Sunlight filters through the gauzy curtains, casting dappled patterns across Harry's face. He stirs, eyelids fluttering open to a world unfamiliar yet strangely comforting. The night before, Narcissa had moved him from his previous room—a place of recovery—to one of the bedrooms on the family floor, wanting him closer and under her watchful eye.
The bedroom is spacious, with high ceilings that stretch toward the sky like an elegant cathedral's dome. A four-poster bed dominates the space, its dark wood gleaming in the morning light, while plush carpets muffle any sound beneath bare feet. It's all so different from the cupboard under the stairs—the tiny, cramped space that was more prison than home.
For a moment, he allows himself to appreciate the softness of the mattress beneath him, the crisp coolness of the sheets against his skin, the sense of safety that envelopes him like a cocoon. He has never known luxury like this, never imagined it could be part of his world. But here, in the heart of Malfoy Manor, it's as real as the scars traced across his body—scars that are healing now, thanks to the same people who once stood firmly on the opposite side of a bitter divide.
Harry pushes back the covers, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His bare feet meet the cool stone floor, grounding him in reality. There's a private bathroom attached to the room, stocked with toiletries that smell of sandalwood and rosemary. Hesitant, he steps into the shower, letting the warm water sluice away the remnants of sleep and fear, revealing fresh layers of resolve beneath.
Once dressed in new robes—simple, black, but cut from the finest fabric—he stands before the full-length mirror, taking in his reflection. The robes fit perfectly, as if they were made for him, not just picked off some shop shelf. They're lighter than anything he's worn before, settling around him like a second skin. As he buttons up the front, there's a flicker of something akin to gratitude in his green eyes, quickly chased by wariness. These gifts, this kindness—it's all too sudden, too much.
"Thank you," he whispers to his reflection, running a hand down the front of his robes, smoothing out invisible creases. There's a plan forming in his head, vague but persistent, about how he will pay them back for everything—for the clothes, for the care, for the sanctuary within these ancient walls. But for now, he accepts what is given because turning away their generosity feels like biting the hand that feeds him. And Harry knows better than to do that.
It's still hard to reconcile this reality with the life he'd been living with the Dursleys. Here, in the lair of those once considered enemies, he finds respect painted in broad strokes, kindness offered without expectation of immediate reward. It's a stark contrast to the Dursleys' narrow halls filled with resentment and scorn, where love was a foreign concept, withheld like a precious commodity.
Despite the apprehension gnawing at the edges of his thoughts, there's also a sense of hope unfolding within him. For the first time in his memory, he doesn't feel alone—not entirely—and it strengthens his resolve. If he can navigate this labyrinth of old grudges and newfound alliances, perhaps he'll find a way to stand taller, stronger, unbowed by the weight of the past.
The door to Harry's room swings open with a soft creak, revealing Draco Malfoy in the threshold. He leans against the frame, crossing his arms over his chest as he surveys Harry. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth—a warm, genuine expression that seems out of place on the face Harry is so familiar with.
"Potter," Draco says, pushing away from the doorframe and stepping into the room. "You look... different."
Harry stiffens, fingers halting their dance along the edge of his robes. "Different good or different bad?" His voice is cautious, guarded—more reflex than a conscious decision.
Draco tilts his head, considering. "Different as in not wearing Dudley Dursley's cast-offs, I suppose."
There's no malice in his tone, only a hint of amusement that underlines the drastic shift in their relationship.
"I wanted to remind you," Draco continues, walking towards the window, "that you don't need an invitation to join us for meals. You're not a guest here, Potter. This is your home now, too."
Harry looks down, picking at a loose thread on his new robes. The fabric is smooth and cool under his touch, unlike the rough hand-me-downs he's used to. It's yet another reminder of how much has changed—and how much he still needs to adjust.
"I know," he murmurs, more to himself than Draco. "It's just... hard to remember sometimes."
He doesn't mention the Dursleys or the countless nights spent alone in his cupboard or his room, stomach growling while the family feasted. He doesn't have to; the memories are etched into every line of his thin frame, speaking louder than words ever could.
"Well, try harder," Draco replies, but there's no bite to his words. Instead, he sounds almost understanding—as if he recognises the depth of Harry's struggle and acknowledges its validity.
Harry nods, meeting Draco's gaze with newfound determination. "I will."
They stand there momentarily, silent and reflective, each lost in their thoughts. But the silence isn't awkward—it's comfortable, like the quiet after a storm when the world takes a collective breath and starts to mend what was broken.
"Good," Draco says finally, breaking the silence. He gives Harry one last lingering look before turning on his heel and leaving the room, and Harry follows, knowing it's breakfast time.
"Good morning, Harry," Narcissa greets him as he takes a seat at the breakfast table. Her voice is soft, carrying a warmth that makes his stomach twist with an unfamiliar sensation—perhaps gratitude or even relief. Lucius looks up from his newspaper, his eyes reflecting the same unspoken welcome.
"Morning," Harry replies, his gaze flitting between them before settling on the plate in front of him. It's laden with food, as always, and Harry wonders how much food gets wasted or whether leftovers are placed under a stasis charm to keep it fresh.
Narcissa pours herself a cup of tea, her movements measured and elegant. "Did you sleep well? Is there anything else you need?" The concern in her voice isn't forced; it's almost maternal, which causes a flicker of something akin to longing deep within Harry.
"Um... yes, thank you," he says, surprised by how easily the words slip out. He hesitates for a moment before adding, "My ribs were a bit sore during the night, but I'm used to it."
"Indeed." Narcissa's brow furrows slightly. "If this occurs again, you need to call Wispy to administer a pain potion."
Harry glances towards her, "Another potion?"
"If you're in pain, you need a potion." She pauses, considering her next words carefully. "The potions will help, but they're not a long-term solution. We know your bones have healed badly, but it would be dangerous to break them again while you're still underweight – I believe another week with nutrient potions and full meals would be sufficient, but we'll have to wait and see."
Understanding dawns on Harry's face, followed quickly by a flash of gratitude. No one had ever explained such details to him before, let alone shown genuine concern over his well-being. This unexpected kindness is overwhelming, yet it soothes some of the fear gnawing at the edges of his mind.
"Thank you, Mrs Malfoy," Harry murmurs shyly.
"The high-dose nutrient potions are working, though," Lucius interjects, folding his newspaper neatly and setting it aside. His gaze meets Harry's across the table, steady and reassuring. "You'll gain strength soon enough; we just need patience."
"Lucius and I have been discussing this... situation." Narcissa glances towards her husband, who nods in agreement before continuing, "And we think it would be best if you started to call us by our first names."
The suggestion hangs heavy between them, and its implications are clear: This isn't just about etiquette or formality—it's about familiarity, acceptance, and even trust. It signifies a subtle yet profound shift in their relationship, and Harry can't help but feel disoriented.
"Right," he says after a long pause, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes flicker to Lucius, then back to Narcissa as he struggles to comprehend what she's asking of him. "I—I'll try."
Narcissa smiles faintly at his response. "That's all we ask, Harry."
There's a slight hesitation before Harry speaks again, turning to Lucius. "Then I suppose you should call me Harry as well—not Mr Potter."
It's an important concession that doesn't come easily to Lucius, given their history. But he inclines his head in acknowledgement, recognising the significance of Harry's request. "Very well... Harry."
Draco watches the exchange, his grey eyes wide with surprise—for once, he seems unsure of how to react. He has always known his parents to be formal, especially concerning matters of decorum and respect. To see them now, engaging so openly with Harry is both unsettling and intriguing.
"Why don't you start calling me Draco, too, instead of Malfoy?" The words tumble out before he can stop them, mirroring his parents' sentiment. But there's more at stake here for Draco—his identity, his pride, and perhaps even a shred of friendship that has begun to sprout amidst the ruins of their rivalry.
A silence descends upon the room, thick with anticipation. All eyes are on Harry, waiting for his response. For a moment, he stares at Draco, his expression inscrutable. Then, ever so slightly, he nods.
"All right... Draco," Harry agrees, "Then you need to call me Harry, too."
"Today," Lucius begins to suggest, his voice cutting through the moment, "I thought we might provide you with a more comprehensive understanding of the manor and its history." His gaze sweeps over Harry's face, searching for any sign of resistance. Finding none, he continues, "Draco can guide you around after breakfast."
The suggestion catches both boys off guard. Draco stiffens beside him, his fork poised mid-air as he turns to look at his father in surprise. But Lucius' expression remains impassive, giving away nothing of his thoughts.
"Me?" Draco sputters, recovering from his initial shock. "Why me?"
"Because," Lucius replies smoothly, "it is an opportunity for you to understand each other better outside the classroom. And there are aspects of our world that only someone your age can explain adequately."
Harry watches the exchange unfold, feeling a strange sense of anticipation. He's had glimpses of the grandeur and mystery that Malfoy Manor holds. Still, the idea of exploring it further—of uncovering layers of history hidden within its walls—is strangely intriguing.
Lucius pauses, letting his words sink in before continuing, "After lunch, I suggest a training session. Your magical education must not be neglected, especially given the circumstances, and you've done all the research you can do about Dumbledore."
Training. The word hangs in the air like a challenge. Despite everything, a spark of excitement flickers within Harry; he has always loved learning about magic, even if it was often marred by the Dursleys' disdain or overshadowed by Voldemort's looming threat.
"Your abilities are impressive," Lucius admits, his eyes meeting Harry's across the table, "but they can be honed, improved. With proper guidance, you could become an even more formidable wizard."
There's no denying the truth in Lucius's words. Harry knows he's far from mastering his powers, and the prospect of enhancing them is compelling—even if it means accepting help from unexpected sources.
His mind whirls with possibilities as he pushes aside his plate, appetite forgotten. Excitement battles with trepidation inside him, leaving a knot of uncertainty in his stomach. Can he truly trust these people who were once his enemies? Yet, every gesture so far points towards sincerity, towards a chance for something different.
"Come on, then," Draco says, pushing back his chair and rising to his feet. His tone is gruff, attempting to mask the uneasiness in his gut. This isn't how things are supposed to be—guiding Harry around his home like some Muggle tour guide. But orders are orders, especially when they come from his father.
Harry stands slowly, eyeing Draco with cautious curiosity. Despite their shared history, there's something almost normal about this moment. The tension between them feels slightly less charged, replaced by a sense of reluctant camaraderie born out of necessity rather than choice.
They exit the dining room, Harry following close behind as Draco leads him through a maze of opulent hallways. The manor stretches out before them like a living museum, its grandeur testifying to centuries of pureblood supremacy. Portraits of stern-faced ancestors line the walls, their eyes tracking Harry's movement with thinly veiled interest.
Draco pauses at one such painting—a severe-looking woman draped in emerald robes—and gestures towards it. "That's my great-great-grandmother, Adelina Malfoy. She was said to have extraordinary prowess in Occlumency."
As they continue their tour, Draco shares tidbits about each artefact they encounter—the ancient tapestries woven with threads of enchantment, the suits of armour bewitched for protection. Each item holds a story interwoven with the Malfoys' rise to power and prestige within the wizarding world.
In return, Harry listens, absorbing the information without comment. There's a strange fascination in learning about these unfamiliar facets of magic, deeply rooted in tradition and heritage. It's worlds away from the humble cupboards and hand-me-down textbooks he's used to, yet undeniably intriguing.
And then there are the secrets—the hidden rooms and concealed passages known only to household members. Draco shows Harry a door disguised as a bookshelf, leading to a small study filled with rare potion ingredients. Another tap of his wand reveals a narrow staircase spiralling down into darkness, which Draco explains is a shortcut to the wine cellar.
"Mostly, Father uses it," he adds quickly, as if eager to distance himself from any hint of impropriety. They fall into silence as Draco turns down another corridor, leading them towards a set of double doors.
"Here." Draco's voice breaks the silence as they step into the open air. The courtyard of Malfoy Manor unfolds before them, a sanctuary of tranquillity amidst the grandeur. Flowers in full bloom sway gently in the breeze, their fragrance mingling with the earthy scent of well-tended hedges.
Harry follows Draco towards a stone bench nestled under a towering willow tree. Its branches hang low, providing shade from the warm sun while allowing dapples of light to dance across the ground.
They sit side by side, yet worlds apart—a boy who grew up knowing every inch of this manor and another for whom such opulence is alien. For all his fame and trials, Harry can't help but feel out of place among these ancient stones that whisper stories of pureblood pride.
Yet, there's something unexpectedly calming about the garden. The rustle of leaves against stone, the soft hum of bees flitting between blossoms—it offers a stark contrast to the tension within the manor's walls. It seems time slows here, allowing space for thoughts to unfurl like the petals around them.
Draco leans back, arms resting on the bench, gaze fixed on a cluster of roses nearby. "Mother loves these gardens," he begins, his tone softer than usual, carrying a note of reverence. "She says they're the heart of our home."
Curiosity piques inside Harry at this glimpse into the life beyond Draco's bold exterior. He turns slightly, studying the blonde boy beside him. "Why's that?"
"The plants here... some are magical, rare. Generations of Malfoys have nurtured them," Draco explains, tracing an invisible pattern on the stone beneath his fingers. "Each one has its history, its use in potions or spells."
A hint of pride laces his voice, not the arrogant posturing Harry knows from school, but something genuine, almost fond. It's a small thread, barely noticeable, yet it tugs at the edges of Harry's understanding, urging him to unravel more. But then, he changes the subject.
"Growing up, I admired my father," Draco admits, his gaze now distant, as if the past is unfolding before him. "Everything he did exuded power and confidence. It's... it's what I thought I wanted."
The words hang in the air, a testament to the vulnerability Harry wouldn't have expected from Draco Malfoy mere weeks ago. But here, amidst the tranquillity of the garden, barriers seem less formidable—like ancient stones worn smooth by time and weather.
"But then," Draco's voice drops lower, carrying a weight that belies his age, "I went to Hogwarts."
Harry remains silent, sensing the importance of this confession. The pieces are beginning to align, forming an image of Draco he'd never considered—one shaped not just by arrogance but also by expectation, pressure, and perhaps even doubt.
"I saw anomalies—people who contradicted the narrative my father had painted." Draco's fingers tighten around the edge of the bench, knuckles whitening.
"Granger, for one. She comes from a world totally alien to us, yet excels in magic to a degree that many pure-bloods cannot achieve. Sure, she could do with a more rounded education on our culture, but that's another failure of Hogwarts, nothing to do with her. And then there's you—" He pauses, throat working as he swallows. "Until recently, I wasn't even aware that you were raised by Muggles, completely ignorant of our world until Hagrid found you, but regardless, you've consistently bested me in Defence Against the Dark Arts."
Tension creeps into Draco's shoulders, mirroring the conflict etched on his face. His silver-grey eyes flicker with uncertainty—a far cry from their usual icy resolve.
"It makes me wonder... could Father have been mistaken about the inherent inferiority of Muggle-borns?" Draco shakes his head, more to clear it than in denial of the thought. "It wouldn't be the first time I've seen evidence against his claims. Granger has always been a thorn in my side, but your existence is an even greater anomaly. After all, your mother was a Muggle-born witch, and by all accounts, she was highly skilled in charms and potions."
Draco's words hang in the air, and he doesn't notice Harry's sharp intake of breath across the table—he hadn't known his mother was particularly proficient at charms or potions. How did Draco even find out? "I still believe Muggles are dangerous - history confirms this much - but I can no longer call Muggle-borns inferior with certainty."
Silence descends again, leaving only the soft rustle of leaves and the distant cawing of birds to fill the void. Harry's mind races, parsing through Draco's admission. It's a divergence from everything he's known about the boy beside him, and yet, there's a sincerity in Draco's tone that makes it impossible to dismiss outright.
"There are good and bad people everywhere," Harry says, the weight of his words sinking into the space between them. "Both in the Muggle and wizarding worlds."
He leans back on the bench, staring up at the sliver of sky visible through the overhanging branches. The leaves rustle softly, whispering secrets to those patient enough to listen. For a moment, he allows himself to get lost in the sound, letting it wash over him like a soothing balm.
"And there's more to Muggles than most wizards think." His voice is barely above a murmur now, the confession slipping out almost against his will. "They can be... dangerous."
Draco turns to look at him, an eyebrow raised in silent question. There's no mockery in his gaze, only curiosity—a hunger for understanding that mirrors Harry's own.
"CCTV cameras." Harry continues, meeting Draco's eyes. "They're everywhere in London. Any unusual activity gets recorded. If they ever caught magic, they'd probably declare war."
The blonde boy's eyes widen slightly, a flash of concern fleeting across his features before his customary mask settles back into place.
"I hadn't considered that," Draco admits, his tone measured but thoughtful. "It seems we have much to learn from each other."
Harry nods, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Despite their history, despite everything that should make this moment impossible, here they are—two boys on the cusp of understanding, teetering on the edge of something new and uncharted.
"It's not just surveillance," Harry adds after a pause, his expression darkening slightly. "Muggles have weapons too. Guns. They're... efficient. Brutal."
"If you compare them to the Killing Curse—" Draco starts, but Harry cuts him off with a shake of his head.
"No need for incantations or wands. Just pull a trigger, and it's done. Or you miss and put them in awful pain." Harry's fingers curl around the edge of the bench, knuckles whitening as he speaks. It's not a reality he likes to dwell on, but it's one he knows all too well—the potential for violence lurking in every shadow, every angry shout echoing from the Dursleys' living room.
A silence stretches between them, filled with the hum of bees and the distant cooing of birds. It's a stillness that invites reflection, a quiet acknowledgment of truths too long ignored.
"We need services," Harry muses aloud, almost to himself. "To check on magical kids living with Muggles. Make sure they're treated right."
He doesn't glance at Draco, but he feels the shift beside him—the slight stiffening of posture, the quick intake of breath. It's a suggestion that straddles both their worlds, hinting at the possibility of change, of bridges yet to be built.
"Indeed," Draco echoes. He pauses, a frown creasing his forehead as he considers the implications. "The Ministry should have intervened earlier."
Another silence settles between them, not uncomfortable but filled with the weight of unspoken thoughts and questions yet to be asked. Harry senses it—the subtle shift in their dynamic. They're no longer just enemies forced into an uneasy truce; they're two people trying to understand each other's worlds.
"I have been meaning to ask," Draco says after a moment, his voice cutting through the quiet like a silver blade, "where do you stand in all this? Truly. I won't tell, if you're worried."
"For too long, I've been stuck between Dumbledore and Voldemort, used by both sides," Harry admits, his gaze fixed on the cobblestones at his feet. Pain laces his words—a testament to years of manipulation and betrayal.
"And now?" Draco prompts, watching him closely.
"Now..." Harry trails off, searching for the right words. His hands clench and unclench on his lap, the only outward sign of the turmoil within. "Part of me wants to step back from it all—to walk away and never look back."
He doesn't miss the flicker of surprise that crosses Draco's face, quickly replaced by a guarded curiosity. It's a sentiment rarely voiced among wizards, especially those born and bred into the endless cycle of conflict and power struggles.
"But the rest of me knows I can't—not completely." Harry's green eyes meet Draco's grey ones, holding a determination that belies his previous confession. "Not when there are things I still need to set right."
"Like bringing down Dumbledore?" Draco ventures, leaning forward slightly, drawn in despite himself.
"That... and making sure Voldemort and his Death Eaters don't harm anyone else." The words hang heavy in the air, a statement of intent that leaves no room for doubt. Harry Potter may wish for distance, but he's far from turning his back on the fight.
Draco's expression hardens, a familiar defensiveness creeping into his features. But before he can retort, Harry raises a hand, forestalling any protest.
"I'm not saying all Death Eaters are evil or that everyone who follows Voldemort is wrong," Harry clarifies, his tone steady. "But there are lines that shouldn't be crossed—lines that have been crossed, time and time again. Fine, Voldemort doesn't want to kill me, but I'm uncertain whether that'll extend to others."
"I appreciate your willingness to see the complexity of our situation," Draco says, "It's easier for most to view it in black and white."
"Nothing about this is easy," Harry murmurs, his gaze drifting back to the Manor—a fortress that once symbolised all he despised but now stands as a testament to the murky greys of their world.
"You're right." The admission hangs in the air between them, heavy with unspoken understanding. "And I'm sorry you have to make these decisions at such a young age."
Harry huffs out a laugh, lacking any real humour. "I'll be fifteen next week, thank you very much."
A ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of Draco's mouth, even as he rolls his eyes. "Ah yes, nearly an elder statesman, then."
"You're still older than I am," Harry teases, his eyes lighting up.
"I like this side of you, Harry," Draco admits, standing up from the bench. He brushes off his trousers before offering a hand to Harry. "You should let it out more often."
Harry takes the offered hand and rises from the bench, surprised by the warmth spreading through him despite the chill of the stone beneath his feet. "I'll try," he promises once more, already feeling the weight of the summer lifting ever so slightly.
They head back into the manor, the grand doors closing behind them with a soft thud. Inside, the house elves scurry around, preparing lunch under Narcissa Malfoy's watchful eye, and Draco pauses at the entrance to the dining room, turning to face Harry. His expression is unreadable, yet there's a lightness to his posture that wasn't there before—the result, perhaps, of walls beginning to crumble.