Under Crete Lies a Labyrinth

by Saladita12

Five years after the war, Grimmauld Place lies in ruins, its magic unpredictable and restless. Yet Harry refuses to let it go—it's the last piece of Sirius he has left. Desperate to restore order to the chaotic house, he turns to the one person who might be able to help: Draco Malfoy, who the house recognises as the Black heir. Big mistake.

17. Chapter 16: I Can See Clearly Now

The day started like many others had over the past few weeks: a flurry of activity and the lingering scent of freshly brewed tea wafting through the air. Grimmauld Place had seen a transformation, its desolate gloom being replaced by warmth and life, and yet there was still so much work to be done. Harry and Draco had divided the tasks that morning, with Harry taking the library and Draco tackling the parlour. The library was a disaster—centuries of dust clinging to bookshelves filled with cursed tomes and ominously glowing artefacts galore. Harry found himself constantly muttering spells under his breath to clean the more stubborn grime, occasionally shooting glares at the enchanted books that refused to cooperate. For example, he had not been happy to find out where his Monster Book of Monsters had been hiding for a decade. His hand still hurt from that particular chomp.

Draco, on the other hand, was in the parlour, grumbling loudly about the abominable taste of his own family—"Honestly, who puts serpents on everything? This is gaudy!"—as he transfigured hideous apple green curtains into elegant cobalt ones. His voice carried through the house, mingling with the faint hum of magic that had grown more noticeable as the renovations progressed. The house seemed to react to their efforts, as if it were waking up, stretching its creaky limbs and embracing the changes with a grudging sort of acceptance.

By midday, Harry was thoroughly sick of the library. He emerged into the hallway covered in dust and sporting an irritated expression. His blonde appeared moments later, looking far too put-together for someone who had spent the morning battling more than one enchanted portrait that refused to leave its frame. His hair was pristine, his robes immaculate, and Harry couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy—how did he manage it? It quickly went away when he noticed that Draco had done away with his shoes and socks and now stood barefoot, his long, thin feet naked for the world to see.

Harry gulped at the sight, feeling ridiculous for the sudden burst of attraction.

Right.

"Lunch?" Harry asked, running a hand through his hair and only succeeding in making it stick up even more.

Draco arched an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping over Harry's dishevelled state. "Merlin, Potter, you look like you've been wrestling a troll. In mud."

"Thanks for that," Harry said dryly. "Are you coming or not?"

Draco sighed dramatically but followed him to the kitchen, where Kreacher had already laid out a modest spread of roast sandwiches and caldo de pollo, per Harry's request. They ate in companionable silence at first, the clinking of spoons and the crackling of the fire filling the room. But then Draco's eyes flicked to Harry, a glimmer of mischief lighting up his expression.

"You know," he said, leaning back in his chair, "I think you've spent more time covered in filth than not since we started this whole endeavour. It's almost impressive."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Not all of us have a knack for staying pristine while dealing with cursed objects."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong. It's not a knack, Potter, it's a skill."

"Right," Harry said, fighting back a grin. "And is that a skill you learned at Malfoy Manor? How to avoid breaking a sweat while looking down your nose at everyone else?"

Draco's lips twitched, and for a moment, Harry thought he might actually laugh. Instead, he said, "You'd be surprised how useful that skill is. Especially when dealing with people like you."

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. There was something easy about their banter these days, a sharp contrast to the animosity that had defined their school years and even their first incursion together into Grimmauld Place. It was almost unsettling how natural it felt, like slipping into a pair of well-worn shoes.

After lunch, they returned to their respective tasks. Harry was determined to finish the library by the end of the day, but as the hours wore on, he found himself growing increasingly distracted. His thoughts kept drifting to Draco—the way his eyes lit up when he talked about his plans for the house, the curve of his smile when he thought Harry wasn't looking.

It was maddening. And yet, he couldn't seem to stop.

By late afternoon, Harry had abandoned the library in favour of the kitchen once more, where he'd decided to sort through an old cabinet filled with mismatched crockery. Draco joined him not long after, claiming he needed a break from 'Black family monstrosities.' They worked side by side in relative silence, the only sounds being the clatter of dishes and the occasional muttered spell. But the quiet was charged with an unspoken tension, a weight that neither of them seemed willing to acknowledge.

At some point, Harry's hand brushed against Draco's as they reached for the same plate. The contact was brief, fleeting, but it sent a jolt through him that left his heart pounding. He glanced at Draco, who was staring at the plate as if it held the secrets of the universe.

"Sorry," Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Draco's eyes flicked to him, and for a moment, they simply looked at each other. The air between them seemed to thrum with energy, as if the house itself were holding its breath in anticipation. And knowing Grimmauld, it was. Harry felt his cheeks heat under Draco's gaze, and he quickly looked away, focusing intently on the stack of plates in front of him.

"It's fine," Draco said, his voice softer than usual. He hesitated, then added, "You are… really bad at this, you know."

Harry blinked, turning back to him. "Bad at what?"

"Pretending you're not…" Draco trailed off, his cheeks tinged with pink. "Never mind."

"Pretending I'm not what?" Harry pressed, his heart hammering in his chest.

Draco shook his head, a small smile playing at his lips. "Forget I said anything."

Before Harry could respond, a loud creak echoed through the room, followed by a faint shimmer of magic that seemed to ripple through the walls. Both of them froze, their eyes darting around the kitchen.

"What the…?" Harry began, but he didn't get a chance to finish. The shimmer intensified, and then, as quickly as it had come, it faded, leaving the room feeling oddly… lighter.

Draco frowned, glancing at Harry. "Did you feel that?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah. What do you think it was?"

"I have no idea," Draco said, his brow furrowed. He looked around the kitchen, his gaze landing on the walls, the ceiling, the floor. A cabinet opened and closed once, as if in greeting, making Draco's eyebrows shoot up into his fringe. "It's almost as if…" He trailed off, his eyes widening slightly.

"As if what?" Harry prompted.

"As if the house is recognising us," Draco said, his voice tinged with wonder. "Both of us, as its masters."

Harry stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in. The house had been temperamental even after their whole destroying its nexus by fighting a tar monster thing, responding to the emotions and intentions of the two of them if something particularly emotional happened. Just a couple of days ago, the house had drawn little hearts in steam when they had been shagging in the shower. It had been nothing short of mortifying. But this… this felt different. It felt like acceptance, like the house had finally acknowledged their presence, not as two individuals but as something more.

"That's… good, right?" Harry said, though his voice wavered slightly.

Draco nodded slowly. "I think so."

They stood there for a moment, the silence between them filled with unspoken thoughts. Harry's heart was racing, his mind a whirlwind of emotions. He didn't know what to make of any of it—the house, the magic, the way Draco was looking at him now, his silver eyes filled with something Harry couldn't quite name. It made his hands tremble in tandem with the beat of his racing heart.

"Harry," Draco said suddenly, breaking the silence. He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor before meeting Harry's again. "Would you… would you be my partner?"

Harry's breath caught. "Partner?"

Draco's cheeks flushed, but he held Harry's gaze. "You know. My boyfriend."

For a moment, Harry was too stunned to speak. But then he smiled, a soft, genuine smile that lit up his face. "I thought I already was?"

Draco's eyes widened slightly, his cheeks reddening even more. For a second there, he looked deeply embarrassed. But then, he laughed, a warm, rich sound that filled the room, before kissing a grinning Harry squarely on the mouth.

..

The quiet of Grimmauld Place at night held an entirely different kind of magic. By day, the house was a cacophony of renovations, scraping and scrubbing mingling with laughter and the occasional argument about what shade of paint best complemented an antique mirror or the kind of take-out they'd order for lunch. But at night, it was as though the house exhaled, sinking into a tranquil silence that enveloped its occupants like a blanket.

Draco's breathing was soft, steady, and rhythmic beside him, the faint rise and fall of his chest visible in the moonlight that slipped through the slightly ajar curtains. The bed they shared—Harry's bed, though he couldn't remember the last time it had felt solely his instead of theirs—was just big enough for the two of them to fit without too much bumping or jostling. There had been a few complaints at first, namely from his spoiled boyfriend. Something about lumpy mattresses and 'Godric-awful bedding,' as Draco had put it, complete with a glare that seemed utterly at odds with the soft, lacy pyjamas he wore—a long, silk night-gown that moved with him and made Harry want to do very naughty things to the blonde. But now, after too many nights subjecting himself to Harry's inadequate bed, Draco seemed to sleep better here than he did at Cliffside. Which was saying something, as Draco Malfoy's bed at Cliffside Manor was a veritable throne—king-sized, decadent, and upholstered in fabrics Harry didn't even know the names of. Still, that hadn't stopped Draco from spending every available night at Grimmauld Place since the tentative confirmation of their relationship. Even when he had work the next morning and despite having reminded Harry at least a dozen times that Apparating straight from his bedside at the crack of dawn was not his idea of a 'proper morning routine.'

Still, he stayed.

Something about it—about him—made Harry's chest ache in the best possible way. He'd catch himself smiling at the simplest things: the sound of Draco humming tunelessly while fixing himself a cup of overtly-sweet coffee; the way he tossed his scarf onto the sofa in the exact same way every evening as though claiming the room for himself; or the quiet snores Draco swore blind he didn't make.

It wasn't all idyllic domestic bliss, of course. Draco's insistence on properly categorising Harry's tea collection by 'palatability and quality' had led to a minor row when Harry discovered all his favourite cheap blends shoved to the back of the cupboard in favour of Draco's expensive imports—and again, where did the Malfoys get the money for that? He was beginning to think that Narcissa Malfoy had kept some accounts under her maiden name and they weren't as destitute as they'd led the public to believe. Then Harry, in turn, had accidentally shoved Draco's best robes to a deep corner of the wardrobe while attempting to tidy the bedroom, making them wrinkle. That had earned him a proper scolding from his boyfriend. And, to this day, he still didn't know when in the name of Merlin did Draco's wardrobe migrated all the way from Northumberland.

But those spats were quick to pass, dissolving into teasing remarks and laughter before either could hold on to any real annoyance.

However, even with their newfound closeness, Harry, protective as ever of his privacy, had been wary of venturing into wixen spaces with Draco by his side. It wasn't that he was ashamed of the blonde and their relationship—Merlin knew he wasn't—but the idea of dealing with prying eyes, whispers, and whatever the Prophet might concoct about them made his skin crawl. So instead, they'd started going out together to Muggle spaces.

The first date—and their official first date, too—had been tentative, a quiet coffee shop tucked away in a cobbled side street in Islington. Draco had made a show of ordering something entirely too complicated, complete with a raised eyebrow when Harry asked for 'just a tea, thanks.' But Harry had noticed the way Draco's shoulders had relaxed, the way he seemed to soften in a space where no one recognised them or cared who they were. At least, beyond a couple of stares if they acted too chummy for muggle sensitivities. They had talked for hours, snuggled away on their booth, the November rain serving as the background music to their romance.

It had been… nice.

After that, their outings became more frequent. Sunday mornings were spent wandering through markets and antique stores to look for pieces for the house, with Draco poking at random trinkets and making snide comments about Harry's apparent inability to haggle. There had even been a particularly memorable evening when they'd ended up in a muggle cinema, Draco's eyes widening in fascination at the sheer size of the screen. Harry had tried not to laugh when Draco whispered, "They really don't use magic for this? How terribly inefficient."

He had demanded to go back again a couple days later, insisting on seeing Treasure Planet again, despite Harry wanting to see the newest James Bond film. Harry had an inkling that Draco had a crush on Jim Hawkins, but his boyfriend insisted he just liked it because Morph reminded him of Harry.

It was cute either way.

Understandably so, though, those little outings had brought them closer, deepening the connection between them in ways Harry hadn't entirely expected. Draco, for all his dramatics, quirks and sarcasm, had a quiet thoughtfulness about him that shone through when Harry least expected it. And Harry, in turn, found himself letting go, relaxing in ways he hadn't thought possible.

One evening, after a long day at work for Draco and a day spent wrestling with more of the cursed objects at Grimmauld Place for Harry, they found themselves tucked away in a cosy little muggle pub. The place was small and warm, with dark wooden beams and flickering candles that gave it a distinctly magical feel, despite the absence of actual magic. Draco had insisted on ordering their drinks—some kind of mead that Harry had never heard of but decided he quite liked after a couple of sips. They sat in a corner booth, the hum of quiet conversation around them offering a strange kind of anonymity that Harry had never experienced in wizarding spaces.

"This is… nice," Draco said after a while, his voice soft. He was staring into his drink, fingers tracing idle patterns along the glass.

Harry leaned back against the booth, a small smile tugging at his lips. "It is."

Draco glanced at him, his expression unreadable. "You don't miss it? Our world, I mean."

"I do," Harry admitted. "But not the way it—not the way people… look at me."

At us, he supplemented in his head.

Draco's lips twitched into a small smile. "I suppose you make quite the scandal, wherever you go, don't you, oh Chosen One?"

"Stop it, you," Harry chided, his tone light and happy. But there was something in Draco's gaze that made his heart skip a beat, something flitting but earnest that seemed to wrap around him like a hug.

It passed before he could analyse it further.

..

The change was subtle at first.

Like a shift in the wind, barely noticeable until it carried the scent of rain. Draco began to suggest outings that edged closer and closer to the edges of their world, the ones where the wixen community brushed shoulders with muggle society. A small café near Diagon Alley that served Muggle-inspired lattes. A bookshop next the Leaky Cauldron that carried rare editions of muggle literature alongside restricted wixen texts on the side. It wasn't a direct push, but the suggestions lingered in the air, undeniable, a quiet nudge towards familiarity.

Each time, Harry found himself fumbling for an excuse, his tongue tripping over words that didn't feel right. He wasn't proud of it—he never lied outright, but there was a twist to his words that left them leaning precariously close to dishonesty. Ron or Hermione, a prior engagement, some vague excuse about needing to stay away from the wixen world's chaos. It wasn't untrue, exactly, but it wasn't the truth either. And each time, Draco would brush it off with a breezy wave of his hand and a quick pivot to another idea—a muggle park, a gallery, a quiet restaurant in Soho—but Harry could see it in his eyes. The flicker of disappointment, the shadow of something unspoken, like a storm building at the horizon.

It weighed on him, heavy and silent. Every sidestep felt like a rejection, not because he didn't want to spend time with Draco—he did, more than anything—but because he couldn't bring himself to admit the truth to him. He didn't want to ruin the fragile happiness they'd built with the weight of his fears, didn't want to voice the worry that the wixen world might not yet be ready for it.

For Draco.

For the two of them, together.

..

It, of course, came to a head one evening after dinner, the tension snapping like a taut string finally breaking. They had stayed in again, despite Draco's tentative suggestion of visiting a small wixen bar with a live band just off Diagon Alley that had recently reopened. It was owned by Justin Finch-Fletchley now, Draco had said, hopeful. But Harry had mumbled something about an early morning and wanting to get that one bathroom done, and Draco had let it drop, his lips curving into a tight smile that didn't reach his mercurial eyes.

The rest of the evening passed quietly enough—Harry reading one of Sirius's old muggle books, Draco fiddling with some paperwork about a charity Hermione wanted Harry to look into—but the atmosphere felt off, charged with something unsaid. It wasn't until they were getting ready for bed that the silence finally broke.

"Am I embarrassing to you, then?"

The question stopped Harry in his tracks, halfway through pulling off his jumper, eyes glued to his book. He turned to see Draco sitting by the window, arms crossed in from of him like a shield, his face carefully blank in a way that only made the vulnerability in his voice all the more jarring.

"What?" Harry asked, his heart sinking.

Draco's gaze didn't waver. "I'm not a complete idiot, you know. Every time I suggest we go somewhere—anywhere remotely tied to the wixen world—you find a reason to say no. It's always 'another time' or 'maybe next week,'" his lips pressed into a thin line. "I get it, Harry. I do. I'm not exactly the most popular person in our world, am I? So if you don't want to be seen with me, just say it."

"That's not fair," Harry said quickly, his voice sharper than he intended. "That's not what this is about."

"Then what is it about?" Draco's voice rose, frustration bleeding through his carefully constructed mask. "Because from where I'm standing, it feels like you're ashamed of being seen with me. Again. That you'd rather keep me hidden away in Muggle pubs and parks than risk anyone in our world knowing you're… involved with someone like me."

"That's not it," Harry said, softer this time, stepping closer. He could see the hurt in Draco's eyes now, clear as that in the way his eyes looked like molten silver, the way his walls were crumbling despite his best efforts to hold them up. "Babe, that's not it at all."

"Then what?" Draco asked, his voice breaking slightly on the word, eyes becomin teary. "Just tell me, Harry. Because I'm trying. I'm trying to meet you halfway, but I don't know what I'm doing wrong."

"Hey, no, I—You're not doing anything wrong," Harry said, reaching for him instinctively. He took Draco's hands in his, unravelling his arms and squeezing them gently. "I'm the one who's bollocksed this up. I just—" He took a deep breath, his chest tightening. He looked away, dreading whatever he was about to see in Draco's eyes. "I didn't want to say anything because I didn't want you to think it was about you. Because it's not. It's about them. The public. The papers. You know what they're like, Draco. They're not going to be kind."

Draco blinked, his brow furrowing. "What are you talking about?"

"They'll tear you apart," Harry said quietly, his hands tightening around Draco's. "Not just because of your past, but because of me. Because I'm Harry Bloody Potter, and every move I make is apparently their business. And if they find out about us, they won't just come after me. They did it with Ginny, they'll do it to you. And I can't—" His voice cracked slightly, and he swallowed hard, looking away. "I can't let them hurt you like that."

For a moment, Draco said nothing, his gaze fixed on Harry as if searching for something. A lie, maybe, and Harry understood why he was searching for it, too. Their relationship had started with Harry being scared of them, after all.

Then, with a small sigh, he reached up to cup Harry's face, his thumb brushing gently over his tawny cheek.

"You daft git," he murmured, his tone somewhere between exasperation and fondness. "Do you really think I give a toss what the papers say about me? Or what anyone else thinks, for that matter?"

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Draco shook his head, silencing him.

"I've had people whispering behind my back since I was born," Draco continued, his voice steady but soft. "I've had the Prophet printing lies about me since before I could read. The perks of being my father's son. And yes, it's unpleasant. It's awful. But it's not the end of the world, Harry. And it's certainly not enough to make me walk away from… this. From us."

Harry's breath hitched, his throat tightening. "I just… I don't want you to get hurt, you don't know what they're like when it comes to me."

"And I appreciate that," Draco said, his gaze softening. "But you don't get to make that decision for me. I'm a grown man, Harry. I can handle a few nasty headlines and some dirty looks."

Harry closed his eyes, exhaling shakily. "I just wanted to protect you."

"I know, you idiot," Draco said gently. "But you don't have to do it alone. We're in this together, aren't we? We protect each other."

The words settled between them, warm and steady, and for the first time in weeks, Harry felt the knot in his chest begin to loosen. He opened his eyes, meeting Draco's gaze, and nodded.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "We are."

Draco's lips curved into a small smile, and he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Harry's forehead. "Good. Now, let's get some sleep. You're rubbish at lying, by the way. We'll work on that."

Harry laughed softly, the sound breaking the last of the tension between them. As they climbed into bed, Draco curled up against him, warm and solid and real, and Harry felt something he hadn't felt in a long time.

Too tired to name it, he closed his eyes and kissed Draco's hair.

..

The Daily Prophet

30th November 2002

"The Boy Who Lived and the Boy Who Murdered! The Truth Comes Out."

A Front Page Exclusive by Faustina Streakier

Wizards, Witches and Wix of the United Kingdom, in a turn of events no one could have anticipated – and many would rather not believe – Harry James Potter, the Chosen One, the vanquisher of the Dark Lord and Saviour of the Wixen World at large, has been spotted publicly, and repeatedly, with none other than Draco Malfoy. Yes, you read that correctly: Draco Malfoy. The scion of one of the darkest wizarding families in our history, infamous for his sneering demeanour, unsavoury connections, and morally repugnant deeds during the Second Wixen War.

The sighting, which took place yesterday afternoon in Diagon Alley, has left the our world reeling and worried. Our charming Harry, dressed simply and modestly as ever, was seen walking side by side with Malfoy, who had adorned himself in his usual expensive robes – a far cry from the humility one might expect from someone so deeply mired in scandal and dark magic. Witnesses reported the two laughing together outside Flourish and Blotts, their easy camaraderie suggesting something far deeper than casual acquaintance.

Naturally, one must wonder: What in the name of Merlin is Harry Potter thinking?

It would be impossible to overstate just how far Malfoy's reputation has fallen in the years since the war. Once the heir to the wealthiest and most powerful pure-blood dynasty in the British Isles, Draco Malfoy now walks through the wixen world as a pariah, his name forever tied to treachery, bloodshed, and an unseemly brand of debauchery.

While his mother, Narcissa G. Malfoy, narrowly avoided Azkaban (no doubt due to the unending kindness of Harry Potter himself), his father Lucius H. Malfoy was sentenced to life in Azkaban in late July 1998, on charges of treason; murder in the first degree; murder in the second degree; manslaughter; kidnapping; extortion; conspiracy, and many others. And so it seems that the apple doesn't fall too far off the tree, for their son has faced his own share of controversy throughout the years. But make no mistake—their son is no innocent. His hands are just as bloodstained as his father's, and perhaps even filthier in ways more unspeakable.

Let us not forget, dear readers, that Draco Malfoy himself willingly served as a Death Eater. Though barely of age at the time, Draco Malfoy was Marked, body and soul, and now bears the Dark Mark, and proudly – yes, proudly – participated in You-Know-Who's regime. Though young at the time, he was eager to prove himself, relishing his role among Voldemort's followers. At present, the young Malfoy works as a clerk in Borgin and Burkes, a shop renowned for their collection of dark artefacts, pointing to the young man's affinity towards the Dark Arts.

This is the same Draco Malfoy who endangered the lives of countless students during his sixth year at Hogwarts, who conspired to let Death Eaters into the school and set a well known werewolf and murderer on his fellow students, and who failed to show even a shred of remorse during Voldemort's reign. He has spent years attempting to rewrite his own history, but the truth cannot be erased. Rumors have long swirled about the depravity of Malfoy's war years, whispers of what he endured and what he offered up willingly in service of his so-called 'betters.' His claims of being 'forced' into his actions ring hollow when one considers the zeal with which he carried them out.

It was the same Fenrir Greyback, a notorious sadist, who we've been told took a particular liking to the Malfoy heir, treating him as both his romantic conquest and plaything. But rumour has it, Greyback was far from the only one to enjoy the company of the young wizard. This journalist has been able to unearth the truth for all the light seeking wix out there. It is said that there were many others—Snatchers, Death Eaters, men whose names we dare not print—who found the young Malfoy quite to their delight. And though some may paint him as a victim, it is difficult to see him as anything but complicit when one considers how, after the war, he sought out the company of many of those same men.

And now, this man—a man who once called every muggleborn a "Mudblood," who murdered beloved Hogwarts headmaster Albus Dumbledore, and who openly supported the darkest wizard of modern times — has somehow manipulated his way into the heart of Harry Potter.

Given the stark disparity between the two, one must consider the possibility that Malfoy has employed darker means to secure the brave Harry Potter's affection. After all, what could Harry, a symbol of hope and integrity, possibly see in someone so irredeemably cruel?

Many experts have speculated on the likelihood of a love potion or enchantment being at play. "It wouldn't be the first time a Malfoy used unethical magic to get what they want," said Barnabas Cuffe, former editor of the Prophet and expert in wixen politics. "Potter has always been a target, and Malfoy has the motive, the cunning, and the resources to manipulate him."

One must ask: How? Why? What manner of enchantment has been woven around our saviour to make him tolerate, let alone desire, the company of a man so steeped in immorality? Could it be a love potion? A debt Harry feels compelled to repay for the favour Narcissa once showed him? Others have suggested that Malfoy's influence might stem from blackmail or coercion. Some have even heard whispers of the Imperius curse being at play, with Draco Malfoy's mastery of the Unforgiveable curse being brought to the debate. This reporter attempted to interview Madam Rosmerta, owner of the Three Broomsticks in Hogwarts and former victim of Malfoy's talent at black magic. The lady, however, refused to comment on the issue, likely too traumatised by the former Slytherin's actions against her person to relieve the trauma.

What secrets could Malfoy hold over Potter, and why would Harry go along with it? The thought of our hero—the man who selflessly walked to his own death to save us all—being manipulated by a former Death Eater is enough to make this reporter's blood boil.

And I can assure you, ladies and gentlewizards, that I am not the only one.

Reaction to the couple has been swift and unforgiving. "I feel betrayed," said Arnold Podmore, a father of three and long-time admirer of our Saviour. "Harry's supposed to represent the best of us. How can he lower himself to this? Malfoy's a venomous snake. He always has been, and he always will be. I can only hope that whatever this is, is being done against Harry's will. He's clearly bewitched by the bodily wiles of the Malfoy welp. I have long suspected them to be Veela half-breeds!"

Even among Potter's most steadfast friends, the relationship has raised eyebrows. "We all make mistakes," said Romilda Vane, writer and long-time close friend of Harry. "But this? It's mad. I am worried for Harry, I really am. He's been acting weird lately whenever we go out, so it must be because he's under some kind of spell. I know my Harry bettet tha anyone and this isn't him!"

Perhaps, some argue, this is a case of pity gone too far. That would be easier to accept than the alternative—that our great hero, our Chosen One, is willingly consorting with filth. That he has lost himself so completely that he no longer sees the darkness standing beside him.

The relationship raises questions that Potter, so far, has been unwilling to answer. Does he truly believe Malfoy has changed? Or has he been blinded by some misplaced sense of compassion – or worse, by the dark magic Malfoy is so adept at? Suffice to say, that no matter how one looks at it, the pairing of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy appears to be doomed from the start. Malfoy, with his icy demeanour and infamous past, is utterly incompatible with the warmth and heroism that define Harry Potter.

But no matter the reason, the wixen world is watching. And we will not remain silent.

Whatever the case may be, the wizarding world waits with bated breath to see how this latest scandal unfolds. For now, one thing is certain: Harry Potter deserves better than Draco Malfoy.

..

Editor's Note: This article represents the views of Faustina Streakier, our newest owl correspondent. All the information provided is alleged and does not hold weight in the court of law. The Daily Prophet welcomes all responses from the public and invites Mr. Potter to clarify his relationship with Mr. Malfoy in due course.

..

Draco read the article in silence, his face pale and unreadable, but Harry could see the subtle trembling of his hands as they clutched the newspaper. He observed as he tried to appear nonchalant, but his fingers clenched at the edges so hard they had begun to crumpling the pages. After a moment of silence, Draco's breathing hitched, his lips pressing together as if to contain whatever words might spill out. His shoulders curled inward, his usual poised elegance cracking beneath the crushing force of the words printed before him. Harry could see his throat work as if he were swallowing down something sharp, and when he finally exhaled, it was shaky, almost ragged. A tremor ran through his tall frame, and when he blinked, Harry thought—just for a second—that he might have seen the shimmer of unshed tears clinging to his lashes before Draco turned his face away, as if ashamed to let Harry see just how much it had struck him.

"Draco…" Harry's voice was soft as he sar next to him, but it carried enough weight to make Draco look at him. He had been right, his silver eyes glistened with unshed tears, and it made Harry's heart twist painfully at the sight.

"It's…" Draco's voice cracked, and he shook his head, looking down at the paper again. "It's nothing I haven't heard before. I expected worse, truthfully."

But Harry knew that wasn't true. This was worse. This wasn't just whispers in the halls of Hogwarts or sneers from passing strangers on his way to work. This was public defamation, written in ink for the entire wizarding world to see. To judge. To mock.

And it wasn't fair. It wasn't bloody fair.

Draco's hands, still trembling, curled into fists in his lap, crumpling the paper with them. His knuckles turned white with the strength of it, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. He looked hollowed out, his deepest secrets stripped bare and exposed for the world to pick apart like vultures upon a carcass. The way his lashes fluttered as he blinked rapidly, like he was trying to will the words out of existence, broke something deep inside Harry. His lips parted slightly, but he said nothing—maybe because he had nothing left to say, or maybe because there were no words that could stitch together the wound this had ripped open.

The anger then hit Harry like a tidal wave, sudden and all-encompassing. His magic surged before he could rein it in, crackling in the air like static electricity. The newspaper burst into flames, the fire roaring to life and devouring the pages within seconds. Draco gasped, flinching instinctively, his body jerking away as the heat of it kissed his skin. A sharp hiss escaped his lips as he recoiled, his fingers curling against his palm. But before he could pull away completely, something else surged—Harry's magic, wild and unrestrained, reaching for Draco like it had a mind of its own.

The moment Draco flinched, Harry's fury wavered, overtaken by sheer instinct, his need to protect shifting momentarily. Wild, his magic twisted in an instant, its violent heat softening, shifting into something gentler, something fiercely protective. Quickly, a warm, greenish glow pulsed around Draco's hands, wrapping them in an unconscious embrace. Opening his eyes widely, it was obvious that the sting of the burn had vanished, soothed away before it could fully form, and the raw skin knit itself back together as if it had never been touched by fire at all.

Draco visibly startled, his breath catching in his throat. He glanced down at his hands, his fingers twitching as if testing for lingering pain, but it was clear there was none. Only warmth, a phantom sensation of Harry's magic lingering against his skin, holding him close even without touch.

Harry, still trembling from rage, exhaled sharply, his eyes dark with fury but his hands soft as they hovered over Draco's wrists, like he still couldn't bear the thought of hurting him—even unintentionally. "I'm sorry," he muttered, barely more than a whisper, but thick with meaning.

Draco swallowed, blinking at him, and for the first time since reading the article, his expression wavered. The sharp edges dulled, just for a moment. "Harry—" His voice caught, and he shook his head, as if there was nothing to forgive.

Harry clenched his jaw. His magic still crackled around them, but now it was restless for a different reason. "They don't get to do this to you," he repeated, quieter this time, but no less furious. And Merlin help them, because if they did—if they hurt Draco again—Harry didn't know if he could hold himself back next time.

"They don't get to talk about you like that. How dare they? How dare they? They know nothing about us and yet they—what they said about Greyback and—" he said, his voice low and dangerous, a sharp contrast to the fire blazing in his eyes.

Next to him, Draco flinched, his breath hitching sharply at the mention of Greyback's name, and Harry felt it like a physical blow. His pain was laid bare in the way his fingers trembled, the way his eyes—wide, wounded, and impossibly bright—shone with unshed tears. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, his throat worked, his hands curling uselessly at his sides as though he wanted to claw the words off his skin, to rid himself of the filth they had smeared on him. Harry's fury only burned hotter. His magic pulsed outward again, rattling the windows, making the room feel too small, too suffocating. He wanted to hex every single one of those bastards into oblivion, wanted to hunt them down and make them choke on their own poisonous words. How dare they? How dare they take Draco's past, his pain, and twist it into something grotesque? As if he had been willing, as if he had chosen any of it.

Draco stared at the ashes of the newspaper on his lap and then at his newly healed fingertips, his expression torn between shock and something softer—gratitude, maybe, or something even more fragile. Something Harry didn't dare put a name to lest he lose himself in it. His boyfriend then reached out, hesitating for half a second, before he placed a pale hand on Harry's arm, effectively interrupting his inner monologue before it could spiral further. His touch was light but purposeful, like he was testing the limits of something unspoken between them. Harry was still trembling with anger, his body thrumming with the barely restrained urge to march to the Daily Prophet office and tear the place apart.

But even amongst the storm raging inside him, Draco's cool hands grounded him. Since when had Draco become a source of calmness instead of the ignition to his anger?

Harry exhaled sharply, his fists slowly unclenching. He looked at Draco, really looked at him, and the softness in his silver eyes hit him like an errant curse in the dark. Draco wasn't angry—no, he looked almost... steadfast. Resigned, but touched. Like he wasn't used to someone fighting for him like this. The thought made him sad.

Harry swallowed hard, something aching deep in his chest. That wasn't right. That wasn't fair.

"I'll fix this," he said, voice rough with conviction. I promise you.

"It's not worth it, darling," Draco said quietly. "They're not worth it."

Harry turned to him, his green eyes blazing. "You're worth it, Draco. And I'm not going to let them treat you like this. Not ever."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, slowly, Draco's lips curved into a small, tentative smile. It didn't quite reach his eyes, but it was there, fragile but real.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry reached for his hand, threading their fingers together. "Always."

..

RELBBIUQ EHT

3rd October 2001

"My Truth", Harry Potter Speaks Out About His Relationship With Draco Malfoy.

By Anonymous

In a remarkable and long-awaited exclusive, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived and the saviour of the wixen world, has chosen The Quibbler as the platform to break his silence regarding the recent uproar surrounding his relationship with Draco Malfoy. The Prophet's recent scathing article, penned by Faustina Streakier (whose penchant for half-truths and scandal is well-documented rival the now disgraced and blacklisted Rita Skeeter), painted a grotesque and grossly unfair caricature of Malfoy, forcing the hand of our saviour. It's clear now that Potter has had enough of the lies and innuendo.

Sitting down with this reporter at his own private residence, Harry Potter opened up about Draco Malfoy, their shared history, and the person Draco is today—someone far removed from the image burned into public memory, and set on fire by the lies perpetuated by a declining publication. What emerged during our conversation was a deeply personal account of reconciliation, growth, and romance, as well as a scathing rebuke of the wizarding world's hypocrisy.

There is no sugar-coating the subject, as many readers know, Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter were not exactly friends during their Hogwarts years. Their teenage history is littered with animosity, bitter rivalries, and moments of outright hostility. But as Potter himself admits, their shared past isn't the whole story.

"Look, I won't pretend that Draco and I didn't make each other miserable at school," Potter said, leaning forward as he spoke, his famous bright green eyes alight with conviction. "We were kids. We were both insecure and angry, and caught up in something so much bigger than ourselves. But we've grown up since then. I have, and so has he."

Potter's voice softened as he continued. "People don't realise just how much Draco has changed. He's nothing like the boy we knew at Hogwarts. He's… he's kind. Thoughtful. He's still mighty sarcastic, but there's this… I don't know, this strength in him now. This desire to be better. And he is better. So much better. Sometimes better than I am."

When asked about how they came to reconnect, Potter gave a rare, genuine smile. "It wasn't something I ever expected, honestly. After the war, I didn't think I'd ever want to see him again. But a few weeks ago, I started fixing up my house. It was in a right state – dark, depressing, sometimes outright mad. I wanted to make it liveable again, and Draco ended up helping me due to his expertise in magical repair."

The thought seemed to amuse him, and he shook his head slightly. "If someone had told me five years ago that Draco Malfoy would be scrubbing floors and painting walls alongside me, I would've laughed in their face. But he did. He didn't have to, but he did. And he didn't just help me fix the house. He helped me… I don't know, find some peace, I guess. We talked. Really talked. For the first time ever, I actually got to know him. And I realised he's… well, he's brilliant."

So, who is Draco Malfoy today? The Daily Prophet would have you believe he's a scheming, irredeemable figure from Harry Potter's past. A Dark Wizard through and through. But Potter himself paints a very different picture.

"Draco's been trying to move on from everything that happened during the war," Potter said. "He's spent years trying to make up for his mistakes, even though most people won't give him the chance. It's not fair. The war took so much from all of us, and yet people act like he doesn't deserve the same opportunity to rebuild his life."

Potter revealed that Malfoy once dreamed of becoming a Healer—a profession devoted entirely to helping others. But his application to St Mungo's—and any other private practise within the United Kingdom—was rejected, despite his excellent marks on his nine NEWTS and magical affinity for this particular branch of magic. This reporter feels pertinent to remind the readers that every wand Draco Malfoy has owned has been made out of hawthorn, a wood renown for its suitability for healing magic.

"He wanted to make a difference," Potter said, a note of frustration creeping into his voice. "He wanted to help people, to prove that he could be more than what everyone expected of him. But they wouldn't let him. Because of his name, his past. It's ridiculous. If we're serious about healing as a society after the war, we need to start giving people like Draco a chance. Otherwise, what's the point?"

Potter also spoke about Malfoy's role in helping him transform his own private residency, describing his partner's attention to detail, his taste for aesthetics, and—surprisingly—his ability to make Harry laugh.

"He's got this dry sense of humour that sneaks up on you," Potter said with a chuckle. "And he's stubborn as hell. He won't let me get away with anything—which, honestly, is probably a good thing. I've spent so much of my life being surrounded by people who either idolise me or resent me. Draco doesn't do either. He just… sees me. For who I am. And he makes me want to be better, too."

When asked about their relationship and the scrutiny they've faced, Potter didn't hold back.

"We are together, and I knew people would talk when we went public," he admitted. "But I didn't expect it to be this bad. The Prophet's article was vile. Absolutely vile and unforgivable. The things they said about Draco—about us—were disgusting. And the worst part is, it's not just the Prophet. It's everyone who reads that rubbish and takes it as gospel."

Potter's expression darkened as he continued. "Draco doesn't deserve this. He's done nothing to warrant the kind of hatred that gets thrown at him every day. Five years he's kept his head down and done nothing but help people, after being cleared of all charges by the Minister himself, too. But the wixen world loves to have someone to hate, don't they? Someone to blame. And for some reason, they've decided that Draco has to be that person this time. It's cruel. And it's cowardly."

When asked why he decided to speak out, Potter's response was simple. "Because I'm not going to stand by and let them tear him down. Draco's had enough of that in his life. He deserves better. And if the wizarding world has a problem with him, they'll have to go through me."

Potter's words were unflinching, but they were also laced with a fierce protectiveness that was impossible to ignore. "Draco is one of the most brilliant, loyal, and resilient people I've ever met. And I plan to be with him for a long time. So if anyone out there doesn't like that, they can sod off."

In the end, Harry Potter's interview is more than just a defence of Draco Malfoy. It's a call to action, a challenge to the wizarding world to confront its prejudices and strive for a future that values growth and redemption over hatred and fear.

"People can change," Potter said. "I've seen it. I've lived it. And I think it's time we started believing in each other again. Because if we can't do that, what was the point of everything we fought for?"

Potter's words, like his actions, carry a weight that few can ignore. Whether the wixen world is ready to listen remains to be seen. But one thing is clear: Harry Potter is no longer the Boy Who Lived. He's a man who stands by his convictions – and by the person he has chosen.

..

Editor's Note: The Quibbler would like to thank Mr. Potter for trusting us to tell his story. We stand firmly against the slander and prejudice perpetuated by other publications and will continue to provide a platform for voices that deserve to be heard. For the complete transcription of the interview in its entirety, do please refer to page 17

To readers looking for our series about the mating habits of the nine-legged Ocalco, please refer to page 13.

..

It started with a nightmare.

They weren't new. Harry had spent the better part of his life haunted by them—visions of green light, the feeling of helplessness as he writher on the floor, the endless screaming that never quite stopped echoing in his bones. But this one was different. This one felt real in a way that left him shaken to his core, as if the nightmare had reached through time and pulled him back into the past. He could smell the damp earth, feel the icy chill of the graveyard where Cedric had fallen, taste the acrid stench of blood and fear. It wasn't just a memory—it was a terror, dragging him under, suffocating him with ghosts of the dead he hadn't saved. The weight of it pressed down on his chest, and even awake, he could still feel it—the cold, the grief, the terrible certainty that no matter how much time passed, he would never be free of it.

He was back in the Great Hall, but it wasn't the victory feast. The bodies were still there. Fred. Remus. Tonks. Colin. Bodies upon bodies, piled up like sacrifices to a war that had no true victors. The air was thick with the scent of blood and dust, heavy with something more—grief so raw it felt alive, wrapping around his throat like a noose. Harry stood frozen, unable to move as the scene unfolded around him. He could hear the whisper of voices—familiar and accusing, each syllable slicing into him like a blade.

Fred's lifeless eyes stared at him, unseeing, his grin forever frozen in a moment of terrible finality. Tonks' fingers twitched as if she were about to wake, but she never did. Remus lay nearby, his hand motionless over his chest, as if clutching at his heart. Colin's body was far too small, too still, his camera shattered beside him, the lens cracked like the future he would never have. The whispers grew louder, turning into wails of anguish, until the weight of it all crushed Harry to his knees.

Why didn't you save us?

Harry wanted to move, to scream, to do something—but he couldn't. His limbs felt heavy, like lead, like he was wading through a nightmare that refused to end.

You were supposed to save us.

Why did you get to come back?

The whisper swelled, multiplying, rising into a chorus of the dead. Hundreds of voices, each distinct yet eerily unified, speaking in a terrible, dissonant harmony that reverberated through the Great Hall. Their words overlapped, tangled together into an overwhelming wave of grief and accusation. The Great Hall darkened, shadows creeping in like living things. The enchanted ceiling above was swallowed by an endless void, the flickering candlelight barely piercing the encroaching blackness. The broken walls seemed to shift, pressing closer, suffocating him; and Harry's breath came shallow and quick, his heart pounding against his ribs as he tried to step back—only to find his feet rooted to the bloodstained floor.

The bodies weren't still anymore.

They stirred.

Twitched.

Slowly, horribly, they began to rise.

A strangled scream clawed its way up his throat, but before he could respond, before he could do anything, the scene shifted.

When he opened his eyes, he was back in the cupboard under the stairs. The musty scent of rotting wood and dust filled his nostrils, the air thick and suffocating. For a moment, he couldn't breathe, the walls even closer than he remembered, smothering him, as if the space itself sought to consume him. The flickering light from the hallway barely slipped through the cracks, casting jagged shadows that twisted and stretched like grasping fingers. The sound of locks clicking shut echoed like a death sentence, final and promising darkness and hunger. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, fast and erratic, drowning out everything else. He was small again—too small—curled up tightly, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped around himself as if he could make himself disappear.

A shadow loomed beyond the door, grotesquely distorted by the sliver of dim light. Heavy footsteps followed, deliberate and slow, a cruel anticipation settling into every creak of the floorboards. His uncle's voice, deep and slurred with drink, rumbled through the door.

Useless freak. No one will ever want you.

The words dug into his skin like splinters. Harry squeezed his eyes shut. He clenched his fists, tried to force himself to be quiet. He had to be quiet. He had to be still.

He had to, crying earned him no food until dinner.

The door rattled.

But then the cupboard was gone, swallowed by darkness, and when the world reformed around him, he was standing in the ruins of Grimmauld Place. The once-grand house lay in shambles, its walls cracked and crumbling as if a great beast had gone through the building. Dust and debris swirlled in the air like the ghosts of the past. The air was thick with the scent of destruction—smoke, burnt wood, and something metallic, something Harry refused to name.

And in front of him, bloodied and broken, was Draco.

His Draco, pale and unmoving, his silver eyes hollow and filled with something worse than pain—betrayal. His lips were parted as if he had wanted to say something, but no words came, only a ragged, trembling breath before a single blood tear escaped his vacant, dull eyes. Bruises bloomed across his skin, deep and livid, staining his sharp cheekbones, his jaw, his throat. His robes were torn, hanging in shreds off his frame, his limbs in awkward angles, and Harry knew—knew with gut-wrenching certainty—that he had been the one to do that.

His wand was still raised. His own hand trembled from the force of the magic he had just unleashed. The air still crackled with it, the aftershock of raw, unrestrained power pulsing like a living thing between them. Draco took a step back, slow and unsteady, his free hand cradling his arm—an arm that shouldn't be bent at that angle.

Harry's stomach twisted violently.

"No," he whispered, barely recognising his own voice in its rawness. This wasn't real. It couldn't be.

But Draco's eyes—shattered, accusing—told him otherwise.

I didn't mean to. I didn't—

But Draco was already gone, already dead, and for the first time, Harry felt it—true, unrelenting terror, unlike anything he had felt before.

He had killed Draco.

With a gasp that hurt his tender throat, Harry shot awake with a gasp, his skin slick with sweat, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was disoriented, the horrors of his nightmare still rumbling against his chest like a heavy stone. His breathing was ragged, and his body trembled, as if the very air itself had turned frigid. It took him a moment to realise he wasn't alone. The familiar sound of breathing beside him, the quiet rustle of fabric, and the warmth radiating from the figure next to him finally broke through his panic.

Draco. He was there, as if to anchor him back to reality.

The blonde was beside him, as he usually was during the night, his face tight with worry, one hand hovering hesitantly near Harry's arm as though debating whether to touch him. "Harry?" His voice was soft, unsure, laced with concern.

Harry flinched away from Draco's hand. He didn't mean to, but it happened anyway, his body reacting before his mind could catch up with what was happening. Draco immediately withdrew his hand, something flickering across his face—hurt, confusion, frustration—before he masked it behind his usual calm façade. But Harry had already seen it, that brief, fleeting moment of distress, raw and unguarded, slipping through Draco's open expression. It made Harry's chest ache, the weight of his distress mixing with the guilt of having denied Draco—and himself—the comfort. He knew Draco wasn't used to letting people see that side of him, but he had become incredibly expressive with Harry in recent weeks, and now he had forced the blonde to hide himself behind a mask all over again.

He hated himself for it. The last thing he wanted was to make Draco feel like that, especially after everything they'd been through.

"I—" His throat felt raw, his thoughts a tangled mess. "It was just a dream. I'm fine."

Draco didn't respond at first. He simply studied Harry, his gaze too knowing, too understanding. Then, quietly, as if talking to a frightened cat, he asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Harry shook his head too quickly, almost violently. He swung his legs over the bed, bracing his elbows on his knees as he ran a shaky hand through his damp and tangled hair. "It's nothing. I just need some air."

He heard Draco exhale, long and tentative, before shifting to sit up properly. Seconds later, the mattress creaked softly under his movements as he slowly dragged himself across the bed, each inch bringing him closer to where Harry sat. Soon enough, he was sitting just behind Harry, so close he could feel Draco's heat at his back, his presence grounding. The faint scent of Draco's skin, warm and familiar, seemed to envelop Harry, but it only made him want to pull further away. Like an itchy balm for his wounds that he wanted to wash away with cold water. The space between them felt too small, too intimate for Harry. He couldn't shake the tension that hung thick in the air, heavy and oppressive.

"Right. Of course," his voice was neutral, but Harry could hear the tension in it. The disbelief.

Guilt churned in his stomach, thick and heavy.

Harry sat there, stiff, his hands clenching into fists in the sheets. The more Draco tried to close the space between them, the more Harry recoiled, pulling himself away, putting more distance between them, as though the physical space could shield Draco from the monster in his chest. The warm, familiar scent of Draco—citrus from his bathing potions, sandalwood from his aftershave—was there, but Harry refused to let himself be comforted, the pressure in his chest tightening with each breath. His own fear, shame, and guilt twisted in his gut, suffocating any part of him that wanted to let his boyfriend reach out to him and comfort him.

He was pushing Draco away. Again. It felt safer this way—distant, cold, and alone.

Just how he was used to.

"Please, darling…" Draco's voice was soft, pained, though he kept it steady for Harry's sake. "Talk to me. You can't keep shutting me out whenever something happens." There was a tremor in the words, a quiet desperation that Harry could feel deep in his bones.

Harry's breath quickened, his heart pounding. He didn't deserve this—he didn't deserve Draco's patience, his kindness. He didn't deserve the warmth that radiated from him, the understanding that Draco always seemed to offer, no matter how badly Harry pushed him away. The guilt was suffocating, and the shame gnawed at him, a constant reminder that he couldn't fix the mess he was inside. The more Draco cared, the more Harry wanted to pull back, refusing to be comforted. He didn't want to hurt him anymore. He couldn't let Draco get too close.

But the distance only made everything worse, he knew.

"I—" Harry began, but the words felt like a ball of cotton in his mouth, too much to say, too much to feel. "I can't. I can't do this right now."

Draco's face tightened, but he didn't pull away. His hand reached out again, just barely touching Harry's shoulder, and for a moment, Harry stiffened as though burned. The warmth of Draco's touch felt too intimate, too much to bear. His body went rigid, as if the very proximity threatened to unravel him.

"Don't," Harry whispered, his voice strained, barely above a breath, and though the word was quiet, it was laced with a rawness that made Draco pause. The distance between them felt impossibly vast, like an ocean they couldn't cross, and Harry couldn't bring himself to bridge it, not yet. Not when he feared the touch would only push him further into his inner panic.

"I'm here," Draco said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I won't leave you, Harry. Just… let me help."

Harry shook his head, a tear slipping down his cheek before he wiped it away in frustration. "Just stop, Draco. I don't want—" He broke off, his voice sharp, laced with impatience. "I don't want your help, alright? I don't need you hovering around me, acting like you can fix me." His words were harsh, an edge of anger creeping in, fuelled by the overwhelming sense of helplessness he couldn't shake. He couldn't handle the closeness, the concern. Not right now. "Just… leave it alone for—!"

He couldn't finish the sentence.

Draco was looking at him with watery eyes, the hurt in them almost too much for Harry to bear, but it wasn't enough to stop him. He pushed Draco's insistent hand away, his movements sharp, and heard Draco's breath hitch, like a soft sob caught in his chest. The sound twisted something deep inside Harry, a knot of guilt and shame tightening in his stomach. He wanted to reach out, to comfort Draco in turn, but he couldn't—he felt too shaken, too angry at himself.

It seemed, Draco had had enough, however.

"Stop doing that!" Draco's voice cracked, his composure finally coming to a break, and Harry recoiled further, as though it could protect him from the emotions he feared would overwhelm him.

He saw Draco's jaw clench, his entire body tense with frustration and pain. For a moment, Draco didn't speak, just staring at him with wide, hurt eyes that seemed to plead for something Harry couldn't give. The silence between them was suffocating, and Harry could feel the weight of Draco's gaze, heavy with disappointment and confusion. It made his insides twist, but he couldn't bring himself to bridge the distance. Not yet. Not when he was this broken.

"I just need you to talk to me, Harry," Draco whispered, the vulnerability in his tone so raw that it, too, nearly broke Harry. "I can't—can't keep pretending that this… this thing you do whenever something is too hard to talk about doesn't tear me apart."

For a second, Harry couldn't bring himself to look at the blonde anymore, his chest caving at the tremor in his voice. He had never been good at talking about his emotions, had never had anyone make themselves available for Harry to go to with his feelings. Not even Ron and Hermione pushed him to open up lest he explode, often preferring to letting him stew in his special brew of venom before approaching him with a way to distract him. Curiously enough, it was only when Draco had been trapped inside Grimmauld that he had felt capable of dealing with all the ugly feelings he carried around all the time.

Draco never let him sulk for too long; it was one of the things Harry adored most about him.

Feeling conflicted, and suddenly deflated of all his frustration and anxiety, Harry turned to his boyfriend, the sight of him both comforting and needed. He gazed into Draco's starlight eyes, still watery from his tears, taking in the fragile vulnerability in them. Draco's frame was unmoving, still close enough for Harry to reach out if he wanted to, but Harry remained frozen, unsure. His eyes darted to Draco's wrists, and the sight hit him like a Cruciatus to the back.

The pale skin stood out against the dark bruises—deep, vivid, unmistakable. The indentations of fingers were clear, and Harry's heart sank, the realisation hitting him like a sucker punch. The world seemed to collapse around him, his heart skipping a beat, as if everything around him was blurring into nothing. He hadn't seen them before, hadn't noticed the bruises in the dark, but now, they were too clear, stark in the pale moonlight that streamed through their windows. The marks on Draco's delicate wrists screamed at him, an unambiguous clue to something he didn't want to believe.

The thought of it made his chest ache, like a wound he couldn't heal.

"Oh God, Draco," Harry whispered, his voice raw. He reached out in a panic, his hands trembling as he gently took Draco's wrists in his own. The weight of what he had done flooded him in an instant, and his breath hitched. The realisation crawled into his chest like an insidious poison. Guilt overwhelmed him, choking him as he realised he must've caused them in his sleep.

"Did I…?" His voice was barely audible, and the anguish in his eyes was undeniable. He slowly sank to his knees in front of the blonde, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he took Draco's hands in his, tears welling up in his eyes once more. "I didn't mean to—I… I swear to you, babe, I never—"

Draco's lip trembled as he stared down at him, the tears threatening to spill. "Harry… please… just talk to me."

Harry sobbed, his chest heaving, the weight of guilt overwhelming him. "I didn't mean it. I swear to you, I didn't mean it."

His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. He wanted to fix this, but he didn't know how. How could he? How could he undo the hurt he had caused? With trembling hands, he cradled Draco's bruised wrists gently, as though afraid they might break under his touch. His breath hitched as he pressed soft, desperate kisses to the dark marks, the weight of his regret sinking deeper with every tender brush of his lips against Draco's pale skin.

"I'm so sorry," Harry murmured between kisses, his tears falling freely now. "I never wanted to hurt you. Never." The guilt gnawed at him, consuming him, as he continued to kiss the bruises in a futile attempt to make amends, wishing he could take it all back.

Worse than him pushing Draco away, he had lashed out, and he had been hurt because of it. The magic he had felt in his dream, the sheer force of it—it wasn't just a figment of his imagination. He could still feel the echoes of it in his bones, in his pulse, in the way his hands trembled even now. It scared him. Terrified him. The raw power, the uncontrollable force that flowed through his body—it wasn't something he could keep buried forever. And he knew it only got worse when he was in a nightmare. What if, one day, he lost control worse than he had tonight? What if, one day, the magic took over and Draco was the one who paid for it? The thought sent a cold shiver down his spine, the image of Draco hurt because of him, like in his dream, flashing before his eyes. What if his fears weren't unfounded? What if he couldn't keep his demons at bay? The thought was unbearable. He couldn't even begin to imagine a life without Draco, yet the idea of being the one to destroy that life, to harm him… it shattered him.

The pain of that thought was excruciating, a crushing reality that seemed impossible to escape. He needed to do something about this. But, what? Would he have to break up with Draco? Did Harry have to give up the first person he had grown to care this deeply for, to protect him from himself? He needed to do something.

Harry sucked in a breath, trying to steady himself, but it wasn't working. His thoughts spiralled faster and faster, making it feel like he was drowning. The walls seemed to close in on him, his chest tight as if he were back in the cupboard again, helpless and alone.

And then, suddenly, Draco's hand was on his cheek as he sobbed. Gentle. Warm. Solid. It grounded him, like an anchor in the storm of his mind. The steady pressure of Draco's touch brought him back to reality, pulling him out of the dark corner he had fallen into. For a brief moment, Harry allowed himself to lean into the touch, a small comfort in the chaos.

One, two, three; he breathed, though difficult as he cried.

Harry closed his eyes and exhaled shakily on three, trying to focus on the steady rhythm of his breath. He let himself lean into the touch, just a little, allowing the warmth of Draco's hand to seep through the tension in his body. For a moment, he let himself feel the steady presence of Draco beside him—his one constant, the one thing that kept him from falling apart completely. He didn't deserve him—not when he kept hurting him, not when he was this close to becoming something ugly, something dangerous.

But Draco was still here. He chose to stay, despite everything.

He couldn't let him go. The thought of losing Draco, of forcing him to walk away, felt like a betrayal Harry couldn't live with. Maybe that made him selfish, but hadn't Harry earned the right to be selfish for once? After all the loss, after all the years of fighting just to survive, of giving, and giving, and giving to everyone, wasn't it time for him to hold onto something that made him feel whole? He didn't want to have to give up something that made the both of them happy, something that made him feel human again. He didn't want to lose Draco.

Not now.

Not ever.

"Harry," Draco said softly. "Please, talk to me."

And that was it. That was what broke him. Not the nightmares. Not the fear. But Draco.

Because Draco was still trying. Still looking at him with those pleading, eyes full of quicksilver, like he wanted to be here, wanted to stay, even when Harry kept doing things that would've driven anyone else away. Even when Harry didn't know how to let him in, how to make sense of the mess he was. The tenderness in Draco's voice, the quiet desperation, shattered something inside Harry, something that had been too tightly wound for far too long.

Draco wasn't leaving. He was staying, even when Harry didn't deserve it. Even when Harry was afraid of hurting him, of becoming something he couldn't control. But Draco was still here, still choosing him, and that—more than anything—was what broke him. The raw sincerity in Draco's voice cut through all the walls Harry had built around himself, and for the first time since they had escaped a dark-infested Grimmauld, Harry allowed himself to feel everything.

His chest ached. His throat burned.

"I think I need help," Harry admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Draco let out a slow breath, his thumb brushing away the tears that fell from Harry's eyes, and then—because he was Draco, because he was kinder than he let everyone believe—he simply nodded. "Alright." His voice was calm, steady, despite the hurt that still lingered in the air between them

Then, Draco raised his other hand and tenderly, delicately, painfully lovingly, cupped Harry's face in his hands, his touch warm and soothing. Harry closed his eyes at the feel of it, anchoring himself in the sensation, letting the soft pressure of Draco's palms against his clammy skin calm the chaotic thoughts racing through his mind. Eyes closed, he could feel Draco mirror his own previous actions, gently pressing his lips to Harry's face—his creased forehead, his tear soaked cheeks, his snotty nose, his rounded chin, his parted, bitten lips—each kiss filled with so much tenderness that it finally made the last of Harry's willpower crumble and his body deflate. He cried even harder, the emotion overwhelming him, knowing that Draco was still here, still fighting for them.

Harry swallowed, forcing himself to look at Draco properly. "I—I think I need to see a mind-healer."

Something softened in Draco's expression. "Okay."

"I don't know how to do this," Harry admitted, the words tasting foreign in his mouth. "I don't even know where to start."

Draco's lips quirked slightly, just the barest hint of a smile. "That's alright. You've got me."

..

A week later, Grimmauld Place felt eerily quiet as Harry paced back and forth near the front door. The morning light filtered through the windows, casting long, muted shadows across the freshly restored walls. He tugged at the cuffs of his jumper, stretching the fabric nervously. Draco, perched on the armrests of his favourite armchair with an air of calm that was almost certainly forced, sipped his tea and watched him with a raised brow.

"Darling, you'll wear a hole in the floor," he finally remarked, his voice tinged with amusement.

Harry stopped mid-stride, turning to face him. "I'm not nervous."

Draco snorted, setting his teacup down with deliberate precision. "Of course not. That's why you've been muttering to yourself for the past ten minutes."

Harry huffed, running a hand through his perpetually untidy hair. "It's not that big of a deal. Loads of people see mind healers."

"Exactly," Draco said smoothly, standing up and brushing imaginary lint off his immaculate robes. "So, why are you acting as though you're about to face a Hungarian Horntail again?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Harry glared at him, though he only earned himself a self-satisfied smile from his boyfriend and the wiggle of his pale eyebrows. "I just don't know what to say, alright? 'Hi, I'm Harry Potter. Nice to meet you. Let's dig through all my childhood trauma, shall we?' It's… weird."

Draco sighed, as if asking a higher power to give him the patience to endure his neurotic boyfriend, and crossed the room. Once next to him, Draco placed a hand on Harry's arm, his touch soothing. "It doesn't have to be perfect, Harry. You don't have to have a script. Just… be honest. Merlin knows you're rubbish at lying anyway."

That earned a reluctant chuckle from Harry, and he nodded. "Yeah. You're right."

"I usually am," Draco replied with a smirk, but his tone softened as he added, "You're doing something good for yourself for once. Something important. And I'm proud of you."

Harry felt a warmth spread through him, not from the words themselves, but from the earnestness in Draco's voice. It felt like a safeguard, something sturdy to cling to amidst the confusion and nervousness swirling in his chest. That steady presence, that grounding sense of calm, was more than he could ever hope for. Draco wasn't going anywhere—not now, not ever if he had anything to say about it—and that truth seeped into Harry's heart, offering a fragile sense of peace. Before he even realised what he was doing, Harry leaned in, closing the small gap between them, and captured Draco's lips in a soft, hungry kiss that he wished they had the time to continue. The pressure was light at first, but the feeling was overwhelming—a mix of adoration for Draco and his unwavering support, an aching longing for something to hold onto, and an unspoken promise that they would continue this when Harry got home later that evening. It was a kiss that said more than words ever could.

When they finally pulled away, Harry sighed, his breath shaky and uneven, as though something inside him had cracked open. The pressure that had been weighing down on him for what felt like forever started to lift, just a little, but it wasn't enough. Not yet. There was still so much left to confront, so much to untangle. He knew what he had to do. It was time.

Taking Draco's hand in his, Harry walked toward the fireplace, his feet heavy but determined, feeling Draco's gaze on him the whole way. The blonde trailed next to him, quiet but present, like the steady force that Harry so desperately needed. His heart pounded uncomfortably in his chest, the nerves bubbling to the surface once more as he looked at the ignited fireplace. But with each step, that initial fear began to melt away, replaced by a quiet sense of determination. He had made it this far, through worse things than going to a bloody mind-healer, and he wouldn't stop now. Not when there was a way forward. A small part of him was terrified that it wouldn't work, that it wouldn't be enough, but a larger part of him was hopeful.

This was the first step, he wanted to be better for them.

Standing in front of the hearth, Harry steadied his breathing, the flames flickering brightly in the background. Letting go of Draco's anchoring hand, he sighed and took some Floo powder in his hand before throwing it at the hearth. Harry stepped inside, his hands trembling slightly, but he pushed his nerves aside. He was doing this for himself—for both of them. He placed a last kiss against Draco's lips, squared his shoulders and, with as much confidence as he could muster, called out in a voice that was clear and resolute, like a decision finally made.

"Merryweather Healing!"

The room seemed to hold its breath, the very air growing still as Harry waited, his pulse quickening with the anticipation of what would happen next. It was as though time itself had paused, leaving him suspended in the space between fear and hope. But before he could brace himself for what would come, a sudden pull gripped him. In an instant, he was sucked into the Floo network, a familiar, and horrid, swirling sensation of green flames wrapping around him like a whirlwind. His stomach flipped, as it always did, and he was thrown violently through the twisting, dizzying tunnel of fire and smoke. The world blurred around him, shapes and colours whirling too fast for him to keep track of. His breath caught in his chest, and for a terrifying moment, he thought he might lose control, might be flung off course entirely.

Then, with a sudden, jarring thud, he was spat out into a new space, landing unceremoniously on his arse. The world around him took a good thirty seconds to stop spinning, and he blinked, trying to steady himself, groaning as he pushed himself upright. His surroundings slowly came into focus, revealing a cosy, softly-lit office. A faint smell of lavender hung in the air, and the walls were a soft lilac and lined with bookshelves. He glanced around, trying to make sense of the new environment, when a soft gasp reached his ears.

A receptionist, a very pretty Middle Eastern witch in a dusty rose hijab, startled from behind the desk and stood up quickly, her wide eyes locking on him. "Goodness gracious, are you okay?" she asked, her voice laced with concern.

Harry rubbed the back of his head, trying to hide his embarrassment. This was why he hated flooing anywhere, bloody hell. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said with a small, sheepish smile. "Just the usual Floo trip, you know?"

She looked at him with wide eyes, her brow furrowing slightly, but she nodded. "Right. You must be Mr. Potter. Welcome. Your mind healer will be with you shortly." She gestured to a row of chairs near the wall, where he could sit.

Harry nodded, still a little dazed, but managed to stand up and make his way to the chairs. "Yeah. That's me," he said as he dropped into a seat, exhaling a relieved breath. He was here, in the right place, finally taking the first step toward something better.

The receptionist gave him a kind, warm smile as she returned to her desk. Harry settled in, letting his head lean back slightly against the chair, his heart racing.

He waited for what felt like forever, the quiet ticking of a clock on the wall the only sound in the room. The silence was welcome, as he didn't know what he'd have done if there had been another prospective patient there to chatter at him, and Harry found his thoughts drifting naturally. His mind wandered between the uncertainty of what lay ahead and the comforting memory of Draco's earlier words, trying to ground himself in the warmth they brought.

After about fifteen minutes, a soft rustling sound broke his concentration, pulling him back to the present. His eyes flicked up, narrowing slightly as he tried to make sense of the movement from the corner of the room. He glanced up just in time to see a delicate origami crane fluttering through the air, its paper wings catching the light as it glided effortlessly across the room. Harry's breath caught in his throat, and for a brief moment, the familiar image of Draco smiling sardonically flashed through his mind. The crane was like something straight out of his earlier memories—something Draco might have folded himself, as far back as third year, to mess with Harry. He could still picture the constant, annoying drawings. The thought made him smile, the warmth of the memory spreading through him, calming the tightness in his chest. Gordic, how he wished he had saved those back then instead of Incendioing them into smithereens. He hadn't seen Draco do anything like that recently, he might tell him he missed them once he went back home.

The crane drifted effortlessly toward the receptionist, who reached up with his wand and a gentle smile to catch it mid-flight. She unwrapped it carefully, eyes scanning its message. When she looked back at Harry, her face softened. "Mr. Potter, you're up," she said, her voice light and soothing.

Harry stood, feeling a flicker of nervousness deep in his gut come back to life, but also something else—it felt like eagerness, though it might as well be indigestion product of his nerves. This was the moment he'd been dreading, and yet, he was standing on the other side of it. The first real step.

"Thank you," he said, his voice steady despite the pounding of his heart. He gave her a small smile, trying to suppress the anxiety bubbling just beneath the surface.

She gave him another warm smile and gestured toward the door. "Through there," she said.

Taking a deep breath, Harry walked toward the door. He reached for the door handle, his fingers cold, and stepped inside.

The healer's office was nothing like Harry had expected. No cold stone walls or intimidating mahogany desks. Instead, the room was warm and inviting, filled with soft, mismatched furniture and shelves stacked with books, plants, and peculiar trinkets. The scent of lavender from the reception lingered in the air, and a small enchanted clock ticked quietly in the corner, instantly making him relax with the rhythm of it's tic toc. The walls were painted in a calming shade of pale blue, adorned with floral paintings and framed photographs of Saharan landscapes. There was no sense of clinical sterility here, no harsh lighting or impersonal decor. It was a space that felt lived in, cared for—safe, as much as the thought made him cringe. Harry found himself unconsciously letting out a deep breath, the tightness in his chest easing ever so slightly.

His mind healer, a witch in her late forties with kind eyes and a mop of colourful, twisted locs, greeted him with a warm smile from where she stood near one of the bookcases. "Mr. Potter! It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Healer Amari Morrigan."

"Just Harry, please," he said, shaking her hand.

She gestured for him to sit in a plush armchair in front of her, and he sank into it, his posture stiff and awkward despite the comfortable seat he was in. Healer Morrigan took the seat across from him, conjuring herself a steaming pot of tea and two cups.

"Tea? It's herbal," she offered, pouring herself a cup.

"Er, sure," Harry replied, accepting the cup she handed him and hoping this wasn't a test to measure something or another. He didn't drink, though; his hands wrapped around the porcelain as if it might anchor him. He hoped he didn't crack it.

For a moment, Healer Morrigan simply observed him, her dark gaze patient and unintrusive. Then she said, "You told us this was your first time seeing a mind healer. I want you to know that there's no right or wrong way to do this. This is your space, Harry. You can talk about whatever you feel comfortable sharing, at your own pace."

Harry nodded, though his throat felt tight. The silence stretched between them, and for a moment, he considered bolting. But then he thought of Draco—how he'd looked after reading that vile article in The Prophet, the quiet tears he'd tried to hide and his own rage. He thought of how Draco had held him when his magic had hurt him the other night, whispering reassurances even when Harry had felt like he'd failed to protect him.

Taking a deep breath, Harry said, "I don't really know where to start."

"That's alright," Healer Morrigan said gently. "Why don't we start with what specifically brought you here today?"

Harry's fingers fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve. "Nightmares," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "I've been having these nightmares, and… it's not just about the things that happened to me. It's about him—Draco, er… my boyfriend. Partner?."

Healer Morrigan nodded, her expression gentle but expectant, as if inviting him to continue and never commenting on what a muppet he was being.

Harry swallowed hard, his chest tightening. "I didn't mean for it to happen, but… I hurt him. While I was asleep, I mean. I didn't know. I had one of those nightmares, the ones where I'm… trapped, and I just… I lashed out with my magic. I don't even know what happened, but I woke up and freaked out, then saw the bruises on his wrists. And I couldn't—I couldn't—believe it. I'm scared. Scared that one day, I won't be able to wake up before I do something worse to him."

He paused, voice faltering. His hands trembled in his lap.

"What if it happens again? What if I hurt him worse next time?"

The silence in the room stretched, thick with the implications of Harry's confession. Healer Morrigan's gaze softened, but there was no judgment in it—only understanding.

"Harry," she said softly, leaning forward slightly, "what you're feeling right now is a very heavy burden. But the fact that you're afraid of hurting him again, the fact that you're here trying to understand and get help—that tells me a lot about you and your intentions," she paused, letting her words sink in. harry continued fidgeting, this time with the fabric of his denim trousers. "We're all capable of hurting the ones we love when we're not well, but that doesn't define who you are, or the love you share with Draco."

The word 'love' startled Harry. It caught him off guard, like a sudden, sharp noise in the quiet room, taking him out of the conversation for a second. He had tried so hard not to think about it, not to put a label on what he felt for Draco, afraid of how vulnerable it would make him to acknowledge what he sometimes felt so passionately it burned. But now, hearing it, his face flushed with heat, and he quickly looked down, hoping Healer Morrigan hadn't noticed.

His heart hammered in his chest, the word echoing in his mind, and for a brief, almost overwhelming moment, he wished he could escape from the room. Then, her words beyond that began sinking in, and Harry's eyes pricked with the threat of tears, and he quickly blinked them away, not wanting to seem weak. He wasn't sure how much of this he could admit out loud, but it felt like the more he spoke, the less pressure built up in his chest. It was a small relief, a crack in the dam of his emotions, and for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to believe that perhaps he could find a way to make things right.

At his silence, Healer Morrigan continued speaking, likely sensing his hesitation.

"Fear is a natural response, Harry," she continued. "But you're here, and that's what matters. You're taking the first step toward understanding your behaviour, and that's incredibly important. The nightmares, the magic that's tied to them—it's all part of a larger picture. We can work through this."

Harry nodded, feeling a slight relief wash over him, though it was small and fragile. "But what if I can't control it?" he asked, voice raw.

Healer Morrigan gave him a reassuring smile. "We'll take it one step at a time, Harry. Together, we'll work on managing these feelings, and helping you regain control over your mind and magic. It's going to be hard, but I believe you can do it. And I believe you'll be able to keep Draco safe, just as you want to."

There was something about the calm certainty in her voice that gave Harry a glimmer of optimism.

Healer Morrigan's pleasant voice brought Harry back to the present. "What else has been happening lately, Harry? Anything else in particular you feel is weighing on you?"

For a moment, Harry stared at the desk, his fingers tracing the edge of the cup in front of him. His thoughts drifted back to Grimmauld Place, and the events that had followed. He couldn't stop the memory from flooding him.

"Well," he began, his voice quieter than he expected, "it started there, really. Grimmauld Place—that's my home, well… inherited from my godfather, and that's another giant to tackle, really. The house trapped us together, it had become sentient and…it's a long story. We were stuck in that house. And then… that's when Draco and I started… well, really started, er…" Harry rubbed the back of his neck, unable to keep a faint smile from creeping onto his face, though it quickly faded. "But it wasn't easy. Not at first. I almost lost him because I couldn't deal with the idea of what the rest of the wixen world might think, how they might react. I was scared of their opinions—of their judgment. I've always been scared of what people might think, but with Draco, it was different. It was terrifying. I didn't want to be the reason he got hurt again, or… or the reason he suffered even more. He'd already been through so much."

He swallowed, his throat tightening as he continued.

"And then came that damned Prophet article. About Draco. About us. I thought I'd seen Draco broken before, but that… that article? It was bad. He tried to hide it, but I saw the way it affected him, and it hurt me more than I can put into words. The rage I felt… it was something I didn't know I still had in me. I wanted to burn every copy of it. I wanted to destroy anyone who dared to write about him like that. Not only that, but I thought I had let go of that kind of anger, and yet it came rushing back like a flood, and I didn't know what to do with it. I didn't want to become the person I used to be, the one who couldn't control his emotions, but that… it just broke something in me."

Harry paused, then glanced at the healer, unsure if she would judge him for the weight of his words, but Healer Morrigan's face remained warm and understanding. Encouraging, even. He took a breath and went on.

"And then… there's Ron." He hesitated, frowning slightly. "Ron and I—our relationship has been… well, testy, I guess. Ever since Draco and I got together. He doesn't show it much, when he's only with me, but if Draco is around… He's had his issues with Draco. I mean, he's never been the biggest fan, especially after everything Draco did during the war. I get it, in a way. Draco used to be a bully, a pure-blood supremacist, and that isn't something easily forgotten. But I also know that Draco did what he did out of fear, fear for his family, fear for his own survival. And he's changed, so much, but I don't think Ron sees that. He still sees the old Draco. The one who terrorised him, who terrorised us all. And I can't blame him, but it's… hard. It's complicated. It's like I'm torn between two people I care about, and I don't know how to bridge that gap without losing someone I l—care abour."

Harry's voice wavered slightly at the end, the weight of it all pressing down on him. He wanted to say more, but the words clogged in his throat. The emotions had piled up for so long, and now, just speaking about them made him feel exposed. Vulnerable. There was something about the calm certainty in Healer Morrigan's voice that caused a spark of hope within him—something he hadn't allowed himself to feel in a long time.

"It sounds like you've been carrying a lot, Harry," she said softly. "And it's okay to feel all of it. You don't have to have all the answers right now. We'll work through it, it just takes time. You've already taken the first step, and that's more than a lot of people manage to do."

Harry looked up, meeting her gaze, and for the first time in a long while, he let himself believe it.

As the session went on, other things began to surface—things Harry hadn't planned to talk about. The cupboard under the stairs. The weight of the war and his crushing responsibility. The guilt he still carried for the lives lost, the people he couldn't save. Sirius. The way he felt like he was constantly being watched, judged, dissected by a world that saw him as more symbol than person. He spoke of the nightmares again, this time going in detail about the flashbacks that haunted him in the quiet moments, how every corner seemed to hold the shadow of the past. Each confession felt like shedding a small part of the burden he had carried alone for years, and though it didn't make the weight disappear, it allowed him to breathe just a little more freely.

"I just… I don't know how to let myself be," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm always bracing for the next thing. The next crisis. The next person who needs saving. And when there's nothing, when it's quiet, it's like… like I don't know who I am without all of that."

Healer Morrigan nodded thoughtfully, her expression empathetic. "It sounds like you've spent so much of your life surviving that you haven't had much of a chance to just live, Harry. That's not uncommon for people who've been through the amount of trauma that you have. But it's something we can work on together, if you're willing."

Harry nodded slowly. "I… yeah, I mean—I don't want to feel like this forever. And I don't want… I don't want to push Draco away because of it."

"That's a good place to start," Healer Morrigan said, her voice reassuring. "We'll take it one step at a time. And remember, Harry, you don't have to do this alone."

..

When Harry returned to Grimmauld Place later that afternoon, Draco was waiting for him in the kitchen, a pot of stew simmering on the stove. The smell of garlic and herbs filled the air, grounding Harry. Draco looked up as Harry walked in, his grey eyes searching, nervous. He set down the spoon he'd been stirring with, his fingers lingering on the handle for a moment as he watched Harry closely, waiting for a reaction. Harry could see the stress of the past few days in Draco's posture—his shoulders a little tighter, his movements a bit slower, like he was holding himself back.

Stepping into the kitchen, he didn't say anything at first. Instead, he walked straight to Draco, pulling him into an embrace without hesitation. The warmth of Draco's body, the familiar scent of him, grounded Harry in a way that no words could. He was exhausted, and for a long moment, neither of them moved, the silence between them thick with unspoken feelings. Then, slowly, Harry pulled back, just enough to look at Draco's face. He saw the concern still etched in his features, but there was also a softness there—a tenderness that Harry has long since associated with his boyfriend, something he didn't think he deserved, yet it was what he needed more than anything.

"How was it?" Draco asked, his tone casual but his gaze betraying his concern as he gently touched Harry's arm.

Harry shrugged, leaning against the counter, letting Draco's hand fall from the crook of his arm, and taking it in his hand before it fell off. "Weird. Hard. But… good, I think. I'm still not completely comfortable about just… talking about it. But I guess it can only get better."

Draco charmed the spoon he'd been using to stir the stew so it stirred by itself and crossed the room, wrapping his arms around Harry in another loose embrace. "I'm glad," he murmured.

Harry rested his forehead against Draco's shoulder, kissing the naked skin of his neck, the tension in his body slowly easing. "Thanks for pushing me to go, Hermione had tried, years ago, but… I don't know, I felt like seeking help meant that all the stuff in my head had 'won'. I think I needed you to finally take the leap."

Draco's hand moved to the back of Harry's neck, his touch light but grounding. Comforting in that way only Draco managed to be. "I didn't push you," he said with a smirk Harry could hear in his voice. "I merely suggested it in my usual charming and persuasive way."

Harry huffed a laugh, his breath warm against Draco's collarbone. "Sure you did."

For the first time in… probably a decade and then some, Harry allowed himself to simply exist in the moment—no expectations, no worries, just the steady rhythm of Draco's heartbeat against his own.

..

The sound of the Floo flaring to life echoed through Grimmauld Place's recently polished halls; a sound once so foreign and, yet, now so common it barely registered in Harry's mind, half expecting one of his friends to step out of the hearth demanding food and shelter. He was in the middle of mending the fraying corner of an antique rug in the second drawing room, when he inevitably stopped at the tell-a-tale swoosh of fire ignition. He glanced towards the clock that he and Draco had hung above the fireplace, and sure enough, it was already five in the afternoon. Underneath the clock, the hearth flashed, emerald flames briefly dancing on the ever-burning wood, before a single figure emerged.

Narcissa Malfoy stood in front of his burning fireplace, dressed impeccably in a pale blue set of robes with silver trim that hugged her thin frame with effortless elegance. Her blond hair was swept back into a neat half up-do, her bright blond hair falling in curls over her back, and her sharp features bore the calm, unflappable expression Harry had come to associate with her. It was admirable, how she carried herself with the poise of someone who had long ago decided the world would never see her falter, even if she burned from within.

"Mrs Malfoy," Harry greeted, getting up from the floor and dusting off his clothes with a wave of his hand. "Thank you for coming."

Still silent, she inclined her head, stepping further into the room, as though the house itself might bite her if she moved too hastily. Pale blue eyes scanned the newly-redecorated sitting room, flickering over the walls, the polished floor, and the faint glow of light spilling from the adjoining rooms and the small chandelier attached to the ceiling. For a fleeting moment, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"This is quite… different from how I remember Grimmauld Place," she said finally, her tone carefully neutral.

Looking around with her, Harry smiled and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It made sense that she would be this perplexed by the changed they'd done to the house. Draco had told him that his mother had lived in Grimmauld for most of her childhood and adolescent years, only moving out when Narcissa's parents had a fallout with Walburga, her aunt, over Andromeda's impending marriage with a muggleborn. Apparently, at least according to Draco, Walburga had thought their daughter to be a bad influence and had forbidden her from getting close to her young sons, who were at the time barely of Hogwarts age. So, they had moved to another Black estate in Bath, and she hadn't been back ever since.

"Draco's been helping, as you know. We've done a lot of work on it."

At the mention of her son, Narcissa's cool composure relaxed just slightly. She clasped her hands together in front of her and turned to face Harry fully. "This meeting," she began, her voice quieter now, "are you certain it's… appropriate? That Andromeda… knows?"

"She knows," Harry assured her, meeting her gaze steadily. "She's fine with it. Dromeda was the one who suggested it, actually."

A flicker of something passed across Narcissa's face—relief, perhaps, or apprehension? It was hard to tell, she was much harder to read than Draco, who tended to wear his emotions on his eyes. She looked as surprised as he had ever seen her, however.

Narcissa nodded once, though she didn't look entirely convinced. "And Draco?"

"He'll be down soon," Harry said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "He's making himself 'presentable', though Merlin knows he always looks handsome."

That earned him a small, almost imperceptible twitch of Narcissa's lips, likely at the shared knowledge that Draco tended to take entirely too long in front of the mirror, but it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared. The awkward silence that followed was more familiar to Harry; it stretched between them like a rubber band about to snap. Harry shifted on his feet, glancing towards the stairs, and only belatedly remembered his manners.

"Er, sorry, would you like to sit?" he asked, gesturing towards the sitting room.

Still standing pin straight, Narcissa hesitated, her sharp eyes sweeping over the room as though she were assessing it for hidden dangers. Her gaze flickered toward the corners, taking in the dim candlelight, the—finally—dustless shelves, the way the furniture had been subtly rearranged since the last time she had likely set foot in Grimmauld Place. She was cautious but not fearful, her posture a perfect display of cool restraint.

Finally, after what felt like an agonisingly awkward long moment, she nodded—just once, a careful tilt of her chin—and glided toward the sofa with the same effortless grace she always carried herself with. There was something almost feline about the way she moved, fluid and controlled, as though every step had been premeditated. Even the way she lowered herself onto the cushion was precise—just the barest pressure against the upholstery, back straight, ankles crossed daintily, hands folded in her lap. Harry, in contrast, felt all angles and awkwardness, like a gangly teenager again rather than the grown man he was supposed to be. He lingered near the fireplace, feeling distinctly out of place in his own home. His hand hovered near the mantle, fingers twitching, resisting the urge to fiddle with the nearest trinket just to give himself something to do.

It wasn't that Narcissa had done anything to make him uncomfortable—if anything, she had been unfailingly polite since he had come to her house ready to beg for Draco's forgiveness—but there was something about her presence that made him hyperaware of himself. Of the fact that he was standing in front of her in an old crewneck sweatshirt that still had paint stains on the cuff, of how his hair was as unruly as ever while she sat there looking entirely too effortlessly immaculate, not a single strand out of place. His gaze flickered to her face, just for a second, trying to gauge what she was thinking.

But Narcissa Malfoy was an expert at keeping her emotions veiled, her expression composed, betraying nothing beyond a cool detachment.

Realising he'd been standing there too long without speaking, Harry cleared his throat and shifted his weight. "Er—tea?" he offered, gesturing vaguely towards the tea tray Kreacher had left earlier. His voice sounded too loud in the quiet of the room, and he resisted the urge to wince.

Narcissa's gaze flicked toward the tray, then back to Harry. She, once again, inclined her head slightly. "That would be lovely, thank you."

Lovely. Right. Because everything about this situation is just lovely, Harry thought dryly. "Kreacher," he said, tightly.

Harry hesitated for a moment before calling out, "Kreacher?"

With a soft crack, the old house-elf appeared, his large bat-like ears twitching slightly as he surveyed the room. His expression, as always, was a mix of begrudging loyalty and vague disapproval, though his attitude toward Harry had mellowed considerably over the years.

"Mistress Malfoy requires tea," Harry said, keeping his voice even. He wasn't sure why he felt like he had to be on his best behaviour, as if Narcissa might judge his every word. Maybe she would.

Kreacher turned to Narcissa, his eyes widening and becoming watery though he said nothing, and gave a deep bow, the kind reserved for old blood, before shuffling toward the tea tray. He made a low murmuring noise under his breath—something or another about it being an honour serving her—before disapparating from the room. Not thirty seconds had passed when the old house elf apparated back in with a tray in his trembling hands—making Harry jump, not having expected him this soon.

Having placed the tray on the centre table, Kreacher carefully prepared Narcissa's cup first. He added a sugar cube, a precise stir, before passing it to her with all the reverence of a court servant. Narcissa, of course, accepted the cup with a gracious small nod of thanks, her slim fingers curling elegantly around the handle. Harry, on the other hand, received his tea with significantly less ceremony, Kreacher practically shoving the cup into his hands before disappearing with another crack, muttering something about something Harry didn't catch as he went.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and stilted, as they sipped.

Harry focused on his tea, watching the way the steam curled into the air, trying to pretend that sitting across from his lover's mother in his own house wasn't the most awkward thing he'd done all week. The tea was good—strong, warming—but it did little to settle the unease in his stomach. There wasn't exactly a wealth of conversation topics between them. Their only real connection—aside from her saving his life that one time—was Draco, and Harry highly doubted Narcissa wanted to hear about how he'd fallen arse over tit for her son. He certainly wasn't about to sit here and wax poetic about how Draco's laugh made his cock harden and his chest tighten, or how the man's mere presence had become a comfort he hadn't known he needed.

And so, they enjoyed their tea in silence.

Narcissa, poised as ever, seemed entirely unaffected by the quiet. Every now and then, she gazed around the room with detached interest, taking in the half-renovated space, the faint flickering of candlelight against dark wood. If she thought Grimmauld Place was still a dreadful pit, she at least had the courtesy not to say it aloud. Harry, on the other hand, felt like he might crawl out of his own skin. He had faced Death Eaters, Dark Lords, and the overwhelming enormity of an entire war, but sitting here, politely drinking tea with Narcissa Malfoy, was proving to be its own kind of hell.

Thankfully, the silence was broken by the sound of a knock at the front door, loud and assured in the way it carried all the way to the second floor, where they were.

Harry all but leapt to his feet, barely stopping himself from sloshing tea over his fingers as the knock echoed through the house.

"I'll just—" he gestured vaguely toward the door, eager for any excuse to escape the suffocating silence. Narcissa merely nodded her head, before taking another measured sip of tea, her expression unreadable.

He hurried out of the room, his socked feet barely making a sound against the wooden floorboards as he quickly descended the staircase, almost two at the time in his haste. Kreacher, of course, was nowhere to be found. The one thing the stubborn old elf absolutely refused to do was answer the front door, no matter how much Harry insisted that it was, in fact, part of his job. Cheeky elf insisted Harry didn't pay him enough for that.

Harry yanked open the heavy door, still half expecting to find a Ministry official or another bloody reporter from The Prophet. Instead, he was met with the sight of Andromeda Tonks, standing tall and regal against the grey London drizzle.

She looked the same as Harry had the last time he had seen her, but he supposed it was difficult to change much in the span of a couple of days, when they'd last seen each other. Though there were still traces of the vibrant, fierce woman he'd known during the war; time, grief and caring for a child had softened her. Her clothes were simple but elegant, a deep navy pantsuit that complimented her slowly greying hair, which was loose around her shoulders, and a cream knitted sweater under her thick winter coat. Her face was worn, lined with the remnants of hard years, but her dark eyes were sharp, taking in the house with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. She hadn't been back since she had attempted to help him back when Grimmauld was still trying to kill him.

Her intense image was softened only by the small boy next to her, clutching her hand. Teddy, wrapped in a too-large coat with the buttons bear done up wrong, beamed up at Harry, his hair shifting from its usual shaggy turquoise to an untidy mop of black curls, eerily mirroring Harry's own. His godson was still unable to control his abilities as a metamorphmagus, which made it all the more endearing when his features reacted with his emotions. It warmed Harry's heart, really—he treasured the fact that Teddy changed something to make himself look like his loved ones.

"Harry!" Teddy chirped, bouncing on his toes before letting go of Andromeda's hand and launching himself forward.

Harry barely had time to brace himself before Teddy collided with his legs, wrapping his little arms around him in an enthusiastic hug. Chuckling, he bent down, ruffling the boy's dark curls so much they puffed up.

"Hey, kiddo. Missed me, then?"

Teddy pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes a bright, mischievous green, just like Harry's. "Well, obviously," he said with an exaggerated sigh, as though Harry were the dense one here.

Andromeda exhaled, the corners of her mouth twitching as she pulled her cloak tighter around herself. "He's been talking about this all morning," she said, arching a brow at her grandson before turning her gaze back to Harry. "I hope this is still a good time?"

"Yeah, of course," Harry said, stepping aside to let them in.

He had been expecting them, of course—he and Andromeda had planned this meeting carefully. Teddy was getting older now, old enough to start asking questions about the family he had never met, about the cousin who, by all rights, should have been in his life all along. About his great-aunt, of whom he only heard in passing. Andromeda, of course, had never shied away from the truth about their situation, Teddy had grown up with stories about the war, his parents and what half of his maternal family had done. But for a five-year-old kid, those things lacked the weight an adult might attribute to them. To him, it just meant he had more family out there, and he wanted to meet them. Alas, with Harry dating Draco for the better part of two months, Andromeda, had finally felt it was time for Teddy to meet his Black side of the family. It didn't help that, she herself had finally decided it was time to reach out to the last living piece of her family to reconcile.

That didn't mean it was going to be easy.

Harry shut the door behind them as Andromeda took in the house with a wary glance. He didn't blame her—Grimmauld Place had never exactly screamed warm and welcoming, it still didn't, despite Harry's insistence on neutral colours and less severe styles. The house had its own preference and aesthetic, it seemed, so Draco felt inclined to abide by it lest Grimmauld decided to undo their renovation efforts in an identity crisis tantrum. Teddy, on the other hand, was already pulling at Harry's sleeve, oblivious to the tension in the air.

"Is this nana's home?" he asked excitedly, his hair flashing back to turquoise before settling into a bright platinum, exactly Draco's shade. "Is my cousin here? Can I see him now?"

Harry grinned. "Childhood home, yeah, and he's upstairs. Ready to meet him?"

Teddy nodded so enthusiastically, his curls bounced.

"Harry," she greeted, offering him a small smile. "Thank you for having us."

"Of course, Andromeda, always," he said, his smile mirroring hers.

Andromeda, however, remained still, her lips pressing into a thin line. With measured grace, she unfastened Teddy's coat first, helping him shrug out of the oversized thing before removing her own. With a flick of her wand, both garments floated neatly into the cloakroom just off to their left, settling onto hooks with an ease that spoke of long-ingrained habits. Harry couldn't help but notice the way her movements mirrored Narcissa's—the same effortless elegance, the same quiet severity. Their Black upbringing clung to them both like an armour, despite the very different paths their lives had taken.

He swallowed, shifting his weight slightly from foot to foot. This meeting had been carefully planned, every detail considered, but that didn't make it any less unpredictable. Family was complicated. And the Blacks—well, they had always been a breed of their own. He just hoped today wouldn't end in disaster.

"Come on," Harry said, gently steering Teddy toward the stairs before glancing at Andromeda. "Let's get this over with, yeah?"

She huffed a quiet laugh, something unreadable passing over her features. "Lead the way, then."

The wooden floors groaned under their footsteps as they moved away from the entryway, a familiar sound in a house that had spent too many years settling into its own silence. The air still carried that ever-present hint of dust and old magic, woven into the very fabric of Grimmauld Place, lingering no matter how much Harry and his friends magicked it away or how many windows he threw open. By now, he assumed that the dust would not disappear until they finished renovating the house and Grimmauld deemed it sufficiently pretty to its standards. Next to him, however, Teddy was oblivious to the house's moody shenanigans, too busy bouncing on the balls of his feet as they wound their way through the narrow corridor and towards the solarium. He was grinning, looking between them with barely-contained excitement, as though he was about to be let in on some great, mysterious secret.

Until he noticed where they were heading to, that is.

"Why can't I stay with you lot?" he asked as they passed the beautiful sitting room he and Draco—mostly Draco, though, as it had been his idea—had fashioned into a solarium—a glassed-in porch where they enjoyed having their breakfast. His tiny hands gripped the banister when they reached the staircase leading down to the door to the garden.

"Because the grown-ups need to have a very dull and grown-up conversation," Andromeda replied, her voice smooth and unwavering. "You, however, get to run around and entertain yourself."

Teddy's nose scrunched in obvious distaste. "That doesn't sound very fair."

Harry chuckled. "Life rarely is, mate."

Teddy heaved a great sigh, as though he bore the weight of the world on his five-year-old shoulders. "But what if I get bored?"

"Then use that remarkable imagination of yours," Andromeda said, drawing her wand from her sleeve with effortless grace. A flick, a murmured incantation, and a football appeared in midair before dropping neatly to the stone path outside. "Play with this for a while. We'll call you when we're ready for you to join us."

Teddy stared at the ball as if it had personally offended him. "Football's boring," he muttered, nudging it half-heartedly with his foot.

Andromeda raised a finely sculpted brow. "Is it? I wouldn't know, as I have seen you spend hours entertaining yourself with that same ball in our yard."

Harry barely managed to bite back a grin. "Besides, it's good for your coordination. Practice makes better, mate," he added, knowing full well Teddy would much rather be chasing a snitch than dribbling a ball across the grass.

Truth to be told, Teddy liked football well enough, but he hated playing it alone. He was a very social child, an aspect of his personality that Harry was sure he had inherited from Nymphadora, as Remus had been terribly introverted and quiet. Teddy liked socialising with lots of different kids, and he usually played ball with his mates from primary school. Still, he preferred Quidditch, and always was the first person to suggest a game at the Burrow, where he often played with the other Weasley kids.

Looking from Harry to his grandmother, the boy scowled but didn't argue, though he did grumble something suspiciously close to I'd rather play Quidditch under his breath. The sight made Harry's heart lurch in his chest. He was not used to denying Teddy things or requests. Despite his reluctance, however, the metamorphmagus gave the ball a harder kick, watching as it rolled smoothly across the overgrown lawn.

Satisfied, Andromeda turned on her heel, already making her way back inside as if she knew the floor plan by heart by now. Harry cast a final glance at Teddy, watching as the boy huffed but ultimately jogged after the ball, before following her in.

The walk back through the house was quiet. Not uncomfortable, necessarily, but weighty in a way Harry couldn't quite put into words. The distant sound of Teddy kicking the ball against a garden wall followed them, a rhythmic thud-thud-thud that filled the silence between them as they made their way up the stairs. Harry stole a glance at Andromeda as they climbed up to where Draco's mother waited for them, taking in the sharp lines of her face, the set of her mouth, the composed way she carried herself. It was impossible not to see Narcissa in her—the same aristocratic grace, the same quiet strength wrapped in cold poise; they even shared the same elegant features, like their eyes or nose. Two sides of the same coin, shaped by the same upbringing, the same rigid Black family traditions, yet wrenched apart by choices that had rewritten the course of their lives.

Would this meeting be a disaster? Would years of estrangement and unspoken pain sit between them like an unbreachable chasm? Or was there still something left to salvage, buried beneath all the hurt?

Harry didn't know. He could only hope.

They reached the second floor. The drawing room loomed ahead to their left. Andromeda exhaled softly, barely a breath, but enough for Harry to notice. Then, without hesitation, she lifted her chin and stepped forward, crossing the arching walkway to the drawing room, revealing Narcissa sitting precisely where they had left her. The tea tray still rested on the low table in front of her, the porcelain cups untouched, their contents long since gone cold. She had not moved much—her posture remained impeccable, her hands still resting lightly on her lap, her expression as unreadable as ever. And yet, something in the air shifted the moment she looked up.

The two sisters stared at each other, and Harry felt the weight of the moment settle over the room like a thick fog. For the first time, Narcissa's perfect composure faltered. Her hands twitched in front of her, as though she wanted to smooth her robes but thought better of it. Without a word, she stood, before taking a small step forward, and then stopping, her lips parting slightly before closing again. She looked unsure of herself, something Harry had never thought he'd ever see on her usually unmoveable face.

Andromeda, to her credit, remained still, though there was the faintest tightening at the corners of her mouth. Harry had the sudden, ridiculous urge to step out of the room and leave them to it, but that would have been both cowardly and impractical. Instead, he shifted awkwardly near the doorway, resisting the urge to clear his throat just to break the silence. Looking closely at Andromeda, there was something raw in her expression—something Harry couldn't quite place, but that made his chest ache. Standing next to each other, it was painfully obvious they were sisters, one as beautiful as the other, the slight creases around their eyes and mouths the only indication of their age.

"Narcissa," the elder said finally, her voice quiet but steady.

"Andromeda," Narcissa replied, her tone equally measured.

They stood there for a long moment, neither moving, neither looking away. Harry watched as Narcissa's hands moved her hands aimlessly, curling them into fists, then relaxing them, then curling them again. Likely noticing the gestures too, Andromeda's gaze softened, just slightly, and she took a step forward.

"I hope you've been well," Andromeda said, her tone carefully neutral.

"As well as can be expected," Narcissa replied. Her voice was soft, softer than Harry had hear aside from when she asked whether Draco was dead or alive, and almost hesitant, there was a tremor in it that Harry suspected she didn't intend. For the first time, Harry realised that this was not Narcissa Malfoy, mother to Draco Malfoy and matriarch of the Malfoy dynasty, but Narcissa Black, the youngest sister of Andromeda Black

Another pause, another breathless moment of silence. And then, to Harry's astonishment, Narcissa took a small, shaky step forward, as though drawn by some invisible force. The movement startled him not because it was bold or dramatic, but because it wasn't. It was tentative, hesitant, a quiet show of humanity that he hadn't expected from her. Andromeda, to her credit, didn't flinch. She stood her ground, her expression unreadable, and when Narcissa stopped just a few feet away, she inclined her head slightly. Like this, Harry could see just how much smaller Narcissa was compared to her older sister. Where Andromeda stood tall, her frame athletic and sturdy, her shoulders broad with a quiet, effortless poise, Narcissa was all delicate sophistication. She was smaller, more petite, with a waist so slim it seemed a gust of wind might snap her in half. Everything about her, from the sharp cut of her robes to the graceful tilt of her chin, was controlled, calculated elegance. Andromeda, on the other hand, had the build of someone who had spent years doing practical, necessary work rather than simply perfecting an aesthetic of grace. Even now, she carried herself with a confidence that was utterly unselfconscious. If Narcissa was a porcelain figurine, Andromeda was carved from granite—solid, unyielding, a force that time and tragedy had failed to break.

For a long, tense moment, neither spoke. The silence wasn't uncomfortable so much as brimming with things unsaid. Harry could practically feel the weight of years pressing in on them—decades of separation, grief, and the unspoken pain that came with being on opposite sides of a war that had no true victors.

"It's been a long time," Andromeda said, her voice quieter now.

"Indeed," Narcissa replied. "It has."

Narcissa's hands twitched again at her sides, fingers curling ever so slightly. Not quite a reach, but not far from it either. Her throat bobbed, and when she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"You look well."

Andromeda exhaled sharply—not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff. "Do I?"

A flicker of something—uncertainty?—passed through Narcissa's blue eyes once again. It was eye-opening, seeing her like this, like a lost little girl, trying to say the right thing to get the adults to like her. "Yes."

Harry, who had fought Death Eaters, faced down Voldemort, and lived through more near-death experiences than he cared to count, suddenly felt wildly out of his depth. This was an entirely different battlefield, one where words were weapons and silence was its own form of surrender. There were no spells or shields to rely on here, no clear enemy to defeat—only two women bound by blood and divided by choices, standing on opposite ends of an invisible chasm. He wasn't sure which was worse: the charged quiet between them or the knowledge that one wrong word could shatter whatever fragile truce was forming.

Andromeda tilted her head slightly, considering. "You look the same," she said finally, though her tone was devoid of malice. It was simply… an observation.

Narcissa's lips pressed together for a brief moment, and for the first time, Harry saw it—the way her mask, so carefully constructed, threatened to crash and break at her feet. "I suppose that's a relief," she murmured, though there was no real vanity in it. Just a quiet, tired acceptance.

Andromeda hummed in response, her dark eyes unreadable. Another pause, another breath held between them, as if they were both waiting for the other to make the next move. The tension in the room was nearly suffocating. Harry shifted uncomfortably, unsure if he should intervene or simply disappear from the room, after all. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to move, to do something—anything—to break the uncomfortable stillness. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Draco standing at the end of the stairs. His normally pale face was flushed, his grey eyes wide as he took in the scene in front of him. For a moment, he didn't move, his fingers tightening on the railing as if bracing himself. Then, slowly, he stepped forward, his gaze flickering between his mother and aunt, uncertainty written in the tight set of his jaw.

"Draco," Harry called softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

But Draco didn't respond. His gaze was fixed on his mother and aunt, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he took a slow, deliberate step down the last step, and then another, until he was standing beside Harry.

"What's happening?" he asked, his voice low.

Harry glanced at him, then back at the two women. "I think they're… talking."

Draco snorted softly, though there was no humour in it. "Talking. Right."

Narcissa glanced over her shoulder, her eyes softening when she saw Draco. "My dragon," she said, her voice warm but tinged with something that sounded like relief.

"Mother," he replied, his tone carefully measured. He glanced at Andromeda, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before he inclined his head. "Aunt Andromeda."

Andromeda's lips twitched, and Harry thought he saw the ghost of a smile. "Draco," she said, her voice gentle. "It's good to finally meet you."

"You as well," he said, his tone polite but distant, like it always was with people he didn't really know and wasn't sure he could trust.

The silence that followed was awkward, but not unbearable. The house seemed to hum around them, as though it were listening, waiting, watching. The magic woven into its very foundation stirred, responding to the presence of so many of its bloodline in one place, as if giddy and greedy for some new development. The faintest crackle of it prickled along Harry's skin, making the hair on his arms stand on end. He glanced at Draco, who met his gaze with a knowing look and raised an eyebrow. He must have felt it too, with how in tune they both had become with Grimmauld's peculiar new sentience.

"Er… everyone," Harry said finally, clapping his hands together, the sharp sound cutting through the thick air. "Shall we sit?"

The words hung for a moment, landing with an almost comedic tilt to them in the midst of all the unspoken history and unresolved tension. No one immediately moved. The silence stretched out like an elastic, but this time it lacked the earlier brittle edge—though no one in the room seemed particularly eager to be the first to bridge the remaining distance. Narcissa remained standing, her posture as stiff and regal as ever, but there was something tight about the way she held herself, something strained in the set of her shoulders. She wasn't poised; she was bracing. Across from her, Andromeda's expression wavered somewhere between guarded and curious, her lips pressing together as if she were waging some internal battle on whether to speak or let the moment unfold naturally. Draco, meanwhile, hovered at the edge of the group like a reluctant observer, his discomfort barely hidden beneath the carefully schooled neutrality of his face. It was only in the restless way his fingers flexed at his sides and the subtle, irritated twitch of his brow that betrayed his impatient need to flee the scene. He looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, but duty to his mother—or perhaps curiosity—kept him rooted to the spot.

So Harry, for lack of anything else to do, forced himself to take the reins. If someone didn't push this gathering forward, they would end up celebrating the new year in this sitting room, standing in a tense circle like a gathering of ghosts on a death day.

"Let's sit, yeah?" he insisted, gesturing sheepishly to the sofas and armchairs. "No sense standing around all day."

Narcissa cast a quick glance toward the seating arrangements, her lips pressed tightly together, but she gave a small nod and sat once more on the sofa she'd previously occupied. Andromeda, however, remained rooted to the spot, watching Narcissa carefully, as though gauging her intent. It wasn't until Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat that Andromeda finally moved, choosing the armchair directly across from Narcissa. The distance between them was deliberate, but not hostile. Draco hesitated a moment longer before perching on the arm of a second sofa, his body language taut and uninviting. Harry joined him, sitting properly and straight-backed, feeling as though he were trapped in some sort of surreal family reunion with the wrong cast members. He placed a hand on Draco's thigh out of habit, but also to soothe both their nerves.

"Well, this is cosy," Draco muttered under his breath, earning a warning nudge from Harry's elbow.

Andromeda's gaze flicked to Draco for a moment, her lips twitching slightly in what could have been amusement—or maybe sympathy. She clasped her hands in her lap, her fingers interlocking tightly, and looked back at Narcissa.

"It's strange," she said after a moment, her voice quiet. "Sitting here, in this house, with you."

Narcissa stiffened but didn't look away. "I could say the same."

Harry glanced between them, his curiosity piqued despite the awkwardness of the situation. He didn't dare say anything, though. This was their moment, and he had no intention of interrupting.

He feared he might get his head bitten off, anyway.

"It doesn't feel like the house I saw last October," Andromeda continued, her eyes roaming the room as though searching for traces of the past. "It's… different. Lighter."

"That would be Mr Potter's influence," Narcissa said, her tone clipped but not unkind. "He and Draco have been—" She paused, glancing at Harry as though considering her words carefully. "—renovating."

Harry nodded quickly, desperate to fill the awkward silence. "Yeah, we've been, uhm, fixing it up. Getting rid of some of the darker bits. Some of our friends have also been helping, too. To be honest, it's thanks to Draco that the house is behaving at all, really. He's been the one coaxing it into propriety since its sentience started coming back. I think the house likes him better than me on most days."

Andromeda raised an eyebrow, her gaze as amused as her small smile. "Ah, yes, I remember you telling me about the renovation during one of your visits. It's nice to know you have been having a good time in here. It's a nice change."

Harry scratched the back of his neck. "Well, maybe not all the time. It can be right frustrating at times, if I'm honest, but it's better than letting it stay the way it was when Draco and I finally unravelled down the nexus."

Narcissa's lips pursed as she studied the room again. "It's strange," she said softly. "We used to live here when we were children, but it doesn't feel like home anymore."

"Did it ever?" Andromeda's tone was sharper now, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Because I remember a time when it felt like a prison."

The tension in the room ratcheted up again, thick enough to choke on. Draco shifted uncomfortably next to Harry, his thigh bouncing in rapid, nervous movements that betrayed just how much this was stressing him out. Without thinking about Narcissa or Andromeda, Harry reached out, pressing his palm against Draco's leg and slowly moving his hand up and down in a soothing rhythm.

It was a small, grounding gesture, one meant to say, I'm here. You don't have to do this alone.

Narcissa's eyes flashed at her sister's tone, but she took a steadying breath before replying, her composure visibly fraying at the edges. Across from her, Andromeda's expression softened—just barely, just enough, as if realising she was being defensive. The strain from all those silent years hung between them, all the things left unsaid piling in invisible heaps at their feet. For all the bitterness and avoidance that had shaped their years apart, for all the choices that had splintered their paths, they were still two halves of the same childhood, the same legacy. Black by birth, divided by war, and now, for the first time in decades, in the same room with no walls left between them.

"I never said it was perfect," she said, her voice low. "But it was still home."

"A home that didn't hesitate to disown me the moment I stepped out of line," Andromeda snapped. Her hands gripped the armrests of her armchair, her knuckles white.

"You disowned us first," Narcissa shot back, her calm demeanour crumbling for the first time as the angry words left her mouth. Harry gasped silently, his hand on Draco's thigh stilling. "You left. You didn't even give us a chance to understand."

"A chance to understand?" Andromeda's voice rose, her disbelief evident. "You think there was any understanding to be had when I eloped with Ted? You think our parents would have been anything other than what they were? They were blood-purists, Narcissa. Cold. Cruel, even to their children. And you—" She stopped herself, her jaw tightening.

Narcissa's eyes darkened, and for a moment Harry thought she might lash out. But instead, she sat back, as if deflating, her expression rigidly shaping into something unreadable. "You're right," she said after a moment, her voice quieter. "They wouldn't have understood. But, I was fourteen, Andromeda, you never gave me the chance to try, either."

The room went silent again, the weight of Narcissa's words hanging heavily in the air. Andromeda looked away, her jaw working as though she were trying to keep her emotions in check.

Going still in his sofa, Harry's thoughts swirled as he listened to Narcissa's words, a new perspective dawning on him. He had never considered it, really—never thought about Narcissa being just a child, fourteen years old, when Andromeda had eloped with Theodore Tonks. He had always seen their family dynamics through the lens of betrayal and bigotry, never stopping to reflect on the pain of a younger Narcissa, caught between her family and her sister's defiance. It must have felt like a sudden, unexplainable loss, Harry realised. How would it feel to lose someone so close, someone you thought would always be by your side? His mind immediately jumped to losing Sirius, though different in nature, it had left a hole in his chest he'd never been able to fill again. He imagined a young Narcissa, confused and hurt, watching as Andromeda made a decision that seemed to tear apart the fabric of their family. There must have been so much anger, so many feelings of abandonment.

He had never given it much thought before, too wrapped up in his own perception of their separation, thinking that the Blacks had tossed their children aside, when it was them who had decided to abandon their families. It didn't justify the prejudice and poisonous culture that had been the core cause of their separation; not in the least. But now Harry understood the shades of grey that permeated Andromeda's—and Sirius' by extension—disinheritance. Now, it seemed so obvious. Narcissa's eyes—cold, guarded, distant—weren't just a reflection of the woman who had been steeped in Black and Malfoy family traditions. They also carried the weight of all the things she had lost, too. And at that moment, Harry couldn't help but feel a sliver of sympathy for her, for that part of her he had never truly understood.

Andromeda deflated, her posture slumping as the conversation seemed to settle on her shoulders. She relaxed into her seat, the rigid lines of her body softening with the effort it took to restrain herself. Her hand lifted to the bridge of her nose, just between her eyes, where she pinched it as if trying to relieve some unseen stress, her eyes closing for a moment in quiet frustration. The room fell into a heavy silence, thick with unspoken words and the pressure of decades of hurt that seemed to reverberate through every corner. Seated across from her, Draco's mother refused to meet her older sister's searching gaze. Her eyes darted elsewhere, scanning the room with the same discomfort Harry had seen too many times before—always avoiding. She didn't want to be here, not like this. She couldn't bear it.

Draco, who had remained notably silent throughout the exchange, cleared his throat delicately, as if trying to save his mum from what was happening. "Perhaps we should… partake in a cup of tea or something?"

Harry shot him a bemused glance. "Tea?"

"It's what one does in… uncomfortable situations, isn't it?" Draco said with a slight frown, his gaze skirting away from his mother's fierce eyes.

Andromeda let out a soft snort, though there was no real humour in it. "Tea won't fix this, Draco."

"No," Narcissa agreed, her voice tight. "It won't."

The silence that followed was heavy, but there was something different about it now—something raw and unspoken that hung between the two sisters like a fragile thread. Harry watched as Andromeda shifted in her seat, her fingers twitching at the hem of her jumper, her expression distant as though she were lost in thought. She looked pensive, her brow furrowed slightly, as if she were weighing every word that had been said and every word left unspoken.

Next to him, Draco, clearly anxious about the growing tension in the room, shifted uncomfortably on his perch. His mercurial gaze darted between his mother and his aunt, his lips pressed into a thin line as he tried to maintain composure. Harry gave his thigh a reassuring squeeze, offering a soft smile in an attempt to ease his unease. His boyfriend's anxiousness was palpable, but for the first time, Harry sensed the man's vulnerability in a way he hadn't before. This was Draco worried because he wanted to spare his mother's feelings, because he wanted her to make up with her sister. This was his family, and he wanted to keep them together. And it warmed Harry's whole being to know that he was, inadvertently, part of that family—both because he was Teddy's godfather and because Draco, against all odds, had chosen him to be by his side. They were all caught in this moment, tied together by things far older and far more complicated than any of them had ever truly understood.

After long minutes in silence, Andromeda finally sighed. It was her who decided to break the silence. Her voice, when she spoke, was barely above a whisper.

"I figured it's finally time to face this."

The house, sensing the faint magic of family, stirred. The air grew brighter, almost alive with the echoes of ancestral magic that Harry could feel in his bones. The fire in the scone and chandelier flickered faintly, as though they were trying to tell them that they were ready for whatever was coming next.

"You're right, Cissy, I was the one who left. Our parents, they… they didn't kick me out, not in the literal sense, at least. I left because I wanted to push them away before they did it to me."

Harry blinked, startled by the admission. Andromeda continued, her voice growing steadier but no less heavy.

"And it is also true that, after I left, they disowned me. Burned my name off the tapestry, wrote me out of the will, and forbid anyone in the family from interacting with me. But the truth is… I disowned you all first. I walked out of the house, out of the family, because I couldn't bear to be what they wanted me to be. And that kind of choice—it leaves a trace. A scar."

The house groaned, as if in agreement, or perhaps reproach. Andromeda flinched slightly, her shoulders tightening as she looked around with distrust.

"You've carried that with you all this time?" Harry asked, his brow furrowing.

Andromeda gave a humourless laugh. "You don't just leave the Blacks behind, Harry. Not really. It doesn't matter how far you run, or how much you try to bury it. The name, the blood—it lingers. And the guilt of it… well, that lingers too."

With a grimace, Harry thought of Sirius, how he had carried the burden of the Blacks well after he had left them behind, well after they had all but died out. Like a stain running through his veins.

Narcissa moved her legs closer together, her dainty heels clicking softly against each other in a way that reminded Harry of Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz. "You weren't the only one who ran, Andromeda. The rest of us may have stayed, but in our own ways, we ran too. I… I clung to the family because I didn't know who I was without it. Even when I knew it was wrong, even when it cost me…" She faltered, her throat tightening. "It cost me my sisters."

If felt as though the house sighed, the faint hum of magic growing softer, almost contemplative. The sconces grew brighter, and, though this drawing room was fully renovated, for a second the fixtures seemed warmer.

Andromeda turned to her sister, her gaze searching. "I hated you, you know. For staying. For standing by them when I needed you to stand by me. I told myself it was your fault. But now… well, now I believe I understand. I was too hurt to see that you were just a kid, trapped in your own way."

Narcissa's visage cracked, just slightly. Her lips parted as if to defend herself, so used she was to denying vulnerability, but she closed them again and simply nodded. "And I hated you as well, for my own… warped ideals. But also for abandoning me with them. With a sister that I no longer recognised, with our parents, who sought to overcompensate for the perceived failure of their eldest and put all the pressure on me…" she looked away from Adromeda for a long, painful moment. Her hands in her lap tightened around one another as she stared at the house. "We were all trapped. You had the courage to break free, even if it hurt us both. I… I admire that, now."

The silence that followed was layered with unspoken apologies and years of pain.

"I'm sorry," Andromeda said at last, her voice trembling. "For leaving you behind. For not coming back sooner."

Narcissa finally returned her gaze towards her older sister, those bright blue eyes shining with unshed tears. "And I'm sorry for letting you think you had to leave. For not fighting for you."

The sisters sat there, facing each other, the weight of their shared history hanging between them. And then, slowly, tentatively, Narcissa reached out and took Andromeda's hand in hers.

The house exhaled, a soft, shuddering creak that felt almost like approval.

Next to him, Draco watched silently, his grey eyes glistening like quicksilver. He leaned against Harry's frame, his posture casual, but his hands were trembling where they lay at his lap. He didn't say a word, didn't move, but Harry could see the emotion written all over his face.

Harry pressed against him, his voice low. "You alright?"

Draco sniffed, tilting his chin down to look at his boyfriend. "Don't be ridiculous, Potter. I'm perfectly fine."

Harry smiled but didn't press. Instead, he reached out and brushed his fingers against Draco's, a silent offer of comfort. Draco didn't pull away.

In front of them, Andromeda and Narcissa began to talk quietly—not about the past, but about the present, about healing, about moving forward. The house seemed to brighten with every word, its long-buried wounds slowly beginning to truly mend.

And as Harry sat beside Draco, watching the Black sisters reconcile, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of connection.

..

A hush had settled over the drawing room, not awkward or strained, but careful—delicate, as though too much noise might shatter the fragile peace beginning to take root. The low murmur of Andromeda and Narcissa's conversation carried through the space, their words measured, cautious, but unmistakably genuine. It was a start, a tentative attempt to bridge the years of silence and bitterness between them. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, its glow casting flickering shadows along the walls, lending an air of quiet intimacy to the moment. The tension, though still present, had shifted—no longer a sharp-edged thing waiting to cut, but something softer, malleable.

Healing, however slow, had begun.

Leaning back slightly, Harry let out a quiet breath, exchanging a glance with Draco, whose posture had gone oddly rigid once again. The set of his shoulders was tight, and though his face remained carefully neutral, Harry could see the tension thrumming just beneath the surface. It was almost funny, in a way, how Draco could face Death Eaters, war, and his own past with that ever-present Malfoy composure, yet the prospect of a family conversation unsettled him so completely. With the sisters distracted, now seemed as good a time as any to fetch Teddy, before his godson decided to stage an elaborate rescue mission of his own.

"I'll pop out to the garden, get Teddy," he murmured, already shifting to stand, thinking nothing of the suggestion.

Instantly, Draco tensed further, his spine snapping straight as though someone had pulled on an invisible string. Across the room, Narcissa stiffened as well, her fingers tightening slightly in her lap, rumpling her skirts, the subtle shift betraying an unease she would never voice aloud. The reaction was almost comical in its synchronicity—like two people bracing for an unavoidable disaster. Harry raised an eyebrow, biting back the urge to laugh, knowing neither of them would appreciate it. The infamous Malfoy composure was evidently not impervious to the existence of an excitable, half-wild child with no regard for manners or social convention.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," he muttered under his breath before leaning down and pressing a quick kiss to Draco's lips, entirely for his own amusement.

The response was immediate, and, frankly, delightful. Draco made an indignant noise, something between a squawk and a strangled gasp, jerking back as if Harry had just set him on fire. His pale complexion rapidly turned an alarming shade of red, from the tips of his ears all the way down his neck.

"Potter!" he hissed, horror-stricken. "My mother is right there—"

Narcissa, to her credit, did not so much as bat an eye, though there was an unmistakable twitch at the corner of her lips, as if she were fighting back a smirk. She had seen them do much more than give each other a peck, the reminder of that early morning where she had caught Draco with his hand down Harry's pants still fresh in his memory—and hers, apparently. Andromeda simply raised an unimpressed brow, looking thoroughly unbothered by Draco's dramatics. If anything, she seemed vaguely amused.

Undeterred, Harry smirked, entirely too pleased with himself. "Exactly. Thought I'd get my way while I had the upper hand."

Draco opened his mouth, undoubtedly to launch into an impassioned tirade about Harry's complete lack of decorum, but before a single word could escape, Harry had already disapparated from the room with a soft crack, leaving only the faint echo of his laughter behind. He was going to pay for that one, too; Draco hated when Harry was too lazy to exit the room properly.

That rule, of course, did not apply to moments of a more passionate nature.

The crisp evening air hit him immediately, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the drawing room. The scent of damp earth and freshly cut grass filled his lungs, and the distant hum of nocturnal creatures stirred in the quiet. Fairy lights—of actual fairies, too—strung along the hedgerows flickered like scattered stars, casting the garden in a golden glow to the cold, late autumn visage. It was peaceful, the kind of quiet that felt alive, rather than empty. The distant rustling of falling leaves accompanied the faint sound of a child's laughter—Teddy, undoubtedly up to some mischief.

"Teddy?" Harry called out, stepping further onto the stone path winding through the flowerbeds.

A yelp rang out, sharp and startled, followed by a sudden poof of uncontrolled magic.

Harry barely had time to take in the sight before laughter erupted from his chest.

Standing in the middle of a dying clover patch, and looking entirely scandalised, was Teddy, his usually bright turquoise hair now stark white. A bushy, exaggerated moustache curled over his upper lip, and an impressively long, beak-like nose stretched down past his chin. His amber eyes, wide with surprise, blinked up at Harry in stunned betrayal.

"You absolute menace," Harry wheezed between fits of laughter. "What is it you've been trying to do?."

Teddy scowled, swiping at his ridiculous moustache, as though trying to rid himself of it. "You scared me! I thought you were a gnome or something."

Harry clutched his chest in exaggerated offence. "A gnome? You wound me, truly. The famous Harry Potter, reduced to a mere garden pest in the eyes of his own godson. Tragic."

The boy snickered, his nose shrinking back to normal as his hair shifted to its usual turquoise hue, though it remained a shade or two too light. Then, as if just remembering the real reason for his summoning, he grinned. "So, do I finally get to meet the mysterious great-aunt and cousin now?"

"Unless you'd rather stay out here slandering my good name, yeah."

Teddy hummed, clearly considering the offer. Then, without warning, he launched himself at Harry's back, arms and legs locking around him like a particularly enthusiastic koala. "Carry me."

Harry staggered slightly under the sudden weight, but years of Quidditch-trained reflexes kept him from toppling over. That, and the fact that he had been working out lately. "Oh, so now I'm your personal transport, am I?"

"Yes," Teddy said matter-of-factly, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Famous Harry Potter and Teddy Lupin's noble steed. Dignified. Respectable."

Harry sighed, adjusting his grip before trudging back toward the house, his godson clinging to him like an overgrown barnacle. "Merlin help me, you're a hazard."

Behind them, the garden lights continued to twinkle, undisturbed by the ridiculousness unfolding in front of them.

"You're getting too heavy for this," Harry muttered in mock exhaustion, sagging dramatically against the banister for effect.

Teddy beamed, clearly pleased with himself. "That's 'cause I'm growing up!"

As they made their way up the staircase to the second floor, Harry occasionally let out an exaggerated grunt or huff, purely for Teddy's entertainment. The boy giggled against his shoulder, delighted by the ridiculous noises. The warmth of the house greeted them as they stepped inside, the distant murmur of conversation still carrying through the corridors. By the time they reached the landing to the second floor, Teddy had finally managed to get rid of his moustache, though his hair remained stubbornly minty. He was too preoccupied with excitement to care, wriggling in Harry's arms with increasing impatience.

"Oi—wait, let me put you down properly—"

Too late. Teddy squirmed free before Harry could get a proper hold on him, landing on the wooden floorboards with a force that nearly sent Harry toppling backward.

"Sorry!" Teddy blurted, but the apology was an afterthought—he was already bolting down the hall before Harry could respond.

Entering the room at top speed, and with absolutely no hesitation, he flung himself at Narcissa, his small arms wrapping around her waist in a tight, eager hug.

"I can't believe I finally get to meet you!" he exclaimed, bouncing on his heels. "I've always wanted another grandmother—"

"Great-aunt, Teddy!" Andromeda corrected, exasperated. To no avail, because Teddy was resolutely ignoring her, trying to climb onto Narcissa's lap.

For a long, breathless moment, Narcissa did not move. Narcissa's hands, which had been hovering awkwardly in the air, twitched slightly, uncertain. A Black did not do uncertainty. A Black did not get ambushed by an excitable five-year-old flinging himself into their lap. And yet, here she was, completely and utterly caught off guard.

Draco, who had been sitting resolutely where Harry had been minutes before, stood nervously still with the posture of someone preparing to flee, visibly anxious. His grey eyes flickered between his mother and Teddy with an expression that could only be described as mild horror. Whether it was because of Teddy's particular brand of child wildness, or the mere fact that a child was treating his mother like a newly-found best friend, Harry didn't know, but it was endearing. Andromeda, on the other hand, stood very still, watching the interaction unfold with the quiet intensity of someone who had waited for this moment far longer than she dared admit and was prepared for the worst. Harry, for his part, remained where he was, his hands still half-raised in a useless attempt to stop Teddy's full-body tackle. A small part of him wondered if he should intervene—Was this too much? Should he pry Teddy off before Narcissa hexed him out of reflex? But even as the thought crossed his mind, he saw it—something in her shifted.

It was subtle at first. The rigid tension in her shoulders loosened by the barest fraction, the sharp, controlled lines of her expression softened just enough to be noticeable. A flush of colour—so faint it could have been a trick of the firelight—crept up her pale cheeks, making her look even lovelier than she usually did.

And then, after a hesitation so brief it might have been imagined, she slowly, carefully curled her arms around him, as if holding something both fragile and infinitely precious. And, the second she did, the room seemed to hold still with her, as if the very walls of Grimmauld Place had paused to bear witness to this unexpected moment, giddy. Harry had never felt them this happy, making him smile. It was clear that the house, too, missed its family.

"I am incredibly happy to meet you, Mr Lupin," she murmured, her voice softer than Harry had ever heard it. There was warmth in it—tentative, unfamiliar, but there. Was this how she had sounded when Draco was a child? Motherly and affectionate?

Teddy wrinkled his nose, pulling back just enough to look up at her. "Mr Lupin was my dad! I'm too old to be a dad!"

A breath of laughter escaped her, quiet and unexpected, like it had been startled out of her before she could catch it. Like a wind chime. Harry swore he saw Draco's mouth fall open slightly, as if he had just witnessed something utterly perplexing.

"Edward, then?" she pressed as she watched him settle on her lap. With a small, delicate hand, she brushed his hair back, watching with wondrous eyes as it matched her golden curls.

"My name," he said importantly, as if it was the obvious choice, before pouting and looking at the ceiling, conflicted. "Although Edward makes me feel old."

"Then what do you prefer, then?" she asked, tilting her head slightly, as if they were in on a secret.

"Teddy," he said with all the confidence of a child who had already decided which name was far superior. "It sounds much cooler."

There was another pause—this one different from the thick, heavy silences that had weighed on the room earlier in the day. This one was… lighter. And then, to Harry's amazement, Narcissa gave a slow, deliberate nod, as if coming to terms with something deep within herself.

Just like that, the last traces of tension in the room began to melt away.

Teddy, emboldened by Narcissa's acceptance, did what five-year-olds did best—he talked.

"Do you like being called 'Narcissa'?" he asked, tilting his head. "Or do you have a nickname? I have loads of nicknames. Sometimes Gran calls me 'Teddy Bear,' but I think that's a bit babyish."

Narcissa, still looking as though she were recovering from the surreal experience of having a child suddenly materialise in her lap, blinked. "I… have only ever been called Narcissa."

"That's a bit boring, innit?" Teddy said thoughtfully, kicking his little legs against the sofa from where they framed her own thin legs. "Maybe I should give you a nickname."

A flicker of something amused crossed her face, though it was so brief that only Harry caught it.

"What would you suggest?" she asked, the faintest arch of her brow betraying her curiosity.

Teddy hummed in concentration, his hair shifting from bright gold and curly to an orangey shade that made him look like a fuzzy tangerine. "Narcissy is too long, and Cissy sounds like sissy, and that's not a good word," he muttered, tapping his chin dramatically. That last one made everyone pause and hold on a laugh—particularly Andromeda, given that 'Cissy' was indeed how she had called Narcissa during their childhood. Then his face lit up. "What about Narcie? Or Cissa?"

At that, Draco let out a strangled noise, somewhere between a cough and a choking laugh. Andromeda actually looked as though she might need to sit down.

Narcissa, for her part, blinked again. Slowly. "Narcie," she repeated, like she was tasting the name for poison.

Harry bit his lip to keep from laughing, stepping closer to Draco as Teddy launched into his next question. The scene unfolding before him was nothing short of brilliant. Narcissa, usually the very picture of controlled elegance, looked utterly flummoxed by the happy child playing Sherlock. Draco, who could talk circles around just about anyone with that sharp tongue of his, was rendered completely speechless by a five-year-old. And Teddy—sweet, exuberant Teddy—was delightfully unaware of the minor emotional catastrophe he was causing.

"Do you like chocolate or vanilla better?"

"Well, I—"

"Why do I even ask? Chocolate is clearly superior. Do you have a cat? Because Gran says we can't get one 'cause I wouldn't take care of it properly, but I think that's a bit unfair, don't you? I think a cat would be brill."

Narcissa opened her mouth, then closed it, looking perplexed and out of her depth. Harry couldn't help but wonder, right then, if Draco had been a quiet child and that was the reason Narcissa seemed so confused. Smiling from ear to ear, he felt a warm, amused fondness settle in his chest as he observed them, endeared by the unlikeliness of it all. Who would've thought that Teddy Lupin, of all people, would be the one to shake up the Malfoys? It was a sight he could've never imagined, and yet, now that it was happening, it felt… right. Like they belonged.

"Why are you dressed like that? Are you going to a party after? Can I come? Do I need to wear a dress?"

Still, as entertaining as seeing Draco so uncomfortable was, Harry didn't want Draco to feel like he was cornered by the enthusiasm of a tiny, overenthusiastic child. He could tell from the way Draco's shoulders were tense, and his hands hovered uncertainly in the air near his Dark Mark, that he was struggling with how to react. And if there was one thing Harry knew for certain, it was that Draco hated feeling out of his depth and alone.

So, reluctantly pulling his gaze away from the absurdity of Narcissa Malfoy being given a nickname or strongarmed into inviting Teddy to a non-existent party, Harry took the opportunity to walk towards his perplexed boyfriend. Once he stood next to him, he reached out, fingers brushing over Draco's sleeve in a silent bid for attention. He wanted to pull him into the conversation, make it easier for him to participate. After all, if Draco was going to be stuck with them, he might as well start learning how to swim. Gently, Harry pulled him off his cosy, emotional support sofa and toward his mother. The blonde shot him a sharp look, but Harry simply smiled at him, undeterred.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Draco allowed himself to be guided to the seats where the rest of his family was, settling stiffly next to Narcissa. He didn't even have time to react before Teddy's attention snapped to him like a dog smelling the treat bag opening in the kitchen.

"Cousin Draco!" Teddy gasped, as though he had just discovered buried treasure under the sand. And before anyone could stop him, he launched himself off Narcissa's lap and straight into Draco's.

Poor Draco could only make a strangled sound of distress. His entire body went rigid as a board, his arms hovering in the air as though uncertain what to do with the excitable child now clinging to him like a baby Niffler to a piece of gold.

"Oh, Circe," he muttered under his breath.

Harry bit his lip harder.

Teddy, completely unaware of Draco's existential crisis, grinned up at him. "I finally get to meet you! I've been dying to, you know."

Draco blinked. "You have?"

"Yeah! 'Cause Harry and Nana talk about you loads, and you never come visit, so I thought maybe you were super busy doing really important things. But now you're here, so I have to play with you!"

Draco stared at him.

Teddy frowned, tilting his head. "You're kinda quiet, huh?"

At the comment, Harry almost let an embarrassing guffaw. Draco? Quiet? Just as confused, his boyfriend opened his mouth, only to close it again when he realised he had no idea what to say. How do you tell a child that you weren't quiet, just extremely uncomfortable with a situation?

Teddy nodded sagely, as if he had just come to a great conclusion. "That's okay. You must be really shy. I can fix that."

Draco's entire body stiffened. "Fix—?"

"Yep! I bet you don't have loads of friends, huh?" Teddy continued, entirely too pleased with himself. "But I can be your friend! I'm really good at making people have fun. Just ask Harry."

Harry, who was watching the entire exchange with the dopiest, most besotted smile on his face, nodded. "He is very good at that."

Draco shot him a look that made Harry uncomfortably aroused.

Harry just squeezed Draco's thigh in reassurance, warmth blooming in his chest. He had never seen Draco like this—flustered, soft in a way he probably didn't even realise, given his horror. It made something in him ache with fondness, like his heart couldn't quite contain it all.

Narcissa, still looking as though she had entered an alternate universe, cleared her throat delicately. "Teddy, dear, why don't you give Draco a moment to—"

But Teddy wasn't listening. He was already bouncing in Draco's lap, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes. "So what do you wanna play? We could do Quidditch—do you like Quidditch? I love playing Seeker, Harry taught me! But I'm still little, so I can't ride a real broom, so maybe not. Oh! Or we could play Gobstones! Or maybe hide and seek! I love hide and seek!"

Draco, who had very clearly never been tackled by an affectionate five-year-old in his entire life, made a vague, helpless noise of anguish before nodding, accepting his doom.

Harry's heart felt like it was going to burst.