The sound of silverware clinking against fine china reverberates through the grand dining hall of Malfoy Manor. The breakfast is extravagant but shared in silence, save for the occasional scrape of a fork or the soft rustle of robes. Draco and Lucius have already departed, their agenda set on gathering allies who can testify against Dumbledore's machinations.

Narcissa's eyes study Harry from across the table, taking in the subtle changes since they began the treatment. His skin, once ashen, now holds a hint of colour, and the dark shadows under his eyes seem to have lightened. She sets her teacup down, the porcelain making a soft clink against the saucer.

"You seem to be getting stronger, Harry," she remarks, her voice a gentle murmur against the quiet that surrounds them. Her words are not just an observation but carry something heavier—hope, determination, perhaps even the echo of a mother's resolve to see this child heal. "The diagnostic spells I plan to use will allow us to better gauge your nutritional needs," Narcissa explains, her gaze steady on Harry's.

Harry gives a small nod, and he watches as she raises her wand, its tip glowing with a soft light that belies the power it holds. She moves it in calculated arcs, casting spell after spell that measures his weight, assesses his vitamin levels, and evaluates his overall health. It's an odd sensation, he thinks, to have someone care about these minute details, especially when they have been overlooked for so long.

"Good." The single word is hushed, almost lost amidst the rustle of silk as Narcissa straightens. A hint of relief softens the lines around her eyes, the last spell revealing what she had hoped: Harry's body is holding onto the weight it sorely needs, a stark contrast from the skeletal form that arrived at the manor weeks prior. "Your vitamin levels are improving as well."

Harry blinks up at her, surprise flickering in his green eyes. He can't remember the last time anyone showed such genuine concern for his wellbeing. "Thank you," he murmurs, though the words feel inadequate for all she's done.

"Now that your body is regaining strength," Narcissa continues, her gaze sharp but not unkind, "we need to address your bones."

A knot forms in Harry's stomach, memories of the excruciating night spent growing back lost bones resurfacing. But Narcissa seems unfazed by his discomfort, outlining her plan with a clinical precision that leaves no room for argument.

"Skele-Gro potion will correct the poorly healed fractures," she explains, "but it is a process that must be done carefully, over the course of a week."

Determination hardens Narcissa's expression, steeling her for the task ahead. This isn't just about healing old wounds—it's about proving that change is possible, even within the coldest of hearts.

"But... it hurts," Harry admits quietly, remembering too clearly the agony of his arm mending itself during his second year at Hogwarts.

"I know, Harry." Narcissa's voice is softer now, threaded with an empathy he wouldn't have expected from her before. "But it will benefit you in the long run."

"Alright," Harry agrees nervously, knowing she hasn't been wrong yet. "What do we do?"

"First, I must vanish the existing bones," she begins, her voice steady, almost soothing despite its clinical detachment. "Though Skele-Gro can mend fractures without this step, your bones have technically healed and attempting to re-break them would likely cause more harm than good."

Her hands move in the air before her, tracing an invisible diagram as she explains the procedure. "It's imperative we ensure nothing remains that might interfere with the regrowth."

"Once that's done, I'll need to secure your limb in the correct position so that the new bones grow properly." She gestures to a set of straps on the side table, their presence suddenly ominous. "This is where the pain will begin, I'm afraid. The Skele-Gro will cause the bones to regenerate rapidly, but it's not a gentle process and, as we will do a leg and an arm at a time, it'll take a good 24 hours, if not longer."

"As for your ribs..." Her gaze flicks to his chest, and there's a momentary tightening around her eyes—a hint of regret, perhaps, or simply acknowledgement of the discomfort to come. "I'll have to immobilise your torso. It's...necessary, but not pleasant."

Her explanation is thorough, detailing each stage of the procedure with utmost precision. There's no room for error in this delicate dance between magic and medicine—the consequences are too dire.

Harry absorbs her words, allowing their reality to sink into him. This isn't just about mending broken bones—it's about rebuilding a body that has been neglected and abused far beyond what any child should endure.

Despite the apprehension coiling tight in his gut, Harry nods, acknowledging not only the necessity of the treatment but also the level of trust required for such an intimate healing process. It's another step away from the life he once knew, marked by neglect and pain, and towards something different—something better, perhaps.

"Alright," Harry agrees, his voice barely audible. His eyes meet Narcissa's, holding a mixture of fear and determination. But beneath those emotions lies an unspoken understanding: they are both committed to this path, regardless of where it may lead. "I need to tell Sirius before we do it, so he doesn't think you're hurting me or anything."

"Of course," she agrees. "We don't need him calling on that mirror of his and finding you in agony."

"Exactly," Harry agrees, chuckling slightly as he retrieves the small mirror from his robe pocket. "Sirius Black," Harry calls into it, and almost immediately, a familiar face appears.

"Harry," Sirius's voice is bright. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Harry replies, managing a small smile despite the nervous fluttering in his chest. "But there's something we need to do that... well, it's going to hurt."

Concern creases Sirius's brow as he leans closer to the mirror, his eyes searching Harry's for answers.

"We're fixing my bones," Harry explains, each word measured and deliberate. "Using Skele-Gro. Narcissa says they healed badly because the Dursleys never took me to hospital or anything."

A low curse escapes Sirius's lips, but he nods in understanding. "That potion... Moony said it's agonising and I know you can't take anything for the pain."

"Yeah." Harry swallows hard, memories of agony still vivid in his mind. "I know. She's going to vanish the bone first, then strap up the arm or leg so it grows back right."

For a moment, all Harry can hear is Sirius's heavy breathing on the other end, punctuating the silence between them as he frowns deeply. "You trust her?" Sirius finally says, but the inflection makes it less of a question and more a statement of disbelief.

"I do," Harry replies, the certainty in his own voice startling him with its intensity. "She hasn't given me a reason not to."

A sigh crackles through the mirror, and Sirius runs a hand through his hair, brow furrowed with concern. "Alright. Just...be careful, yeah? And if you get bored or need distracting, call me on the mirror."

"Will do," Harry promises, slipping the mirror back into his pocket. He turns, finding Narcissa still standing there, her face a mask of decorum that gives nothing away.

Without another word, they make their way to Harry's bedroom, the air thick with anticipation. The room is comfortably warm, lit by a few strategically placed lamps that cast long shadows against the walls.

"I need you to change into shorts and a vest so I can wrap the limbs properly. Can you do that while I locate the potion?" Narcissa instructs. "It can be temperamental with summoning charms."

"Alright," Harry agrees, watching as she moves with purpose, each action measured and precise.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind Narcissa, Harry's fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt. He peels off the layers of fabric clinging to his damp skin, discarding them on the floor before pulling on the soft vest and shorts. They're loose, comfortable, a stark contrast to the constriction of his previous attire.

He perches on the edge of the duvet, the plush material sinking beneath his weight. His hands rest on his knees, knuckles white from gripping too tightly. The room is silent save for the distant echoes of the manor and the thunderous beat of his own heart against his ribs.

The door creaks open again, and Narcissa steps back into the room. Her gaze falls on Harry, taking in his trembling form. The sight seems to confirm what she already knows, and she moves closer, her steps echoing softly in the otherwise silent room.

"Lie down, Harry," she commands, not unkindly, as she approaches the bed where he is seated. "This will be more effective if you're relaxed."

Narcissa takes a seat beside Harry's bed as Harry lies down, her wand at the ready. She begins with his right arm, her movements precise as she traces the contours of his skin where the bone lies beneath. With a muttered incantation, she vanishes the bone, leaving only empty space behind.

Her hands move with a surgeon's precision and a mother's gentleness, wrapping the arm in bandages, one layer upon another until his limb is encased in softness. She works quickly, her eyes never leaving the task at hand, each movement fluid and sure.

"There." She finishes with a final tug, securing the bandage in place. Her wand glows once more, a soft luminescence that dances over the wrapped arm. The spell takes hold instantly, a strange sensation crawling under his skin as though invisible hands are holding his bones together. Harry gasps, not from pain but from the sheer oddity of the feeling. Narcissa steps back, granting him a moment to adjust to the sensation before moving on to his leg.

"Ready?" she asks, though it's clear from her tone that it's not really a question. Without waiting for a response, she repeats the process, her movements now familiar, a dance of healing that brings relief in its wake.

Then she holds out a vial of Skele-Gro. Its contents glow eerily in the dim light, promising both healing and torment in equal measure.

Harry swallows past the lump in his throat, meeting her gaze with steely resolve as he takes the vial in hand. The potion burns like liquid fire as it slides down his throat, searing a path to his stomach. Harry's muscles tense, the pain building in intensity until it's all he can do not to scream. His vision blurs at the edges, darkness threatening to swallow him whole.

"Focus on your breathing," Narcissa instructs from somewhere far away. "In... and out."

Harry obeys, each inhale bringing sharp agony, each exhale a momentary reprieve. He clings to consciousness by sheer force of will, unwilling to surrender to the onslaught of pain.

A single bead of sweat trickles down his forehead, disappearing into the wild tangle of his hair. Beneath the cast, his arm throbs in time with each beat of his heart—a maddening rhythm that drowns out all else. Time loses its meaning, and Harry thinks that minutes stretch into hours, blurring the line between reality and nightmare.

Harry's not sure when Narcissa pulled a blanket over him, drew the curtains, or left him to rest, but he's vaguely aware of her absence. Yet through it all, Harry endures, gritting his teeth against the waves of torment that threaten to pull him under.

A soft click echoes through the room, followed by the creak of a door opening. Footsteps approach, light and measured, pausing at the foot of Harry's bed. A shadow falls across him, blocking out the sliver of moonlight peeking through the curtains.

"Harry?" Draco's voice is low, laced with worry. "How are you holding up?"

Harry's response is a weak grunt, barely audible. But Draco seems to understand, his hand reaching out to brush a damp curl from Harry's forehead. The touch is feather-light, cautious, yet it brings with it a sense of comfort that Harry hadn't realised he'd been craving.

"I brought something," Draco says after a moment, his tone hesitant. "Thought it might help distract you."

There's a rustling sound, then the familiar crackle of turning pages. Draco begins to read aloud, his voice steady despite the occasional stutter. It's a story Harry has never heard, and despite the pain coursing through his veins, Harry finds himself drawn into the narrative, clinging to each word as if it were a lifeline.

Draco's hand remains steady, thumb tracing unseen patterns across the sheen of sweat on Harry's forehead. The touch is cool, almost soothing, and Harry finds himself leaning into it, his body craving the relief it offers.

"There, however," Draco continues, his voice a low murmur against the backdrop of Harry's laboured breathing, "wrapped around the base of the hill, was a monstrous white Worm, bloated and blind."

The words weave a tapestry of escape, pulling Harry further from the confines of his pain-riddled body and into the realm of fantasy. Harry's breaths grow less ragged as he clings to Draco's tale, the pain receding with each image conjured by that silken voice.

Harry's eyes flutter shut again, the pull of sleep now too powerful to resist. Draco senses the change in him, the way his breath evens out and his body goes slack against the pillows.

"Another time then," Draco murmurs, closing the book with a soft thud. He rises from the chair, his movements slow and careful, reluctant to disturb the peace that has settled over Harry.

There's a moment's hesitation before Draco leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to Harry's forehead. It's a tender gesture, one that speaks volumes of the depth of their bond. His lips linger for a heartbeat longer before he pulls away, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Draco lingers by the bed, watching as Harry's chest rises and falls with steady rhythm. His fingers trace an absent pattern on the coverlet, lost in thought. Then, with one last lingering glance at Harry, he turns away, his footsteps quiet against the stone floor as he exits the room.

As he closes the door behind him, he finds Narcissa waiting, her eyes softening at the sight of her son. She stands poised at the threshold of Harry's room, as though ready to take her turn at the vigil.

"Is he...?" she begins, but Draco raises a hand to still her worries.

"He's asleep," Draco murmurs, the corners of his mouth lifting in a semblance of a smile, although it doesn't reach his eyes. "Finally."

Narcissa breathes out, her shoulders sagging with the weight of relief. "I was beginning to think he'd fight it forever." Her gaze flickers over Draco's face, searching for signs of strain. "What finally did it?"

"Just reading," Draco admits, rubbing the back of his neck as if to ward off an approaching ache. "The Fountain of Fair Fortune."

A soft laugh escapes Narcissa's lips, more rueful than amused. "You always loved that one, didn't you?"

Harry stirs, his eyes fluttering open to the dim light of evening filtering through the crack in the curtains. His stomach growls, and he eyes the soup-filled flask that someone has left on his bedside table, allowing him to eat with one hand while keeping his other arm immobile. A note lies next to it, instructing him to call a house-elf when he wakes.

Harry does not move immediately. Instead, he takes stock of his body, gauging the pain level, which is thankfully lower than before. Deciding to eat first, he picks up the flask and tips it back, letting the warm broth trickle down his throat. He sets it aside and instead reaches for the two-way mirror, preferring the comfort of Sirius's voice over the company of house-elves, not wanting to disturb the Malfoys, who are likely having their own dinner.

The mirror stays silent for a moment, too long for Harry's liking, before Sirius's face flickers into view. Relief washes over him in waves, leaving him trembling slightly at its intensity. Harry exhales shakily, his breath misting the cold surface of the mirror.

"Harry?" Sirius's voice is rough, strained with worry that seems to seep through the glass itself. "Merlin's beard, pup; I was beginning to wonder if was worse than you let on, and I think I might've been right."

"I—"

But words fail him, choked off by a wave of emotion. Instead, he allows himself a moment to breathe, to bask in the connection with someone who cares for him unconditionally. It doesn't lessen the throbbing ache in his body, but it offers something else: hope.

"Listen," Sirius says, leaning closer until his eyes fill the mirror. "You're strong, stronger than any fifteen-year-old should have to be, and brave—bloody hell, are you brave. Use that now, okay? I know you're in agony but just hold on. It'll be worth it."

Harry nods, drawing strength from Sirius's words. His godfather has always had a knack for finding light in the darkest corners, for reminding Harry of his own resilience even when all seems lost. Now, with every fibre of his being screaming in protest, Harry clings to that belief like a lifeline.

"How can I help?" Sirius asks, his tone urgent. "What do you need, Harry?"

"Just... talk," Harry manages. "Keep talking."

And so, Sirius does. He tells stories of flying motorbikes and daring rescues, and how James once charmed Remus' hair to turn bright pink—he was aiming for red, but his concentration had been off that day. Sirius speaks of reckless adventures and quiet moments shared under the cloak of night when the world seemed too big, and their youth too small. Through it all, his voice is a steady cadence, a lighthouse guiding Harry back whenever the shadows threaten to claim him fully.

Each word wraps around Harry like a balm, soothing the frayed edges of his consciousness and while they cannot fully hold at bay the encroaching darkness tugging at Harry's awareness, they offer a semblance of respite, an anchor amidst the turmoil.

For now, it is enough.

The door to Harry's room creaks open, and Narcissa steps inside, her gaze immediately falling on the boy in the bed. His face is pale, sweat-slicked hair clinging to his forehead, but his eyes are open, alert.

"Harry," she says, closing the distance between them with a few swift strides. "How do you feel?"

"Painful," he admits, voice barely above a whisper. "But better than earlier."

Narcissa nods, pulling a chair up beside the bed and taking a seat. Her movements are smooth, practiced—the kind that come from years of caring for a sick child. She reaches out, gently lifting Harry's arm to check the bandages wrapped around it.

"The pain means it's working," she tells him, her fingers light against his skin. "Your bones are regrowing properly."

She runs her hand down his right arm first, feeling for any irregularities in the growing bone. The Skele-Gro has been at work for hours now, weaving new bone where before there was only poorly healed scar tissue. It's a slow process, one that tests even Harry's Gryffindor resolve, but necessary if he's ever to be pain-free.

Next, Narcissa moves to inspect Harry's leg, her touch just as gentle, just as sure. Despite the situation, despite everything that has led him here, Harry can't deny the relief that washes over him at her ministrations.

His eyelids flutter closed as he fights back a wave of dizziness, gritting his teeth against the sharp twinge in his leg. But he doesn't protest, doesn't try to pull away from her touch. Instead, he takes a deep breath, willing himself to stay conscious, to endure the discomfort because he knows—he hopes—it will be worth it in the end.

As the hours tick by, Harry loses track of time, caught in a haze of pain and exhaustion. The Skele-Gro does its work, mending bones that have been broken for too long, but the process is far from gentle. Each new growth sends waves of agony rippling through his body, leaving him gasping for breath.

He can feel every pulse, every throb as the magic knits together fractures that should have healed weeks ago. It's a raw, burning sensation that sears through his veins, making his muscles clench and his skin prickle with sweat.

But Harry doesn't scream. He bites down hard on his lower lip, drawing blood, refusing to give voice to the torment coursing through his limbs. This is necessary, he reminds himself over and over, a righting of wrongs inflicted by years of neglect at the Dursleys' hands.

"Almost there," Narcissa murmurs, her cool hand resting lightly on his forehead. "The worst will soon be over."

Harry nods, more of a twitch really, unable to muster the strength for anything more. But his green eyes—clouded with pain yet unyielding—meet hers, and in them, she sees a spark of the resolve that has carried him through countless trials before this one.

"Good," she whispers, brushing away damp strands of hair stuck to his forehead. Her touch lingers for a moment longer than necessary, an almost maternal gesture that belies the tension etched into her elegant features.

And so, they wait. Gradually, the intensity of Harry's pain begins to ebb, replaced by a dull ache that throbs in time with his heartbeat. When Narcissa releases the charm that held his arm still, he dares to shift slightly, testing the limits of his newly mended bones. His right arm now feels solid beneath the layers of bandages, and the relief is immediate, flooding through him like a warm tide.

For the first time in years, Harry lifts his arm without needing to hide the wince, his fingers curling and uncurling with ease. There's a steadiness to his movements, a sureness that wasn't there before. And though the pain hasn't entirely subsided, the improvement is undeniable.

A sigh escapes his lips, not of discomfort but of cautious optimism. Perhaps, just perhaps, this hellish ordeal may indeed lead to something better.

"Better?" Narcissa asks, watching closely as Harry flexes his hand, marvelling at the simple act that had become agonising over the past few days.

"A bit," he admits, swallowing against the dryness in his throat. "It doesn't hurt as much to move."

Her nod is crisp, professional, but there's a glimmer of satisfaction in her icy-blue eyes. "You'll need rest, but the progress is promising."

With each passing minute, the promise of recovery grows stronger, fuelling Harry's determination to see this through, no matter the cost. Because if enduring this means regaining control, reclaiming a part of himself that's been overshadowed by pain and weakness, then he'll face whatever comes next head-on, with all the stubborn resilience of a true Gryffindor.

A day after the pain fully subsides, Narcissa and Harry gather in his room once more.

Narcissa's movements are precise, her eyes focused as she gathers the necessary supplies for the second session of Harry Potter's bone treatment. There's a vial of Skele-Gro potion and rolls of fresh bandages that she sets beside it. Next to these, she places a small flask filled with a steaming concoction.

"Soup," she explains when Harry's gaze lands on it, his stomach growling despite the discomfort coursing through his limbs. "You'll need nourishment afterwards, you didn't eat enough at lunch."

He nods, bracing himself against the cushions propped behind his back. The rich scent of tomato soup wafts towards him, momentarily distracting from the anticipation prickling at his skin. His heart beats a steady rhythm, each thump echoing the silent countdown in his head—closer, closer still—to the moment Narcissa will begin. He is no stranger to pain, but knowing its arrival makes it no less daunting.

"I'm ready," Harry says, though his voice carries an edge of uncertainty.

She offers him a curt nod before turning her attention to his left arm, where a faint scar traces the line of bone beneath his skin. Her wand moves deftly over the area, murmuring an incantation that causes a tingling sensation to spread outward from the point of contact. Then, with a final flick of her wrist, the poorly healed bone disappears.

Narcissa wraps the arm in a bandage, giving it structure before uttering another spell. A familiar stiffness settles in, locking the limb in place just as she did with the other arm two days prior. Then, with a renewed sense of purpose, she moves to his right leg, repeating the process.

"Drink this," Narcissa commands, handing him the flask of Skele-Gro.

The liquid coats his throat like thick syrup, searing all the way down. Harry clenches his teeth against the wave of heat spreading through his body, focusing instead on his breathing and the sound of Narcissa's voice guiding him through the process.

"Good. Now relax your muscles; let the potion do its work."

Harry can only manage a weak nod, exhaustion pulling at his eyelids. But there's also relief, evident in the tension easing from his shoulders and the shallow breaths growing steadier, softer. Narcissa adjusts the pillows behind him, a silent gesture of comfort amid the sterile precision of her ministrations.

"I'll check on you in an hour," she tells him, her figure retreating to the shadows of the room.

And so, Harry lies there, drinking his soup and trying to ignore everything. Pain flares and recedes in time with his heartbeat, but beneath it all simmers a sense of accomplishment.

"Harry," comes a familiar voice, pulling him back from the edge of unconsciousness.

Slowly, he peels open heavy eyelids to find Draco hovering above him, concern etched into every line of his face. His pale fingers brush against Harry's forehead, a soft and unexpected contrast to the harsh reality of their situation.

"You're burning up," Draco murmurs, more to himself than to Harry. He disappears for a moment, returning with a damp cloth that he places on Harry's forehead. The cool fabric is a welcome reprieve from the heat radiating off Harry's skin, drawing a sigh from his lips.

"Better?" Draco asks, though it's clear from his furrowed brow he expects no answer. Instead, he settles beside Harry on the bed, maintaining a respectful distance yet close enough to offer comfort—a silent vigil as day fades into night. Their breaths synchronise in the quiet room, each exhale a testament to the resilience of life amidst chaos and uncertainty.

There are moments, too, when Draco speaks—stories of Hogwarts, anecdotes from his own childhood, even tales from the lives of his parents, and Harry listens, finding solace in the sound of Draco's voice, a steady anchor in the storm. Other times, he simply sits there, offering his presence as balm for wounds unseen.

Draco leans over him now, one hand cradling Harry's cheek, the other holding a spoonful of porridge to his lips. "Eat," he encourages softly, "you need to keep your strength up."

Harry complies, each mouthful a battle won against the weakness claiming his body. And when he's finished, Draco sets the bowl aside only to return moments later with a glass of water which he holds carefully to Harry's lips.

"You're only halfway through," Draco admits, breaking the silence once again, "but you're getting better." There's hope in his words, fragile yet persistent, like a flame dancing against the darkness.

As if to emphasise his point, Draco reaches out, tracing the lines of Harry's face with gentle precision. The touch is light, almost reverent, and Harry leans into it without thinking. His eyes flutter open, meeting Draco's gaze.

He yearns for the closeness, for the brief respite from pain that Draco's presence offers. He wants to taste those lips again, but his body refuses to cooperate, heavy and unresponsive under the weight of exhaustion. "Kiss me," he pleads instead, his voice barely a whisper against the oppressive silence.

Draco doesn't give it a second thought. Time seems to stretch and fold upon itself as he closes the gap between them. Their lips meet, a soft press against Harry's fevered skin, tentative yet charged with an intensity that belies their history. It's a kiss that whispers of salvation in the face of despair, a balm to wounds deeper than flesh and bone.

Harry responds, the motion weak but undeniably present, his fingers curling into the fabric of Draco's shirt. The kiss deepens, a silent plea for more—more warmth, more connection, more life. It's a lifeline amidst the storm, a beacon cutting through the darkness that has claimed them both for far too long.

A small smile tugs at the corner of Draco's mouth as he pulls away, not completely, but enough to allow them both to breathe. The air between them is charged, heavy with the weight of what has just transpired, yet lighter for it all the same.

"Sleep," Draco murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. He reaches out and brushes a lock of hair from Harry's forehead—a small act, but one that speaks volumes. "I'll be here."

Harry lets his eyelids fall shut, the tension in his body gradually easing under the weight of those words. For now, he allows himself the indulgence of rest, comforted by the knowledge that he is not alone.

The world blurs at the edges as Harry surrenders to the pull of unconsciousness. He doesn't know how long he sleeps, but when he finally stirs, it's to find Draco watching him, an unreadable expression on his face and a warmth in the way Draco's fingers curl protectively around his own, a silent vow hanging in the air between them that needs no words.

Later, Harry's fingers tighten around the edges of the enchanted object, its cool surface grounding him amidst the fiery torment wracking his body. The Skele-Gro potion works its magic—bones knitting back together with agonising slowness—but it's Sirius's presence that offers solace while Draco sleeps in his own bed.

"Harry," Sirius greets him, tension easing from his features. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," Harry admits, tracing the edge of the glass. A small smile tugs at his lips—a ghost of his usual grin. "Thanks to you."

"And thanks to Malfoy, if I saw correctly." Sirius's brows arch, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening with intrigue. "I tried reaching out earlier, and he was the one who answered your mirror. Said you were sleeping, and I could tell he wasn't about to leave your side.

"Yeah." Harry hesitates, unsure of how to explain this unexpected turn of events. "He's been... different."

"Different how?" Sirius prompts, watching closely.

Different in the way he looks at me, Harry wants to say. Different in the way he touches me, like I'm something precious. But the words stick in his throat, too new and raw to give voice to.

"Just different," he replies instead, hoping Sirius will understand.

A silence stretches between them, filled with unsaid thoughts and lingering questions. Then, finally, Sirius nods, his gaze softening.

"You trust your instincts, Harry," he advises. "They've saved you more times than I can count."

"But what if my instincts are wrong?" Harry's voice is barely above a whisper, the fear of betrayal lurking just beneath the surface.

"They're not. When I spoke to him, he was..." Sirius hesitates, choosing his words carefully. "Protective, almost possessive. There was a certain intensity in his voice when he spoke of you."

The silence stretches between them for a moment.

"I think Draco Malfoy," Sirius murmurs, more to himself than to Harry, "has found something worth fighting for. And it seems, against all odds, that 'something' might be you."

"We kissed," Harry admits at last, his voice barely audible. "On my birthday, and a few hours ago... he keeps touching me, holding my hand, putting his arm around me. And his parents—they don't seem to mind."

"We're not muggles, Harry," Sirius reminds him. "Same-sex relationships aren't looked down on here like they might be where you grew up. The Malfoys, for all their faults, are traditionalists. They've shown they want you happy, even if it's with Draco, as mad as that would have seemed to us two months ago."

"I know," Harry murmurs. Silence stretches out then, but it's not uncomfortable. Rather, it feels almost soothing, like the quiet after a storm.

"Promise me something, Harry," Sirius whispers, breaking the quiet once more. His image wavers, ghost-like against the backdrop of fading daylight. "Promise me you'll keep fighting for your own happiness. That's what truly matters, no matter what anyone else might say."

Harry's response is barely audible, carried on the barest exhale of breath. "I promise."

The mirror goes dark then, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts and the slow, insistent throb of new bone growing beneath damaged flesh. Despite the pain, determination sparks within him anew—a beacon amid the shadows of uncertainty.

A day later, after rest, food and the longest shower he's ever taken, Harry is ready—or as ready as he'll ever be—for the final step of Narcissa's treatment. The plan is simple enough: Narcissa will paralyse his torso to prevent any involuntary movements, then vanish his fractured ribs entirely, before administering a large dose of Skele-gro to regrow them.

Simple, but not easy. Not for either of them.

Harry lies still on the bed, sweat gathering at the nape of his neck as he waits for the first touch of magic to ignite his bones. His breaths come in shallow gasps, each one sending a tremor through his body that threatens to shatter the fragile calm he clings to.

"This will likely be the most painful part of your treatment," Narcissa warns, not unkindly. "Your ribs are close to vital organs; I must take extra care."

"I understand," Harry manages to whisper. The words scrape against his parched throat, a stark reminder of the trials his body has endured. Yet there is an undercurrent of resolve in his tone—a quiet assertion that he will withstand whatever comes next.

"Ready?" Narcissa's voice cuts through the tension like a silver blade. It holds an edge of concern, belying the stern facade she maintains.

Harry nods, his throat too dry for words. He braces himself against the bed, fingers digging into the crisp sheets as if he could somehow anchor his body against the pain to come. Every nerve is on high alert, each breath drawn shallow and quick in anticipation.

"Very well," she replies, her gaze never leaving Harry's battered form. Her wand moves with meticulous precision, tracing patterns over his chest that seem to shimmer in the dim light.

A cold dread settles in Harry's stomach, heavier than any stone. His heart pounds a frantic rhythm against his ribcage—each beat a countdown to the agony awaiting him. But there is no turning back now. This is necessary; this is survival.

Narcissa takes a deep breath, steadying herself. Her eyes flicker shut for just a moment—an uncharacteristic display of vulnerability quickly masked by renewed determination. When they open again, her eyes meet his, a silent exchange that speaks volumes more than words ever could.

The air grows dense around them, charged with magic so potent it seems almost tangible. Then comes the incantation, spoken low and clear. Pain explodes across Harry's torso, ripping a gasp from his lips. His muscles lock up, paralysed under the spell's influence. Then his ribs vanish, leaving behind a hollow emptiness matched only by the void swallowing his consciousness.

Yet even as darkness edges his vision, Harry clings to awareness. Somewhere beyond the veil of torment, he hears Narcissa's voice once more, steady amidst the chaos.

"Skele-Gro," she commands, uncorking a vial with practised ease. The potion glimmers ominously, casting long shadows that dance across Harry's skin. Its scent—a sickly-sweet blend of burnt sugar and something far less pleasant—fills the room.

Harry's senses reel, overwhelmed by the onslaught of stimuli. He wants to recoil, to escape the searing pain spreading through his core like wildfire. But his body refuses to obey, held captive by the very magic meant to heal him.

His world narrows to the sensation of liquid fire coursing down his throat, igniting every cell in its path. The Skele-Gro takes effect immediately, bones sprouting forth in a relentless surge of new growth. Each inch is a battle fought and won, a testament to his will to survive.

Despite the paralysis binding him, Harry's hands ball into fists beneath the covers. His knuckles turn white with the strain, mirroring the stark pallor of his face. Sweat beads at his hairline, trickling down his temples in rivulets that soak the pillow beneath him.

"Thank you," Harry whispers, his voice hoarse. It's not much—two simple words carrying the weight of gratitude too vast for speech—but it's all he can muster in this moment of reprieve.

Narcissa pauses, her wand hovering mid-air as she casts one last diagnostic spell over Harry's mending body. Her expression remains unreadable, but there's a softening around her eyes that belies her surprise.

"You're welcome, Harry." Her reply is quiet, almost lost amidst the rustle of silk robes as she moves away from the bed. But Harry hears it nonetheless—a small concession wrapped in layers of propriety and restraint.

Two more days crawl by, each hour marked by the throbbing pain that anchors Harry to his bed. He is acutely aware of every twist and turn his body longs to make but cannot, of the very air that seems to press down on him with a weight he's never known. Yet through it all, he is not alone. Draco keeps vigil at his side, reading aloud from books whose stories are a balm to Harry's frazzled nerves. Sirius's voice echoes from the mirror, filling the room with tales of Marauders' pranks that once seemed so far away—now, they are a lifeline to a world beyond the manor walls.

"Remember the time we charmed all of Snape's potions to turn neon pink?" Sirius's voice is rich with laughter, even as it strains with concern.

"I do recall something about that," Remus adds, his image flickering in the mirror beside Sirius's. He offers a small smile, but his eyes betray the worry etched deep within them. "Quite the sight, it was."

And Narcissa—always Narcissa—is there, her presence a constant in the ebb and flow of Harry's consciousness. She moves like a ghost through the room, her hands deft as they check his ribs, her voice a soft lullaby that soothes the edges of his pain.

At long last, the pain begins to ebb. The sensation is slow and reluctant, as if each sliver of agony clings to him before being washed away. Harry's breaths come easier, each one less of a battle than the one before.

"Finite Incantatem."

Narcissa's voice cuts through the fog of relief that has begun to settle over Harry's mind. Her wand moves in a swift, decisive arc, releasing the spell that had held his body rigid. He lets out a sigh, sinking deeper into the plush mattress. His fingers brush against the cool sheets, tracing patterns absentmindedly as his mind races with unspoken thoughts.

"Narcissa," Harry says, willing himself to make his confession. "I don't want to be involved in whatever is coming, not officially."

The admission hangs heavy in the air between them. It's not a denial of what lies ahead, but rather an acceptance of where he stands now, at this crossroads of recovery and uncertainty.

"I understand that Voldemort has chosen a different path... one without bloodshed," Harry continues, his voice firm but cautious. "But this doesn't mean I'm ready to follow him down whatever road he's paving."

Harry turns his head, meeting Narcissa's eyes once more. In their depths, he sees not only understanding but also a flicker of something else—respect, perhaps, or maybe even relief.

"I won't stop trying to reveal the truth about Dumbledore," Harry adds, his voice steady despite the weight of his words. "That man has done enough damage already, and people need to know what he's capable of. But that's where my involvement ends. I won't be anyone's pawn anymore."

Narcissa doesn't respond immediately. Instead, she watches him, her expression unreadable. Yet there's no mistaking the tension that lines her frame, mirroring the intensity of their exchange.

"Good," Narcissa murmurs, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I'm proud of you, Harry." The words hang in the air, heavy with significance. "It's important to stand your ground in matters such as these. I respect your decision, and I will ensure that none force their will upon you."

It's more than an agreement—it's an acknowledgment of Harry's autonomy, a recognition of the boundaries he's set. And while the road ahead remains fraught with uncertainties, there's now a mutual understanding between them, unspoken yet palpable.

"Rest now," Narcissa instructs, rising from her chair. Her silhouette cuts a striking figure against the dim light filtering through the cracks in the curtains. "You'll need your strength for what comes next."

"Thank you, Narcissa," he murmurs, his gratitude genuine despite the lingering uncertainty.

As she exits the room, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts, the significance of their conversation settles over him like a blanket. It's a strange sensation, this newfound sense of agency. But it's also oddly comforting—an assurance that his choices matter.