My stomach turned before I even broke it open.Harry was in the other room humming that same infuriating cooking tune. I sat at the table, unfolded the parchment, and read.
From the Desk of Lucius Malfoy
My son,
I trust you recall the dignity of your name, though your actions suggest otherwise.
I have tolerated your... absence with patience. But whispers have reached me—whispers of impropriety, of indecency. You will cease this behavior immediately.
You are a Malfoy, Draco. That means something. It always has. You will not throw it away for fleeting affection with those who would gladly see our bloodline end.
Return home by week’s end. We will arrange a proper match.
Do not mistake my civility for lenience. You have one chance to restore this family’s honor.
— Lucius A. Malfoy
The paper felt heavier than it should. His words—impropriety, bloodline, honor—each one a noose.
Harry called from the kitchen, “Draco, where’s the sugar?”
I slipped the letter into my pocket. “Cupboard. Top shelf.”
He appeared a moment later, grinning. “You’re quiet. Should I be worried?”
“No,” I said too quickly.
“Then you should be smiling.” He crossed the room and leaned against the counter beside me. “Tell me something ridiculous.”
“What?”
“Something only you’d say. Something that reminds me the world isn’t all ghosts and politics.”
I forced a smile. “Your cooking should be classified as a Dark Art.”
He laughed, warm and real. “There he is.”
I tried to match it. Tried to bury the tremor under my tongue. But the words from the letter echoed in my head, heavy and unrelenting.
He noticed. He always did. “You sure you’re alright?”
I lied again. “Just tired.”
Harry frowned. “You’ve been tired since I met you.”
He stepped closer, resting his hand against my cheek. “You don’t have to keep pretending, you know. Not with me.”
I wanted to tell him everything—that my father was tightening his grip, that my mother’s fragile safety hung by threads, that I was terrified of losing both them and him. But the truth felt like a betrayal either way.
So instead, I kissed him. Hard, desperate. The kind of kiss you give when you already know you’re running out of time.
When we pulled apart, he looked shaken, smiling faintly but with that question in his eyes. “What was that for?”
“Nothing,” I whispered. “Just... in case.”
He frowned, but didn’t ask. He never pushed when I went quiet. Maybe that’s why I loved him—because he didn’t demand explanations I wasn’t brave enough to give.
That night, when he fell asleep with his arm draped over me, I traced the curve of his wrist with my fingers, memorizing it.
I thought: If love could keep me safe, I’d stay forever.
But love isn’t armor. It’s a wound you learn to live with.
And mine had just started bleeding again.
~~~♡~~~
The next letter came at dawn.
I didn’t open it right away. I already knew what it would say—knew the phrasing, the venom disguised as civility.
My father never repeated himself; he simply sharpened his words.
Harry was asleep beside me, face half-buried in the pillow. His lashes flickered when he dreamed. He looked younger like that—unguarded, unbroken.
And I thought, how cruel that I have to be the one to hurt him.
When he woke, he smiled that sleepy smile that used to disarm me completely. “Morning.”
I forced one in return. “Morning.”
He brushed a hand through his hair. “You’re pale.”
“I’m always pale, Potter. It’s part of my charm.”
But the banter didn’t land. The air between us shifted. He frowned, reading me like a map he didn’t recognize anymore.
“Draco,” he said softly, “what’s wrong?”
I looked away. “Nothing.”
He leaned closer, his hand ghosting over mine. “I’ve seen you after battle. I know when you’re lying.”
I almost laughed—almost.
“I’m fine, Potter.”
The way his name broke against my tongue hurt more than any curse.
I left before breakfast, telling him I had work.
He kissed my cheek, quick and hesitant. I didn’t turn back.
The unopened letter burned in my pocket all day.
~~~♡~~~
He came to my flat that evening, soaked through with rain, holding two paper cups of coffee.
“I thought we could just... talk,” he said, dripping onto the carpet.
I wanted to slam the door. I wanted to pull him in.
Instead, I stood there, trembling between the two impulses like a coward.
He stepped forward anyway. “You’ve been gone for days. I just wanted to make sure you’re—”
“I told you, I’m fine.”
He set the coffee on the table, voice steady but eyes too bright. “You don’t get to vanish, Draco. That’s not how this works.”
I looked at him then—really looked. The rain had curled his hair, his clothes clung to him, and he was still here. Still choosing me, when he didn’t have to.
It made me furious. It made me love him more.
“This isn’t your fight,” I said. “You don’t understand what it means to have everything you love used against you.”
He flinched. “Don’t I?”
And damn him, he was right.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t stay. Couldn’t leave.
So I did what Malfoys do best—I lied.
“I think we made a mistake,” I said.
Harry stared at me. “You don’t mean that.”
“Maybe I do.”
He stepped closer, desperate now. “You don’t get todecide that for both of us. If it’s about what people think—sod them. If it’s about your father—”
“It’s always about my father!” I shouted, voice cracking.
The silence that followed felt final.
He whispered, “I can fight him with you.”
I closed my eyes. “You shouldn’t have to.”
He stayed until midnight. I didn’t touch him. Didn’t even look at him.
When he left, he didn’t say goodbye.
Just whispered, “You’re not the only one who knows how to disappear.”
~~~♡~~~
The next morning, he was waiting outside my shop.
He looked exhausted, eyes rimmed red, holding a small box wrapped in brown paper.
“I made something for you,” he said. “Don’t ask me how—I had help from Hermione.”
I didn’t take it. “Harry, please—”
“Just open it.”
Inside was a ring. Silver, plain, no crest.
“Nothing fancy,” he said, voice trembling. “Just something that’s ours. No family names. No past. Just us.”
My throat closed. “You shouldn’t have.”
“I wanted to,” he said. “Because I love you, Draco.”
The words hit like a curse.
He’d said them before, but never like this. Never knowing he was about to lose me.
“I love you,” he repeated, voice breaking. “And I’m not ashamed of it. Not in public, not in front of anyone.”
I stepped back. “You should be.”
He stared at me, stunned. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
His hand fell to his side, ring box still open. “So that’s it, then?”
“It has to be.”
Harry’s breath caught; he laughed once—bitter, broken. “You’d rather live as your father’s ghost than as yourself.”
“That ghost is all that’s keeping my mother alive,” I whispered.
He blinked hard, fighting tears. “Then I hope she’s worth it.”
The moment the words left his mouth, regret flashed across his face.
But it was too late.
I turned away before he could apologize.
If I looked at him again, I’d never let him go.
Later that night he came back.
I thought he wouldn’t come back.
I prayed he wouldn’t.
But that night, thunder cracked open the sky, and he was at my door again.
He looked wild—rain-soaked, furious, desperate.
“Tell me this isn’t it,” he said.
I stayed silent.
“Tell me you still love me, and I’ll stay. I’ll fight for this, Draco. For you.”
My voice came out small. “You can’t fight what’s already lost.”
He stepped closer. “Then say it. Say you don’t love me, and I’ll walk away.”
Every part of me screamed to lie again, but I couldn’t.
So I did the cruelest thing I could—I told the truth.
“I love you,” I said. “I love you so much it’s killing me.”
Tears welled in his eyes. “Then why are you doing this?”
“Because I can’t survive another war.”
He stared at me like he was trying to memorize every inch of my face before it disappeared.
Then he took a shuddering breath and whispered, “You already lost it, Draco. You just didn’t notice.”
He kissed me once—hard, final, the kind of kiss that rips something out of you and doesn’t give it back.
Then he turned and walked out into the storm.
I didn’t chase him.
~~~♡~~~
The next morning, the world was quiet again.
Too quiet.
His ring sat on the table, gleaming in the weak light. I picked it up, held it to my lips, and let the truth slip out—
“I would have chosen you if I were braver.”
The letter from my father arrived hours later. I didn’t open it.
Some things hurt enough the first time.
I burned it in the fireplace.
Watched the smoke curl upward.
And whispered his name into the ashes like a prayer I’d never stop saying.
Harry Potter would go on to live a life.
I would go on pretending to have one.
That’s how love ends when you let fear win—
not with hate, not with anger,
but with the quiet echo of a heart that loved too late.
~~~♡~~~
Epilogue: Letters Never Read Until Now
The Manor was silent that morning.
It always was these days.
Years had stretched the house thinner — its grandeur gone to dust, its portraits asleep, its echo too sharp against the marble floors. Narcissa was long gone, and the rooms she once filled with soft light had turned into mausoleums of memory.
I lived in her old sitting room now, smaller, warmer, filled with the kind of clutter my father would have sneered at. Books half-open. A cracked teacup. A piano I rarely touched because every note reminded me of him.
Harry.
I hadn’t spoken his name aloud in years, but it lived inside me like breath. Some loves never stop haunting — they just grow quiet enough to survive.
That morning, I was sorting through my mother’s old trunk when I found them.
Two letters.
Tied together with a black ribbon, edges frayed from time.
The top one bore my father’s handwriting.
My pulse faltered.
I hadn’t seen that script since the last curse that took him.
Cold, perfect, impossible to mistake.
Letter One — From Lucius Malfoy
> My son,
You have lived your life under the shadow of my choices — the wrong ones. You were raised to believe duty outweighs desire, that the family name must be protected even at the cost of your own peace.
But I have watched you, Draco. Even as the world turned its back on you, even as you learned to bear guilt that was never yours, you loved. You loved fiercely. You loved him.
Do not let that love become a curse.
I will not say his name — pride dies slowly, even in the dying. But know this: you are not bound by me.
If there is one thing this bloodline deserves, it is the chance to be redeemed by something as simple as your happiness.
Be free, my son.
— Lucius A. Malfoy
I read it once. Then again.
Each word stripped something out of me.
I wanted to be angry. To laugh. To scream that it was too late.
But all I could do was sit there, the letter shaking in my hands, and whisper, “You could have told me.”He never did.
And in the silence that followed, I realized — maybe he’d tried. Maybe this was his way of saying sorry without ever admitting guilt.
A Malfoy apology written in invisible ink.
I folded it gently and set it aside.
The second letter waited beneath it.
Letter Two — From Harry Potter
Draco,
I’m not sure why I’m writing this. Maybe I just needed to talk to you again, even if you’ll never read it.
I got my old job back. The Ministry decided it needed me after all. I suppose I missed the danger — or maybe I just missed feeling useful. You’d roll your eyes and call me a hero complex in trousers. You’d be right.
I tell myself I’m fine, that I’ve moved on. I even tried dating again — didn’t work. They always ask what I’m thinking about, and it’s always you.
I still make too much tea. Still hum while I cook. Still burn things. You’d laugh at how hopeless I am without you to correct me.
There’s not a day I don’t think about you. Not a day I don’t wish you’d come back.
I hope you’re happy, wherever you are.
I hope your ghosts are kind.
— H
My breath hitched halfway through the page.
The ink had faded, but the voice hadn’t. I could hear him — alive, teasing, human. The way he said ghosts like he’d already accepted his own.
I pressed the page to my lips and closed my eyes.
The years between us folded for a moment — the air smelled like burnt toast and rain again.
Then I reached for the letter that was sent today.
Letter Three — From Hermione Granger-Weasley
Draco,
I wish I were writing under different circumstances.
Harry was killed early this morning during a mission near the border. It happened fast — too fast.
He died saving others. You would not be surprised. He never could help himself.
He spoke of you more than you know. Whenever he got drunk, whenever the nights were too long, it was always your name.
He said you once told him you couldn’t survive another war.
I thought you should know — he made sure you didn’t have to.
I’m so sorry, Draco.
— Hermione
The words blurred before I reached the end.
I didn’t realize I’d dropped the letter until it landed in my lap, ink smearing beneath my fingers.
Outside, rain began to fall — slow, steady, like the world itself had been waiting to cry for him.
I sat there until dusk, surrounded by ghosts made of paper.
Lucius, finally soft.
Harry, still alive in ink.
Hermione, carrying the weight of endings.
I picked up Harry’s letter again, fingertips tracing his name like a prayer.
“I never stopped,” I whispered. “Not one day.”
The rain grew heavier, a storm building over the cliffs. I left the window open and let it soak the edges of the letters, watching the ink run — the past bleeding into itself.
For the first time in decades, I wept. Not quietly. Not politely. I wept until my chest ached, until every wall I’d built cracked under the sound of his name.
When the storm finally eased, I placed all three letters on the piano and sat before it.
My hands hovered above the keys.
And I played his song — the one he used to hum when he thought I wasn’t listening.
Soft. Broken. Whole.
The sound echoed through the empty halls, wrapping itself around the ghosts that lingered there.
Lucius. Narcissa.
And Harry — always Harry.
When the last note faded, I whispered into the silence:
“Another love, then. But never another you.”
~~~♡~~~
(Years Later – Draco’s POV)
The cemetery sat on a hill that overlooked the city, a quiet slope of marble and moss. Time had softened the edges of everything — even grief.
I visited in spring, when the air smelled like rain and old lilacs. I brought no flowers. Harry never cared for them. He used to say they were only beautiful because they knew they wouldn’t last.
The headstone was simple, unadorned — just Harry James Potter. He saved us all.
I knelt beside it, tracing the letters with a trembling hand.
I hadn’t been here in years. It was easier to pretend he was still somewhere out there — alive, stubborn, scolding me for forgetting breakfast.
In my coat pocket was the ring he’d given me all those lifetimes ago. Plain silver, no crest. No history. Just ours.
I placed it at the base of the stone.
“You’d laugh if you saw me now,” I murmured. “Gray hair. Terrible at gardening. Still a coward when it comes to feelings.”
A soft breeze moved through the grass, gentle as a sigh. For a moment, it almost felt like he was listening.
Footsteps crunched behind me.
“Father?”
I turned. My son — pale hair, green eyes that weren’t mine but from my wife. He was eleven, curious, impatient with everything except kindness.
He pointed to the grave. “Who was that?”
I hesitated, the truth caught somewhere between ache and memory. Then I smiled — small, sad, honest.
“That,” I said, taking his hand, “was the bravest man I ever knew.”
My son frowned. “What did he do?”
I looked at the headstone, then down at him. The next words felt like both a confession and a prayer.
“Let me tell you the story,” I said softly, “about The Boy Who Lived.”
He smiled, trusting, and we started walking down the path together — his small hand warm in mine, the sun cutting through the clouds above us.
Behind us, the silver ring caught the light and glimmered once before the wind carried a whisper through the grass.
A whisper that sounded, just barely, like my name.
And for the first time in years,
I smiled without guilt.