Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The house stood at the corner of the street, weathered by age. Its pale blue exterior paint peeled away as dark green vines snaked around the smoke-stained windows, resembling an ancient seed beginning to blossom. An orange glow from the setting sun illuminated its walls, while the century-old foundation groaned with each gust of wind.

Draco grunted as they landed in front of the house, Portkey travel always left him queasy. He stared up at the house, his right hand resting on the faint swell of his stomach and the other clutching a large bag. Trepidation settled deeper into his bones the longer he stood there.

“What an archaic way to travel,” Lucius muttered, smoothing his robes with a frown. “Utterly barbaric.”

Draco edged closer to the house, cringing at the sight of the rusted gates and weeds sprouting like ragged flowers in the neglected garden. A heavy hand gripped his shoulder, steering him forward as birds scattered from the Scots pine, its massive shadow stretching over the dilapidated garden.

One of the few living things still intact, Draco mused, eyeing the tree.

“Your grandmother left this for you,” his father said, looking at the property with a sneer. “She always did have eccentric tastes, but it’ll do. It just needs a good clean.”

Draco doubted a mere cleaning would suffice as they halted before a peeling blue door, its hinges crusted with rust.

“I don’t want to stay here,” Draco said, his first words since that morning when his parents had declared their decision to hide him away like a dirty secret. “Father, please —”

“You’ve no choice,” Lucius grunted, fumbling with the keys. “You’ve caused enough gossip in our circle. Best to keep a low profile until…” He glanced pointedly at Draco’s belly, and Draco shied away from the judgmental stare. “Yes, best to keep a low profile.”

“There we go,” his father muttered after unlatching the lock and wrenching the door open. He gestured impatiently for Draco to enter. Dust flooded Draco’s nostrils as he stepped inside, the stale air triggering a gag.

“Ah,” his father said, flicking the light switch. Nothing happened, hardly a surprise. “As I said, it just needs a good clean.”

Draco ignored him, his worn dragonhide boots crunching beetle carcasses as he marched to the sitting-room window and unlatched it. Fresh air trickled in, a fleeting relief as his gaze drifted to the peeling ceiling, and he wrinkled his nose.

“This place is uninhabitable,” he muttered, surveying the mold-speckled wallpaper and dust-choked surfaces. The house stood nearly empty — only a grimy sofa and a wobbling table rrmained as sorry excuses for decoration.

“You’ll make it habitable,” Lucius stated. “This is your home now. You’ve nowhere else to go.”

“I’ve nowhere else to go because you and Mother threw me out,” Draco retorted with a sidelong glance 

“Watch your tone,” Lucius hissed, striding towards him.

Draco clenched his hands into fists. “You expect me to live in this hovel?”

“I do, and you will,” his father sneered, tilting Draco’s chin up with his cane. “You’re a Malfoy, and Malfoys are strong, yes?”

Draco let out a choked noise, clutching his father’s robe. “I’m sorry, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I’ll stay hidden in my room, just don’t leave me here.”

“Draco,” Lucius sighed, pushing him back to meet his gaze. “We’ve spent years rebuilding our family’s standing. We can’t risk —”

“Can’t risk everyone knowing you’ve got a ‘whore’ for a son?” Draco interrupted, his breathing ragged. “One who let the first man to glance his way knock him up? That’s what they’re saying, isn’t it?”

The prolonged silence confirmed it; he was no longer the revered Malfoy heir but a fool who’d gotten himself pregnant out of wedlock. It didn’t matter that he was nearly twenty-seven — Pureblood society’s suffocating conservatism had learned nothing from the war.

Snatching his bag, Draco made a show of storming into the kitchen.

“There’s a village nearby,” his father mumbled as he watched his tantrum. “A magical one. It’s best to get acquainted with it.”

Draco gave a curt nod, refusing to meet his eyes. “Is that all?”

“Draco…” Lucius hesitated, his tone uncharacteristically soft. “If there had been another way...”

“Another way?” Draco spun around, voice sharp as ice. “You’ve made it clear status matters more than your own son.”

“Once the child’s born, you may return home,” Lucius said, but the words only stoked Draco’s fury.

“If you expect me on your doorstep in seven months, you’ll be sorely disappointed,” Draco hissed, crossing his arms. “You want me here? Fine, I’ll be here.”

He turned away, yanking clothes from his bag and hurling them onto the dusty floor.

“Take care,” Lucius murmured, voice distant. “Your mother and I…we do love you.”

Draco scoffed, refusing to acknowledge him. Only when the creak of the closing door echoed through the silence did he let the tears fall.

The wind howled through the gap under the front door as Draco swiped the last of his tears away, his throat raw. He stood frozen in the foyer, his hand still pressed to his face where the last tear had dried into a brittle salt-stain. A spider scuttled across the hardwood floor beside him, its tiny legs skittering over the warped boards.

Curiosity overcame dread as he headed towards the staircase. The steps groaned under his weight, splintered banisters snagging his cloak as he climbed. Upstairs, four bedrooms gaped open like empty crypts, doors sagging on rust-eaten hinges.

The first room greeted him with peeling wallpaper hanging in shreds, and a child’s drawing — a crude dragon sketched with charcoal — lay trampled near the threshold.

The second room wasn’t any better: a bed stripped to its bones and a porcelain doll’s head glared up at him from the floor, its neck jagged where someone had ripped off its body. Unease coiled in Draco’s gut at the fact extinguishing any desire to explore further as he retreated back downstairs.

Back downstairs, the kitchen greeted him with the stench of rust as he wrenched open a drawer, the wood crumbling like ash. He recoiled as a desiccated mouse tumbled out, its skull crushed beside a spoon crusted with verdigris. Bile rose in his throat as he staggered back, shoulder striking the living room’s cold fireplace.

“Does anything work in this bloody house?” he muttered, rubbing his aching shoulder. Glancing down at the fireplace, he frowned as he picked up the iron poker. Maybe, he could light it with wandless magic.

“Incendio,” he hissed, jabbing the rusted poker at the moss-choked logs for good measure.

Nothing.

His empty palm twitched, the phantom weight of his wand haunting him as the Ministry’s official jeer echoed in his mind: “A Malfoy doesn’t need temptations.” He hurled the poker at the hearth, the sound reverberating like a struck bell long after the metal stilled.

He groaned, frustration bubbling inside him as he massaged his temple.

Then, a cold droplet struck his scalp like a needle. Draco jerked his head up just as a second splash struck his eyelid. “What, now?”

Water bloomed across the ceiling in a spreading stain, drips forming a steady pattern. His breath hitched. No. Not this too.

“No, no, no —” He spun in place, boots slipping on the rapidly growing puddle on the floor. His gaze snagged on the broomstick leaning against the wall, bristles splayed and a warped handle.

He lunged for it, nearly tripping over his own cloak. The broom was too short to reach the leak, but he stabbed at the ceiling anyway, standing on his tiptoes as plaster crumbled onto his face. A droplet dripped straight into his open mouth.

“Ugh!” He spat, gagging at the brackish taste. Another couple of droplets soaked through his shoulder. Wildly, he dragged the rickety kitchen table beneath the worst leak, climbing onto its wobbling legs.

"Please, dont break. Please, dont break." he chanted as he tried to steady himself on the table. The broom handle glanced off the ceiling with a hollow thunk, accomplishing nothing.

“You useless —” He overbalanced, grabbing at air as the table shifted. One leg splintered, and he crashed down, elbow slamming the floor hard enough to blur his vision as the broom clattered away.

He gasped out in pain, rolling to his side as new leaks started sprouting through cracks in the plaster and around the light fixture, seeping down walls. The reek of wet rot filled the air as Draco crawled toward the broom. His hands shook as he seized it again, swinging blindly at the ceiling like beating back an enemy.

Bristles snapped off in a shower of dust as the handle splintered in his grip, one jagged edge slicing his palm. “Fuck,” he hissed, hurling the broken remains across the room, breathing ragged. Blood welled up in his right palm. He bit his bottom lip to stave off a whimper, pressing the wound to his chest, shoulders heaving.

Water dripped down his neck and back as some detached part of his brain registered that he was standing in a puddle now, but his legs refused to move.

Slumping against the wall, he tore a strip from his frayed robes and bandaged his hand. His travel bag dug into his spine, the vial inside glinting faintly; a prenatal potion, still untouched. His throat tightened, but he couldn’t bring himself to reach for it.

The house moaned around him, a cold draft slithering through cracks. A loose shutter banged in the distance, rhythmic as a heartbeat. Draco pressed his good hand to his belly, the chill of the floor seeping into his bones as he shivered.

He stared blankly as rain seeped through the ceiling, each droplet glinting like a shard of broken glass in the dim light of the half-shrouded moon. No wonder the whole place is rotting, he thought, the observation teetering into hysteria.

His body sagged backward onto his travel bag, the vial inside digging into his spine like a reproach. Eyes closed, he imagined the rainwater pooling on the floorboards, rising inch by inch until it swallowed the mold, the shattered broom, the untouched potion—until it swallowed him.

He’d let it.

He’d let it swell into a flood, let it drag him under and allow this crumbling house to become his grave, and this nightmare would finally end.

Mother would’ve known how to light the fire, he thought, the ache in his hand sharper than the cold.

Outside, the wind wailed.

Draco didn’t stir.

Dawn crept in, pale and sodden, the storm long past by the time Draco woke. His robes clung to him like a second skin, his hair plastered to his forehead, but his left hand remained steady over his stomach, a silent pact. Mice skittered inside the walls, and above, a spider labored to repair its rain-tattered web on the ceiling.

Morning light filtered through grimy windows, gauzy and weak as dust motes swam in the air, settling on every surface like a shroud. Draco groaned, blinking against the glare as his body protested, every muscle stiff, every joint screaming from the unforgiving floor. He sat up with a hiss, rainwater beneath his palms.

The floor had at least an inch of water, the air thick with a stale smell. He hadn’t even made it to the old sofa the night before, too tired and emotionally drained to care. As the veil of sleep lifted, the realization of where he slept hit him.

With a guttural groan, Draco staggered upright, his unsteady legs nearly buckling as he stumbled over his forgotten bag.

Rage surged through him, hot and blinding as the final thread of his composure snapped. Before he could think, he unleashed a raw scream, lashing out at the bag with a vicious kick. It didn’t make it far, barely splashing as it toppled over. For a heartbeat, he fantasized about flames devouring the house, reducing every infuriating detail to ash.

With a sigh, Draco slid back to the wet floor, the cold biting through his clothes. His left hand ached from the injury as he dragged in ragged breaths, the adrenaline leaching from his veins while emptiness crept in, heavy and suffocating, until even anger felt too exhausting to sustain.

He knew he couldn’t stay in the house until it was clean. He needed to leave, even if only briefly.

His clothes, what little he had, were wrinkled, stained, or barely fit for the public. The ones he wore now, threadbare but passable, were his last respectable set. Draco rummaged through his bag and pulled out a sack of 2,000 Galleons — his parents’ token of shame, but money all the same. The town might even have a shop that’ll make him look less like a castoff.

Trudging to the door, the wood creaked under his weight—even the damn house groaned like it, too, resented his presence.

The road to town was quiet, a far cry from Wizarding London or even his father’s old soirées. A sign floated over the archway: Welcome to Wrenbury!

“Wrenbury,” he muttered. This was his home now.

The narrow cobbled streets twisted like a maze, flower boxes brimmed with charmed blooms turned to track him as he passed, and tidy houses lined the roads, a stark contrast to his own crumbling property. He walked briskly, hands shoved in his pockets, ignoring the curious stares of early risers.

The town square buzzed with benign magic—brooms sweeping on their own, teapots floating from window sills, children ran past him, screeching with laughter.

Draco trailed them for a long moment, a pang of longing blooming in his chest before his eyes trailed beyond the square. A stone building sat at the end of the main street, strong magic lingered around it, familiar yet unplaceable, pulling him forward in curiosity.

He paused at the mahogany door, then pushed it open. Warmth, wood-smoke, and the tang of alcohol greeted him. Small balls of light glowed low over tables, lighting charms, he noted. The tavern wasn’t full, but the clink of glasses and murmur of voices felt oddly comforting. Draco’s breath snagged as his eyes caught sight of the bartender, the air turning to shards in his lungs.

Behind the bar, haloed in the tavern’s greasy light, stood Harry Potter.

The name lodged in Draco’s throat like a living thing, barbed and relentless.

His body betrayed him first; boots scraping polished floors, tendons coiling with the ache of old instincts, as if his very skeleton still hummed to the gravity of this man.

Ten years.

Ten years had passed since their last encounter; not the war’s end, but that stifling courtroom afterwards. Potter’s voice, ironclad and weary, had bound Draco to freedom instead of Azkaban. Now, memories surged forward like a shattered Pensieve: hexes spat in shadowed corridors, the glacial hatred of their schoolboy stares, and Potter’s raw rage on the day Draco learned the cost of his cruelty.

Sectumsempra. The scar beneath his robes prickled. It was as though he’d been split open again, lying in a puddle of his own blood, the phantom pain clawing at his skin.

Potter was elbow-deep in soapy water, his back facing Draco and laughing with a whiskered patron as if the world had never burned.

Draco’s sneer came automatically, a relic of old habits, but the insult died on his lips the more he watched Potter. The Savior stood relaxed, his smile easy and unguarded. He looked...happy.

The word felt foreign, almost bitter on Draco’s tongue. Resentment surged forward, unbridled. It wasn’t fair that Potter could find so easily what he himself had desperately craved since childhood.

He hesitated, one foot instinctively retreating before pride yanked him forward like a leash. He stepped up to the bar, forcing himself to stand tall as he rang the bell.

“Menus are everywhere if you want to browse, just give me a sec,” Potter called out, his back to him. His voice was deeper than Draco remembered, the sound of it leaving his mouth dry.

Draco glanced down at the menu, catching a few named beverages and foods. “The Golden Hour cocktail? Hogwarts’ platter? How sentimental of you, Potter.”

Potter froze, turning around after a moment of silence. Their eyes met, his gaze still that relentless, piercing green as he narrowed his eyes.

Time had reforged him; the spindly hero now thick with labor, shoulders broad behind a frayed apron, tan forearms roped with muscles that spoke of lifting more than a wand. Only his hair remained unchanged, that defiant nest of black curls, glowing like a crow’s wing under the lamplight.

Draco swallowed hard, his spine stiffening as he braced for the familiar scorn but Potter’s expression shifted, settling into careful neutrality, as though Draco was nothing more than a stranger.

“Malfoy,” Potter turned back to polishing a tumbler, voice flat as a blade. “I did hear some murmurs earlier that you’re Wrenbury’s latest recluse.”

Draco swallowed as he slid onto a stool. “I arrived yesterday. How could you possibly have known?”

Potter shrugged as he held the glass to the light, inspecting it for smudges. “Small town. Gossip travels faster than Floo powder.”

“Indeed,” Draco stared down at the wood. “Last I heard, you failed at heroics.”

Potter set down the glass he’d been polishing, the clink unnervingly deliberate. “I quit being an Auror a year ago,” His knuckles whitened around the rag. “The Ministry buried a case to please some silver-spoon benefactor and I wanted no part of it,” He shrugged, gaze drifting to the empty booths. “I prefer it here, though. The quiet suits me.”

“Right,” Draco muttered. The boy who’d vaulted into danger like a Seeker after the Snitch now preferred…wiping counters? He swallowed down a disbelieving laugh. The absurdity should’ve been comical; instead, it itched under his skin like a misaligned ward.

“Never pictured you settling for peace and quiet,” Draco said, fingers tracing a chip in the bar’s wood.

Potter’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “All I ever wanted was peace and quiet. It just took a while to get it.”

Liar. The word seared Draco’s tongue, threatening to come out and disrupt the strange peaceful exchange happening right now.

As far as he knew, Potter once thrived on the electric crackle of conflict, the way crowds roared his name like a living spell.

Yet, here stood a stranger with the same scar but softer edges, posture relaxed in a way that defied Draco’s memories and preconceived notions. The dissonance clawed at him—two versions of Potter overlapped, yet neither slotted neatly into place in his mind.

The bartender tilted his head, light glinting off his round glasses. “So. Were you exiled from the Wizarding World, or…?”

Draco’s nails bit crescent moons into his palms. “My grandmother left her house to me,” he clipped out. “I intend to restore it.”

“Ah,” Potter’s rag settled on his shoulder. “That crumbling house on the outskirts of town, right? I know of it. It’s one stiff wind from becoming a rock pile.”

Draco bristled. “I’ll make it livable,” he insisted, spine rigid.

Green eyes flicked up, looking him over. “I doubt you even know how to hold a broom, Malfoy.” Potter leaned forward. “If you need help, you can just say so.”

Draco laughed, a brittle, mirthless sound. “Playing altruist now? Spare me. We both know what we were at Hogwarts.”

“We were children,” Potter’s voice dropped, low and weary. “Hate’s a heavy cloak, Malfoy, and it gets cumbersome after a while.” His gaze lingered on Draco’s Mark, a whisper of its former form; barely visible as a faint outline. Draco still hoped that one day he’d find the dreadful thing completely gone. “Besides… you’ve been punished enough.”

The words struck with the precision of a well-aimed hex as Draco’s breath hitched;  the Ministry’s surveillance, Mother’s hollow smiles, strangers’ whispers of “Death Eater” clinging to him everywhere he went, acrid as cursed smoke. Truth bled through the cracks of Potter’s casual cruelty, and Draco hated him for it,  hated him more for sounding almost kind.

“Oi, Harry! Another round ‘ere!” Someone called out from the end of the bar.

Draco watched with a bored expression as Potter went over and poured a deep amber liquid into a shot glass. The drunk wizard downed it quickly, steam sprouting from his ears only a moment later.

“Easy there, Carl,” Potter laughed, reaching over to pat the man on the back as he fell into a coughing fit. “You know you can’t handle firewhiskey, and yet, you always order it.”

“Not like you ever stop me, Potter,” the man wheezed out, his face red.

“Hey, if you’re willing to pay, I’m not going to stop you.” Potter laughed good-naturedly, pushing a water toward the man before turning back toward him.

Draco tried not to fidget as the Savior considered him for a moment before filling a glass with water and pushing it toward him.

“I’m not condemning you nor holding your past against you, Malfoy, if that’s what you were wondering. I would hope you’ve changed after ten years. You were a kid who grew up surrounded by toxic ideologies. I think you deserve a bit of grace.” Potter said after a beat of silence.

Draco stared at the bar, tracing a knot in the wood, mulling over his words. His change was laughable; he’d traded arrogance for survival, cruelty for caution. It was more forced upon him than a conscious decision. Yet, Potter made it sound like progress.

“Hard to forget who I was,” Draco muttered, the admission sour on his tongue.

Potter hummed. “Don’t forget, just...being yourself will be far more rewarding.”

Draco glanced up, startled by the lack of malice in Potter’s gaze. No pity, either, just a quiet observation.

“Not sure who that is yet,” he admitted, hating the vulnerability.

Potter shrugged. “You’ve got time.”

Time. A luxury Draco hadn’t felt he’d earned.

He cleared his throat, eager to change the subject. “I need a place to stay, do you have any rooms available?”

Potter’s eyes narrowed, flaring up before he took a slow breath and said, “We’ve got a room upstairs that’s free. It’s not much, but it’s quiet. For a night, at least.”

Draco exhaled, relieved but still wary. “That will do.”

“Alright,” Potter said, reaching beneath the counter for a key. His green eyes never strayed from him. “It’ll cost you, though.”

“I can pay,” Draco replied quickly, then paused, narrowing his eyes. “How much?”

Potter studied him, and Draco fought the urge to fidget. That gaze still saw too much. Finally, Potter tossed him a key. “Fifty Galleons. Or a meal if you’re skint, but don’t make it a habit.”

Fifty Galleons was a steep price for a room in a place like this, but Draco wasn’t exactly in a position to argue. He scowled, reaching into his coat pocket.

Pride wouldn’t let him take charity, either.

“Upstairs, second door to the right,” Potter said, turning to a patron. “Try not to burn the place down, yeah?”

Draco started heading toward the stairs before pausing. His wet robes still clung to him, and the discomfort was unbearable. Cold, clammy fabric clung to his skin, and the faint smell of damp wool made his nose wrinkle. He glanced at the stairs, hesitating for a moment before his pride gave way to necessity.

Draco cleared his throat, drawing the other man’s attention. Potter looked up, eyebrows raised. “What now?”

Draco crossed his arms, trying to mask his discomfort with his usual haughty demeanor. “I require clean clothes. Immediately.”

Potter blinked, then let out a short laugh. “We’re not a hotel, Malfoy. You don’t just get room service because you snapped your fingers.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “I’m not asking for a five-course meal, Potter. I’m asking for basic human decency  unless you expect me to sleep in this,” he gestured to his sodden robes, “and catch a cold.”

Potter tilted his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Did you hit your head and forget you're a wizard, you could always magic them dry.  ”

Draco froze for a fraction of a second, his mind racing. He couldn’t bring himself to admit the truth; that the Ministry had confiscated his wand, leaving him as helpless as a Muggle, since his probation start and long after it was over. Instead, he lifted his chin, his voice dripping with disdain. “I don’t waste my energy on trivialities. Unlike some people, I have better things to do.”

Potter’s smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of suspicion. He leaned against the bar, studying Draco with those infuriatingly perceptive green eyes. “Trivialities, huh? You’re really going to stand there, dripping all over my floor, because drying your robes is too beneath you?”

Draco’s cheeks flushed, but he held his ground. “If you’re incapable of providing basic amenities, just say so. I’ll manage.”

Potter snorted. “Right because you’re doing such a great job of ‘managing’ so far.”

Draco glared at him, his patience wearing thin. “Are you going to help me or not, Potter? Or do you enjoy watching your guests suffer?”

Potter studied him for a moment, his smirk fading as he took in Draco’s disheveled state — the damp hair plastered to his forehead, the faint shiver he couldn’t quite suppress. Finally, he sighed, running a hand through his messy hair.

“Fine,” he said, his tone resigned. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Draco’s lips twitched into a smug smile. “I knew you’d see reason.”

“Don’t push it,” Potter muttered, shooting him a glare before disappearing into the back room.

Draco lingered for a moment, satisfaction warming him despite the chill of his wet clothes. He turned on his heel and headed upstairs, already imagining the relief of slipping into something dry. As he reached the landing, one thought lingered:

What the hell was Potter doing in this small town?

The next morning, Draco blinked awake to the sound of knocking. Sunlight seeped through the curtains, casting long shadows across the room. For a disoriented moment, he forgot where he was until the scent of tea and eggs pulled him back.

Wrenbury.

Potter’s tavern.

The knock came again, sharper this time.

“Go away,” Draco groaned into the pillow, his stomach churning, the lingering nausea from yesterday’s events mixing with the cloying smell of tea in the air.

Maybe if I ignore him, he’ll leave.

“Malfoy?” Potter’s voice, annoyingly alert. “Are you alive in there?”

Draco groaned, dragging himself upright. His hair clung to his neck in damp strands, the ribbon he’d tied it with last night now dangling uselessly on the edge of the bed. He glared at the door as if it had personally offended him.

The floorboards creaked, and Potter’s voice softened. “I brought breakfast, you’ll want it before the morning crowd arrives.”

Draco’s stomach growled, and he cursed under his breath, stumbling to the door and swinging it open, squinting.

The dark-haired wizard stood there, tray in hand, wearing that infuriating earnest expression behind gold-rimmed glasses. His gaze flicked to Draco’s disheveled state, crumpled shirt, bare feet, hair like a bird’s nest, and his grin returned.

“Charming as ever,” Potter snorted, holding out the tray.

Draco crossed his arms, blocking the doorway. “Do you personally deliver meals to all your guests?”

Potter’s smile turned teasing. “Only the pretty ones.”

Heat flared up Draco’s neck as he glared, spinning around and marching toward the bathroom. He made a show of slamming the door so hard the walls rattled to distract from how flustered he was. Leaning against the door, he let out a sharp breath through his teeth. Pathetic. Blushing like a first-year.

“Come on, if it makes you feel better, you’re not pretty. Now, will you come eat now?” Potter said, his voice muffled.

“Shut up, how would that make me feel better?" Draco snapped, leaning against the door. He paused before adding, “And I am pretty.”

He ignored Potter’s scoff as he walked up to the sink, sighing as he looked at the mirror.

He didn’t bother rushing brushing his teeth and combing his hair, hoping Potter would take a hint and just leave. Emerging a few minutes later, Draco groaned when he spotted the Savior leaning against the opposite wall.

“Did you fall in?”

“Bugger off,” Draco glared, crossing his arms to hide his trembling hands. “What’s this, then?”

“The Seeker’s Sunrise,” Potter declared, setting down a plate of eggs, toast, cheese pastries, and a teapot. “Guaranteed to outshine your perpetual scowl.”

Draco eyed the meal in silence. The eggs were absurdly fluffy, the pastries glistened with butter, and the toast bore a lattice of caramelized honey that spelled…was that a tiny snitch?

“You’ve branded the toast and named the food,” Draco said flatly. “Have you gone full Hufflepuff?”

“Full artisanal, actually,” Potter corrected, sliding into the seat at the table uninvited. He pointed to each item of food and named them, “Phoenix Folded Omelette, Snitch's Crisp Toasts, Patronus Puffs —”

“Let me guess,” Draco interrupted, snatching a round pastry and examing it, “They’re filled with hope and childhood trauma?”

“Gouda and chives, actually, though I do like your version,” Potter quipped, pouring the tea. Steam curled into shapes that vaguely resembled racing brooms. “This one’s Earl’s Epiphany; stir it anticlockwise and let the bitterness evolve.”

Draco’s stomach lurched at the smell. He scowled to cover up the nausea. “Did you give everything on the menu a name? How unappealing,”

“Says the man eyeing a second pastry,” Potter pointed out in amusement.

He was, in fact, reaching for one. The cheese was rich and smoky — nothing like the delicate French fare he’d grown up with.

“It taste...good.” It was like pulling a tooth to even get that compliment out.

Potter leaned against the chair, sunlight catching the flecks of flour in his hair. “House-elf recipe, secret ingredient’s existential dread.”

“Funny,” Draco reached for another, hoping to quell his nausea. The last thing he wanted was to throw up in front of Potter.

“Sit,” Potter said casually. “You’re pale.”

“I’m always pale,” Draco retorted. “Besides, I’m not hungry.” Potter gave him an incredulous look, and Draco felt his cheeks redden. Even he knew that was a blatant lie as he reached for another pastry.

“Suit yourself, but if you die of starvation, I’m not explaining it to the Prophet.” His voice lowered, mimicking a reporter. “‘Chosen One Lets Malfoy Heir Perish in Squalor — Has He Finally Gone Dark?!’ Terrible for business.”

“Bold of you to think the Prophet wouldn’t be celebrating you for my death,” Draco said, picking up a fork and inspecting the eggs.

Potter snorted. “It’s the Prophet. They’ve been waiting for me to rise as the next ‘Dark Lord’ for the last ten years. That probably takes priority.”

Draco sighed, finally taking the seat opposite the black-haired wizard. “The food could be poisonous for all I know,” he muttered under his breath.

“You just ate six pastries.”

“It was three, I’m not a glutton,” he retorted, stabbing at the eggs. “I don’t understand you, Potter. You went out of your way to do all this. Why?”

“Do I really need a reason? Just call it hospitality,” Potter shrugged, leaning forward. “This is me extending an olive branch, Malfoy. Take it or don’t.”

The words hung between them as Draco’s fork clinked against the plate. He raised his eyes, assessing him. “If you’re going to hover around me, then I suppose I can be cordial.”

Potter blinked, then smiled, resting his head on the palm of his hand. “Does that mean I get to call you Draco?”

“No.” Draco refused to admit he felt the warmth that washed over him at the sound of his name coming from Potter’s mouth. He cleared his throat and shoved the pot of tea toward him. “Take it, it's making me nauseous.”

“Why?” Potter’s brow furrowed, “I thought you loved Earl Grey?”

Draco shot him an incredulous look. “How would you even know that?” That type of knowledge had to come from Potter’s obvious stalking during their sixth year. Creep.

Potter waved away the question, opening the lid to the pot with a frown. “Did I make it wrong?”

Draco groaned, pushing his hair back as he felt his nausea return. “Stop talking, Potter.”

“Aw, come on, what happened to the truce?” Potter pouted, putting the lid back on the teapot. “What kind of host would I be if I didn’t want to know why you don’t want your favorite tea?”

“No reason," Draco gripped the table, his knuckles whitening. A beat of silence, then—

“Draco,” Potter’s voice dipped, all humor gone. “Are you…ill?”

Ill. The word hung in the air, sharp as a blade. Draco’s throat tightened, he could lie. He should lie. But Potter’s gaze was relentless, peeling back layers Draco had spent years stitching together.

“Not ill,” Draco said finally, voice brittle.

“Then, what?”

Draco’s stomach finally settled as the scent of the tea faded away. He briefly lamented that he wouldn’t be drinking his favorite tea for months to come before he looked up, meeting the other wizard’s eyes.

Potter’s concern was worse than his mockery. Those damn green eyes, always seeing too much.

“It’s none of your business.”

Potter huffed, his brow furrowed. “You’re in my tavern, alone and looking seconds away from puking. That makes it my business.”

“Since when have you ever cared?” Draco laughed, the sound bitter and hollow. “Run along, Potter, your hero complex is showing.”

Potter didn’t move. His gaze dropped to Draco’s hands — clutching his stomach, Draco realized too late.

“Do you have a stomach bug?” Potter asked, he pulled out his wand, and Draco stiffened. That wand— the one that had once sent him crumpling to a bathroom floor, slick with his own blood.

His heart skipped a beat, and he jerked back. The movement didn’t go unnoticed by Potter, who lowered his wand, his cheek flushed.

“I wasn’t…Hermione taught me a spell for stomach ailments,” he muttered, tucking the wand back into its holster. He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding Draco’s gaze. “I can get you a potion instead, if you’d prefer.”

“I’m not sick,” Draco snapped, he sighed, rising abruptly to his feet. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he pushed aside his robes, revealing the faint, undeniable curve of his abdomen. “I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

Potter’s teacup clinked against its saucer as he set it down with unsteady hands. “Oh,” he breathed, staring at Draco with a blank expression. Draco lowered himself back into the chair, the fabric of his robe whispering back into place like a secret half-told.

“How long?” Potter asked, his voice stripped to a thread.

Draco dug his nails into his palms, the sting anchoring him. “What?”

“How long have you been…?” Potter gestured vaguely toward Draco’s midsection, uncharacteristically hesitant.

Say it. Say it and watch his pity curdle to disgust.

“Pregnant? It’s not a curse, Potter, you can say it,” Draco spat, the words poisonous on his tongue. “Two months. Happy?”

Potter’s face went carefully neutral while Draco braced for the sneer, the righteous jabs, but Potter only nodded, as if piecing together a riddle.

“That’s why you’re here,” he stated, laying his palms flat on the table. “Not for the bloody house.”

Draco barked out a laugh, returning to his breakfast. “Astute as ever.” Silence thickened between them, broken only by the violent scrape of Draco’s butterknife sawing into his toast.

“You’re alone,” Potter stated, not a question.

The words hung, soft and lethal as Draco froze. Alone. The truth of it carved through him; his parents’ icy indifference, the Manor’s hollow echoes, his grandmother’s crumbling house.

He was, wasn’t he?

He couldn’t recall the last time someone stood close enough to cast a shadow beside his own.

“I prefer it that way,” he lied, stabbing his fork into the eggs with more force than necessary as metal screeched against ceramic.

“Do you?”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “I don’t need a nursemaid.”

“Never said you did,” Potter slid the teapot closer to himself. “But…if you ever have a craving for something, or just need someone to sit with you while you glare at the walls, I’m around.”

The offer shimmered in the air, fragile as a soap bubble as Draco stared at his plate, throat burning.

“Don’t pity me.”

“It’s not pity,” Potter’s voice softened, frayed at the edges. “We’ve done terrible things to each other. This is me trying to be better.”

The ache in Draco’s chest sharpened. All the petty cruelties he’d wielded like knives, desperate to make those green eyes see him, year after year and now here they sat: a war hero turned tavern keeper, and a pariah with a child he’d never planned to carry. Sharing toast in the wreckage.

“I’m the first you told?” Potter asked, pulling Draco from the jagged edges of his memories.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Draco sneered, rolling his eyes as he shifted in his seat. The wood creaked beneath him, too loud in the quiet room. “My parents know. Not that they care to acknowledge it, they’d rather I vanish than ‘taint’ the sacred Malfoy name.”

Potter’s brow furrowed, then went eerily still. “That's fucked,” he said finally, sipping his tea with deliberate slowness. He flicked his wrist, vanishing the teapot with a silent spell. Show-off. Draco glared at him, dabbing his eyes with a napkin while Potter chewed his toast, feigning nonchalance.

“Don’t worry about me,” Draco muttered, the bite gone from his voice. “I’ll figure things out.”

Potter didn’t answer at first. His gaze lingered, heavy and unreadable, until a crash echoed from downstairs – the sound of shattered glass, followed by raucous laughter. The tavern’s chaos seeped through the floorboards, a stark contrast to the fragile quiet between them.

“Yeah,” Potter said at last. “You will.”

Draco wasn’t entirely sure whether that was a statement of confidence or a promise.

Chapter Text

Wrenbury's dawn crept over the hills in pale gold streaks as Harry walked the familiar path toward town. The crisp morning air carried the scent of damp earth and crushed grass beneath his boots. He told himself this stroll had nothing to do with anticipating a certain blond haired wizard's appearance at the duck pond yet his feet carried him there anyway.

Fourteen days.

Two weeks since Draco Malfoy had appeared at his tavern, rain-soaked and hollow-cheeked. Thirteen nights since Harry learned about the secret growing beneath those robes.

A pebble skittered across the path under Harry's kick. Ten years of distant observation — newspaper clippings tucked in drawers, whispered Ministry updates, whispered gossip ("Saw that Malfoy boy the other day —looked half-starved") — all justified as professional vigilance. Know thy enemy.

Then, came the Auror briefing about the abandoned Black property here in Wrenbury. How his pulse had jumped — not just at the memories of Sirius's stories, but at the thought of him appearing to stake a claim before the Ministry seized it.

Harry exhaled, watching his breath fog in the cool air.

He'd submitted his resignation that same week and moved the next month, Grimmauld Place's oppressive silence had become unbearable, while this quiet village with its crumbling manor house felt like... something between a fresh start and a long-overdue confrontation.

Reeds rustled, Harry's shoulders tensed.

Just a moorhen stirring at the water's edge.

He rubbed the ache beneath his sternum. Pathetic Draco was likely still asleep in that east-facing room— the one Harry passed multiple times each night, pausing to listen for restless movements or muffled nightmares.

Old habits died harder than Dark Lords.

The path curved toward the pond, Harry slowed, dew soaking through his bootlaces. He could still turn back. Pretend this was just about enjoying the sunrise glinting off willow branches —

"Give that back, you feathered thief!"

Harry's breath caught.

Draco stood shin-deep in the shallows, morning light turning his sleep-tousled hair to liquid silver. He brandished a bread crust like a duelist's wand at an unimpressed mallard. When the bird snatched its prize anyway, the corner of Draco's mouth twitched —almost a smile.

Something warm and dangerous unfurled in Harry's chest.

He should leave. Let Draco have this private moment but —

"Finally decided to show your face, Potter?" Draco didn't turn around.

Caught. Harry stepped forward, wet grass whispering beneath his feet. "You're up early." As if dawn strolls were standard Malfoy behavior.

Draco finally glanced over his shoulder, eyes gleaming like polished steel. "And you're stalking, how predictable."

The duck quacked triumphantly with its stolen bread. Draco's indignant huff dissolved into —

Harry laughed. Really laughed, the sound echoing across the pond. Draco's scowl deepened, but Harry didn't miss the way his fingers relaxed, scattering crumbs across the water's surface like tiny offerings.

"Draco!"

Harry moved before conscious thought even registered — Auror reflexes propelling him forward just as the seamstress' daughter launched herself at Draco's midsection. He caught the back of her overalls mid-air, swinging her away from the water's edge.

"Put me down, Harry!" Ellie kicked like an enraged pygmy puff. "I was gonna hug him!"

"With the force of a Bludger," Harry muttered, setting her down. His gaze flicked to Draco's white-knuckled grip on the railing.

Draco smoothed his expression into practiced disdain. "As if I needed your help."

"You're welcome," Harry's pulse still raced, that fleeting image of Draco toppling backward flashing behind his eyes.

Ellie waved her own bread crust. "We can share mine! And then —"

"No," Draco cut her off with raised palms. "Whatever comes after 'and then' is invariably disastrous."

"It's just rocks!" Ellie's grin revealed a missing front tooth. "Magic ones!"

"All minerals exhibit magical properties at the molecular — " Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why am I explaining this to someone who eats dirt?"

Harry crouched to Ellie's level. "How about we finish feeding the ducks first?"

"But Mister Drakey —"

Draco stiffened, scrunching up his nose at the ridiculous name as Harry snorted.

Ellie grabbed Draco's hand with sticky fingers. "Pleasepleaseplease?"

Draco made a sound like a deflating whoopee cushion. "This is extortion."

Harry's laughter surprised them both. Draco's glare lacked its usual venom, replaced by something startled and fragile as if he'd forgotten what it sounded like when laughter was aimed at him rather than cutting through him.

"Quiet, Potter," Draco grumbled, but allowed himself to be towed toward the water's edge, his free hand drifting unconsciously toward his abdomen.

The morning painted them in gold, the giggling child, Draco and his carefully maintained scowl, and that telltale protective gesture Harry pretended not to notice.

He remained where he stood, damp seeping through his trousers.

Some bridges couldn't be crossed in a single morning.

But for now, watching Draco reluctantly accept a grubby handful of quartz from an adoring five-year-old, this was enough.

The pond fell silent after Ellie's departure, its surface smoothing like poured mercury. Draco remained motionless at the water's edge, his distorted reflection wavering; a nobleman's portrait left out in the rain. Harry recognized that defensive posture; not the aristocratic bearing of Hogwarts days, but the coiled readiness of someone who'd learned to take hits and keep standing.

"You've been avoiding me," The accusation landed heavier than Harry intended, rippling the fragile peace between them.

"I've been busy," Draco said, too casually, like commenting on the weather rather than the chasm between them. "The door's always open, if you'd wanted to...visit."

That deliberate pause conjured a dozen unsaid things — you knew where to find me and you never came tangled together.

Harry flicked a pebble into the water, watching the concentric rings spread. "Figured you needed room to breathe." More than I did, he didn't add. The admission would have burned coming up.

Draco's laugh sounded like a china plate cracking. "Since when do you care about my comfort?"

Harry stuffed his hands in his pockets until the fabric strained. "I can be civilized," He let the word hang between them, barbed and deliberate. "When it matters."

A sharp inhale. Draco's hand rose,not the dramatic flourish Harry remembered from their school days, but a fleeting, unconscious touch to his abdomen, gone before Harry could properly register it.

They sat on the weathered bench like rival kings at a truce meeting. Close enough that Harry caught the citrus-and-ink scent that always clung to Draco, distant enough that the morning chill settled in the space between them.

"That house," Harry began, tracking a heron's flight across the reeds. He'd passed the derelict Black property repeatedly this week, cataloging each broken shutter and sagging eave, fighting the absurd impulse to start repairs himself.

Draco's reflection fragmented as a fish broke the surface. "What about it?" The forced indifference didn't mask the tension in his jaw.

"My offer still stands," Harry kept his gaze on the horizon, giving Draco this small privacy. "No one should live in that ruin."

The willow branches sighed above them, a dragonfly hovered near Draco's knee before darting away.

"I haven't stayed there since arriving." Draco picked at a loose thread on his sleeve, unraveling the stitching inch by inch. "Haven't done much of anything, really."

The confession hit Harry like a poorly cast Stupefy. He turned slowly, taking in the shadows beneath Draco's eyes, the way his usually crisp collar lay slightly askew. The proud Draco Malfoy, brought to this; a wraith haunting a village barely on the map.

"Why?"

Draco's throat worked as he studied his warped reflection. "You've seen the Prophet " His fingers brushed his forearm through the fabric. "My rehabilitation makes for excellent filler between the weather and Quidditch scores."

Harry's nails bit into his palms. He knew those articles — the same damning trial photo dredged up every few months, teenage Draco's tear-streaked face forever frozen in public shame.

"I didn't come here for redemption," Draco's voice had gone quiet as the lapping waves. 

The morning's chill seeped into Harry's bones. He watched Draco's uneven breaths fog the air, short, controlled bursts like he'd been running.

"Survival isn't about performance," Harry said finally. He nudged Draco's shoe with his own, a silent you're not alone here. "And that tavern bed must be murder on your spine."

A beat of silence. Then, an incredulous snort. "You're serious."

"Stubborn as ever."

Draco turned fully then, the rising sun catching in his eyes, not the cool silver of coins, but the warm gray of a storm breaking. Harry forgot to breathe.

"I'll...think about it," Draco murmured, each word clearly costing him.

Harry nodded, curling his fingers to stop himself from reaching out when Draco's hand drifted again to his stomach. Some roads couldn't be traveled in a single conversation.

"Don't wait too long," he said instead of all the other things crowding his throat. I want to help. Let me fix this. Let me in.

As he walked away, he felt Draco's gaze like sunlight on the back of his neck, equal parts warmth and warning.

It didn't take long for Draco to cave and ask for his help.

The peeling blue door loomed like a condemned man's last threshold. Harry traced a splintered groove in the wood just as it swung inward, revealing Draco framed in the doorway - sleeves shoved past his elbows, a smudge of grime striping one sharp cheekbone.

"Seven minutes late," Draco announced, stepping aside with the stiff grace of a Kneazle tolerating visitors.

Harry bit the inside of his cheek. "Sunrise was at six-fifty-three. It's now seven-oh-two."

"I said dawn, not astronomical twilight," Draco snatched the bucket from Harry's hands. "There's a difference."

The house exhaled as Harry stepped inside; a sigh of old wood and damp plaster, the kind of breath that carried decades of dust in its lungs. 

The entryway yawned before them, its once-grand staircase sagging like a drunkard against the wall. Faded wallpaper peeled in languid curls, revealing patches of mold blooming like shadowy constellations across the walls.  

Draco hovered in the doorway, his silhouette framed by morning light that did nothing to soften the house's jagged edges. His fingers flexed at his sides, as if resisting the urge to wipe the grime from every surface at once.  

"You weren't exaggerating," Harry murmured, toeing a warped floorboard that groaned like a wounded animal. The air tasted stale—thick with the ghosts of extinguished fires and long-abandoned meals.  

"Of course I wasn't." Draco's voice echoed oddly in the hollow space, bouncing off water-stained ceilings where chandeliers once hung. Now only rusted hooks remained, dangling like unanswered questions.  

The house smelled of lemon polish, sunlight sputtering through grimy windows, illuminating dust motes that swirled around Draco like misplaced magic.

Harry trailed a finger along the banister, coming away with a gray film of neglect. "This place has good bones," he lied.  

Draco shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass as he knelt on the floor, "It has termites and a Doxy Queen nesting in the attic."  

“Well, that's not good,” Harry muttered as he watched him scrub at a stubborn stain on the floorboards, his forearms flexing with each aggressive swipe.

"Merlin's balls, Draco, take a breath," Harry crouched beside him, their shoulders nearly touching. "You'll put yourself into early labor at this rate."

Draco's scrubbing paused. A flush crept up his neck, whether from exertion or the mention of the baby, Harry couldn't tell.

"Unlike some people," Draco said through clenched teeth, "I don't require coddling.”

Harry snorted, and a sharp kick to the shin was his retort.

"Focus, Potter," Draco muttered, though his ears had gone pink. "That cabinet won't polish itself.”

They worked in companionable silence, the rhythm of their movements falling into sync.

Harry stole glances when Draco wasn't looking; the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders when he reached high, the way he bit his bottom lip when he was thinking.

"You're staring," 

"Admiring your work ethic," Harry lied easily.

Draco scoffed, but Harry didn't miss the way his lips twitched. "The day I believe that...”

A thunderous crack split the air as the floorboard beneath Draco's foot gave way. Harry moved without thought - one arm banding around Draco's waist, the other bracing against the wall. Their chests collided, Draco's startled gasp warm against Harry's jawline. For one suspended moment, Harry could count every sunlit eyelash framing Draco's widened eyes, feel the rabbit-quick pulse beneath his fingertips.

For a heartbeat, they stood frozen. 

"See?" Harry murmured, his voice rough. "This is why we don't stand on questionable woodwork."

Draco's breath hitched. "I hate when you're right."

Harry grinned. "You'll get used to it.”

The moment stretched, taut as a bowstring. Then Draco cleared his throat and stepped back, his composure sliding into place like a well-worn mask.

"Perhaps, we should start somewhere else," he announced, brushing nonexistent dust from his trousers. "Unless you've developed a sudden fear of feather dusters?"

Harry watched the pink tips of Draco's ears as they moved deeper into the house, their footsteps stirring up little puffs of dust that danced in the slanted sunlight. The sitting room smelled of wet wool and something faintly sour like milk left to curdle in a forgotten cup. A lone armchair slumped in the corner, its upholstery split open like a gutted fish, spilling yellowed stuffing onto the floor.  

Harry watched Draco survey the damage, his throat working as he took in the cracked hearth, the spiderwebs veiling the windows like lace curtains. There was something heartbreaking in the way his hand twitched toward his wand — a reflex even years without magic couldn't break.  

“I know you don't have your wand.”

Draco stilled midstep but didnt turn around.

"You kneeling in filth doing manual labor was a pretty big hint," Harry added lightly, watching the way Draco’s shoulders locked tight under his thin shirt.  

Draco swallowed, his fingers flexing like they were longing for something to grip. "The Ministry still has it," he said finally, voice scraped raw.  

Harry nodded, "I know," He weighed the next words like gold grains. "I’ll get it back for you."  

Draco scoffed as he continued walking with renewed vigor. "I’ve managed this long without—"  

"You shouldn’t have to."  

The words landed like a curse between them, Draco stilled, his breath coming too fast. Harry could see the pulse fluttering at his throat, the way his knuckles whitened around the brush handle.  

Harry exhaled slowly, "Shacklebolt owes me favors. It’s not — "  

"Don’t." 

Harry took a step closer, close enough to see the tremble Draco couldn’t quite hide. "It’s basic human decency, that's it, or are you allergic to that, too?"  

A wet, ragged sound escaped Draco — not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. He swiped at his face with his sleeve, leaving a streak of blue across his cheekbone. "Fuck you, Potter."  

"Yeah," Harry said softly, reaching out to thumb the dust — tears, they were tears — from Draco’s jaw. "I know."  

Draco didn’t pull away.  

The house held its breath around them, the floorboards creaking like old bones. Somewhere in the walls, the doxy queen stirred.  

Harry let his hand fall. "Come on, let's keep moving," he said, turning toward the stairs.  

Behind him, the barest whisper: "Thank you."  

Harry didn’t turn around, just nodded, and kept walking.  

"Bedroom's worse," Draco muttered, once they reached the top of the stairs, the hallway seemed to lean inward, walls bowing as if the house itself was trying to whisper secrets in their ears.  

The largest bedroom held the sharp, metallic scent of a long-dead fire in its grate. 

Water stains mapped the ceiling like strange, sprawling islands on some forgotten sea.

Draco went immediately to the window, wrestling with the swollen frame until it screeched open, letting in a gust of air that smelled of distant rain and the lavender struggling to grow wild in the untamed garden below.  

Harry tested the bedframe with one hand. The wood protested with an ominous creak. "We should probably —"  

"Burn it? I agree," Draco's fingers worried at a loose thread on his sleeve. "The whole house, preferably."  

But Harry saw the way Draco's gaze lingered on the faint outline of a child's height chart etched into the doorframe, the careful notches of some long-ago Black heir. Saw how his breathing hitched when a shaft of light caught the remnants of gold leaf clinging stubbornly to the ceiling medallion.  

This wasn't just a house, it was a corpse of Draco's legacy, and they were standing in its ribcage.  

Harry nudged a fallen plaster rose with his boot. "We'll start with the floors," he said, rolling up his sleeves. "Before one of us falls through and becomes a permanent fixture."  

Draco's lips quirked, just barely. "How industrious of you."  

Outside, the wind stirred the overgrown hedges, their branches scraping against the windows like skeletal fingers. The house held its breath around them, waiting to see if they would stay.  

Harry met Draco's eyes across the ruined room and knew, with sudden certainty, that they would.  

The fading afternoon light painted Draco's kitchen in warm amber hues as Harry wiped flour-dusted hands on his apron.

He surveyed their handiwork, the scrubbed counters, the freshly polished copper pots hanging above the stove, the way the setting sun made the clean windows glow like honey. For the first time since they'd entered, the house felt alive rather than simply existing.

Draco leaned against the now-sturdy dining table, arms crossed in that perpetually defensive posture. A streak of flour decorated his chin, stark against his pale skin. Harry resisted the absurd urge to brush it away.

"Hungry?" Harry asked, nodding toward the simmering pot. The rich aroma of ginger and thyme had been building for nearly an hour, mingling with the sharper scent of the lemon they'd used to polish the wood.

Draco's nose twitched almost imperceptibly. "I'll reserve judgment until it's not actively trying to poison me."

Harry grinned, stirring the stew with deliberate slowness. "You've been sniffing the air like a kitten for twenty minutes. Admit it, you're intrigued."

A huff, a slight tilt of the head that Harry had learned meant reluctant agreement. The early May breeze carried the faint sound of laughing children somewhere down the lane, mingling with the rhythmic chop of Harry's knife against the cutting board.

The comfortable silence stretched until Harry casually dropped, "So, Andromeda," He winced, realizing that he could have had more tact.

The knife clattered against the counter, Harry didn't need to look up to know Draco had gone rigid, the sudden stillness in the room was answer enough.

"What about her?" Draco's voice carried that particular crispness that meant he was carefully controlling every syllable.

Harry kept his gaze on the carrots he was dicing, giving Draco the illusion of privacy. "Just wondering if you two were close."

The ensuing silence stretched long enough that Harry glanced up. Draco stood frozen, his fingers tracing the grain of the wooden table they'd spent two hours sanding smooth that afternoon. They could've been done in a few minutes with a flick of Harry's wan but he wanted to spend as much time with the blond as possible, this was his exchse.

"I never met her," Draco finally said, each word measured. "Not properly, my mother made sure of that."

Harry set down the knife, wiping his hands on a towel. The house creaked around them, as if listening in. "She's living in Hogsmeade you know with Teddy."

Draco's head snapped up. "My cousin?"

"Yeah, my godson," Harry couldn't keep the pride from his voice, even as he watched Draco carefully. "She's... she's a good person, Draco."

The words hung between them, heavy with unspoken implications. Draco turned toward the window, his profile sharp against the golden light. The scent of burning herbs from a neighbor's garden drifted through the open window, mixing with the ginger from their stew.

"Why are you telling me this?" Draco's voice was barely above a whisper.

Harry stirred the pot, watching the carrots swirl. "Thought you should know, in case...in case you wanted to reach out."

Draco's laugh was a brittle thing. "And say what? 'Hello auntie, sorry the family disowned you, fancy a spot of tea?'"

"Could start with 'hello,'" Harry offered lightly.

The wooden spoon clattered against the counter as Draco suddenly pushed away from the table. "Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"This!" Draco gestured wildly between them. "This... whatever you're doing. The cooking, the cleaning, the...the bloody life advice," His voice cracked on the last words. "I don't need your, your—"

"Friendship?" Harry supplied quietly.

Draco froze, the word seemed to echo in the suddenly too quiet kitchen. Outside, a bird trilled its evening song, oblivious to the tension thickening the air between them.

"I don't know what to do with it," Draco admitted at last, so softly Harry barely caught it.

Harry turned down the flame beneath the stew, giving himself a moment. "You could start by tasting this," he said, offering a spoonful. "Tell me if it needs more ginger."

Draco stared at the offered spoon like it might bite. Then, with the careful movements of someone crossing a minefield, he stepped forward. His fingers brushed Harry's as he took the spoon, sending a jolt of warmth up Harry's arm that had nothing to do with the stew.

The moment stretched as Draco tasted, his eyes fluttering closed briefly. When they opened, there was something new in them; something fragile and uncertain.

"Well?" Harry prompted.

"Passable," Draco muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "You've used too much thyme."

Harry grinned. "Noted, now set the table, would you? And don't think we're done talking about Andromeda."

Draco's groan was half-hearted at best as he reached for the dishes, his movements less guarded than they'd been an hour ago. The house seemed to sigh around them, its old bones settling contentedly as the scent of their shared meal filled every corner.

The firelight flickered low in the hearth, painting Draco's face in shifting gold and shadow as he stared into his untouched stew. His fingers tightened around the spoon, knuckles whitening before he forced them to relax.  

Harry watched the way Draco's jaw worked, the firelight catching the tension there.

The house creaked around them, settling like an old man shifting in his sleep. Outside, the wind rustled through the newly repaired shutters they'd hung that afternoon.  

"She doesn't hold it against you," Harry said, keeping his voice low. "She never did."  

Draco's head snapped up, his gray eyes sharp in the dim light.  

"I don't know," Draco murmured, looking away again. His fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against the chipped edge of the bowl. "It's complicated, isn't it?"  

The fire popped, sending a spark skittering across the hearthstones. Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table they'd sanded smooth just hours before.  

"She kept a photo of you," he said after a moment, "In her sitting room."  

The spoon clattered against the bowl.  

"What?"  

"You couldn't have been more than four," Harry continued, looking at Draco's face. "Holding a tiny broomstick, scowling at the camera like it had personally offended you."  

Draco's breath hitched, barely audible over the wind outside. 

"She could've burned it," Harry said quietly. "After everything but she didn't."  

The words hung between them, heavy in the warm air. Outside, an owl called, its mournful cry echoing through the village. Draco stared into the fire, its glow painting his sharp features in amber light.  

“She kept…" His fingers twisted in the tablecloth, knuckles bleaching white. "Even after the Mark? After the trials?" The words came out shredded, as if pulled from some deep, wounded place Harry hadn't known existed.

Harry reached across the table, stopping just short of touching Draco's shaking hand before holding them. "She said you got her sister's stubbornness."

A sound escaped Draco - half laugh, half sob - as he pressed his forehead to their joined hands. Harry felt the damp heat of his breath through the cloth.

"I wouldn't know what to say to her," he admitted at last, his voice rough as he lifted up his head.

Harry nudged the bowl toward him. "'Hello' usually works."  

A beat of silence. Then—  

"Shut up, Potter," Draco muttered, but there was no real bite to it. He took a grudging spoonful of stew, his shoulders loosening slightly. "It's edible, I suppose."  

"High praise," Harry grinned, watching the way the firelight caught in Draco's pale lashes. “Think about what I said.” 

Draco nodded as the moment stretched, comfortable in a way that still felt new between them. The house creaked again, the sound different now; less ominous, more like a contented sigh.  

Then, Draco asked, "Are you happy here?"  

The question caught Harry off guard.   

"Yeah," Harry said simply. "It's quiet. After everything, that's enough."  

Draco's fingers tapped against the table, a restless rhythm. "I wouldn't have pictured you settling for quiet."  

"Neither would I," Harry admitted. The clock on the mantel ticked steadily, marking the passage of time in this strange new normal.  

Draco exhaled through his nose, something almost like a laugh. "Perhaps, simplicity isn't the worst thing." He gestured vaguely at the half-renovated kitchen around them. "Assuming this hovel doesn't collapse on us first."  

Harry's chest warmed in a way that had nothing to do with the fire. Us. "Lucky you've got a master carpenter on hand."  

"Master ego more like," Draco drawled, but his eyes were brighter than they'd been all evening.  

As they cleared the table, their hands brushed over the dishes — brief, electric. The house creaked again, its old bones settling. For the first time since Draco's arrival, it felt less like a relic of the past and more like a home in the making.  

“I guess I’ll have to continue to cook for you to show them off,” He stood, grabbing both of their bowls to dump into the sink. “Ready to head back to the tavern?”

Draco gave him a half-smile. “Lead the way, Potter.”

Weeks bled together until Harry’s morning routine felt as familiar as his own heartbeat, dawn light creeping through the bakery windows as Mrs. Langdon handed him the usual paper bag of still-warm pastries, the crunch of gravel underfoot as he crossed the yard to where Draco always stood silhouetted in the freshly repaired window, pretending he hadn’t been waiting.  

The early days of snapped comments and deliberate distance had softened. Now, Harry cataloged the quiet transformations:  

The way Draco’s shoulders no longer tensed when Harry reached across him for the sandpaper.

Their companionable silences as Harry planed wood and Draco scowled at instruction scrolls, afternoon light gilding the sawdust swirling between them.

Then, there was the morning Harry found him asleep against the living room wall, blue paint smeared across his cheek like war paint, curled around a brush still clutched in his fingers  

Harry had knelt beside him, brushing a flour-pale strand of hair from his forehead. 

"Maple."

Draco’s sleep-rough murmur sent a jolt through him.

"What?"  

Eyes still closed, Draco gestured vaguely at the floorboards. "You’re sanding against the grain. Again." His nose scrunched as a sunbeam found his face. "It’s maple, you heathen."  

Harry’s chest did something complicated, three weeks ago, Draco wouldn’t have noticed, wouldn’t have cared to notice.  

Evenings found them on the porch steps as fireflies blinked to life in the tall grass. Tonight, Harry caught himself studying the way the sunset painted Draco’s profile; the relaxed slope of his shoulders that used to carry so much tension, the flecks of gold in his otherwise silver-blond hair.  

"See something you like?" Draco didn’t turn, but his fingers stilled on the glass rim.  

"The shutters," Harry lied. "They came out decent."  

Draco snorted, finally facing him. There was something new in his expression, something warm and unguarded that made Harry’s ribs ache. "By which you mean my architectural genius and your ability to follow simple instructions."  

"Exactly," Harry nudged their shoulders together.  

The contact lingered and Draco didn’t pull away.  

These were the moments that shook Harry, when the air between them crackled with something unnamed, when accidental touches burned like spilled pepper-up potion. He told himself it was just satisfaction at seeing the house transform. At watching Draco shed his sharp edges like a molting bird.  

Then, Draco would laugh at one of Harry’s truly awful jokes, or doze off against his shoulder after hours of painting, and Harry’s stomach would swoop like he’d missed a step.  

He wasn’t ready to examine that feeling.  

Not when he still sometimes woke to Draco’s muffled screams down the hall.  

Not when he caught Draco rubbing his left forearm absently, like the ghost of the Mark still itched.  

And definitely not when Draco’s off-key humming as he painted the kitchen cabinets made Harry’s breath stutter for no damn reason at all.  

So, Harry kept arriving each morning with pastries. Kept teasing. Kept pretending his pulse didn’t spike every time their fingers brushed passing a hammer or paint can.  

The house embraced their presence, its walls absorbing their laughter and quiet conversations, its floors memorizing the weight and rhythm of their movements. Something tender took root between them, fragile as the first crocuses pushing through frost-hardened earth.  

Harry didn’t put a name to it.  

But he stopped pretending it wasn’t there. 

The wards shrieked at 3:17 AM, a sound like a hundred crumpling Howlers. Harry was airborne before his eyes fully opened, wand slashing downward as he hit the tavern stairs, heart hammering against his ribs. Intruder. Kitchen. Moving fast.

He kicked the door open with a crack that should’ve woken the dead.  

"I thought you were a thief," Harry hissed, lowering his wand as the fridge light revealed Draco, pale as a specter in nothing but sleep-rumpled trousers, crouched like a burglar amidst the pickles.  

Draco lifted his head, a knobby root of ginger dangled from his mouth like a cigar.  

"Midnight snack," he said around a crunch that made Harry's teeth ache just hearing it. He was start to show, a small curve that could only be seen when he stood at a certain angle.

Harry’s sleep-addled brain short-circuited. "There’s no fucking way you’re eating raw ginger right now."  

Draco took another deliberate bite, the fibrous snap obscenely loud in the dark kitchen. "Your observational skills remain peerless, Potter."  

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. "You set off the alarm spells over a spice."  

Draco licked golden juice from his wrist. "Your security’s excessive."  

"That’s not—" Harry’s voice cracked. "Are you pregnant or possessed?"  

A beat. Draco’s eyes gleamed in the fridge light, pupils blown wide. "Would you prefer the answer that nets me more ginger?"  

The wards hummed their all-clear, embarrassed. Harry’s pulse roared in his ears as he cataloged the scene:  

- The decimated ginger stash (meant for actual cooking)  

- The bite marks (was he a rabbit?)  

- The way Draco’s bare toes curled against the cold flagstones like a pleased cat.

Harry dragged a hand down his face. "Merlin’s tits, I have to be at the Ministry in five hours. You’re ruining my sleep schedule, you absolute goblin.  

Draco froze mid-crunch, slowly, like a predator catching a scent, he raised his head. The fridge light caught the sudden fever-bright gleam in his eyes.  

"The Ministry," he repeated, voice dripping with sudden, terrifying interest. "Diagon Alley’s right there."  

Harry’s spine went rigid. "No."  

"Florean Fortescue’s opens at ten."  

"Absolutely not —"  

"Ginger ice cream," Draco breathed, as if describing the lost treasures of Atlantis. His bare feet slapped against the flagstones as he advanced. "Extra syrup. They do a swirl—"  

Harry backpedaled into a sack of flour. "I’m not getting you ice cream!"  

Draco’s fingers curled around Harry’s wrist, shockingly warm. "Potter," His thumb pressed against Harry’s pulse point. "Please."  

Harry’s mouth went dry, that word, that tone, it was cheating. Draco’s eyes were wide, his lower lip jutting just slightly. He looked... young. Desperate. Hopeful.  

"...You’re a menace," Harry muttered, but the fight had drained out of him.  

Draco’s grin was blinding. "Two scoops."  

"One and if you wake me up again tonight, I’m hexing your toes off."  

"Deal," Draco released him with a flourish, already retreating toward the stairs. At the doorway, he paused. "Oh and Potter?"  

Harry braced himself.  

"Make it the spicy ginger syrup."  

Harry’s wand clattered onto the counter. "Merlin’s balls."  

"If you’re quite done shrieking—"  

"I didn’t shriek—"  

"—I’ll be taking this." He snatched the last ginger root with a victorious smirk.  

Harry stared at the empty shelf where his stir-fry ingredients used to live. "That’s a whole rhizome."  

"And yet," Draco mused, already halfway up the stairs, "somehow not enough."  

The door slammed. Harry stared at the mutilated ginger root left on the counter like a crime scene exhibit. Somewhere between the war and this moment, his life had become a surreal nightmare.  

The Ministry atrium hadn't changed.  

Harry stepped through the golden fireplaces, the sudden heat licking at his robes before spitting him onto the polished marble floor. The air smelled of parchment and bottled ink, a particular metallic tang that always clung to the place no matter how many cleansing charms they used. Sunlight filtered weakly through the enchanted ceiling, casting everything in a sickly blue hue that made the wizards scurrying below look like drowned corpses.  

The fountain's new centerpiece - a house-elf, goblin, and centaur in some grotesque parody of unity - gurgled mockingly. The elf's outstretched hand had already been broken off, leaving jagged stone fingers.  

It's already been a year since he'd handed in his Auror badge to that same scarred reception desk, since he'd last breathed this recycled air thick with other people's agendas but for Draco he'd let the Ministry's teeth sink into him one more time.  

The lift rattled upward like a dying man's last breaths. Every jolt sent a fresh wave of whispers:  

"Isn't that...?"

"What's Harry Potter doing here?"

"Thought he'd gone up north—"

Harry kept his gaze fixed on his reflection in the brass doors - the way his scar stood out livid, how his jaw had gone harder without the Auror uniform to soften it. His fingers twitched toward a wand holster he no longer wore, his wand now securely in his inner robe pocket. The absence still felt like a missing limb.  

Kingsley's office smelled of cedar, the Minister stood framed against the grimy London skyline, his silhouette haloed by the afternoon sun struggling through soot-stained windows. When he turned, the light caught every new groove in his face, every silver thread in his beard that hadn't been there two years ago.  

"Harry," There was warmth in his voice, but something colder in the way his fingers drummed the desk. A half-empty bottle of Ogden's peeked from the bottom drawer. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"  

No small talk, Harry wouldn't insult them both with it. "I'm here for Draco Malfoy's wand."  

The clock on the mantel ticked three times before Kingsley exhaled through his nose. He moved like a man twice his age, pulling a file stamped with the Ministry seal from a drawer. The wax cracked as he opened it.  

"I see," The parchment crackled like dry bones. "You know why we've held it, right?"  

"Because you'd rather punish him forever than admit the system failed."  

Kingsley's quill snapped in his fist. Ink bled across a memo about cauldron thickness regulations. "He was a Death Eater."  

"At sixteen," Harry stepped forward, the floorboard groaning like a man on the rack. His pulse roared in his ears. "He's served his probation, done everything asked of him. What more do you want? His firstborn?"  

The fire popped, Kingsley's gaze flicked to a silver-framed photo on his desk - a younger version of himself laughing with Tonks at some long-ago Christmas party. His thumb brushed the edge before he caught himself and lowered his voice.  

"It's not that simple. The Prophet's already calling for Dawlish's head over the Lestrange parole. If I return a Malfoy's wand, now—"  

"Fuck the Prophet." Harry's nails bit into his palms.  "Since when do we let that old hag, Rita Skeeter dictate justice?"  

A muscle jumped in Kingsley's jaw, he leaned forward, the desk creaking ominously. "Every decision sets precedent, every pardon makes the next one easier. That's how the first war happened, Harry. Good men looking the other way."  

The air thickened with the scent of burning oak as Harry forced himself to breathe through it.  

"That's how we win this one," he countered. "By proving people can change or was my testimony at his trial just pretty words for the press?"  

Kingsley's eyes flickered to Harry's bare left wrist, where the Auror identification bracelet had once sat. The silence stretched, broken only by the ticking clock and the distant scream of interdepartmental memos being shredded.  

Finally, Kingsley rubbed his temples. "His wand core?"  

"Unicorn hair," Harry didn't blink. "You know as well as I do it couldn't cast an Unforgivable even if his life depended on it."  

Somewhere below, a memo whistled past the window like a dying snitch. Kingsley exhaled. "I'll need two weeks, protocols and paperwork, you know how it is."  

Harry's knees nearly buckled, the relief hit him straight in the chest, so sudden he had to brace a hand against the desk. The wood felt alive beneath his palm, vibrating with decades of desperate bargains struck in this very office.  

"Thank you," The words came out hoarse.  

Kingsley's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Don't. This isn't kindness, it's a favor." He tapped the broken quill against Tonks' photo. "One that could cost us both."  

Harry turned to leave, his Auror instincts screaming at exposingbl his back, but Kingsley's voice stopped him:  

"He's lucky to have you."  

The doorknob burned like ice in Harry's grip, he didn't look back. "We should all be so lucky."  

The walk out felt endless. The whispers slithered after him like living things, but for the first time in years, Harry found he didn't care who was watching. Let them look. Let them see the man who'd walked through fire for his enemies twice now.  

The fountain's broken statue watched him go, its jagged edges gleaming like a warning. His fingers brushed his empty wrist where his Auror badge used to sit - one year had gone, and still phantom pains lingered. The whispers followed him through the atrium, but for once, they weren't what made his skin crawl. It was the quiet certainty that he'd just crossed some invisible line. 

That for Draco Malfoy, he'd become the kind of man who cashed in favors at the Ministry. The irony wasn't lost on him.

The green flames swallowed him whole.

The golden light of late afternoon draped itself lazily over Diagon Alley, gilding the cobblestones and shop signs in warm hues. 

The taste of Floo powder still clung to Harry's teeth when he nearly collided with a display of self-stirring cauldrons. Diagon Alley's chaos washed over him - a relief after the Ministry's stifling silence. He inhaled deeply, letting the scents of fresh ink and baking bread ground him. Somewhere between the Apparition point and Flourish and Blotts, his shoulders finally dropped from around his ears. One impossible task down. Now for the ice cream.

Harry moved through the crowd with the weary familiarity of someone who'd walked these stones a hundred times before - dodging excitable first-years, sidestepping harried shoppers, all while the scent of fresh-baked pastries and owl treats mingled with the ever-present tang of magical ingredients.  

Then, he saw her. Hermione stood by a display of enchanted quills, her brow furrowed in that particular way it did when she was mentally dissecting some complex bit of legislation.

A loose curl had escaped her bun, dancing in the faint breeze. The sight of her - solid, real, wonderfully normal made something in Harry's chest unclench and he grinned.

"Hermione!"  

Her head snapped up, and her entire face transformed. Not just a smile, but that particular Hermione smile, the one that crinkled her eyes and made her look seventeen again.

"Harry!" She stepped forward, parchment forgotten, and pulled him into a hug that smelled faintly of ink and the parchment she always kept in her pockets.  

When she pulled back, her sharp eyes scanned his face. "You look like you haven't slept in a week."  

"Feels like it," he admitted, rubbing at the back of his neck.  

Hermione's gaze turned knowing. "Still dealing with... everything?"  

Harry sighed. "Shacklebolt's being difficult about the probation terms."  

"And Malfoy?"  

"He's..." Harry hesitated, searching for the right word. "Adjusting."  

"Mm," That single hum contained volumes. "And by 'adjusting,' you mean he's got you running errands at all hours?”

Heat crept up Harry's neck. "The morning sickness is brutal, three months in and —"

"— you're owling me at three in the morning for nausea remedies," Hermione finished, arching one eyebrow. Before he could sputter a defense, she linked arms with him. "Come on, I need new quills.”

As they navigated the crowded alley, the scent of something sweet and spicy caught Harry's attention.

Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlor stood just ahead, its cheerful awning fluttering in the breeze. Without thinking, Harry's steps slowed, right he did promise…

Hermione followed his gaze. "Harry?"  

"He's been craving ginger ice cream," Harry admitted before she could say anything else. "Says it's the only thing that helps."  

Hermione's lips twitched. "Of course, it is."  

"It's not —"  

"Go on," she said, waving him off with exaggerated patience. "Before you start worrying about it melting."  

The ice cream parlor was cool and bright, the glass cases gleaming with colorful flavors. Florean himself greeted Harry with a cheerful nod.  

"The usual, Mr. Potter?"  

"Extra ginger syrup today, please."  

Florean chuckled as he scooped. "Someone's got quite the taste for ginger lately."  

Harry busied himself with his coin purse, avoiding any further commentary. When he emerged, Hermione was waiting with an expression caught between amusement and something softer. "You're really going all out, aren't you?"  

"It's just ice cream," Harry muttered, casting a careful stasis charm over the bowl. "I'm being a good friend."

"Mm-hmm," Hermione's eyes sparkled with mischief. "You know, when I was pregnant, Ron once walked three kilometers in the snow for pickled herring."  

Harry frowned. "What's your point?"  

"No point," she said airily, steering him toward the bookstore. "Just an observation."  

As they walked, Harry couldn't help but glance down at the ice cream in his hands, already planning the fastest route home. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he imagined Draco's surprised expression - the way his pale eyebrows might lift, the reluctant thanks he'd mutter before devouring the treat, it all brought a smile to his face 

Hermione's quiet chuckle brought him back to the present. "Nothing," she said at his questioning look. “One day you'll admit it."

"Admit what?" Harry muttered, he wondered if he should get a pregnancy book.

"That you're—"

"Don't say smitten."

Hermione's laugh rang through the alley as she steered him toward Flourish and Blotts. "I was going to say 'domestic,' but that works too.”

She patted his arm as he rolled his eyes, but her smile had gone soft around the edges. "Just... be careful with that stasis charm. Ginger syrup stains are hell to remove.”

And if her smile was a little too knowing, Harry chose to ignore it.  

The tavern room was bathed in late afternoon sunlight when Harry slipped inside, carefully balancing the bowl of ginger ice cream in one hand. His breath caught at the sight before him, Draco, curled on his side atop the crumpled covers, fast asleep.  

Sunlight gilded his pale lashes, casting delicate shadows across his cheekbones. One hand rested protectively over the slight swell of his stomach, fingers twitching occasionally like he was dreaming. The book he'd clearly been reading lay abandoned beside him, pages still open.  

Harry's chest tightened. He should wake him, the ice cream would melt, but for a moment he just stood there, memorizing the unguarded peace on Draco's face. 

Setting the bowl quietly on the nightstand, Harry reached out, then hesitated. His fingers hovered just above Draco's shoulder before gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear.  

"Draco," he murmured.  

A soft hum, Draco's nose scrunched adorably before his eyes fluttered open, silver gaze foggy with sleep.  

"Potter?" His voice was rough, warm. Then, his eyes landed on the bowl. "...Is that?"  

"Ginger ice cream," Harry confirmed, unable to stop his grin when Draco immediately pushed himself up, suddenly alert.  

"You actually went?" Draco's fingers closed around the bowl like it was something precious.  

Harry shrugged, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I did say I would get it for you."  

Draco's spoon hovered mid-air, he looked at Harry with an expression Harry couldn't quite decipher. "Did you—?"  

“Extra ginger syrup,” Harry confirmed

"...Acceptable," he pronounced after swallowing, though the pink tingeing of his ears betrayed him.  

Harry laughed, laying next to him, he nudged their knees together. "High praise."  

Draco didn't pull away, just took another spoonful, their shoulders brushing as sunlight pooled around them, golden and warm.  

A beat, then Draco’s lips curved — just slightly, just enough — and something in Harry’s chest tightened. He found himself staring, caught by the way Draco’s lashes fluttered as he swallowed, the faint hum of pleasure that escaped him.  

It was ridiculous, really. How such a small thing could feel so significant.  

"Thanks for this," Draco murmured, though he didn’t sound annoyed. If anything, he sounded smug.  

Harry blinked, heat creeping up his neck. "Just making sure you don’t start demanding a ginger-flavored fountain at this rate"  

Draco scoffed, but his eyes gleamed. "As if I’d settle for anything less than perfection," Another spoonful. Another quiet, satisfied noise. 

"Do you want the room to yourself?"

Draco nudged him with his shoulder, a silent shut up, but he didn’t pull away. Their arms brushed, warm and steady, and the silence between them settled into something easy.  

Outside, the world moved on; chattering voices from the tavern below, the distant clatter of dishes, the hum of Wrenbury beyond the window but here, in this quiet space, Harry felt something shift.  

Draco leaned back, his head tilting just slightly toward Harry’s. Their shoulders pressed together, solid and real.  

Draco took another spoonful, his pinky finger accidentally brushing Harry's where it rested on the mattress. Neither moved away. The contact burned hotter than it should, just skin on skin, yet Harry's breath caught like he'd been hit with a mild Stinging Hex.

Draco's eyes flicked up, eyes bright in the afternoon light, and for one terrifying second Harry thought he might comment. Instead, he deliberately dragged his finger through the melting syrup and licked it clean, never breaking eye contact.

"Acceptable," Draco repeated, voice lower than before.

And Harry wondered, not for the first time, when this — the teasing, the quiet moments, the way Draco’s smile felt like something worth chasing — had become something he couldn’t imagine living without.  

Chapter Text

The first thing Draco registered was the scent;sharp and spicy, cutting through the fog of sleep like a blade. Ginger.

He didn’t open his eyes. Not yet.

The morning light pressed against his eyelids, pale gold and insistent. Somewhere beyond the thin tavern walls, Wrenbury was waking, the creak of cart wheels on cobblestones, the distant murmur of early risers gathering at the baker’s stall, the occasional burst of laughter that carried too easily through the old, ill-fitted windows.

The nausea came next.

It rolled through him in a slow, familiar wave, settling heavy and sour at the base of his throat. Three months in, and his body still hadn’t adjusted to this, to the way hunger and sickness had become tangled together, indistinguishable.

Then, the tea.

He could smell it properly now, steeping just beside the bed. Ginger, yes, but something else too, a whisper of lemon, a hint of honey. Perfectly balanced. Infuriatingly so.

Draco finally opened his eyes.

The mug sat on the nightstand, ceramic chipped at the rim from some long-ago mishap, steam curling lazily toward the low, beamed ceiling. Next to it, a blueberry scone — still warm, if the faint shimmer of glaze was any indication — rested on a scrap of parchment.

No plate. Harry had likely taken the scone straight from the baker’s cooling rack. The parchment was probably a torn corner of some unpaid invoice.

Draco exhaled through his nose.

He could chart the course of his mornings by these small, unwelcome kindnesses.

Day one: A pot of tea that made him almost puke.

Day four: Tea and toast, shoved wordlessly into his hands as he’d staggered into the hallway, green-faced and furious.

Day seven: Tea, toast, and a single, perfect peach.

Now, a month: Tea. Scone. Honey, not sugar.

Draco sat up slowly, the thin quilt pooling around his waist. The room, small, sun-warmed, stubbornly temporary, still smelled faintly of yesterday’s labor: sawdust and lemon polish with the metallic tang of nails left too long in a damp pocket.

Outside, a bird trilled from the eaves, its song bright and repetitive. His gaze caught on the warped mirror across the room. The reflection staring back at him gave him pause.

Three months in, and his body had become foreign territory; familiar landmarks shifting under some unseen tectonic force.

“Morning, darling,“ He whispered to the tiny bump, rubbing the tightening skin. The words left a honey-stickiness in his throat, when had he last spoken endearments aloud?

He reached for the tea, taking a long sip and savoring it as he let out a slow breath. He set the mug down with deliberate care, the ceramic clicking softly against the worn wood. His reflection stared back at him from the dark surface of the tea; pale, blurred at the edges, his hair a sleep-tousled mess.

He looked younger than he felt and softer than he wanted.

The floorboards creaked in the hallway, a familiar, heavy tread paused just outside his door before the door burst open without so much as a courtesy knock.

“You’re alive, right?” Harry’s voice was laced with amusement and just a hint of concern.

Draco tightened his grip on the mug. “I’ve been here for a month, and yet, you ask the same question every morning.”

“The chimney’s about to collapse into the east bedroom,” he announced, as if that were a perfectly normal greeting.

“Found three nests of…” He paused, narrowing his eyes. “What’s that face for?”

“You’re ignoring me!”

“I’m not!”

"And must you always — ”

Harry pressed something warm into his palm mid-protest, a ginger biscuit, its edges perfectly crisp, the center still faintly soft. The scent alone made Draco's traitorous stomach growl.

“— barge in like a rampaging hippogriff," Draco finished weakly, the bite in his words undermined by the way his fingers automatically curled around the offering.

“You already gave me a scone.”

“I know,” Harry said lightly. “But you're pregnant, you're eating for two, now.”

The biscuit practically melted on Draco's tongue, just enough spice to settle his stomach, just enough sweetness to linger pleasantly.

Damn Potter and his stupidly good baking.

Damn him for noticing exactly how Draco liked them.

“Are you calling me fat?”

“Never,” Harry's grin was infuriatingly bright.

The morning stretched between them, fragile as the steam rising from the mug. Somewhere below, a door slammed and the tavern’s daily rhythms began in earnest; the clatter of dishes, the scrape of chairs, the low hum of conversation.

Harry shifted his weight. “Chimney today,” he reminded him, as if Draco had any say in the matter. “Unless you’ve got a burning desire to scrub doxy eggs from the attic instead.”

Draco arched a brow. “Tempting, does that mean you'll leave me alone?”

“That's my heart you're breaking with such lavish insults," Harry said, already backing toward the door. "Five minutes. Bring the good gloves, that mortar crumbling like stale cake.”

He was gone before Draco could muster a proper retort, his footsteps retreating down the hallway, already whistling some off-key tune.

Draco exhaled.

Draco, against all better judgment, had an unsettling realization that he was, against all self-preservation instincts, looking forward to spending the day elbow-deep in chimney soot with an infuriatingly competent Potter.

The morning air was thick with the scent of damp earth and old stone as they approached the estate.

Sunlight filtered through the overgrown hedges, dappling the uneven path with pools of gold.

Draco breathed in deeply, the tangle of ivy, the faint metallic whisper of rusted gates, the ever-present undertone of mildew that clung to the ancient walls no matter how many cleansing charms they cast.

The house stood before them, its crooked silhouette a jagged cutout against the cloudless sky. The newly repaired windows, their labor from last week, glinted in the light, pristine amidst the weathering stone.

Yet, the chimney...

Draco stopped short, tilting his head.

Oh, for Merlin’s sake.

The chimney tilted like a drunk leaning against a pub wall, its bricks gaping like missing teeth. A few more storms, a strong wind, and it would be in the east bedroom just as Harry had said.

He exhaled through his nose.

Next to him, Harry wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, smearing soot across his temple. His sleeves were already rolled up, forearms dusted with a fine layer of grime from whatever he’d been tinkering with earlier. The morning light caught the sweat at his collarbone, the faint sheen along his throat.

Draco looked away.

"That," he announced, "isn’t a chimney. That’s a structural embarrassment."

Harry snorted. "Hence the fixing part."

Draco eyed the precarious stack of bricks, then Harry’s dirt-streaked shirt, the way the fabric clung to his shoulders. A slow, wicked smile curled at the corner of his mouth.

"You can just repair it with magic you know." He pointed it out.

"Where's the fun in that?" 

"Well," he drawled, "you do love playing hero."

Harry glared at him. "Oh, no, you don't. You're helping."

"I rather check the wards," Draco said breezily, already stepping back.

Harry blinked. "You don’t even have a wand."

Draco waved a hand, dismissive. "I can use some wandless magic. Relax."

He turned before Harry could protest, but not fast enough to miss the way his voice dropped, just slightly, just enough to be heard. "Maybe."

Harry’s groan followed him all the way inside the house.

The air inside the estate was thick with the weight of centuries old magic, pressing against Draco's skin like a living thing. He stepped over the threshold, the ancient floorboards groaning beneath his boots in a chorus of protest.

Draco trailed his fingers along the wall as he moved deeper into the house. The wallpaper peeled at his touch, curling away from the plaster like dead skin. It smelled of mildew and something else, something deeper, darker. 

He found himself standing before the main hearth, its carved mantelpiece blackened by decades of smoke and neglect. The runes were still there, barely visible beneath the soot; delicate, spiraling things, etched into the stone by some long-dead Black ancestor.

Draco exhaled slowly.

This was stupid.

Reckless.

But he'd never been particularly good at leaving well enough alone.

He flexed his fingers, rolling his shoulders back. Wandless magic was... finicky. Unpredictable. But the wards were Black blood magic, his blood magic, and if anyone could wake them without a wand, it was him.

Probably.

Maybe.

He pressed his palm flat against the cold stone. The runes bit into his skin, sharp as teeth. The stone felt like his childhood bedroom doorknob, cold at first touch, then warming reluctantly under his palm.

"Fulminara."

The word left his lips like a struck match.

For one breathless second, nothing happened. Then, the runes flared to life, blue-white and blinding, lighting up the darkened room like lightning. The air hummed, thick with the scent of magic, with power before it shattered.

The backlash hit him like a rogue bludger to the chest. Draco staggered back, his vision spotting black at the edges, his knees buckling. The spell recoiled up his arm like a scalded cat, leaving his nerves shrieking.

Draco barely registered there were hands on him, warm and solid, catching him before he could hit the floor.

"Draco!"

Harry's voice, rough with panic. Draco blinked up at him, dazed. Harry's face was too close, his brows furrowed, his mouth a thin, worried line. His grip on Draco's arms was firm, too firm, almost bruising.

"You're so reckless," Harry hissed, already dragging Draco's hand into the light. A shallow cut bisected his palm, welling red.

Draco scowled. "I had it under control."

Harry gave him a look that said bullshit, as Draco leaned into him. Just slightly. Just enough that Harry had to steady him, his breath huffing against Draco's temple in exasperation.

"Merlin's balls," Harry muttered, but his fingers were gentle as they traced the cut, his wandless healing charm a warm, tingling press against Draco's skin.

The bleeding stopped, the cut sealed but their hands lingered. Harry’s thumb brushed Draco’s wrist, right over the pulse point. Once. Twice.

A habit, Draco realized, from checking his own pulse after nightmares as if to say, You’re alive. You’re here. Harry cleared his throat, dropping his hand like he’d been burned.

"Next time," he said, voice rough, "ask for help."

Draco sniffed. "Next time, don't hover."

Harry’s hands were still warm where they’d lingered on Draco’s skin, but they were gone now, replaced by the cool press of the worn sofa cushions as Harry gently lowered him onto the threadbare upholstery. Dust puffed up around him, swirling in the slanted sunlight, and Draco sneezed.

"You’re not touching the wards," Draco muttered, rubbing his palm, now healed, but still tingling with the ghost of Harry’s magic.

Harry arched a brow. "Watch me."

Draco scoffed. "They’re blood wards, Potter, keyed to Black lineage. You could pour every ounce of magic you have into them and they wouldn’t so much as flicker for you."

A slow, infuriating grin spread across Harry’s face. "Good thing I wasn’t planning on using yours, then."

Draco blinked. “What…?"

But Harry was already straightening, rolling his shoulders like a man squaring up for a fight. "I’ll make new ones."

"What?"

"Brute force it," He punched his fist into his palm for emphasis.

Draco stared at him, aghast. "Brute force — Potter, you can’t just bludgeon wards into existence! They require finesse, they require expertise!"

“I can be very stubborn, y’know,” Harry said, as if that settled it. “So, either they yield to me, or I’ll make them.”

“You’re insane!” Draco yelped. The sheer absurdity of it left him spluttering.

Harry leaned down, suddenly close enough that Draco could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes. "They'll keep you safe," he said, low and firm. "So, I’m not arguing about this."

Draco opened his mouth then closed it.

Harry nodded, satisfied, and turned on his heel.

"You’re sharing your magic with the baby now," he called over his shoulder as he strode toward the door. "Don’t use it so lightly."

Draco huffed, but he didn’t argue.

The front door creaked shut behind Harry, leaving Draco alone in the silent, sunlit parlor. He slumped back against the sofa, exhaling sharply. 

It only took a few minutes before he felt it.

It started as a whisper, a mere tremor in the air then built, rising like a tide, like a storm, like something vast and unstoppable. Harry’s magic.

Draco shuddered as it washed over him, through him, into him; warm as a hearth in winter, steady as a heartbeat. It curled around the house, around him, settling into the walls, the floors, the very foundation. Not delicate. Not refined. But strong.

Safe.

Harry's magic settled into the house's bones like light filling a long-dark room, revealing outlines of furniture Draco had forgotten existed.

Draco’s breath left him in a rush. He hadn’t realized he’d been tense until the weight lifted, until the wards clicked into place, humming with raw, unfiltered Harry, and suddenly, inexplicably, Draco felt protected.

He sank deeper into the sofa, despite the dust, his eyelids fluttering. Outside, the wind rustled through the overgrown garden. Somewhere beyond the walls, Harry was muttering to himself, probably covered in dirt and looking unfairly pleased with his brute-force handiwork.

Draco should protest, should march out there and inform him that proper wards required precision, required craftsmanship but the magic wrapped around him like an embrace, warm and unwavering, and Draco relaxed.

Draco didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until the gentle brush of fingers against his cheek startled him awake. His lashes fluttered, vision swimming for a moment before sharpening into green, Harry’s green, warm and crinkled at the edges with amusement.

"Hey," Harry murmured, thumb stroking lightly over Draco’s cheekbone. "Had a good nap?"

Draco blinked, slow and disoriented, the remnants of sleep still clinging to him.

He saw Harry.

Really saw him.

He smelt like a burnt toast catastrophe, but his hands were warm as firewhiskey when they brushed Draco's.

"Did you bloody swim through the chimney?" Draco gasped, bolting upright. "What the hell, Harry!"

The smell of ash clung to Harry’s collar, thick as a curse and Draco’s stomach lurched and since when did smoke make his saliva pool like this? He turned his face away, breathing through his sleeve.

Harry was covered in soot. It streaked his face, dusted his hair gray, clung to his clothes in thick, smudged patches. He looked like he’d rolled around in a fireplace, grinning like an idiot, his teeth shockingly white against the grime.

"Turns out, chimneys are filthy," Harry said chuckling, as if this were some grand revelation.

Draco gaped at him. "You’re disgusting —"

Harry huffed, and before Draco could protest further, he was climbing onto the sofa beside him, sending up a cloud of soot as he collapsed into the cushions.

"Potter!" Draco shrieked.

Harry ignored him, wrapping his arms around Draco’s waist and pulling, tucking him snugly against his chest. Draco squirmed, scandalized, but Harry just buried his face in the crook of Draco’s neck with a contented sigh.

Draco swiped at Harry’s soot-streaked cheek, his fingers coming away blackened. "You’re filthy.”

"Mmm," Harry agreed, nuzzling closer. "Now, you are too and you’re warm."

Draco huffed, but he didn’t pull away even as his stomach rolled over from the smell.

The soot would stain his clothes. The smell of smoke and sweat would cling to his skin. Harry’s arms were heavy around him, his breathing already slowing into something peaceful.

Draco should shove him off.

He didn’t.

Instead, he exhaled, long and slow, and let himself sink into the embrace.

The afternoon light had grown heavy and golden by the time the owl arrived, its wings beating a quiet rhythm against the grimy windowpane. Draco felt the moment Harry stilled beneath him, their legs still tangled together on the worn sofa, Harry's soot-streaked arm draped loosely across his waist.

He didn't want to move.

That was the first traitorous thought that slipped through Draco's mind as he blinked sleepily at the bird. The second was the sharp spike of panic when he saw the elegant script of a name on the envelope.

Andromeda Tonks.

His breath caught.

The owl tapped again, more insistent this time, its golden eyes glaring through the glass with avian impatience. Harry shifted, the movement sending a small cascade of soot particles floating through the sunbeams.

"Did you…" Draco's throat felt strangely tight. "Did you tell her about me?"

Harry's fingers absently traced circles against Draco's hip where his shirt had ridden up. "Of course I did."

Draco turned his head just enough to glare. The angle was awkward, his cheek still pressed against Harry's shoulder, Harry's face entirely too close, his stupid lashes dark with soot, his stupid mouth curved in that stupid, soft smile.

"Stop meddling," Draco hissed, but there was no real heat behind it. Not when his thumb had started rubbing soothing patterns against Draco's skin.

Harry's grin widened. "If I didn't, you wouldn't get anything done."

The truth of it burned, Draco looked away first.

The owl huffed, clearly offended by their lack of urgency. With great reluctance, Draco untangled himself from Harry's warmth, ignoring the quiet noise of protest, and crossed to the window.

The latch stuck, the wood swollen with humidity, and for one petty moment he considered leaving the damned bird outside.

Then, Harry was there, his chest pressing against Draco's back as he reached around to help. Soot drifted between them, catching in their hair, their clothes, the scant space between their bodies.

Draco huffed, “Stop breathing down my neck, Potter.”

"Sorry," Harry muttered against the shell of his ear.

The owl swooped in with an indignant flap of wings, dropping its burden directly onto Draco before perching on the nearest chair. It stared at them both with an expression that suggested it knew exactly what they'd been doing and found it entirely beneath its dignity.

Draco's fingers trembled as he looked at the envelope. The parchment was thick, expensive, nothing like the cheap letters Harry was always receiving. 

His stomach twisted.

Harry's chin came to rest on his shoulder. "Aren't you going to open it?"

Draco swallowed hard. "I hate you."

The words came out softer than he'd intended. Harry's arms slid around his waist, pulling him back against that solid chest. Soot and all.

"Oh, come on, I went into a chimney for you," Harry said with a huff.

“Fine,” The envelope creased in Draco’s grip. "I tolerate you. Occasionally.”

The owl hooted impatiently.

Harry chuckled, the sound vibrating through Draco's back. "We're being judged."

"Rightfully so," Draco sniffed, but he didn't pull away. Not when Harry pressed a kiss to the corner of his jaw. Not when those strong arms tightened around him.

"I have soot all over me," He whined as Harry began steering them both toward the sofa, he was muttering something about shared showers later and water conservation. Draco only sighed, long-suffering, put-upon, entirely fond.

The letter stayed clutched in his hand, the parchment growing damp where his thumb had worn through the wax seal. Andromeda’s handwriting blurred but not from tears, just the damned humidity.

The owl ruffled its feathers imperiously, golden eyes fixed on Harry with an air of aristocratic expectation. Harry dug into his pocket and produced a handful of owl treats.

"Here you go," he murmured, holding them out. The bird sniffed, deigned to accept the offering, and then fixed him with a look that clearly said, This had better not be the cheap kind.

Draco watched, the unopened letter heavy in his hands, as Harry stroked a finger down the owl’s chest. "Don’t worry, I’ll deliver the reply myself," Harry said, voice low and warm.

The owl huffed, as if personally offended by the idea of being replaced as a messenger, but took off into the fading afternoon light with a final disdainful glance at the state of them both.

Silence settled in its wake.

Draco exhaled slowly, his fingers tracing the broken seal. The wax was still slightly warm, Andromeda must have sent it immediately after reading whatever Harry had written to her. The thought sent an odd shiver through him.

Harry nudged his shoulder. "Walk and read?"

Draco nodded, and they left the house together. Falling into step as the gravel path crunching beneath their boots. The village of Wrenbury stretched before them, bathed in golden twilight, the air thick with the scent of wild lavender.

He unfolded the letter with careful fingers.

Draco,

Harry tells me you’re in Wrenbury. He also tells me you’re —

Draco’s breath caught, the handwriting struck him first; elegant, precise, so painfully reminiscent of his mother's own handwriting that his breath caught. He read it five times in rapid succession, his eyes tracing every curve of ink like a man starved.

— rebuilding my mother's old house. I’d like to see it. And you.

If you’re willing, I’ll love to see you whenever you're ready. No expectations. No obligations.

Just tea.

Andromeda

The words blurred, Draco blinked hard, his throat tight.

Harry’s hand brushed against his, a quiet offer. Draco didn’t take it, but he didn’t pull away either. They walked in silence for a long moment, the weight of the letter between them.

“Sentimental drivel," Draco muttered when they got close to the tavern, crumpling the parchment. He marched into the tavern's interior and tossed it toward the rubbish bin.

It missed.

Harry, leaning against the doorframe with soot still smeared across his cheekbones, said nothing.

A moment passed.

Draco spun on his heel, snatched the letter from where it had fallen beside the bin, and smoothed it violently against his thigh.

"She doesn't mean it," he hissed, though whether to Harry or himself remained unclear. "It's political niceties. Pureblood etiquette. She has to —”

Harry's smile was soft, unbearably knowing. He pushed off the wall and crossed to Draco in three easy strides. His thumb brushed a smudge of soot from Draco's cheekbone. "You're allowed to want this."

Draco's fingers clenched around the parchment. "I don't—"

"You kept the letter."

"I—" Draco looked down at the crumpled page in his hand, at his mother's handwriting that wasn't his mother's at all. His shoulders slumped. "...Shut up.”

Harry’s chuckle warmed the space between them. "Make me.”

The challenge hung in the air, thick with unspoken things. Draco glared but when Harry reached for his hand, he didn't pull away.

"You’re filthy," Draco muttered, glancing sidelong at Harry’s soot-streaked face.

Harry grinned. "So are you."

"I’m pregnant, Potter. I have an excuse. What’s yours?"

"Being pregnant isn't an excuse, and I was helping a very pretty wizard," Harry said easily, bumping their shoulders together.

Draco rolled his eyes, but his chest felt suspiciously warm.

Harry herded him with a hand at the small of his back, steering them toward the narrow staircase that led to the bathroom upstairs.

Draco dug his heels in. "I’m not showering with you."

Harry’s grin turned wicked. "We aren't unless you want to?"

Draco’s ears burned. "You’re disgusting."

"And yet," Harry said, leaning in, his voice dropping to a whisper, "you’re still following me."

Draco opened his mouth to protest and found himself being tugged up the stairs anyway.

The tavern's midnight silence wrapped around Draco like a second skin as he descended the narrow staircase.

Each wooden step groaned familiarly beneath his bare feet, the third one from the bottom always creaked loudest, the fifth had a nail that stuck up just enough to catch at his sock if he wasn't careful.

Tonight, he avoided them both by instinct, moving through the shadows with the quiet grace of someone who'd made this journey many times before.

The kitchen door stood slightly ajar, a golden wedge of light cutting across the worn floorboards. From within came the soft clink of a spoon against ceramic, the gentle hiss of milk warming on the stove, and the occasional muttered curse as Harry, because of course it was Harry, burned his fingers yet again.

Draco paused in the doorway, watching.

Harry stood bathed in the warm glow of the hearth, his sleep-mussed hair haloed by the firelight. He'd thrown on one of his horribly oversized Weasley jumpers, this one a faded maroon that hung loose around his frame, and his bare feet tapped an absent rhythm against the stone floor. The sight was so painfully domestic that something in Draco's chest ached with it.

"You're going to scorch the milk," Draco announced, stepping into the light.

Harry didn't even startle. He simply turned, the wooden spoon still in hand, and offered that crooked smile that always made Draco's stomach do something ridiculous.

"You're late," he said, as if they'd scheduled this midnight meeting. "I was starting to think you'd finally learned to sleep like a normal person."

"Disappointed?" Draco drawled, sliding into his usual chair at the worn oak table. The wood was smooth beneath his fingers, polished by years of use and the press of countless elbows.

Harry's gaze softened. "Concerned."

The word landed between them with unexpected weight. Draco looked away, suddenly fascinated by a knot in the wood grain that looked vaguely like a hippogriff.

Outside, the wind whispered through the village square, rattling the shutters with gentle insistence.

Harry turned back to the stove, his movements easy and practiced as he poured the steaming cocoa into two mismatched mugs; the blue one with the chipped handle that Draco always used, and the red one with the faded gold trim that had somehow become Harry's favorite.

"Cinnamon?" Harry asked, already reaching for the spice jar.

"Obviously," Draco muttered, watching as Harry shook a generous dusting into both mugs. The rich, earthy scent mingled with the chocolate, curling through the air in warm tendrils that made Draco's mouth water despite himself.

Harry set the blue mug before him with exaggerated care, their fingers brushing briefly in the transfer. The contact sent a spark of warmth up Draco's arm that had nothing to do with the cocoa.

For a moment, they simply sat in comfortable silence, the only sounds the crackling fire and the occasional sip of cocoa. The cinnamon sparked against his tongue like tiny fireworks, each pop dissolving into sweetness that lingered like Harry's stupid grin.

The warmth seeped into Draco's bones, loosening something tight in his chest that he hadn't realized was wound so tightly.

Harry spoke, his voice carefully casual. "The little bean should be kicking soon," He traced the rim of his mug with one finger. "According to the books, anyway."

Draco froze, the cocoa halfway to his lips. "Books?"

Harry's ears turned a delightful shade of pink. He ducked his head, suddenly very interested in a nonexistent stain on the table. "Er. Yeah. When I was in Diagon Alley the other day, I... bought some."

"You—" Draco stared at him, the mug forgotten in his hands. "You're reading pregnancy books?"

"Just the important bits!" Harry defended, rubbing the back of his neck in that way he did when he was embarrassed. The firelight caught the planes of his face, highlighting the faint stubble along his jaw. "Like when the baby starts moving, and what foods to avoid, and—"

"And?" Draco arched an eyebrow, though his chest felt suspiciously tight.

Harry grinned, sudden and bright. "And how to tell if your partner's being a prick because of hormones or just because he's you."

Draco kicked him under the table, Harry yelped, nearly upending his cocoa, but his laughter filled the kitchen, warm and rich as the chocolate in their mugs.

The moment stretched, comfortable and easy, until the fire burned low and the cocoa was nearly gone. An owl called into the night, its cry lonely and haunting in the stillness.

Draco's fingers tightened around his mug.

"What if I'm just like my parents? Distant and cold."

The words slipped out, barely audible, almost lost beneath the sigh of the wind outside but Harry heard them. Of course he did.

He set his cocoa down with deliberate care, the ceramic clicking softly against the wood. When he looked up, his eyes were dark and serious in the firelight. "You won't be."

"You don't know that."

"I do," Harry's voice was firm, his gaze steady. He reached across the table, his fingers brushing against Draco's wrist. "You're here and you're trying."

Silence stretched between them, thick with memories and things left unsaid. The fire crackled, sending up a shower of sparks that danced briefly in the air before fading to embers.

"Your cocoa is still too sweet," Draco muttered, his voice rough with something he wouldn't name.

Harry's lips quirked. "Liar."

Draco drained the mug anyway, the sweetness lingering on his tongue long after the cocoa was gone.

He stood up, Harry following suit as they headed for the stairs. The tavern stairs had never seemed so treacherous.

Draco gripped the banister tighter as they ascended, the wood smooth beneath his palm from generations of hands wearing it down. The cocoa sat warm in his belly, cinnamon and chocolate still lingering on his tongue. Behind him, Harry’s footsteps were steady, familiar, too close, always too close, as if he expected Draco to vanish if he didn’t keep him in reach.

His foot caught on nothing. Or maybe everything.

His balance wasn’t what it used to be, his center of gravity had shifted like sand sliding downhill, making even standing an act of recalibration and the world tilted, the steps rushing up to meet him and then there were hands on his waist, hauling him back against a solid chest. Harry’s breath was hot against his neck, his grip firm as he steadied Draco, turning him effortlessly until they were face to face.

Their noses brushed.

Draco’s breath stuttered. The hallway was too dark, too narrow, the only light spilling from the cracked door of Harry’s room just behind them. It gilded the curve of Harry’s cheekbone, the worried crease between his brows.

His eyes — Merlin, his eyes — were endless in the shadows, green and gold and fixed on Draco’s with an intensity that made his pulse thrum.

Harry’s gaze dropped.

Draco’s lips parted on instinct. The air between them hummed, thick with something unspoken, something aching.

“Your hair is a hazard, Potter,” Draco snapped, jerking back so fast his shoulder hit the wall.

Harry blinked, his hands still hovering where Draco had been. “My...what?”

“It’s everywhere,” Draco hissed, gesturing wildly at Harry’s head as if that explained anything. His face burned. “Like a, a tumbleweed! A menace.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “Right.”

Draco didn’t wait for whatever ridiculous thing he’d say next. His hand drifted to the slight curve beneath his navel, as if checking the baby was still safely tethered.

He spun on his heel and fled down the hall, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure Harry could hear it.

His door slammed behind him.

For a long moment, he just stood there, his forehead pressed to the cool wood, his breath coming too fast.

The cocoa churned in his stomach, the cinnamon now bitter on his tongue. His skin still burned where Harry had touched him, the ghost of his grip seared into his waist.

Outside, the floorboards creaked, Harry, lingering.

Draco squeezed his eyes shut.

And tried very, very hard not to think about how close they’d been.

How easy it would have been to—

No.

The late Sunday sun filtered through the gauzy tavern curtains, Draco lay sprawled on the bed, his spine a rigid line of tension beneath the thin sheet. Every muscle ached, his lower back a throbbing knot of discomfort, his hips stiff from the way his body was reshaping itself.

He groaned, pressing his forehead into the pillow.

The mattress dipped beside him.

"According to Magical Pregnancies 101," Harry announced, flipping a page with infuriating calm, "your mood swings are caused by —"

Draco snatched the book and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall with a thud, pages fluttering like a wounded bird.

Harry blinked. "Or, you know, just general prickliness.”

“I will punch you, Harry.”

Harry sighed, his hair a wild tangle from sleep as he retrieved the book. He was already dressed in one of those horribly soft-looking jumpers, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the neckline stretched from where he'd clearly tugged at it.

The book, a frankly obscene shade of pink, was splayed open across his lap now, pages dog-eared and scribbled with notes in Harry's messy scrawl.

Draco squinted at it. "Are those color-coded tabs?"

Harry blushed. "Maybe."

Draco huffed.

"Here, this will help." He said softly as he shifted Drack position a little more.

Harry's fingers were at his back in a second, warm and sure, pressing into the aching muscles with just the right amount of pressure. Draco bit back a moan, his spine melting under the touch.

"Page forty-two," Harry murmured, his breath warm against Draco's ear. "Lower back pain is common in the second trimester. Recommended treatment: massage and gentle stretching."

Draco groaned. "You're quoting it now?"

Harry's lips brushed the nape of his neck. "I'm thorough."

The massage continued, Harry's hands working in slow, deliberate circles. Draco's protests died in his throat, replaced by quiet sighs as the tension bled from his body. The book lay forgotten beside them, sunlight glinting off its ridiculous cover.

His thumbs pressed into the knots along Draco's spine like they were deciphering runes, translating tension into something softer.

Somewhere in the village, a bell rang.

Harry’s fingers traced the curve of Draco’s spine, pausing where the muscle twitched near his tailbone, a new ache, low and persistent, that hadn’t been there a week ago. His thumb pressed into the knot, and Draco bit back a gasp.

"Better?" Harry whispered.

Draco didn't answer.

But he shifted back, just slightly, pressing himself against Harry's chest. Just for a moment. Just until the next bell tolled.

The afternoon had settled into that golden, honeyed hour where time seemed to slow, where the world beyond their rumpled sheets felt distant as a dream.

Draco lay on his side, the curve of his belly pressed into the mattress, Harry's warm palm a steady weight against the small of his back. The massage had long since gentled from purposeful kneading to idle caresses, Harry's calloused fingers tracing nonsense patterns along Draco's spine, over his hips, down the sensitive stretch of his thighs.

Draco should have protested. Should have batted him away with some sharp remark about personal space. But the truth was—

The truth was, he'd grown accustomed to this. To Harry's quiet presence in his bed, to the way his hands always found Draco's aches before Draco could voice them. To the way he smelled like a walking bakery and that stupid shampoo he insisted on buying.

Harry shifted behind him, his body a warm line against Draco's back. His breath stirred the hair at Draco's nape as he bent closer, his palm sliding around to cradle the gentle swell of Draco's belly.

He's been talking to the baby for the last hour and it left Draco going in and out of sleep.

"— and then we'll reinforce the floo, little bean," Harry murmured, his lips brushing the shell of Draco's ear, "So, you don't get soot in your tiny lungs—"

Draco's breath hitched. The words curled through him, warm as the sunlight pooling across their tangled legs.

"The baby can't hear you," he muttered, turning his face into the pillow to hide the way his throat tightened. "It's the size of a plum."

Harry hummed, unbothered. His thumb swept over the curve of Draco's belly, slow and reverent. "So when they're here," he said, his voice a rumble against Draco's spine, "they'll recognize their Uncle Harry's voice," He pressed a kiss to the knob of Draco's shoulder, his grin audible. "Automatic favorite."

Draco should have scoffed. Should have rolled his eyes and called Harry an insufferable prat. But the truth was—

The truth was, the thought of Harry teaching his child to fly, of Harry's laughter echoing through the halls of the estate, of Harry's hands, always so careful, always so warm, cradling the baby...

His chest ached with it.

Harry's fingers found that spot just above his hipbone again, the one that made Draco's eyelids grow heavy, his limbs loose with contentment. 

Somewhere between Harry's nonsense promises of teaching the baby to fly before it could walk and his shockingly competent kneading of Draco's aching sacrum, sleep pulled him under. The last thing he registered was the press of lips against his spine and a whisper so soft it might have been the wind through the curtains:

"Wait till you see how loved you'll be."

The words curled under his ribs like a sleeping dragon. Dangerous warmth. He dared not disturb it.

He buried his face in the pillow, as if he could smother the traitorous flutter beneath his ribs - that persistent, hummingbird-wing beat that had no business quickening at Harry's words.

Chapter Text

The tavern's oak door groaned shut behind Harry, its familiar whine blending with the evening chorus of crickets. Twilight painted Wrenbury’s streets in molten gold, the kind of light that made even the chipped cobblestones seem enchanted.

For the twenty-first consecutive evening, Harry’s feet carried him toward Cornelia’s shop — though today, at least, he had an actual excuse clutched in his jacket's pocket.

The shop bell announced his arrival with a silvery jingle, scattering sparrows from the ivy-laced eaves. Inside, the air hung thick with the scent of dried lavender and starch, undercut by the rhythmic thrumming of Cornelia’s sewing machine from the backroom.

Draco stood at the counter, his usually pristine appearance softened by the golden hour. Sunlight traced the loose strands of hair, catching on the new fullness in his cheeks. His long fingers moved with unexpected grace as he folded a lace-trimmed napkin, methodical, almost reverent. The sight was so disarming that Harry had to do a double take.

"You’ve been so busy, I've had to entertain myself with menial labor," Draco declared, glancing up. He pressed a crease into the fabric with his thumbnail. "Four dozen napkins, Potter. I may hex the next flower-embroidered monstrosity that crosses my path."

Harry leaned against the doorframe, the wood still warm from the day’s heat. "Never took you for a linen connoisseur."

Draco’s lips quirked. "Obviously, you don't know I'm great at everything I do," His finger traced the delicate pansy stitched into the corner.

"See something you like?" Draco’s voice sliced through his thoughts.

"You’re..." Harry gestured vaguely, his fingers sketching shapes in the air. "Glowing. Is that the prenatal potions doing?"

Draco lit up at his words before shaking his head with a huff, "You know nothing about pregnancies do you?"

"I'm godfather to Hermione's two kids if that counts," He offered as he stepped forward. "I think I held the first time she puked if that counts."

Draco fought back a smile, "It doesn't."

Harry shrugged with a grin. He reached into his jacket, withdrawing a slender ebony box. "I got something for you."

Draco’s gaze snapped to the offering, his gray eyes bright as newly minted coins. "If this is a Weasley sweater, I'll pass."

"It's not, consider it an early birthday gift." He, then, put the box behind his back. "If you say the magic word."

In one fluid motion, Draco closed the distance between them, the swell of his stomach brushing Harry’s hip. A clever hand darted behind Harry’s back, snatching the box with seeker-quick reflexes.

"Cheater," Harry choked out, suddenly lightheaded.

Draco’s grinner as he opened it, his eyes widening. There, nestled in emerald velvet, laid his hawthorn wand—its wood still bearing the faint scorch mark from the fiendfyre.

"Ministry finally released it," Harry murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. "Thought... maybe you’d want it before—"

The rest of his sentence died as Draco surged forward, Harry’s arms rose instinctively, one hand cradling the base of Draco’s skull, the other splaying across the small of his back.

Through the thin linen shirt, he could feel the new softness of Draco’s waist, the rabbit-quick flutter of his pulse, the way his breath hitched when Harry’s thumb brushed that spot behind his ear.

"Thank you," Draco mumbled.

Across the room, Cornelia’s chair scraped against the floorboards. "I’ll just... reorganize the bolt room," she announced, her retreat punctuated by poorly suppressed giggles.

When Draco finally pulled back, his hands lingered on Harry’s shoulders, fingers kneading the tense muscles there. The wand lay between them on the counter, catching the dying light.

"When you said you'd get it back, I didn'tthink you were serious," he said, but his fingertips kept tracing the wand’s grain like a blind man reading braille.

Harry swallowed against the knot in his throat. "I wanted to make you happy."

Draco turned the wand over, sunlight revealing every whorl and knot, imperfections Harry had memorized during long nights studying him across the Great Hall.

"It’s perfect," Draco whispered, tucking it into his sleeve with the reverence of a man reclaiming part of his soul.

A strand of hair fell across Draco’s forehead, Harry’s fingers twitched with the need to push it back, to trace the new freckles dusting Draco’s nose from his constant exposure to the sun.

"Yeah," Harry breathed, his voice rough.

You are.

The nursery walls drank up the cream-colored paint unevenly, drying in splotchy patches that didn't quite match the sample Draco had pored over for three days.

"We're not decorating a Gryffindor common room," he'd sniffed, tossing the gold swatch aside. Harry grinned at the memory, his brush leaving thick trails that sagged before settling into the plaster.

A familiar creak sounded behind him, the third floorboard from the door, the one that always protested underfoot. Harry didn't need to turn to know Draco stood there, but he did anyway.

Sunlight streaming through the window caught Draco in profile, turning the flyaways around his face to a halo of white-gold. His usual crisp posture had given way to something looser these days, one hand perpetually resting on the gentle swell beneath his thin cotton shirt. 

"You've ignored an entire corner," Draco announced, nodding toward the unfinished wall. A fleck of paint dotted his collarbone, stark against his pale skin.

Harry wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist, leaving a streak of cream above his eyebrow. "I was waiting for the expert."

Draco's lips pursed, but he set his tea on the windowsill and reached for the spare brush. As he leaned past Harry, his rounded stomach brushed Harry's elbow. The contact lasted less than a second, but Draco still sucked in a sharp breath and stepped back too quickly.

"Sorry," Harry murmured, though he wasn't sure what for. For existing too close? 

Draco's grip on the brush turned knuckle-white. "It's fine," he said, in the particular tone that meant it wasn't.

Harry watched as Draco attacked the neglected corner with precise strokes, his movements economical and perfect. The paint went on smooth under his touch, no drips or uneven patches. Sunlight caught the new softness of his arms, the faint sheen of sweat at his temples, the way his shirt rode up to reveal a sliver of skin. A livid stretch mark curled there, fresh enough that Harry imagined it might still be tender.

His fingers twitched with the urge to trace it.

Draco froze before Harry could move. The air between them thickened, heavy with all the things they didn't say.

"You've got..." Harry gestured vaguely toward Draco's collarbone. "Paint. Just there."

Draco swiped at the spot with quick, irritated motions. "Thanks."

Silence settled over them, broken only by the wet sound of brushes against walls. Harry's gaze kept catching on Draco, the way his nose scrunched in concentration, how he worried his lower lip between his teeth, the quiet trust of letting Harry see him like this, soft and unguarded.

A strand of hair fell across Draco's face, sticking to his damp forehead. 

"Your tea's getting cold," he said, nudging the mug closer.

Draco eyed him warily but reached for it. Their fingers brushed just a fleeting touch, but Harry felt it like a spark. 

A solid thump against Harry's forearm.

Draco went perfectly still, the teacup frozen halfway to his lips.

"Was that?" Harry's voice came out strangled. He laid his hand gently against Draco's belly, another kick, stronger this time, right against his palm.

A laugh bubbled up in Harry's chest, bright and startled.

"That’s the baby," Draco said in awe.

The baby kicked again, a proper jab that made Draco's shirt twitch. Harry spread his fingers wide, marveling at the life moving beneath them.

"Strong little bean," Draco said with a chuckle, rubbing gentle circles. 

Harry couldn’t stop grinning, "Our kid's definitely got —"

He cut himself off, but it was too late.

Draco's fingers clenched around the teacup, a flush crept up his neck, visible even in the golden light. He stared resolutely at the bookshelf, jaw clenched.

"You've got paint," Draco muttered, reaching to flick a dried fleck from Harry's arm. His touch lingered half a second too long. "There."

Harry exhaled slowly, the moment stretched thin between them, fragile as the dust floating in the sunlight.

"Yeah," Harry agreed softly, his thumb brushed the curve where Draco's child had just kicked. "Must've missed it."

Another kick answered him, as if in protest. Draco's breath hitched.

"Draco, I'm so —"

He shoved Harry's hand away. "Stop." His voice cracked on the word. "Just...don't."

The brush clattered to the floor as Draco thrust it at Harry's chest and strode from the room, leaving his half-finished tea behind.

Harry stared at the empty doorway, his palm still tingling where tiny feet had pressed against it. The silence of the nursery seemed to swell, pressing in from all sides until he could hear nothing but his own heartbeat and the unspoken truth echoing in his skull:

Not yours. He chastised himself as he collected the brushes.

Harry only lasted an hour before he went in search of Draco, he found him in the library that they barely even touched, still ridled with dust and moth balls.

He lingered in the doorway, watching Draco curled in the window seat, a study in quiet contradictions. The book in his lap lay forgotten, his fingers instead tracing idle patterns along its spine. 

Harry stepped inside, the old floorboards whispering under his weight. Draco didn't look up, but Harry saw the minute tightening of his shoulders, the way his fingers stilled on the book's edge.

"You vanished," Harry stated, keeping his voice low enough that the dust motes dancing between them wouldn't stir.

Draco exhaled sharply through his nose. "And yet you found me."

"I have a talent for that," He said lightly.

Harry crossed the room with measured steps, giving Draco every opportunity to send him away. When no protest came, he settled onto the window seat next to him, their knees brushing. Draco didn't shift away.

The abandoned teacup on the sill had long gone cold, ginger leaves sedimented at the bottom. Harry nudged it with a fingertip. "Your tea —"

"Was terrible," Draco interrupted, finally meeting his gaze. The fading light turned his gray eyes nearly translucent. I can never make it as perfect as you do."

Harry huffed a quiet laugh before sobering up. Look, II'm sorry about earlier, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"You didn’t," His thumb worried at a faint stain on the book's cover, an old water mark shaped like Denmark. "It's just..."

Harry reached out slowly, giving Draco ample time to withdraw. When he didn't, Harry traced the delicate bones of his wrist, feeling the flutter of his pulse. "Tell me."

Draco's gaze drifted back to the window where twilight bruised the horizon. "There's nothing to tell."

Harry didn't press. He simply committed to memory the feel of Draco's skin, the callus on his middle finger from hours of writing, the faint scar along his knuckle from some long-ago potions accident. The way his breath hitched when Harry's thumb brushed a particularly sensitive spot near his pulse point.

After three steady breaths, Draco spoke again. "Why are you really here, Potter?"

No pretense. No deflection. Harry matched his honesty. "Because there's nowhere else I'd rather be."

Draco's fingers twitched in his grasp. "I'm not your responsibility."

"Never said you were," Harry turned Draco's hand palm-up, lacing their fingers together. The gesture felt dangerously close to prayer. "I'm here because I choose to be. With you. With..." His gaze dropped to Draco's stomach, then back up. "However much of this you'll let me have."

Draco's throat worked visibly. When he spoke, his voice was rougher than the old book's pages.

"You're..." He seemed to search for words, his free hand gesturing vaguely before settling back on his stomach. "Relentless."

Harry squeezed his hand, smiling when Draco squeezed back after a heartbeat's hesitation.

Draco's shoulder pressed warm against Harry's, their joined hands resting between them on the window seat. A blackbird sang its twilight song.

Harry traced slow circles on Draco's wrist,  not speaking, not demanding, just being.

After a moment, Draco's fingers relaxed fully in his grasp, his head tilting just enough to rest against the window pane near Harry's shoulder.

The silent understanding between them needed no translation.

The tavern was quiet in that slow, golden hour before opening—sunlight streaming through the dusty front windows, the scent of yesterday's firewhiskey still lingering in the wooden beams.

The quiet hum of a Monday morning wrapped around Harry as he sifted flour into a bowl. Sunlight pooled on the worn oak counter, catching in the cloud of powder that puffed up when he tapped the sieve.

His tongue poked out in concentration as he shredded fresh ginger, just enough for a hint of spice, not enough to overwhelm, folding it into the batter with the same careful precision he used to mend Draco's favorite teacup when it chipped.

A stack of parchment hit the counter beside him.

"You know," Hermione said, sliding onto a stool, "I always thought if you ever baked, it'd be some reckless, half-burnt treacle tart," She eyed the perfectly measured ingredients. "Not... this."

Harry ginger, tapping the spoon against the bowl. "Draco likes ginger."

Hermione's eyebrows inched upward, glancing at the stack of ginger next to the bowl "Does he? I would never guess."

He reached for the eggs, cracking them one-handed into a separate dish. Hermione drummed her fingers on the Ministry permits she'd brought, watching as Harry whisked the eggs into smooth, golden ribbons.

"You remembered his birthday," she observed lightly.

Harry shrugged, pouring the eggs into the batter. "Not hard. He always made a whole show of it every year at Hogwarts. Couldn't miss the week-long Malfoy Celebratory Period if you tried."

"And yet," Hermione said, flipping open a permit with exaggerated casualness, "I don't recall you baking any of us a cake."

Harry paused, the wooden spoon hovering mid-stir. Across the tavern, the grandfather clock ticked loudly.

"Ron prefers Cauldron Cakes," he said finally, resuming his mixing. “You don’t like sweets,”

Hermione hummed, scribbling something on the parchment. "And Draco prefers... you?"

Harry shot her a look, but she was already engrossed in her paperwork, the picture of innocence.

"Shut up," he muttered, greasing the cake tin with more force than necessary.

Hermione peeked over the parchment. "Did I say something wrong?"

"You implied."

"Did I?" She blinked, all wide-eyed faux confusion. "I was merely noting that it's interesting how you've memorized his favorite flavors. And his tea preferences. And the way he—"

A thump from upstairs cut her off. Draco's voice, muffled but distinctly annoyed, floated down: "Harry, have you used the last of the milk?"

Harry was already moving toward the icebox, pulling out the reserved bottle. "Saved you some!" he called up the stairs.

Silence. Then a grumpy, "Thank you."

When Harry turned back, Hermione had her chin propped in her hand, a smile playing at her lips.

"What?" He demanded.

"Nothing," She tapped her quill against the permits. "Just admiring your... customer service. Did you save me some milk?"

Harry lobbed a dish towel at her, she dodged, laughing, as he slid the cake tin into the oven with perhaps more care than any Auror mission had ever received.

The oven door clicked shut as Harry adjusted the temperature knob,the kitchen soon smelled of warm butter and molasses, the ginger cake rising steadily behind the glass. He wiped his flour-dusted hands on his apron, leaving streaks of white across the dark fabric.

Hermione's voice cut through the comfortable silence. "You know, Harry... you saved the wizarding world."

"Don't remind me," he mumbled absently, "What about it?"

Hermione leaned against the counter beside him, her fingers tracing the edge of a Ministry permit.

"Well," she hedged, "no one would blame you."

Harry paused, the oven's warmth bleeding through his shirt. "For what?"

"For falling in love."

The mixing bowl clattered into the sink. Harry turned slowly, flour dusting his dark eyebrows like premature gray. "What are you talking about?"

Hermione gave him a flat look. "Oh, don't give me that dumb look, you know what I mean."

Harry blinked at her, all wide-eyed and flour-smudged confusion. "I don't."

"All I'm saying," Hermione continued, softer now, her fingers stilling on the parchment, "if it's the public you're worried about... you shouldn't. You deserve to be happy." Her brown eyes were earnest in the morning light, the same way they'd been when she'd told him about the dragon eggs in first year. "After everything."

The grandfather clock ticked loudly in the sudden quiet. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked under familiar, measured footsteps.

Harry exhaled through his nose, turning back to the oven. "I appreciate it, 'Mione. But Draco and I are just friends."

Hermione's hum was noncommittal. She watched as he checked the cake again—unnecessary, given the timer hadn't gone off—his fingers lingering on the oven door handle.

"Is that why you've been practicing this recipe for three weeks?" she asked lightly. "Why you tracked down that exact molasses blend from Jamaica?"

Harry rubbed at the back of his neck, suddenly very interested in a nonexistent spot on the counter. "You know how pregnancy cravings go."

Hermione's smile was small and knowing. "Just friends," she repeated, gathering her parchments.

"Yeah," Harry muttered, straightening the already-perfect row of measuring spoons. "Friends who... bake. And know where the other keeps their glasses. And —"

The timer chimed, and Harry sighed in relief as he went to pull it out. The cake was perfect, golden-brown, fragrant with ginger. Harry's shoulders relaxed minutely as he tested the center with a skewer.

Hermione watched him fondly before she slipped off the stool, "I'll be leaving now."

Harry hummed, too focused on making sure the glaze looked right. "I'll owl you later."

“Sign those papers,” She called back, “I'll collect them in a few days.”

The afternoon sun slanted through the half-drawn curtains, painting stripes of gold across Draco's rumpled sheets. He lay propped against a mountain of pillows, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal the smooth curve of his belly where Harry's hand rested. A nearly empty plate balanced precariously on the swell, the last crumbs of ginger cake clinging to the edges.

"Stop that," Draco murmured, though he made no move to push Harry's hand away as it traced idle patterns across his skin.

Harry grinned, feeling another tiny kick against his palm. "Can't help it, they're saying hello."

"You won't let them sleep, that's why," Draco sighed, but his free hand came to cover Harry's, pressing it more firmly against the spot where the little bean kept nudging.

Harry huffed a laugh, but the memory of Hermione's words echoed in his skull. It's okay to fall in love.

Was this what that felt like?

This constant warmth in his chest?

The way his hands always seemed to find their way to Draco, like magnets seeking north?

The stupid, giddy thrill when Draco actually laughed at his jokes instead of sneering?

No.

No, this was just friendship.

Two former rivals building something new. It didn't matter that Harry had spent three weeks perfecting this cake recipe.

He paused, shaking his head.

Just good friends.

Harry watched as Draco's eyelids fluttered closed,  the relaxed slope of his shoulders. 

He swallowed hard, his thumb brushing over Draco's hipbone. The skin was warm beneath his touch, alive in a way that made something ache behind his ribs.

"You missed a spot," Harry murmured, reaching to wipe a smudge of molasses from the corner of Draco's mouth.

Draco caught his wrist before he could pull away. Gray eyes blinked open, studying Harry with an intensity that made his breath stutter. For a heartbeat, neither moved.

Then Draco's tongue darted out, deliberately slow, licking the sticky sweetness from Harry's thumb.

Harry's pulse roared in his ears.

"Waste of good glaze," Draco said, releasing him with a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. 

"What?" Draco arched a brow when Harry kept staring.

"Nothing," Harry forced himself to look away, focusing instead on the way Draco's fingers still loosely tangled with his over the curve of his belly. "Just thinking."

"Always dangerous."

Draco shifted with a quiet groan, his free hand rubbing the small of his back. Without thinking, Harry sat up.

"Here." He nudged Draco forward gently, settling behind him to knead at the tense muscles. Draco melted back against him with a sigh, his head lolling onto Harry's shoulder.

"Mm. Not terrible," 

Harry pressed his lips to the crown of Draco's head before he could stop himself. The scent of vanilla and ginger filled his nose, familiar as his own heartbeat.

The baby kicked again, strong enough that Harry felt it through Draco's back where they were pressed together.

Draco chuckled, low and warm. "They approve."

"Of course they do." Harry rested his chin on Draco's shoulder, his arms looping loosely around his waist. "They've got excellent taste."

"That's still up for debate," Draco whispered, his eyes already closed.

Harry watched him doze off, he felt warm in his arms. He let himself pretend, just for this moment, that this could be enough.

That he could be enough.

The clock in the hall chimed four. Draco's breathing evened out against him, slow with approaching sleep.

"Happy birthday," Harry closed his eyes and held on.

After Draco's birthday, time seemed to slip through Harry’s fingers like sand falling from an hourglass.

Harry had memorized the rhythm of their days, the tart sting of Draco’s lemonade at noon, the way his own muscles burned by dusk, the quiet satisfaction of watching the old house grow into something livable.

They’d finally, after much bickering and some surprisingly intense discussions, settled on a theme for their living room — Draco’s living room, Harry reminded himself.

Three weeks, fourteen furniture catalogs, and one spectacularly failed attempt at Muggle plumbing later, Harry had learned two things: Draco’s opinions on throw pillows bordered on fanatical, and no amount of reparo charms could salvage a roof that had last been maintained when Phineas Black was in nappies.

The summer tourist season had buried Harry under a mountain of work at the inn, as well. Between managing bookings and repairing the century-old plumbing, he'd barely noticed the weeks slipping by. 

Harry flexed his stiff fingers around the paintbrush, blinking as he realized the sunlight had shifted. Dust motes swirled in the golden beams slanting through the nursery window, transforming the air into liquid amber. He'd been cutting in edges along the baseboard for so long his knees had gone numb against the hardwood.

The footsteps behind him were nearly silent, but Harry had memorized their rhythm months ago—the deliberate pause before the creaky floorboard near the door, the careful distribution of weight that had become second nature to Draco these days.

"You're massacring the trim," Draco said, plucking the brush from Harry's grip. Their fingers brushed, and Harry caught the familiar scent of lemon verbena soap and the faint metallic tang of Floo powder clinging to Draco's sleeves.

Harry leaned back on his heels, watching as Draco demonstrated the proper technique. The late afternoon light caught the flex of tendons beneath pale skin as he made precise strokes.

"You're doing it again," Draco kept his eyes on his work, but Harry saw the way his shoulders tensed slightly under scrutiny.

"Doing what?"

"Looking at me like I'm about to dissolve into smoke," The corner of his mouth quirked. "Or plotting how to smuggle Weasley sweaters into the baby's wardrobe when I'm not looking."

Harry grinned, reaching up to swipe a thumb across the fleck of paint on Draco's cheekbone. The skin was warm beneath his touch. "You caught me."

Draco gripped his wrist before he could pull away. For a suspended moment, they stood like that—Harry's thumb resting against the sharp curve of Draco's cheek, Draco's fingers wrapped loosely around his pulse point. The paintbrush dripped forgotten onto the drop cloth between them.

Then Draco released him with a quiet exhale. "You're terrible at this."

"At painting?"

"At pretending," Draco turned back to the wall, but Harry didn't miss the way his free hand settled protectively over the gentle swell of his stomach. "You've been distracted all afternoon."

The truth sat heavy behind Harry's ribs. He'd spent the morning watching Draco sleep, memorizing the way dawn light caught in his pale lashes, the soft sounds he made when shifting to get comfortable. 

Harry busied himself with the paint can. "Just thinking about tomorrow."

Draco's brush stilled. "Ah."

The single syllable hung between them, weighted with everything they weren't saying. Harry watched the way Draco's shoulders tensed, the way his fingers tightened around the brush handle.

"I don't have to go," Harry said quietly. “We can start unboxing little bean's clothes, I'm looking forward to folding impossibly tiny socks.”

"Don't be absurd." Draco's voice was too light, the way it got when he was trying not to care. "It's your birthday. The Weasleys will —"

"I want you there," The words came out rougher than Harry intended. He reached out without thinking, his fingers brushing the small of Draco's back where the muscles always knotted up these days. "Come with me."

Draco turned then, his gray eyes searching Harry's face. The late sun caught the gold strands in his hair, the faint freckles that had appeared across his nose over the summer. Harry could count each individual lash if he wanted to.

"You'll regret it," Draco murmured. "Weasley will make some comment about my—"

"Then, I'll hex him myself."

The laugh that escaped Draco was startled and real, the sound Harry hoarded like Galleons. He watched, transfixed, as Draco's face transformed with it; the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the way his nose scrunched slightly.

"Fine," Draco said at last, swiping his sleeve across his forehead and leaving a streak of cream paint in his hair.

Harry's heart performed a slow roll, he wanted to kiss the paint from Draco's hair, trace the silvery stretch marks along his hips with his tongue, press his lips to the rabbit-quick pulse at Draco's throat.

Instead, Harry pulled him close, Draco stiffened, then melted into the embrace, fingers clutching Harry's back like he might vanish.

“Thank you,”

Draco shuddered. "It's nothing."

Harry held tighter.

Words crowded his throat, how Draco's laughter unraveled him, how watching him bloom had been Harry's quiet privilege. How somewhere between patching walls and healing wounds, Harry had —

The confession lodged behind his teeth.

So he memorized instead, the rhythm of Draco's breathing, the way their heartbeats aligned, the citrus-sharp scent of his hair. As they returned to painting—shoulders bumping, bickering over technique—Harry imagined tomorrow:

Draco bathed in the Burrow's golden light, surrounded by the warmth he'd been denied for so long. Molly piling his plate high, Ginny's knowing looks, Ron pretending not to notice how Harry's gaze kept drifting to the curve of Draco's smile.

The house filled with the scent of fresh paint and the gingersnaps Draco couldn't stop eating as twilight painted the walls indigo.

The Burrow's front door burst open before they could knock.

"Happy birthday, mate!" Ron exclaimed, already pink-faced from firewhisky. His grin faltered when he spotted Draco hovering behind Harry. "And... Malfoy." His gaze dipped to Draco's rounded stomach before snapping back up. "You're looking... not bad?"

Draco arched one pale eyebrow, fingers tightening around the bottle of wine. "Your observational skills continue to astound, Weasley."

To Harry's astonishment, Ron barked a laugh and clapped Draco on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger.

"Cheeky bastard. Get in here, Mum's made enough shepherd's pie to feed the entire Cannons lineup."

Draco threw him an alarming look as he was dragged into the house. Harry followed them in at a more sedate pace.

The kitchen was a beautiful disaster, enchanted streamers formed a tangled canopy overhead as Harry stepped inside.

George had charmed the serving spoons to perform aerial loops around the chandelier. Ginny was arm-wrestling Charlie near the pudding, while Molly shrieked about someone touching the uncut birthday cake.

Draco froze in the doorway, his knuckles whitening around the wine bottle's neck. Harry recognized that expression, the same wide-eyed, cornered-animal look he'd worn when he first arrived at Wrenbury.

Molly descended on Draco before Harry could intervene. "Oh, just look at you!" She crushed him in a hug that made his eyes bulge. "When are you due?"

"December," Draco wheezed, shooting Harry a desperate look over Molly's shoulder.

Arthur appeared, beaming. "Marvelous! Have you heard of a fascinating study comparing magical and Muggle gestation peri—"

"Dad," Ginny smoothly extracted the wine bottle from Draco's death grip. "Maybe, let him breathe before subjecting him to your research?"

"Come on," Harry whispered in his ear.

Draco sagged in relief as Harry led him to the couch. “I'll get you something to drink.”

The party swirled around him in a warm chaos while Harry watched as Charlie challenged Draco to a game of non-magical darts ("No cheating with Seeker reflexes!"). Draco was smiling as Molly piled his plate high with treacle tart.

Harry grinned like a fool when Draco caught his eye across the room and rolled his eyes with such fond exasperation it might as well have been a love letter.

The butterbeer bottle was slick with condensation in Harry's grip. He leaned against the wall, watching as George demonstrated a charmed spoon's eerily accurate impression of McGonagall's most withering glare. Draco's sudden, unguarded chuckles cut through the party noise like sunlight, and Harry's ribs ached.

"They've taken to him surprisingly well," Hermione observed, appearing at Harry's elbow.

Harry tore his gaze away. "Took them long enough."

"Took you long enough," she countered, sipping her pumpkin fizz. At his frown, she grinned. "You've been looking at him like he invented the Firebolt since sixth year."

"I have not…"

"Oh, come off it, Harry," she sighed, shaking her head. "Just kiss him already."

Harry choked on his drink. "What?"

"Honestly." She muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "oblivious troll" before continuing, "There's no law against being happy, Harry."

His fingers picked at the bottle label. "It's not that simple. He's got enough going on without me..." His voice trailed off as Ron slung an arm around Draco's shoulders, dragging him toward where someone had cleared space for dancing. Draco's nose scrunched in protest, but Harry noticed he didn't actually shake Ron off.

Hermione followed his gaze. 

"I'm already too invested..." Harry swallowed hard. "I care too much about the baby, more than a friend should. I don't want to make everything messy."

Hermione's expression softened. She opened her mouth to respond when—

"Oi! Birthday boy!" Bill materialized between them, reeking of firewhisky. He ruffled Harry's hair affectionately. "Stop hiding and come get properly sloshed!"

Harry chuckled, “I'll meet you there,”

As Bill stumbled back toward the drinks table, Hermione gave Harry a knowing look. Across the room, Draco mouthed 'save me' as Ron attempted to teach him some ridiculous dance move.

Harry's heart did a slow somersault.

"I think it's too late to worry about messiness," Hermione declared, clinking her bottle against his.

The party wore on, laughter and music spilling into the warm summer night.

If Harry spent the evening memorizing the way firelight gilded Draco's hair, or how his hand kept drifting absently to his stomach when the baby moved—well.

It was his birthday. He was allowed to stare.

The kitchen buzzed with chatter, the remains of Molly’s cake scattered across the table. Harry swiped his fork through the last smear of frosting and caught Draco watching him, that faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” Harry asked, though he knew.

Draco shrugged. “Nothing. Just never took you for someone who’d lick the plate clean.” He leaned forward when Harry raised a forkful of cake to his mouth.

Ron’s laugh boomed across the table. “Mate, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you two are worse than Bill and Fleur.”

Hermione nudged him with her elbow. “Leave them alone," But her lips twitched, betraying her.

Harry’s ears went hot. He glanced at Draco, expecting irritation, but found only quiet amusement. Their knees bumped under the table. Neither moved away.

The room felt too warm suddenly, the laughter too loud. Across the table, Draco’s fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against his thigh.

Harry leaned closer, voice low. “Need some air?”

Draco let out a slow breath, like he’d been waiting for the offer. “Please.”

Ron squinted as they stood. “You ditching us already?”

Draco didn’t miss a beat. “Only if you consider not wanting a headache ‘ditching.’”

George whistled as Harry steered Draco toward the door, his hand hovering just above the small of Draco’s back. The second they stepped outside, the noise cut off like a charm had silenced it.

The Burrow's garden hummed with midsummer magic, fireflies dancing around Draco's silhouette like living stars. Neither mentioned the way their fingers kept grazing, then lingering, in the dark.

Harry dragged a hand down his face. “Sorry about them,”

Draco huffed, something close to a laugh. “They’re your family. Loud comes with the territory.”

“Thank you for coming,” Harry said, “I thought you’d hate being around my family.”

Draco plucked at his sweat-damp shirt. "Treacle tart’s decent and the company’s..." His gaze flicked to Harry’s mouth. "...tolerable. What's there to hate?”

The night air smelled of blooming roses and Harry couldn't stop himself from studying the way moonlight gilded Draco's profile, the new roundness of his cheeks, the faint tired lines that spoke of sleepless nights. Beautiful. Always so beautiful.

Then Draco stiffened. “Ah!” His hand flew to his stomach, fingers splaying wide.

Harry was halfway off the bench before he remembered himself. “You okay?”

Draco caught his wrist, guiding Harry’s palm to the taut curve under his shirt. “Yeah, little bean just restless,” His voice was carefully neutral.

Harry's breath caught. The kick was stronger than he expected, a tiny but undeniable press against his palm.

“I'll never get tired of that,” Harry whispered, kneeling in front of Draco.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” Draco’s tone was light, but his grip on Harry’s hand was tight. “Like a Bludger practicing in there.”

Harry swallowed, he could feel the shape of Draco’s ribs under his fingertips, the warmth of skin stretched tight over his belly.. He should pull away.

“Yeah,” he managed. “Fascinating.”

Draco’s gaze flicked to his face, searching. Harry kept his expression carefully blank. From the house, Ron’s laughter spilled into the garden, loud and bright. Draco’s fingers tensed against Harry’s.

“We should go back,” he said, but made no move to stand.

Harry’s thumb traced the hem of Draco’s shirt. “Or,” he said softly, “We could stay.”

Draco exhaled, long and slow. His free hand came up, brushing a stray curl from Harry’s forehead. The touch lingered.

“It's your birthday, you make the rules,” he murmured, like an excuse. Harry leaned into the contact. The baby kicked again, a sharp, insistent thud against his palm. .

Draco’s smile was bittersweet. “Feels like they know it’s you.”

Harry's vision blurred, his heart aching. "I hope so," He whispered, he leaned in without thinking, drawn like a compass needle to true north.

Close enough to count Draco's pale lashes, to see the flecks of silver in his eyes.

“I really want to kiss you, Draco,” Harry said quietly, like a confession.

Draco’s eyes widened, “We can't,” he said softly, his voice rich with something Harry couldn’t quite place.

“Who says?” Without thinking, without overanalyzing it, Harry leaned in, slowly at first, as if unsure, but Draco didn’t pull away, didn’t say a word, but his eyes softened, his smile gentling as Harry’s lips hovered near his.

And then, with a gentle, almost hesitant touch, Harry brushed his lips against Draco’s. It was soft, tentative at first, like testing the waters, but as soon as their lips met, it was as though something clicked into place; a perfect fit that Harry didn’t even know he was searching for.

Draco’s hand, still resting over Harry’s on his belly, shifted slightly, guiding Harry closer, and their kiss deepened, slow but deliberate, filled with a quiet, unspoken promise.

The back door creaked open. "Harry! Didnt you want the cake's...oh," Hermione's voice cut through the moment like a knife. "Sorry, I..."

"I'll be there in a minufe," Harry said, his eyes still focused on Draco. Hermione looked between the two before nodded and going back insids.

Draco pulled back first, hands returning to cradle his stomach. That protective, instinctive gesture that broke Harry every time.

"Sorry," Harry said, brushing a thumb across Draco's bottom lip. "We can just ignore them —"

"Uncle Harry,” Draco started gently, and oh, the cruelty of that title - the one Harry had given himself like an armor. "They're calling for you, I can wait.”

It was as if a door that had just opened slammed right back in his face as Draco placed some distance between them. 

Harry wanted to argue but instead just nodded as he stood, his hands felt suddenly empty, his lips still tingling. As he turned toward the house, the realization struck him with the force of a well-aimed hex:

The way his chest ached when Draco smiled. How he memorized every change in Draco’s body. The impossible rightness of their kiss.

Hermione was right.

He was in love with Draco.

Chapter Text

Kissing Harry was like vaulting onto a broom mid-freefall, all wind and reckless abandon, the world tilting beneath him as his heart outran gravity.

For one terrifying moment, Draco was certain he’d crash, then, the broom jerked upward, and he realized he’d never truly flown until now.

The world narrowed to the press of Harry’s mouth, warm, tasting faintly of treacle tart and Mrs. Weasley’s cake. Draco’s hands hovered uselessly before curling into Harry’s shirt, the cotton crumpling like parchment under his fingers. When they broke apart, Harry’s glasses sat askew, his laugh a shaky exhale against Draco’s lips.

The kiss might have lasted forever if not for the sharp click of the door. Draco jerked back to find Hermione hovering in the doorway, her eyebrows climbing toward her hairline.

So, of course, Draco had to ruin it.

“Uncle Harry,” he whispered gently. “Go on, I can wait.”

The flicker of hurt in those green eyes made his stomach twist but Harry had been the one to build this wall of friendship, hadn’t he? To insist they keep everything proper and chaste.

Harry stood up slowly walking back toward the Burrow, not turning back once. Draco watched him go, throat tightening, half wishing he would turn back.

Then, he halted mid-stride. Turned. Raked both hands through his hair until the black strands stood like angry thunderclouds.

“Has he gone mad?” Draco wondered, getting up slowly but Harry was already marching back.

“We should talk.” 

Draco sat back down, feigning indifference. “About what? The weather? The Chudley Cannons’ tragic season?”

Harry exhaled sharply. “About how much of a git I've been," He dropped to one knee in the grass, eyes fierce behind his crooked glasses. “It just, it hit me. I like you, Draco. Like, really like you and I’ve been too much of a coward to say it.”

A smile tugged at Draco’s lips. “Well, now you’ve said it. Congratulations.”

“Have I ruined it?” Harry’s voice was rough, his thumb tracing idle circles over Draco’s knuckles.

“Depends,” Draco tilted his head, pulse racing. “Are you planning to grovel, or should I lower my expectations now?”

The kiss to his knuckles burned, Harry’s lips lingering, fingers cradling his hand like something fragile. He let Harry pull him upright, grip firm around his elbow.

"Anything," Harry stated, voice rough. "Just, tell me what you need.”

“Well, answer this…” Draco started with a slow forming grin. “Do you still want to be called Uncle Harry? Might confuse the baby.”

Harry snorted. “You’ll hold that over me forever, won’t you?”

“Of course.” Harry pulled him up to stand as they walked back. The Burrow loomed ahead, golden light bleeding through crooked windows. Draco caught flashes of red hair ducking behind curtains.

“Your fan club’s watching,” he drawled.

Harry groaned. “D’you think they took bets?”

“What’s the going rate on a Gryffindor's virtue these days?” Draco mused, tucking himself against Harry’s side. The arm wrapping around him felt like a Portkey to better worlds.

“Depends if it’s George or Ron running the book.”

George’s whoop carried through the walls before they crossed the threshold as Harry’s hand slipped away, but not without a squeeze to his wrist, a promise.

Draco pressed two fingers to his lips, still warm, still tingling. He barely had time to smooth his expression into something neutral before —

“There you are!” Ginny’s voice rang out as she materialized at his side, looping her arm through his before he could dodge. “Ten minutes alone with Harry, and you look like you’ve been struck by a Confundus Charm.”

He tried to shake her off. “We were barely gone long enough for you to miss us.”

“Oh, we weren’t missing you,” Hermione said, seizing his other elbow with terrifying precision. “We were observing you. From the kitchen window.”

Draco stiffened as they maneuvered him toward the sofa like a rogue Bludger. “There’s nothing to observe."

“Bollocks,” Ginny said cheerfully. “Harry’s got that look, the one he used to get when he’d caught the Snitch. All dopey and triumphant and you are glowing” She jabbed a finger at his flushed cheeks.

“I'm pregnant!” Draco squawked, blushing.

Hermione perched on the armrest, eyes alight. “We’re thrilled, obviously, but if you think we’re letting you leave without details, you’ve drastically misjudged us.”

Draco scowled, his ears burning. “I’m not some gossip column for your amusement. Go interrogate dragon Weasley about his doomed attempts at romance if you’re so bored.”

Ginny barked a laugh. “Oh, we’ve already scheduled that interrogation for after pudding but right now...” She leaned in. “...you’re the main event.”

Across the room, Harry leaned against the fireplace, grinning into his tea like the smug bastard he was.

“It’s… complicated,” Draco muttered, picking at a loose thread in the upholstery.

Ginny groaned, flinging her hands up. “Just say yes or no: Are you two together, or are we witnessing a crime?”

“Ginny!” Hermione hissed, though she inched closer, betraying her own curiosity.

“It’s none of your—”

“Draco, dear!” Molly’s voice cut through the room like a well-aimed Petrificus Totalus. “The treacle tart’s disappearing faster than a Niffler in Gringotts! Eating for two, remember?”

For the first time in his life, Draco considered kissing Molly Weasley as he slipped away from the two.

By night’s end, his pulse still hadn’t steadied, not when Harry’s hand found the small of his back, not when he murmured “Ready?” by the Floo, and certainly not when that traitorous grin promised this was only the beginning.

The late August sun pressed heavy on Draco’s shoulders as he knelt in the overgrown flower bed, fingers working stubborn weeds from the soil.

A primrose seedling trembled in his palm, roots exposed and fragile.

Like you, he thought, tucking it gently into the hole he’d dug. The baby shifted, a flutter against his ribs. He exhaled.

"You’ll need sturdier things than flowers soon," he murmured, patting the soil. "Nappies. A crib. A parent who doesn’t bolt at the first sight of insects, I'll work on that," The joke soured on his tongue, Harry hadn’t bolted. He’d stayed, tending the garden as Draco fled inside.

Harry lingered everywhere, nowadays; in the ginger tea left steaming on his nightstand, in the laughter that rattled the inn’s old rafters, in the way his lips brushed Draco’s belly each morning like a promise.

He shook his head, refocusing on the seedlings.

"I never thought I’d see my own blood grubbing in the dirt."

The trowel slipped from Draco’s grip, that voice, crisp, familiar, sharp cut through the humid air. He turned slowly, dirt crusted under his nails, sweat dampening his linen shirt.

Narcissa Malfoy stood at the wrought-iron gate, ivory robes pristine, silver-blonde hair coiled into a flawless chignon. She surveyed the primroses with the same disdain she’d once reserved for Ministry clerks.

"Menial labor," she repeated, mouth puckering around the words like spoiled wine. "How undignified."

Draco’s spine stiffened. "It’s called gardening, Mother. You should try it, might loosen that permanent sneer.”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Let's relocate this charming conversation indoors. Sunlight ages the skin.”

He sighed as he stood, resting his hand on his belly as he led her inside. Her mother’s house, technically, though Harry had spent weeks scrubbing decades of dust from its bones.

Narcissa trailed a gloved finger along the freshly painted walls, leaving a faint smudge. His jaw tightened. He and Harry had chosen that shade together, a buttery yellow that caught the dawn light just right.

"Careful," he snapped. "The paint’s still fresh."

Narcissa’s eyebrow arched, but she said nothing, her gaze drifting to the potpourri bowl on the mantel. She leaned in, sniffing. Draco’s stomach twisted.

They'd bickered half the night over the blend, Harry had wanted something citrusy, while Draco had insisted on lavender and vanilla. They’d finally settled on a mix of both, and now it sat there, a perfect compromise.

With a jolt, Draco realized he didn’t want her here.
He didn't like someone else in the house Harry and him had built so far, this space felt sacred and theirs.

“Charming,” Narcissa said, though her tone suggested otherwise. “Though, I’d have chosen something more refined. Bergamot, perhaps?”

“It’s not your home,” Draco stated, his irritation flaring. “Harry and I like it as it is.”

“Harry…” Narcissa’s eyes flicked to him, a flicker of something crossing her features. “It seem Mr Potter has left quite an impression on you these last few months. I didn't realize he lived in this small town, as well.”

Draco remained silent, watching her examine the house.

She paused in the foyer, looking around. “This house hasn’t breathed like this since Mother’s time. She used to vanish here for months when Father took mistresses, called it her ‘sanctuary.’” Her laugh was brittle. “As if running solved anything.”

“You hid away after the war,” Draco said softly. “I wouldn’t be judging Grandmother if I were you.”

She paused before continuing. “She’d host parties here, invited exes, even. A rebellion, she called it,” Her voice softened, almost fond. “Father burned the guest lists, of course.”

Draco crossed his arms. “Alright, enough. I know you didn't come here for nostalgia so out with it. Why are you here?”

She sighed, pulling out a heavy pouch of galleons. "We’ve secured a suitor for you. Theodore Nott’s eldest cousin. He's even willing to overlook your…condition. A private ceremony, discreet—”

Draco’s laugh burst out, sharp as an owl’s cry. "So this is why you’re here? Not because you miss me but because you want to sell me.”

Narcissa stiffened. “How dare you even question that? Of course, I've missed you,” Her voice wavered, gloved hands curling into fists. “This could be your chance to live a lavish life, to be protected.”

“Protected?” Draco hissed, hand instinctively cradling his belly. The baby kicked — a sharp, defiant jab. “You never once consulted me. I want no part in this, especially when I’m finally finding my place.”

Her gaze fell to his dirt-streaked hands, the frayed hem of Harry’s borrowed robes. "Your place?" She placed the pouch on the table. "This was always temporary, I’m offering an early escape.”

"By auctioning me off like a cursed heirloom?”

She stepped closer, perfume sharp as frost. Slowly, like approaching a spooked creature she cupped his cheek. Her thumb brushed his cheekbone, a gesture he hadn’t felt since childhood fevers. "All I ever wanted was to see you happy."

He pressed her hand tighter to his face, voice fraying. "Then, let me figure that out myself, selling me to the Notts isn’t love.”

Narcissa flinched. For a heartbeat, she looked ancient; a woman raised in a house where love was measured in galleons and silence.

Draco’s anger drained, leaving a hollow ache. Her love had always been shown in extremes, in Unbreakable Vows and sacrifices, never in simple words and touches.

"Take your galleons," he said, shoving the pouch back. Outside, the half-planted primroses wilted in the heat. "And your suitor. I don’t need your money or your deals.”

“And when Mr Potter tires of you, what then?” She asked sharply. “When he no longer wants to play father to a child that isn't his, perhaps you will come to your senses.”

Draco gritted his teeth, ignoring the stab of pain that pierced his heart.

Narcissa sighed, the sound wearier than he’d ever heard from her as she headed towards the door, leaving the galleons behind. “When you tire of playing house, you know where to find me, dear.”

“Goodbye, Mother.”

The door clicked shut and Draco stared at the abandoned galleons on the table, throat tight.

Tomorrow, he’d add them to the jar beneath Harry’s innkeeper desk where his savings gathered dust.

Tonight, he’d let Harry kiss the worry from his temples.

He walked back to the garden and sank to his knees, dirt grinding into his palms as he dug, fierce and methodical. Let Lucius hear about his mud-stained knees and meager savings. Let them whisper about Potter’s charity.

The baby kicked again—insistent, alive. Draco pressed a palm to the fluttering spot, right where Harry’s lips would linger come dusk.

"Hurry up and bloom," he told the primroses—or perhaps himself.

The evening sun bled through the lace curtains, painting Draco’s room in gold and shadow. He shifted against the pillows, wincing as his back protested.

After his mother’s visit, all he wanted was to bury himself in the tavern’s familiar sheetsbut the ache in his backside refused to let up.

He hadn’t lit the lamp. The dimness suited him, softening the day’s drama. The quilt smelled faintly of lemon, a remnant of Harry’s charm work on the linens. 

The pregnancy book lay splayed across his lap, its pages creased at Relieving Aches: Partner-Assisted Techniques. His fingers traced the illustration—a pair of hands supporting a rounded belly from behind. Heat prickled his neck, but the throbbing in his spine outweighed his pride.

The door creaked open.

“Just me.” Harry’s voice was rough from hours behind the bar. The scent of firewhisky and wood polish clung to him as he nudged the door shut with his hip. 

Draco finally glanced up, Harry stood silhouetted in the fading light, shirt rumpled, hair more unruly than usual. His smile, tired but warm flickered when he caught Draco’s glare.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, shrugging off his coat.

“Pain,” Draco managed to say, fingers digging into the quilt. His knuckles blanched white around the fabric.

Harry was across the room before the word fully landed, coat abandoned mid-shrug. “What can I do?” The question came rough-edged, already moving, hands outstretched like he’d catch Draco’s ache if he could.

Draco thrust the book at him. “Read.”

Harry’s brow furrowed as he scanned the page. His thumb brushed the dog-eared corner. “You want me to… hold you?”

Draco held out a hand, pale fingers trembling slightly. “Help me up, then, you’ll understand.”

Harry’s calloused palm enveloped his, hauling him upright with ease. Draco bit back a groan as his muscles protested, but the promise of relief steadied him. He guided Harry behind him, spine stiff with forced dignity. “Arms under. Lift. And don’t, Merlin, Potter, gently.”

Harry’s quiet laugh warmed the back of Draco’s neck as he obeyed, hands settling beneath the curve of Draco’s belly. The effect was immediate, a buoyant lightness, as if the weight had dissolved into Harry’s touch. Draco sagged backward, a shuddering breath escaping him as the pain dulled to a whisper.

“Better?” Harry murmured, stubble grazing Draco’s jaw.

“Yeah,” Draco muttered, as his eyelids fluttered shut. Harry’s shirt smelled of oak and citrus, mingling with the faint salt of sweat. Familiar. Safe.

Draco leaned his head back with a sigh, yielding as Harry’s lips traced featherlight kisses along his neck. Each brush of warmth sent shivers down his spine, but he didn’t pull away, couldn’t, even if he’d wanted to.

Then, a kiss pressed to his cheek, hesitant. Draco’s breath caught. “I gave you a chance,” he murmured, “and you’re milking it, aren’t you?”

Harry’s smile curved against his skin. “I’ll take whatever you let me have.” His thumbs swept slow circles over Draco’s belly, and beneath their touch, the baby fluttered, a gentle ripple of life.

“You’re perfect,” Harry breathed into his ear, arms tightening around him. “Could stay like this forever.”

Draco’s eyes squeezed shut, the words lodged in his chest, sharp and sweet. Harry’s hands cradling him, the solid heat of his body at Draco’s back, it was too much. Tears pricked at his lashes.

This thing between them, still unnamed and yet they still hadn’t talked about the kiss. It was as if they were in this strange limbo neither wanted to disturb.

Draco didn’t protest when Harry swayed them gently, lifting the weight from his aching back. A quiet sniffle escaped him, and Harry answered with a kiss pressed to his forehead.

“Stay,” Draco whispered, the word rough with unspoken need.

Harry’s arms wrapped tighter around him, solid as an unbreakable vow. “Wasn’t planning on leaving.”

Twilight settled in the silence, n words were needed, just the quiet understanding between them, the effortless way Harry carried his weight, the perfect rightness of their bodies fitting together.

Morning light pooled on the bedsheets where Harry sat, shirtless, cradling a teacup between his palms. The steam curled into the quiet, too hot to drink, but he blew on it out of habit—his gaze fixed on the way the liquid rippled with each exhale.

Draco stood by the window, fingertips tracing the chipped paint of the sill. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it thrummed with all the things they never said aloud.

"I’m ready to meet her."

The words landed like a pebble striking glass. Harry set the cup down too carefully, the click of ceramic against wood deliberate. "Are you sure?"

Draco’s throat worked. He nodded once, sharp, as if bracing for impact. "I can’t keep putting it off. And I don’t…" A beat. "I don’t want to go alone."

Harry was already crossing the room, bare feet silent on the floorboards. His hand skimmed Draco’s elbow—a fleeting touch, just enough to steady them both. "I’ll be there."

Draco exhaled, shoulders dropping. "Thank you."

Hogsmeade village sprawled before them under a high autumn sun, its cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. Draco paused at the edge of the square, absorbing the changes.

The Three Broomsticks still leaned like a tipsy old man, but its mortar gleamed with fresh repair. A new sign creaked in the wind where the old one had once hung, blackened by curses.

Harry watched Draco’s profile, the way his eyes caught on a group of children chasing enchanted leaves, their laughter bouncing off the shingled roofs. A witch tending her flower boxes waved; Harry returned the gesture automatically, but his attention never left Draco’s restless fingers, flexing inside his coat pockets.

"It’s different," Draco murmured, the war had bled out of these streets, leaving behind something lighter, butterbeer and baking bread instead of ash.

Harry’s knuckles brushed his. "We can turn back."

"No," Draco straightened his collar, a nervous tic Harry recognized. "Just… needed to remember how to breathe."

A breeze carried the scent of caramelized apples from the market. Draco inhaled deeply, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward.

"Alright," he said, more to himself than Harry. "Let’s go."

The cottage at the edge of Hogsmeade was quaint, with ivy crawling up its stone walls and smoke curling from the chimney.

Draco stood at the gate, his hand resting on the rusted iron as he stared at the house. It was nothing like the cold grandeur of Malfoy Manor, and yet, it felt just as intimidating in its own way.

Harry’s hand brushed against his lower back, a silent reminder that he wasn’t alone. “You okay?” he asked, his voice low.

Draco nodded, though his throat felt tight. “Let’s just get this over with.”

They made their way up the path, the crunch of gravel under their feet the only sound breaking the silence. Before they could knock, the door swung open, and a small figure with bright blue hair came barreling out.

“Harry!” Teddy shouted, launching himself at the dark-haired wizard with the kind of enthusiasm only a child could muster.

Harry laughed, catching Teddy mid-air and swinging him around. “Hey, Teddy! What’s with the hair?”

Teddy giggled, his hair shifting from blue to a vibrant green as he clung to Harry. “You said you were coming today, I’ve been waiting forever.”

“Forever, huh?” Harry teased, setting Teddy down and ruffling his hair. “Well, I’m here now and I brought someone for you to meet.”

Teddy turned to Draco, his eyes wide with curiosity. His hair shifted again, this time to a soft, silvery blond that matched Draco’s almost exactly. Draco blinked, taken aback.

“You’re Draco,” Teddy said, tilting his head. “Harry talks about you all the time.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, glancing at Harry, who suddenly looked very interested in the state of the porch floorboards. “Does he now?”

Teddy nodded, his hair now a deep, Slytherin green. “He says you’re fixing up your house. Can I help? I’m really good at drawing. I could make plans!”

Draco couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. “You’re a metamorphmagus, aren’t you?”

Teddy grinned, his hair shifting to a bright pink. “Yep! Watch this!” His features began to shift, his nose growing slightly longer, his eyes turning a striking shade of gray. In a matter of seconds, he looked like a miniature version of Draco.

Draco stared, momentarily speechless. “Merlin, that’s… impressive.”

Teddy beamed, clearly pleased with himself. “Gran says I got it from my Mum. She was one, too.”

Before Draco could respond, Andromeda appeared in the doorway, her arms crossed and her expression unreadable.

Draco’s breath hitched when he saw her. She looked so much like Bellatrix — the same sharp features, the same dark eyes that for a moment, he couldn’t move. His stomach twisted, and he took an involuntary step back, bumping into Harry.

“It’s okay,” Harry murmured, his voice low and steady. “She’s not her.”

Draco swallowed hard, his heart pounding. Andromeda seemed to notice his reaction, and without a word, she reached up and tied her hair back into a loose bun, as if to distance herself from the ghost of her sister. The gesture helped, a little. Draco forced himself to take a step forward, then another, until he was standing in front of her.

“Hello,” Andromeda said, her voice calm. “It’s nice to finally meet you, dear.”

Draco nodded, his throat tight.

Andromeda’s gaze flicked to his midsection, but she didn’t comment. Instead, she stepped aside and gestured for them to come in. “Please, come inside, I’ve just put the kettle on.”

Draco followed Andromeda into the sitting room, his eyes scanning the space. From the corner of the room, the sound of Teddy’s laughter echoed, followed by Harry’s low, rumbling chuckle. Draco glanced over to see the two of them on the floor, Teddy’s hair shifting through a rainbow of colors as he waved a toy wand in the air.

Draco watched from the sofa as Harry collapsed onto the rug, clutching his chest. “Agh! Defeated by the mighty dragon!”

Teddy brandished the toy wand, cackling as Harry flopped dramatically each time it moved. The sight hooked under Draco’s ribs and pulled.

Andromeda handed him a chipped teacup. “Harry’s good with him.”

Draco hummed, throat thick. Harry was a natural, lifting Teddy onto his shoulders to “fly” around the room, enduring a barrage of questions with endless patience. The way his calloused hands adjusted Teddy’s grip on the toy wand, gentle but firm.

“Harry told me you two are fixing up my Mother’s old home,” Andromeda said, her voice cutting through his thoughts as she poured tea into mismatched mugs. “So many memories in that house.”

Draco blinked, tearing his gaze away from Harry and Teddy. “You lived there?”

Andromeda nodded, her expression softening as she handed him a steaming mug. “Yes, mostly when my mother and father fought. It was… a refuge, of sorts.”

Draco’s mind raced, piecing together the fragments of his family’s history. “That explains the bodiless dolls. That must’ve been Aunt Bella’s room.”

A pained smile tugged at Andromeda’s lips. “Yes, she always had a violent streak.”

“And you…” Draco hesitated, his voice dropping slightly. “You drew dragons on the walls.”

Andromeda’s expression shifted, something like nostalgia flickering in her dark eyes. “For Narcissa. She loved them.”

Draco's fingers twisted in his lap, nails leaving crescent moons in his palms. The teacup trembled slightly before he set it down. Andromeda reached out, her hand brushing against his arm in a gesture that felt both foreign and comforting.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Draco nodded his head, his throat too tight to respond.

Andromeda sighed, her gaze drifting to the window. For a moment, she seemed lost in thought, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup. “I’ve thought about reaching out to her, you know. Narcissa. Though, I’m sure she wants nothing to do with me.”

A shadow of sadness passed over her face, and Draco felt a pang of something he couldn’t quite name. He hesitated, then said, “She keeps your old letters. The ones you sent her when you were at Hogwarts. She keeps them in a music box.”

Andromeda’s head snapped up, her eyes wide. For a moment, she looked as though she might cry. “She… she kept them?”

Draco nodded, his voice quiet but steady. “She’s stubborn, but she’s not as indifferent as she pretends to be.”

Andromeda’s bottom lip trembled, and she forced out a shaky chuckle. “That old music box… Mother gave it to her for her tenth birthday. She used to play it every night before bed. I thought she’d have thrown it out by now.”

Draco shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’d be surprised how disgustingly sentimental Mother is,”

Andromeda looked down at her hands, her fingers tightening around the teacup. “Maybe… maybe there’s hope, then. For us.”

Draco watched as Teddy launched himself at Harry, who caught him mid-air with a grunt and a laugh. For a moment, the weight of the conversation lifted, replaced by the simple, uncomplicated joy of the scene.

Andromeda’s voice broke the silence, softer now. “Thank you, Draco. For telling me about the letters. It… means more than you know.”

Draco nodded, his gaze fixing on Harry and Teddy again.

The hospital's sterile lights were a stark contrast to Andromeda's warm cottage when they arrived the next morning. The antiseptic-lavender sting of St. Mungo’s made his nose wrinkle but Harry’s knee, pressed firmly against his, was solid.

"You’re not doing this alone," Harry had murmured that morning, his palm a steady weight between Draco’s shoulder blades as they’d walked in. 

The door swung open and Luna walked in, her radish earrings bobbing as she beamed at them. "Oh! You brought the dad!"

Draco’s fingers spasmed on the edge of the table. "He’s not—we haven’t even—" His ears burned.

Harry just grinned, stretching his arm along the back of Draco’s chair like a satisfied kneazle. "Missed you too, Luna."

Luna’s wand traced glowing arcs over Draco’s belly. "Would you like to know the gender?"

Draco’s gaze flicked to Harry—to the way his breath had hitched, his eyes gone soft and wide behind his glasses. Something molten pooled in Draco’s chest.

"No, let it be a surprise," he whispered.

She nodded as a golden light intensified. A tiny figure materialized in the air, curled fists, a button nose, one foot kicking lazily.

"Perfectly healthy," Luna clapped her hands.

Harry leaned in until his temple brushed Draco’s, his whisper trembling. "Look at them, they got your nose."

"Yeah," Draco croaked.

Harry caught his hand, lacing their fingers together over Draco’s stomach, right where the baby floated, blissfully unaware.

"Perfect," Harry murmured against Draco’s hair.

Later that day, Draco was sitting on the couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table and a book resting on his rounded belly.

The baby had been particularly active after the appointment, and he absently traced small circles over the spot where he’d felt a tiny kick just moments ago.

He was so engrossed in his reading that he didn’t notice Harry until the man was standing in front of him, holding out a piece of parchment with the Hogwarts seal on it.

"What’s this?" Draco accepted it, squinting at the looping script.

"An invitation." Harry dropped onto the cushions, close enough that his knee brushed Draco’s thigh. "To the Hogwarts reunion, they want me to speak."

Draco snorted, tossing the parchment onto the coffee table. "How predictable, enjoy your evening of hero worship. I’ll be here with a tub of ice cream and ginger roots." He patted his belly happily.

Harry grabbed his hand mid-pat, lacing their fingers together. "Come with me."

"As?"

"My date."

Draco's eyebrows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline. "Hold on, we haven't even put a label on whatever this is between us, and now you want to soft-launch our relationship at a Hogwarts reunion?"

Harry froze mid-reach for Draco's hand. "Wait...you don't think we're together?"

"Together?" Draco's nose scrunched in confusion. "Since when?"

"Since..." Harry's mouth opened and closed like a confused goldfish. "Since the first time I kissed you?"

"One kiss," Draco said slowly, as if explaining to a particularly dim first-year, "does not constitute a relationship, Potter," He struggled upright, Harry's hands flying to steady him.

"Merlin's beard, by that logic, one Quidditch practice would make you a professional!”

Harry looked genuinely wounded. "I've been rubbing your feet every night for two months!"

"That's just being a decent human being."

"And giving you flowers every week?"

"Common courtesy!"

"And sleeping in your bed most nights.”

Draco opened his mouth, then closed it with a click. Harry seized the opportunity to press forward.

"I asked for a chance with you," he said softly, fingers tracing Draco's wrist. "I thought that was our beginning."

Draco huffed and smacked Harry's chest with a pillow. "You absolute idiot! You have to actually say the words!"

Catching the pillow, Harry pulled Draco into his arms, their noses brushing. "Draco Lucius Malfoy..." A deep breath. "Will you be my boyfriend?" As if the words might break if handled too roughly.

"Now, I have no choice, do I?" Draco whispered.

The baby chose that moment to deliver a sharp kick, making Draco gasp. Harry's hands immediately cradled his belly.

"See?" Harry whispered, lips grazing Draco's temple. "Even little bean thinks it's a good idea."

Draco melted against him with a dramatic sigh. "Yes, you ridiculous man but only because you're already practically living here."

Harry’s grin lit up the room brighter than a hundred Lumos spells. "Excellent. Now about that reunion..."

"Harry, look at me," He gestured to his swollen middle, shaking his head. "Half the Ministry will be there, the Prophet will have a field day."

Harry just shrugged, lifting their joined hands to press a kiss to Draco’s knuckles. "Let them talk. Tell them it’s mine."

"You can’t just—" He sputtered, "You can’t say that!"

"Why not?" Harry’s lips brushed his, warm and teasing. "It’s true. The baby’s mine because I’m keeping you both and I fully intend to give them siblings."

Heat flooded Draco’s face and he shoved at Harry’s shoulder. "We’ve never even been on a proper date, you presumptuous bastard!"

Harry caught his wrist, grinning. "I’ll take you on a hundred dates but my mind’s made up, you're it for me," His thumb traced the delicate bones of Draco’s inner wrist, right over his fluttering pulse.

Draco yanked his hand back, but Harry just leaned in to nuzzle his temple. "I mean it, I’m not hiding this," His palm settled over Draco’s belly, right where the baby had just kicked. "Not from anyone."

Draco’s traitorous heart somersaulted. "You’re insane," he muttered, but his fingers tightened around Harry’s.

"So, that’s a yes?"

"It’s a fine," Draco grumbled, "But you’re taking me to dinner first. Somewhere nice. With candles."

Harry nodded, pressing an earnest kiss to Draco’s knuckles, then his belly, then, lingering on his lips. "Whatever you want.”

"And no declaring more babies to anyone.”

"I can't promise that," Harry’s laughter vibrated through Draco’s chest as the baby pressed against his bladder, a perfect, punctuation-mark jab.

Chapter Text

The first hints of dawn tinted the sky yellow as Harry woke, a weight pressing on him.

Not the physical kind, though Draco's arm draped heavily across his chest certainly qualified, but the weight of the moment itself. That quiet, precious gravity of waking up in their bed with the man he loved breathing softly against his shoulder.

Morning light seeped around the edges of their curtains, painting faint gold stripes across the rumpled sheets. Harry kept his eyes closed, savoring the warmth, the creak of settling floorboards, the distant tick of the kitchen clock, the occasional rustle of leaves against their bedroom window. Alive, but not yet awake. 

Draco shifted beside him with a soft sigh, his fingers curling briefly against Harry's sternum before relaxing again. The movement made Harry open his eyes.

He'd seen Draco sleep dozens of times by now, but the sight still caught in his throat sometimes. The way morning light gilded his pale lashes, the unguarded slackness of his features. The faint imprint of the pillowcase on his cheek that made him look younger, softer like the boy he might have been in another life.

Careful not to disturb him, Harry turned onto his side. Draco's sleep shirt had ridden up slightly, revealing the gentle curve of his stomach. Harry reached out, stopping just short of touching.

The baby had been restless last night, keeping them both awake with insistent kicks until Draco had finally grabbed Harry's hand and pressed it firmly against the worst of the movement.

"Your child," he'd grumbled, voice thick with sleep. "You deal with them."

As if Harry had any control over the baby playing footsies. Still, he'd whispered nonsense against Draco's skin until the kicking subsided, until Draco's breathing evened out into something deeper and more peaceful.

Now, in the quiet morning, Harry let his fingers brush the faint swell. The baby was quiet for now, letting Draco rest but the mere thought of the baby that would change both their worlds sent a wave of warmth through Harry's chest so intense it nearly hurt.

He pressed a kiss to Draco's shoulder, tasting salt and sleep-warmed skin. "Morning," he murmured when Draco stirred.

Draco made a noise that was more vibration than word, burrowing deeper into the pillows. His hand found Harry's wrist, holding it against his stomach like an anchor.

"Too early," he mumbled.

Harry smiled against his skin. "The sun's up."

"Sun's an idiot."

The rasp in Draco's voice made Harry laugh softly, he shifted closer, tucking himself around Draco's back. Their bed smelled like them; like the expensive sandalwood soap Draco pretended not to love, like the faint metallic tang of Harry's hair potion, like the clean cotton of their sheets.

Harry breathed it all in, memorizing the moment. Three months from now, their mornings would look different: filled with cries and feedings and Merlin knew what else. The thought should have terrified him. Instead, it settled in his chest like something precious.

Draco turned in his arms, blinking up at him with sleep-heavy eyes. "Why're you up?"

"No reason," Harry said, brushing a thumb across the crease the pillow had left on his cheek.

Draco narrowed his eyes but didn't push, instead, he stretched with a groan, his shirt riding up further to reveal more skin. Harry's fingers followed of their own accord, tracing the new lines and curves that marked Draco's changing body.

The baby chose that moment to kick, a sharp jab right against Harry's palm. They both froze.

"You woke them up," Draco muttered, but his hand covered Harry's, pressing it more firmly against the spot. 

Harry couldn't find words to reply instead he leaned in, kissing Draco properly now, slow and deep and full of everything he couldn't say.

When they parted, Draco's cheeks were flushed, his lips slightly parted. "Breakfast," he said, though he made no move to get up.

"Mm," Harry kissed him again, just because he could now. "In a minute."

The sun climbed higher. The tavern warmed around them. Downstairs, the kettle began to whistle, charmed to do so when it sensed they were awake. Their morning stretched before them, ordinary and perfect and theirs.

The scent of frying eggs and toast filled the kitchen when Harry heard the creak of the stairs. He glanced up just as Draco shuffled into view, rubbing sleep from his eyes with one hand while the other supported the small of his back. His shirt, one of Harry's old tshirts that had somehow migrated to Draco's wardrobe, stretched taut across his belly, the hem rode up just enough to reveal the smooth swell of his belly, the once-innie navel now a tiny outie that Harry found inexplicably endearing.

"Morning," Harry said, flipping a pancake with unnecessary flourish just to see Draco roll his eyes.

"It’s too early for you to be this cheerful."

"Too early?" Harry chuckled, nodding toward the clock on the wall. "It’s nearly nine."

"Early," He announced stubbornly.

"Sleep okay?"

Draco yawned, stretching in a way that made the jersey ride up further. "The baby decided to use my bladder as a punching bag at three AM," He shuffled closer, peering over Harry's shoulder at the sizzling pan. "Is that ginger in the batter?"

"Yeah, you really liked it when I added them last time," Harry nudged him toward the table as he brought both their plates to the table. "Sit before you fall over."

Draco complied, though not without a half-hearted glare. His bare foot found Harry's under the table almost immediately as he sat down, toes brushing against his ankle in quiet greeting. Harry responded by sliding a mug of tea across the table, steeped exactly three minutes, just how Draco liked it.

They ate in comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional clink of cutlery and the sound of birds outside the kitchen window. Every so often, Harry would catch Draco's eye and they'd share a look that made his chest feel too full, like his heart might burst through his ribs.

"The house is nearly finished," Harry said around a mouthful of toast, halfway through breakfast. "You could move in by the end of the week."

Draco paused with his teacup to his lips. "And if I say no?"

Harry frowned. "Why would you? We completely rebuilt the place from the foundation up. New plumbing, new wiring, that ridiculous heated floor system you insisted on...what's left to do?"

Setting his cup down with deliberate care, Draco met Harry's gaze. "I want you to move in, too, you idiot."

The fork slipped from Harry's fingers with a clatter. "Oh," His throat suddenly felt too tight. "Are you...I mean, I don't want to intrude..."

Draco exhaled through his nose, the way he always did when Harry was being particularly dense.

"Harry," he said slowly, as if explaining to a small child, "that house stopped being mine and became ours the moment you spent three days assembling that mantle," His fingers tapped against his teacup. "So stop fretting and move in already."

For a wild moment, Harry considered apparating to the roof just to shout his joy across the village. Instead, he leaned across the table, capturing Draco's lips earnestly in a kiss that tasted of tea and maple syrup.

"Yes," he murmured when they parted, unable to keep the grin off his face. "I'll move in. Since you're begging me to."

Draco gaped at him before shoving at his shoulder, laughing in disbelief. "I am not begging."

"Could've fooled me," Harry stole another kiss, laughing when Draco groaned in protest. "All that 'our house' talk? Sounds like begging to—ow!" He rubbed his shin where Draco had kicked him under the table.

"Eat your eggs before they get cold," Draco said primly, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

The morning sun climbed higher as Harry watched Draco absently rubbed circles over his belly, his expression soft in a way Harry had once thought impossible. The  house at the edge of the village —their home — waited for them just down the lane, ready to be filled with all the ordinary, extraordinary moments yet to come.

Harry reached for Draco's hand, threading their fingers together. For now, this was enough.

The late afternoon light had faded into dusk, Draco stood before the full-length mirror, his reflection fractured by the flickering candlelight. The soft blue dress robes, tailored specifically for the occasion, hung open, the fabric straining slightly over the curve of his stomach. He exhaled through his nose, fingers plucking at the seams as if he could will them to sit differently.

Harry watched from the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. He’d been quiet, letting Draco wrestle with the robes in silence, knowing better than to intervene too soon but now, as Draco’s frown deepened, Harry pushed off the door and stepped inside.

The floorboards creaked under his weight, and Draco’s eyes flicked to him in the mirror.

“It’s not sitting right,” Draco muttered, turning slightly to assess himself from another angle. His fingers traced the line where the fabric pulled taut over his stomach, his expression unreadable. “I told Cornelia  to account for the—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening.

Harry came up behind him, close enough that his chest nearly brushed Draco’s back. He didn’t speak, just reached out and smoothed his hands over the fabric, adjusting the drape with careful fingers. The satin was fine, expensive, but it still resisted where it shouldn’t.

Draco’s reflection scowled. “I look like a—”

“Don’t,” Harry murmured, cutting him off before he could finish. His hands settled on Draco’s hips, thumbs pressing lightly into the dip of his waist. “Just look.”

Draco exhaled sharply but held still as Harry adjusted the robes, his touch methodical. He tugged the fabric into place, letting it fall more naturally over the swell of Draco’s stomach. In the mirror, the satin caught the candlelight, making the silver embroidery along the collar gleam faintly.

Harry’s fingers lingered, tracing the curve beneath the fabric. The baby shifted under his palm, a slow roll that made Draco’s breath hitch.

“There,” Harry said softly, his hands slid up Draco’s sides, settling at his ribs. “Perfect.”

Draco’s reflection stared back at him, his expression caught somewhere between irritation and something softer. “You’re biased.”

Harry grinned, pressing a kiss to the nape of Draco’s neck. “Maybe.”

Draco turned then, facing Harry properly. The movement made the fabric shift again, but this time, he didn’t fuss with it. Instead, his hands found Harry’s waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his own half-buttoned dress shirt.

“You’re not even dressed yet,” Draco pointed out, arching a brow.

Harry shrugged. “Got distracted.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but his grip tightened slightly. “We’re going to be late.”

“Let them wait.”

Draco huffed, his fingers flexed against Harry’s sides, then relaxed. A beat passed, then another, the quiet between them settling comfortably.

Harry studied him, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his lashes cast faint shadows in the candlelight, the stubborn set of his mouth. He reached up, brushing a thumb over Draco’s bottom lip.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, simple and matter-of-fact.

Draco’s breath stuttered. He looked away, but not before Harry caught the flush creeping up his neck. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because...” Draco cut himself off, exhaling sharply. His fingers tightened in Harry’s shirt again, like he wasn’t sure whether to shove him away or pull him closer. “Because it’s unfair.”

Harry laughed, low and warm. He leaned in, pressing their foreheads together. “I'll say it for as long as I live.”

Draco muttered something under his breath, but his hands slid up Harry’s chest, fingers curling into the fabric. The baby kicked, a sharp jab that made them both still.

Harry grinned. “They agree with me.”

Draco groaned, tipping his head back. “Merlin, you’re insufferable.”

Harry kissed him anyway.

The clock chimed the hour. They were definitely going to be late.

Harry couldn’t bring himself to care.

The Great Hall had been transfigured into something between a ballroom and a museum,enchanted banners displaying each House’s history, floating candles casting warm light over the polished floors, and the ghosts drifting through the crowd like living memories. The air buzzed with conversation, laughter, and the occasional burst of applause as old classmates reunited.

Harry felt the weight of attention the moment they stepped through the doors.

Cameras flashed, quick, bright bursts of light that left spots in his vision. The press had been barred from the actual event, but alumni with quick wands and quicker reflexes were already capturing the moment, eager to sell to the highest bidder.

He could practically see tomorrow’s headlines: Reclusive Harry Potter Makes First Public Appearance Since Leaving Aurors With Draco Malfoy No Less.

Draco stiffened beside him, his fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around Harry’s.

"Smile," Harry murmured, squeezing back. "They’re going to take the pictures anyway. Might as well give them something to talk about."

Draco exhaled through his nose but lifted his chin, the picture of pureblood poise. 

Harry didn’t bother hiding his admiration. They made it three steps before the whispers started.

"...heard he’s pregnant."

"...Potter’s, you think?"

"...always knew there was something between them..."

Harry rolled his eyes as they passed through the crowd, that was the one thing he hated about Hogwarts, the gossiping always drove him mad.

Draco reached automatically for a passing champagne flute, fingers just brushing the stem before Harry intercepted

"Pumpkin juice," Harry said mildly, plucking the glass from the tray before Draco could take it and replacing it with a goblet of the non-alcoholic alternative.

Draco's nose wrinkled. "I was just going to hold it."

"Mmhm," Harry guided him toward an empty table near the enchanted windows, where the noise was slightly muted. "Sit. You've been on your feet too long.”

“I thought my mother was at Malfoy Manor,” Draco muttered, but he sank into the chair with a barely suppressed sigh of relief.

Harry dragged another chair closer and sat beside him, close enough that their knees brushed. He summoned a small plate of hors d'oeuvres with a wave of his hands, mostly the ones Draco had been eyeing earlier, and set it in front of him.

Draco eyed the spread. "Are you feeding me now?"

"Someone has to," Harry said, nudging a miniature quiche toward him. "You barely ate today."

Draco huffed but picked up the quiche, taking a delicate bite. The candlelight caught the silver threads in his cufflinks, the elegant line of his throat as he swallowed. Harry watched, helplessly fond.

A house-elf appeared with a tray of desserts, and Harry immediately snagged a treacle tart before the elf could vanish again.

Draco arched his brow.

Harry set the tart down in front of him. "Humor me."

He rolled his eyes but didn’t protest further. He broke off a corner of the tart, popping it into his mouth with a small, pleased hum as he leaned against Harry.

“Told you,” Harry said smug.

Before Draco could answer, a voice cut through the murmurs around them.

"Who knocked you up, Malfoy?"

The words landed like a jinx as conversations nearby stuttered to a halt and heads turned.

Michael Corner stood a few feet away, his tie loosened, cheeks flushed. His grin was sharp-edged, the kind that had always preceded a particularly cruel joke back in school.

Harry felt Draco go rigid beside him.

He didn’t think, he just stepped forward, putting himself between Corner and Draco, his voice low but carrying. "I did. Got a problem with that?"

The silence that followed was absolute. Even the floating candles seemed to dim.

Corner blinked, his smirk faltering. 

"Michael."

The voice was quiet but firm, Susan Bones stepped out of the crowd, her auburn hair pinned back neatly, her expression unreadable. She didn’t raise her voice, didn’t glare. She just looked at him, steady and unimpressed.

Corner’s mouth snapped shut, he glanced around, suddenly aware of the stares not just from Harry, but from the growing circle of their former classmates. Corner muttered something under his breath and melted back into the crowd.

The noise of the reunion slowly resumed, though Harry could still feel the weight of lingering stares.

"Harry, you don’t have to cover for me," Draco hissed quietly, his voice barely audible over the music. "I had a one-night stand, I’m dealing with the consequences. There’s no need for —"

Harry turned to face him fully, cutting him off with a look. Draco’s mouth snapped shut, his eyes searching Harry’s face.

"I don’t care about your past," Harry said, voice low. "You’re here with me and that’s what matters."

For a heartbeat, Draco just stared at him. Then something in his expression shifted; surprise, disbelief, then something softer, more vulnerable. The noise of the reunion faded to a distant hum.

Cameras flashed again, capturing the moment.

Draco exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around Harry’s. "You’re going to regret this tomorrow when we’re front-page news."

Harry grinned. "Worth it."

The music swelled as the band struck up a waltz. Around them, couples moved toward the dance floor.

Harry held out a hand. "Dance with me?"

Draco looked at him like he’d grown a second head. "You hate dancing."

"I hate a lot of things," Harry admitted. "But I love you."

Draco’s breath caught, then, slowly, he placed his hand in Harry’s.

The cameras flashed again.

Draco hesitated, gaze flicking to the crowded floor and back. Then, with a put-upon sigh that didn't quite mask his smile, he set down his glass and took Harry's hand.

The moment they stepped onto the floor, space cleared around them like magic. Harry barely noticed. His world narrowed to the warmth of Draco's palm against his, the way their bodies slotted together with practiced ease despite the new curve between them.

Harry's hand settled at the small of Draco's back, fingers spreading wide. Draco's free hand came to rest on Harry's shoulder, his thumb brushing the nape of Harry's neck in a silent rhythm.

The music swelled around them, a gentle waltz that seemed to slow time itself. Harry could feel the exact moment when Draco stopped thinking about who might be watching; the subtle release of tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers relaxed against Harry's neck.

Their steps fell into perfect sync, as natural as breathing, and between them, the swell of Draco's stomach pressed gently against Harry's abdomen, a quiet reminder of how their lives had changed.

Harry couldn't resist shifting his hand lower, just for a moment, to cradle the curve where the baby slept. The answering flutter beneath his palm made him smile.

Draco's thumb stilled its rhythmic motion against Harry's neck. "Feel that?" he murmured, barely audible over the music.

Harry nodded, swallowing hard. The reality of it still stole his words sometimes, that this was his life now. Draco in his arms, their future growing between them, this fragile happiness he'd never dared imagine for himself.

The orchestra transitioned to a softer refrain, the violins trembling like leaves in autumn air. Harry took the opportunity to draw Draco closer, until their foreheads brushed and he could count every pale eyelash shadowing Draco's cheeks. The scent of his cologne mingled betweem them.

"I'm glad you're here with me," Harry whispered, the words leaving his lips before he could second-guess them. Too simple for everything they carried, but it was all he had.

Draco went very still and Harry thought he'd misstepped, that the moment would shatter into one of Draco's defensive barbs. Then, he felt it - the slow exhale against his neck, the way Draco's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly in his hair.

"Me too," Draco breathed, the words muffled as he turned his face into the curve of Harry's shoulder. His lips brushed Harry's collarbone, accidental or not, and Harry felt the confession in every syllable.

Around them, the Great Hall seemed to fade - the curious glances, the whispers behind hands, even the floating candles dimmed in comparison to the warmth between their bodies. The music wrapped around them like a cocoon, the waltz continuing long after their steps had slowed to barely more than swaying.

Harry closed his eyes, committing every sensation to memory, the weight of Draco's hand in his, the soft tickle of platinum hair against his cheek, the steady pressure where their child rested between them. The orchestra could have stopped playing entirely and he wouldn't have noticed, too lost in the quiet miracle of holding them both.

Tomorrow would come with its complications: the Prophet's inevitable headlines, the unspoken questions but here, now, with Draco's heartbeat thrumming against his chest and their future cradled safely between them, none of that mattered.

The song ended. The hall erupted in applause. Neither of them moved.

Harry pressed his lips to Draco's temple, lingering just a second too long to be casual. When he finally pulled back, Draco's eyes were suspiciously bright in the candlelight, his usual sharp expression softened into something unbearably tender.

"One more?" Harry asked, thumb brushing the delicate skin beneath Draco's wrist where his pulse fluttered.

Draco's answering smile was small, private, meant for Harry alone. "As if you could keep up."

But his fingers laced tighter with Harry's as the next song began.

The Great Hall buzzed with laughter and the clink of glasses as Harry made his way back from the refreshment table after three rounds of dancing.

He'd been gone less than five minutes just long enough to fetch their drinks yet when he turned back toward their corner table, his steps faltered.

Ginny had commandeered his chair.

She was leaning across the small table, her trademark  grin flashing as she said something that made Draco's lips twitch in that particular way Harry had come to recognize, the one that meant he was either about to deliver a scathing remark or laugh outright.

The candlelight caught the amusement in his grey eyes, and Harry felt his stomach do a slow, nervous flip.

He adjusted his grip on the glasses, suddenly very aware of how many former classmates stood between him and whatever disaster Ginny was currently unleashing. The crowd parted reluctantly as he picked up his pace, dodging a tipsy Zacharias Smith and nearly colliding with a floating tray of canapés.

"...out there telling everyone," Ginny was saying as Harry finally got within earshot, her voice carrying just enough over the din of the party, "that he'll put a whole Quidditch team in you."

Harry's grip on the glasses tightened, the pumpkin juice sloshed dangerously close to the rims as he made a strangled noise and lunged forward, his free hand clamping over Ginny's mouth with more force than strictly necessary.

Draco didn't even have the decency to look surprised, he simply arched one pale eyebrow, fingers steepled beneath his chin in that infuriatingly elegant way of his.

"He's determined to beat the Weasley number of kids, it seems," he drawled, voice smooth as the fabric of his dress robes. His gaze slid to Harry, heavy-lidded and knowing and Harry felt heat creep up his neck.

"Ginny," Harry hissed, his hand still muffling her laughter, "don't tell him things like that. You'll scare him away."

With a practiced twist, Ginny freed herself from his grip, snatching one of the pumpkin juice glasses as she did. "Oh please," she said, taking a long sip before grinning over the rim. "If he wanted to run, he would've already," She tilted her head, considering Draco. "Besides, he doesn't look scared. He looks... interested."

Harry dropped into the nearest chair, handing the remaining glass toward Draco. "You are?"

The wood creaked as Ginny kicked his shin under the table. "You both are gross."

Draco accepted the drink with deliberate slowness, his fingers brushing Harry's just a second longer than necessary. He took a small sip, watching Harry over the rim with that infuriating smirk.

"I mean its a whole team,"  The corner of his mouth twitched. "Very ambitious."

Ginny's arm settled around his shoulders, her familiar weight both comforting and exasperating. "Keep it in your pants, you're still in public." she said, her voice dripping with false cheer. She squawked as Harry shoved her away.

Across the table, Draco hummed, swirling his pumpkin juice with elegant twists of his wrist. The candlelight caught the silver of his cufflinks, the sharp line of his jaw. "I give it a year," he mused, "before he's begging for another."

Harry lifted his head, leaning forward with a slow grin. "Is that a challenge? "

Ginny groaned, rising to her feet. "You both are gross."

Neither were listening, under the table, Draco's foot nudged against Harry's, a silent, solid pressure that spoke louder than any declaration. The noise of the party faded to background static as Harry met his heated gaze.

The enchanted ceiling's starlight danced across the linen tablecloths as Harry reached to straighten Draco's napkin, not that it needed adjusting, but it gave him an excuse to brush his fingers against Draco's thigh. The gesture earned him a sidelong glance and the barest quirk of lips before Draco returned to tracing invisible patterns on the tablecloth with one elegant finger.

The approaching click of heels made Harry's shoulders tense before he lifted his head to see Pansy Parkinson approaching. She materialized at their table in a cloud of suffocating perfume.

"Draco, darling," she purred, grabbing a chair from the neighboring table with a scrape that set Harry's teeth on edge. Her emerald gown matched the Slytherin banners overhead, though the comparison did the house colors a disservice. "You're positively radiant, motherhood becomes you."

Draco's finger stilled. "Pansy," His voice carried all the warmth of a dungeon's damp stones with faux sweetness. "It's nice to see you again."

"I would hope so, you've gone completely quiet within our circle, no one has heard or seen from you in years!"

"It's only been two."

Harry kept his grip loose around his goblet, though his knuckles ached with the effort. Parkinson's gaze swept over Draco's form with clinical interest, pausing at the subtle curve beneath his robes before flicking past Harry as if he were part of the scenery.

"Millicent mentioned the most fascinating bit of gossip," Parkinson continued, swirling her wine with affected nonchalance. A ruby ring caught the candlelight as she tapped the glass. "Your mother secured quite the match of the year for you, didn't she? Before you..." Her eyes darted meaningfully to Harry. "Changed your mind."

The hum of conversation around them seemed to fade as Harry watched Draco's throat work, the careful rise and fall of his chest as he schooled his features.

"Theo's cousin made an offer," Draco acknowledged, his free hand finding Harry's beneath the table. The pressure of his fingers spoke volumes. "Which I declined. Immediately."

Parkinson's smile sharpened. "How very bold of you," Her gaze dropped to where their hands were presumably visible beneath the table's edge. "Though one does wonder if you’ve considered what’s best for the child. Theodore’s cousin may be dull, but at least the bloodline would’ve been… uncomplicated."

The pumpkin juice turned sour in Harry's mouth, he set the goblet down with more force than needed. "Piss off, Parkinson."

She blinked, all faux innocence. "Oh, don’t look so scandalized, Potter. We all know how… particular the old families can be about lineage," Her ruby-ringed finger tapped the rim of her glass. "Draco, darling, surely your mother mentioned the advantages of a union with—"

Draco’s laugh was a blade. "Spare me, Pansy," He leaned forward, silkily venomous. "Because if I wanted to hear my mother’s opinions regurgitated, I’d’ve brought a parrot."

She let out a screech of a laugh. "Touchy."

Draco's fingers twitched against his and Harry considered the consequences if he tried to hex her but before either could respond, a new voice cut through the tension.

"Pansy, there you are!" Millicent Bulstrode appeared at her shoulder, her braid swinging. "Blaise been looking everywhere for you. Something about betting pools and your outstanding debts?"

"How tedious," She rose in one fluid motion, pausing to adjust her gloves. "Do reconsider, Draco, one should never burn bridges without examining the alternative routes."

"I'm not marrying some old man for status," Draco snapped, exhaling sharply.

Pansy rolled her eyes, waving over her shoulder. As she disappeared into the crowd, Bulstrode offered them an apologetic shrug before following.

The silence between them stretched until Draco exhaled sharply through his nose. "She always did have the subtlety of a Bludger to the face."

Harry turned to Draco. "Nott's cousin, huh?"

"Third cousin, twice removed, and twice as dull." Draco's thumb brushed Harry's knuckles. "Mother's latest desperate attempt at 'respectable' matchmaking."

Harry stood, the scrape of wood on stone cut through nearby conversations, drawing curious glances. He barely noticed, his focus locked on the sudden pallor of Draco's face, the tightness around his eyes that meant he was calculating damage control.

"Can we talk? In private." Harry asked, his voice low. He offered his hand, palm up, and didn't breathe again until Draco's cool fingers slid against his.

The heavy oak doors muffled the sounds of the party, but not before Harry caught the telltale pop of flash photography.

He felt even more annoyance at that, his private life once again reduced to public spectacle.

The corridor was blessedly empty, the torches casting flickering light across ancient stone as Harry turned to face Draco, their joined hands the only anchor in the sudden quiet. Above them, a portrait muttered in its sleep, the sound echoing down the vaulted ceiling.

"You never told me," Harry's voice came out low, scraped raw. Harry watched the pulse flutter in Draco’s neck, rapid as a snitch’s wings as he swallowed, the candlelight catching the nervous flutter beneath pale skin. "About a marriage proposal. About your mother visiting."

Draco's fingers twitched toward his abdomen before curling into fists at his sides. "It wasn't—"

"Don't," Harry stepped closer, watching how the torchlight carved shadows beneath Draco's cheekbones. "Don't say it wasn't important. Not when Parkinson knew before I did."

The stone walls seemed to press closer as silence stretched between them. Draco turned his face toward the arched windows, where moonlight silvered his profile.

"Mother came three weeks ago," he said at last, each word measured. "Theodore's cousin made his... interest known far before that."

Harry's pulse roared in his ears. Three weeks. Twenty-one days of shared meals and quiet laughter and Draco keeping this locked away. The realization settled like lead in his stomach.

"She brought a contract?" Harry forced out.

Draco's lips twisted. His fingers traced an absent pattern over his stomach, a new habit Harry had come to cherish, now turned into something painful. "Money. I rejected her offer, Harry."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Harry reached out, then let his hand fall when Draco flinched. "Did you think I wouldn't —"

"I knew exactly what you'd do," Draco's voice cracked like thin ice. "That Gryffindor nobility would have you offering rings and ridiculous promises before we even were together."

"You thought I'd propose," Harry said slowly. "Because of the baby or honor or whatever else you made up in your head?"

"I think," Draco said carefully, "that you've never been able to walk away from someone who needed you," His fingers flexed against his stomach. "Even when you should."

"Look at me," Harry whispered and when Draco didn't move, he cradled that stubborn jaw in his hands, thumbs brushing the sharp cheekbones. "You really believe I'm only here out of some...obligation?"

Draco's silence was answer enough.

Harry let out a disbelieving laugh. "Draco, you were just telling Ginny about how many babies we'll have!"

Draco looked away, jaw working. "That was banter. Jokes. This?" His hand fluttered between them. "This is real, we've only been dating for two weeks and I don't want you to regret this, me. I didn't tell you because I won't have you shackled to me because of some misplaced —"

Harry stepped closer, crowding Draco against the stone wall. His palm slammed against the wall beside Draco's head, not in anger, but emphasis.

"After everything, you're really going to finish that sentence? After the dancing around each other, the house, the way I —" He cut himself off, breathing hard. "Christ, Draco. The only thing keeping me here is you."

Harry didn't wait for a response, he closed the distance between them.

It wasn't gentle. It was teeth and desperation and three weeks of secrets pouring into the press of lips. Draco gasped against his mouth, hands flying up to clutch at Harry's shoulders as Harry backed him against the wall. The taste of pumpkin juice and Draco flooded his senses, familiar and precious and nearly lost to stupid misunderstandings.

When they broke apart, Harry kept their foreheads pressed together, his breath uneven.

"You're not some charity case," he said, voice rough. His thumb brushed the sharp line of Draco's cheekbone. "You're the most infuriating, brilliant, beautiful man I've ever known," He slid his hand between them, covering Draco's where it rested against his stomach. "However this started, whatever comes next, this is ours, now."

Draco's eyes flickered away, the candlelight catching the tension in his jaw. "Harry..."

"No," Harry caught his chin, forcing their gazes to meet. "I love you. Every reason I have for being here is selfish. Not pity, not obligation," His voice dropped. "Just you."

For one suspended moment, Draco's carefully constructed composure wavered. Harry saw it, the quick hitch of breath, the way his fingers curled tighter in Harry's shirt. Then, the distant swell of applause from the Great Hall echoed down the corridor, and the moment shattered.

Draco's fingers slowly uncurled from Harry's shirt, but he didn't pull away. The torchlight caught the silver in his eyes, the faint tremor in his exhale.

"Yes, I'm irrational. Yes, I probably would've acted impulsive the second I found out," Harry's voice was rough, barely above a whisper. "But don’t hide things from me. This..." He pressed Draco’s hand harder against his chest, right over his heartbeat. "This is supposed to be our fresh start. No more secrets."

Draco exhaled sharply, his fingers twitching against Harry’s shirt. "You mean it." He whispered, not quite a question, but not quite belief either. Like he was testing the words, waiting for them to dissolve.

"Every word," Harry said, thumb brushing Draco’s knuckles. "Today, tomorrow, and every day after that."

For a long moment, Draco searched his gaze then nodded once, sharp and decisive but when Harry moved to lead them back inside, Draco hesitated, his hand flexing against Harry's.

"Not yet," he murmured, staring at the oak doors as if they were a battlefield. "Just... give me a minute."

Harry stilled, then he stepped back, slotting himself against Draco's side, shoulder to shoulder, a silent bulwark against whatever came next. The distant music swelled, muffled through stone.

He pressed Draco’s palm flat against his own chest, right over his heartbeat. Steady. Unflinching as they stood together in the quiet, two shadows and a promise, breathing the same air.

Chapter Text

Rain pattered against the diamond-paned windows, distorting the glow of streetlamps into watery streaks across the worn wooden floors. Draco's dress robes, still damp from their hurried walk back from Hogwarts, clung uncomfortably to his shoulders as Harry's palm settled at the base of Draco's spine, radiating warmth through the soaked fabric.

The touch should have been comforting, instead, Draco's muscles locked tighter. Each brush of Harry's thumb against his back through the fabric might as well have been a brand, a reminder of what he might have ruined tonight

Their room welcomed them with its usual disarray: his maternity clothes flung over the chair, Harry's notes on childcare stacked haphazardly on the nightstand, the indentation of two bodies permanently pressed into the mattress.

The sight twisted something in Draco's chest.

"I'll go change quick," he mumbled, already striding toward the bathroom before Harry could respond, he sighed as the door clicked shut behind him.

For a moment, Draco simply stood there, palms flat against the cool porcelain of the sink. His reflection staring back at him.

The fight played on a loop in his mind: Pansy's sneer. Harry's expression when he realized Draco had kept secrets. The way his voice had cracked in that corridor: "You really believe I'm only here out of some...obligation?"

Two weeks.

That's all their relationship had lasted before he ruined everything. The shortest relationship in Malfoy history.

The faucet squealed as he twisted it, shivering as he cupped his hands and icy water slapped his face, dripping from his chin onto his ruined dress shirt.

Yet, Harry had kissed him like Draco hadn't just handed him every reason to walk away and even more bizarre, Harry had forgiven him.

Just like that.

No screaming matches. No dramatic exits. No waiting period where Draco had to grovel with expensive gifts until he was deemed worthy again.

It made no sense.

He splashed another handful of cold water on his face, watching droplets slide down his reflection's cheeks. 

This wasn't how it was supposed to work.

There should be rules. Consequences. Grand gestures to earn back favor.

That's what Mother did when Father crossed her, disappeared to their French villa until extravagant jewels arrived by owl. That's what Grandmother had taught them all: love was something to be bargained for, a transaction where apologies came wrapped in emeralds and gold.

So, what did someone like Harry Potter want? What priceless treasure could possibly atone for Draco's mistake? The question clawed at his chest; if forgiveness didn't come with a price tag, then how would he know when he'd truly earned it?

The bathroom doorknob rattled, startling Draco from his thoughts. "Draco?" Harry's voice, muffled through the wood. "You okay in there?"

Draco swallowed hard. "Fine." His voice didn't sound fine. It sounded frayed at the edges, like parchment held too close to a flame.

He forced himself to move, fingers fumbling with the intricate fastenings of his shirt. The fabric pooling at his feet like shed skin, leaving him in just his thin undershirt and trousers. He should change properly, but the thought of prolonging this moment made his chest constrict.

The bedroom was dim when he finally stepped out, lit only by the lamp Harry had charmed to a soft golden glow. Harry had changed into sleep clothes - that ridiculous Gryffindor shirt Draco pretended to hate and was sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching him with those too-perceptive eyes.

"You okay?" Harry asked, extending a hand.

Draco took it, letting Harry pull him onto the mattress. 

"Are we okay?" The question slipped out before he could stop it, barely more than a whisper. He focused on the duvet between them, on a loose thread he could worry with his fingers.

Harry's hand stilled where it had been carding through Draco's hair. "Yeah, of course, why wouldn't we be?"

"We had a fight," Draco plucked at the thread, unraveling it further. 

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, tugging Draco closer as he laid down. "Disagreement, more like but we're good."

The distinction felt monumental, Draco's fingers stilled. "So, we haven't broken up?" The hope in his own voice made him wince.

Harry jerked upright as if struck. "What? Bloody hell, Draco, what gave you that idea?" His hands came up to frame Draco's face, calloused thumbs brushing his cheekbones. "Christ, you thought we've broken up?"

Draco tried to look away, but Harry held him fast. The lamplight catching the green of Harry's eyes, making them almost luminous in the dim room.

"No," Harry stated, softly. "We haven't broken up, I don't..." He exhaled sharply, his breath warm against Draco's lips. "I don't know what you could do to make me want to leave."

Something fragile cracked in Draco's chest, he squeezed his eyes shut, but the tears came anyway, hot and shameful. Harry's thumbs caught them before they could fall.

"We're fine, just a tiny disagreement, we've had far worse in the hallways at Hogwarts."

The laugh that escaped Draco was half a sob, Harry kissed it from his lips, slow and sure, until the tension bled from Draco's shoulders.

Until the only things that mattered were the press of Harry's body against his, the way their fingers intertwined like they were made to fit together, and the quiet certainty of this - them.

The morning after the Hogwarts reunion, Draco stirred slowly, his body heavy with the bone-deep exhaustion that had become his constant companion these past few weeks. His seventh month of pregnancy loomed over him like a cloak: every muscle ached, his back throbbed, and even the simple act of rolling onto his side required careful calculation.

Harry sat with his back to him, hunched slightly over the Daily Prophet, one hand wrapped around his usual chipped blue mug of coffee. The quiet sound of his laughter drifted over to Draco, pulling him further awake.

Draco watched him for a long moment, the memories of last night's reunion swirling through his sleep-fogged mind. 

"Morning," Harry greeted him, turning with that uncanny sense he always had when Draco was watching him. "How'd you sleep?"

"Like I've been trampled by a herd of hippogriffs," Draco grumbled, pushing himself up on his elbows with a wince. His abdomen tightened uncomfortably, the now-familiar cramping that Luna had assured him was perfectly normal at this stage.

Harry set his coffee aside immediately, his hands warm and sure as they helped Draco adjust the pillows behind his back. "Your back again?"

Draco nodded, letting out a slow breath as Harry's fingers found the exact spot between his shoulder blades that always ached. The tension bled away under those familiar hands, and Draco couldn't suppress the quiet sigh of relief that escaped him.

"Better?" He asked, his breath warm against Draco's temple.

"Marginally," Draco tilted his head, catching Harry's lips in a lazy morning kiss that tasted of his bitter coffee. "What's so amusing in the Prophet?"

Harry grinned, that bright, boyish smile that still made Draco's stomach flip after all these months. He held up the paper with a flourish. "We made front page."

Draco squinted at the moving photograph clearly taken just as he'd been mid-laugh at something Harry said. Harry stood beside him, one hand resting possessively on Draco's hip, his other hand gesturing animatedly as he told whatever story had made Draco laugh.

"I look atrocious," Draco groaned, reaching for the paper. "When did they even take that picture?"

Harry’s grin only widened as he handed it over. "I think we look dashing."

Draco scoffed, scanning the image critically. "Well, of course, you would say that. You look unfairly handsome as always," He jabbed a finger at the photo. "But look at me! They got every wrong angle possible. My robes are bunched, my hair is a mess and —"

"I’ll owl the editor," Harry cut in, laughter still threading his voice. "Demand a reissue with only your best side."

Draco shot him a withering look, but Harry only nudged his knee against Draco’s hip, unrepentant.

"Now," Harry said, tapping the headline, "can you please look at this?"

Draco sighed dramatically but obliged, letting his gaze flick upward.

THE BOY WHO LIVED, FATHER TO BE?

Draco couldn’t help the small, private smile that curled at his lips as he watched Harry’s face; the way his eyes shone behind his glasses, the way his mouth kept twitching like he couldn’t decide between grinning like an idiot or saying something unbearably sentimental.

He sighed, letting himself sink back into the mound of pillows as he handed back the paper. "Yes, yes, you’ll be the best father," he muttered, more to himself than to Harry.

But Harry heard him anyway. He stilled, the Prophet slipped forgotten to the duvet as Harry leaned in, his lips brushing Draco's with aching tenderness.

"I want to be, " Harry said quietly.

The weight of those words settled between them, soft but unshakable. He reached out without thinking, Harry turned his hand immediately, lacing their fingers together, his thumb tracing absent circles over Draco’s knuckles.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The rustle of the newspaper as it slipped to the floor, the distant sound of birds outside, the steady rhythm of Harry’s breathing, it all filled the space between them, easy and familiar.

Then Harry leaned in, pressing his forehead against Draco’s.

"We should frame it," he murmured, his breath warm against Draco's lips.

"Absolutely not," Draco scoffed, though his fingers curled into the fabric of Harry's shirt, holding him close.

"Come on," Harry teased, nipping at Draco's lower lip. "First official family portrait."

"You're ridiculous."

"And yet, you love me."

Draco didn't answer. He didn't need to. Not when Harry could read the truth in the way Draco's hands clung to him, in the steady rhythm of their mingled breaths, in the quiet space between heartbeats where all their unspoken promises lived.

"By the way, I invited your aunt over for lunch."

Draco groaned. "Can't I just stay in bed and they come visit me up here?" He cuddled closer into Harry, trying to appeal to his softer side.

"Nope!" Harry hauled him up to his feet and led him to the bathroom. "It'll do you good to actual talk to someone other than me."

The newspaper lay forgotten on the floor, the moving photograph still playing on loop: Harry's smile, Draco's unguarded laughter, and the undeniable truth written in the way their bodies leaned instinctively toward one another.

The brass bell above the tavern door chimed softly as it swung open, letting in a gust of crisp October air that carried the scent of fallen leaves and distant chimney smoke.

Teddy barreled in first, his hair a shock of electric blue today, his trainers scuffing against the polished oak floorboards as he skidded to a stop. His eyes darted around the room, taking in the freshly cleaned windows, the flickering lanterns charmed to glow a warm amber, the rows of gleaming bottles behind the bar.

"Wow, Uncle Harry, is this where you work now?" Teddy exclaimed, his voice bouncing off the high ceilings.

Harry looked up from where he'd been wiping down the counter, his face breaking into an easy, lopsided grin. He tossed the rag over his shoulder and spread his arms wide. "Not only do I work here, I own it."

Draco sat perched on his usual stool with a sweating glass of lemonade, as he snorted into his drink. The ice cubes clinked as he set it down, watching with amused exasperation as Teddy stared up at Harry like he'd just announced he'd single-handedly won the Quidditch World Cup.

Andromeda stepped in his frame of vision, her sharp eyes scanning the room with quiet approval. She'd dressed for the season in a deep burgundy cloak, her silver-streaked hair pinned back in its usual no-nonsense bun. When her gaze landed on Draco, something in her expression softened, just slightly, before she made her way over to him.

She settled onto the stool beside him with the grace of someone who had spent a lifetime navigating uncomfortable seating in stiff formal robes. Without a word, she reached over and placed her hand over his, her skin cool and papery against his knuckles.

"It's nice to see you again, love, how have you been?" she asked, her voice low.

Draco exhaled through his nose, rubbing at the persistent ache in his lower back with his free hand. "More tired than I was last time we spoke," he admitted, offering her a weak half-smile.

Andromeda nodded knowingly, her thumb brushing absently over his fingers. "That's expected with a magical pregnancy," she said, matter-of-fact. "The seventh month is when the real fatigue sets in. Your magic is working twice as hard now preparing for birth."

Across the room, Harry had Teddy by the shoulders, steering him excitedly toward the enchanted icebox behind the bar.

Draco could hear the muffled exclamations as Harry proudly showed off the fully stocked shelf dedicated solely to Draco's ever-growing collection of ginger themed food: candied ginger, ginger tea, even the ludicrously expensive Belgian ginger chocolates Harry had owl-ordered after Draco had spent three consecutive mornings whining about wanting them.

The silence between them stretched comfortably, filled only by the distant clatter of dishes in the kitchen and Teddy's delighted laughter. Then, quietly, Andromeda spoke again.

"I've been speaking to your mother lately."

Draco's fingers stilled around his glass, he could feel the condensation damp against his palm. "Have you?" he asked carefully.

Andromeda let out a soft huff of laughter. "She's the same stubborn Cissa I knew, it took four letters before she finally replied," She tilted her head slightly, studying Draco's profile. "She misses you."

Draco's jaw tightened, he could feel the old frustration rising in his chest, hot and familiar.

"I couldn't tell," he said flatly. "The audacity, last time she saw me, she was practically shoving me toward some ancient pureblood with more galleons than teeth."

Andromeda sighed, but didn't argue. "I can't excuse her actions," she said evenly. "But we... didn't exactly have ideal models for healthy relationships growing up. Cissy can be unorthodox in her actions but she means well and its from a place of care."

Draco hesitated, the question sat heavy on his tongue before he finally gave voice to it. "Did you... struggle with relationships after leaving the family?"

The corner of Andromeda's mouth twitched. "Oh, Merlin, yes," she said, her voice warm with memory. "I spent the first two years of my marriage convinced Ted would leave every time we argued. It was exhausting not trusting him enough to stay even if we argued, even when I tried to push him away."

She shook her head, her gaze distant. "He used to bring me flowers once I cooled down but never once told me I was too much."

Draco's hand drifted unconsciously to the curve of his stomach, where the baby had been particularly active all morning. "And with Nymphadora..?"

Andromeda cut him off gently but firmly. "No. That was one cycle I was determined to break," Her expression softened. "Dora was the light of my life. From the moment she was born, I swore she would never doubt how loved she was."

Draco swallowed hard, nodding. He never thought how he would feel about the baby once they were here, he was so focused on survival these past 7 months it never occurred to him what would happen after.

"I worry I won't be enough for the baby, that I'll... get it wrong." The confession slipped out before Draco could stop it, barely more than a whisper.

Andromeda studied him for a long moment, her dark eyes sharp but not unkind. "Only you can decide what kind of parent you'll be," she said at last. "But the fact that you're worried about it, at all, tells me you're already on the right path."

Draco nodded, allowing the conversation to lull as he gathered his thoughts.

"I don't want to see my parents after the birth," he blurted out, startling his aunt as he finally unleased the thoughts he had been carrying. "I don't know if I'll ever want to see them again, they abandoned me and they don't have the right to waltz back into my life as if nothing happened."

He felt winded after, his breathing coming out heavier as the festering anger that had been building since the first day in Wrenbury finally released.

"Feel better?" she asked simply with a knowing look.

Draco exhaled sharply, his shoulders slumping as if he'd been braced for an argument. "Yes."

Across the room, Teddy whooped as Harry let him "test" a sugar quill from the jar by the register.

The afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, painting the wooden floors in gold, and for the first time in weeks, Draco felt something unclench in his chest, not quite closure, not yet, but the quiet understanding that he was allowed to take his time getting there.

Later that night, Draco lay flat on his back, one arm pillowed behind his head, the other resting on the pronounced curve of his stomach.

The mattress dipped beside him as Harry joined him, propping himself up on one elbow. Even in the dim light, Draco could see the familiar crease between his brows, the one that appeared whenever Harry was overthinking.

"Don't lay on your back, love," Harry stated, his free hand already moving to guide Draco onto his side. "I read it could reduce blood flow after twenty weeks."

Draco rolled his eyes but allowed himself to be maneuvered, shifting with a grunt until he was settled on his left side, the mountain of pillows Harry had arranged earlier supporting his back and belly. "You and your bloody books," he muttered, though there was no real bite to it.

Harry didn't rise to the bait, rather, his hand came to rest on the slope of Draco's stomach, his thumb rubbing slow, soothing strokes just below his navel. The worry lines around his eyes softened as he felt the answering nudge against his palm. "Just want you both safe," he said quietly.

The silence stretched between them, comfortable and warm. Draco watched the play of moonlight across the ceiling, tracing the familiar crack in the plaster that branched out like lightning from the far corner.

"Do you think we'll be good parents?"

The question slipped out before Draco could stop it, hanging heavy in the space between them. He felt Harry still beside him, the rhythmic motion of his thumb pausing for just a second before resuming its path.

Harry exhaled through his nose, the sound loud in the quiet room.

"Haven't a clue how to handle a baby, to be honest. My aunt and uncle weren't exactly the best at parenting either," His fingers flexed against Draco's stomach. "Remember when I told you I didn't know babies needed to be burped until I was seventeen?"

A huff of laughter escaped Draco despite himself, yet, the mirth faded as quickly as it came as Draco turned his face into the pillow, the linen cool against his cheek.

"For what its worth I hadn't a clue either," he admitted quietly. "I was spoiled rotten, had anything I could ever want and yet—" His throat tightened around the words. "I still sought attention in any way I could. From my father's approval to... you." His fingers found Harry's where they rested on his stomach, lacing them together. "I just don't want the baby to want for anything. Including affection."

The mattress shifted as Harry moved closer, his chest pressing warm against Draco's back. His lips brushed the knob of Draco's spine as he spoke. "They won't." The certainty in his voice left no room for argument, he brought their joined hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss to Draco's knuckles. "What brought this on?"

Draco swallowed hard. The baby chose that moment to kick sharply against where Harry's palm lay, as if reminding them both of their presence. A traitorous burn built behind his eyes. "I was just talking to Andromeda and... I don't want to mess this up," he whispered.

Harry's arms tightened around him. "Hey." A gentle nudge urged Draco to turn onto his other side until they were face to face, noses nearly touching in the dark. Harry's eyes were serious, the green of them nearly black in the low light. "Look at me. I'm here. We're doing this together, remember?"

Draco blinked rapidly, but the tears escaped anyway, tracking hot down his temples and into his hairline. Harry's thumbs caught them with infinite gentleness.

"Bloody hormones," Draco muttered, swiping at his face with the back of his hand.

Harry didn't call him on the lie, rather, he pulled Draco closer until his head was tucked beneath his chin, his nose buried in his neck. 

The wind picked up, rustling the last stubborn leaves clinging to the oak branches and in their bed, with Harry's heartbeat steady beneath his ear and their child cradled safe between them, Draco let himself believe - just for tonight - that they might just be enough.

A week after Andromeda's visit, Draco sat at the kitchen of the half finished home as Harry began putting up curtains.

"Does it still hurt?" Harry asked, pausing when Draco winced at a particularly sharp kick. His brow furrowed in that way it always did when Draco showed even the slightest discomfort, as if Harry could absorb the pain through touch alone.

Draco exhaled through his nose, willing the cramp to pass. "Not hurt, exactly. Just... insistent," He covered Harry's hand with his own, guiding it lower where the baby seemed determined to make its presence known. "Someone's feeling dramatic today."

A particularly strong movement made them both laugh, the sound warm and private in the quiet room. Harry bent to press his lips against the spot, murmuring nonsense words that made Draco's chest ache.

It's been five months since he'd stumbled into Wrenbury, rain-soaked and hollowed out with grief. Now here he was, with Harry's stubble scraping gently against his belly and the baby answering with enthusiastic kicks.

The peace settled over them like snowfall - quiet and all-encompassing. Harry's fingers resumed their tracing, mapping the new landscape of Draco's body with a reverence that still made his breath catch. The calloused pads brushed over the jut of a hipbone that was finally beginning to soften, the sharp angles of Draco's ribs that Harry had spent months coaxing into something less fragile.

"Harry, the curtains," Draco prodded, "I want to be done by sundown.

Harry hummed, distracted, his eyes still staring at his belly.

"I've been thinking," Harry said at last, breaking the silence in a voice rough with unspoken emotion.

A smile tugged at his lips. "Always a dangerous pastime for you." The old refrain came easily now, worn smooth as river stone between them.

Harry didnt laugh, not even roll his eyes. His words came, quiet but deliberate, each one measured and heavy with intent:

"I want to blood adopt the baby."

Draco's eyes widened, his breath stuttering in his chest. The late afternoon light suddenly seemed too bright, the room too still. Harry's face was all solemn lines in the golden haze, his eyes dark and unbearably earnest.

"Are you—" Draco's voice broke as he swallowed hard. "Are you serious?"

"Completely." Harry's hand stilled over the curve of Draco's stomach, his palm warm through the thin fabric. "I've been thinking about it since the reunion. Since Corner..." His jaw tightened momentarily before he continued, softer now. "I don't want anyone to ever doubt this child. To ever look at them and question where they belong. Who they belong to."

The tears came then, hot and sudden and utterly beyond Draco's control. They spilled over without permission, tracking down his temples and into his hairline. 

“Or not,” Harry said, standing up in panic as he saw the tears. “Forget I even mentioned anything, I don't have to blood adopt, the baby is ours no matter what, I swear!“

"Harry," Draco managed, his voice cracking around the edges. "I couldn't...you can't possibly—" He broke off, struggling for words that wouldn't come. "It's permanent. Irreversible. The baby would be yours in every way magic recognizes. Blood, magic, lineage—"

“I know."

“Just think this through,” he whispered. “The baby would be your heir.”

He knew Harry had been raised by Muggles, that he might not fully grasp the weight of legacy: the ancient Potter name, the expectations, the sheer enormity of it all and above all else, his greatest fear was that one day Harry might come to regret this decision.

But Harry only smiled, soft and sure, and cradled Draco’s face in his hands. "I know, isn't it exciting?"

“What?” Draco whispered, confused and stunned.

Harry leaned in, pressing his forehead against Draco's. 

"That's why I want to do it, this baby will face enough challenges without adding questions about their parentage in the mix," His hand slid around to cradle the swell of Draco's stomach. "I want the world to know, without a single doubt, that they're mine. That I chose them. Chose you. Chose this."

A sob tore itself from Draco's throat, raw and unguarded. Harry gathered him close, his arms wrapping around Draco's shaking shoulders with a strength that had nothing to do with physical power. The baby kicked fiercely between them, as if protesting the sudden compression of their space.

"You made me cry," Draco accused weakly into Harry's shoulder, his fingers clutching at the worn fabric of Harry's shirt.

Harry's laugh was damp against his skin. "Sorry," he murmured, though the word was thick with too much affection to carry any real remorse. He pulled back just enough to meet Draco's eyes, his hands framing Draco's face with unbearable tenderness. "Is that a yes?"

The words lodged in his throat, too immense to voice. Instead, he fisted his hands in Harry's shirt and dragged him towards him, their mouths meeting in a kiss. Harry responded instantly, his lips moving against Draco's with a reverence that made his chest ache.

When they finally broke apart, Draco pressed their foreheads together, his breath coming in unsteady gusts. "I love you," he whispered, the words barely audible.

Harry's smile could have lit up the room, he kissed Draco again, slow and deep and full of quiet joy. "So that's a yes," he murmured against Draco's lips.

Draco nodded, his fingers tightening in Harry's hair, letting the warmth of his arms, the steady beat of his heart, the quiet promise of the house around them, seep into his bones. 

The next morning, the first pale streaks of dawn had barely touched the windowpanes when Harry's insistent hands roused Draco from sleep.

"Come on," Harry whispered, fingers tracing the sharp line of Draco's jaw. "Get up, grumpy."

Draco groaned, pressing his face deeper into the pillow.

"The sun isn't even properly up yet," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. His body ached with exhaustion - the emotional toll of last night's conversation still clinging to his bones like damp parchment.

"That's the point."

Strong hands slid beneath Draco's shoulders, hauling him upright before he could protest. The sudden movement sent the room tilting, and Draco instinctively clutched at Harry's arms to steady himself.

"Whatever it is can wait until a decent hour," Draco grumbled, trying to twist back toward the welcoming warmth of their bed but Harry held firm, one arm wrapping securely around Draco's waist.

"Not this," There was something in Harry's voice, a quiet intensity that cut through Draco's sleep-fog. Before he could question it, Harry bent and scooped him up effortlessly, one arm beneath his knees, the other cradling his back.

"Harry!" Draco's protest died in his throat as the world lurched violently. The familiar, sickening squeeze of Apparition stole his breath, his stomach flipping as reality twisted around them.

They landed with a soft thump, the sudden chill of morning air raising goosebumps on his exposed arms. His hands flew instinctively to his stomach, panic flaring sharp and bright.

"The baby —!"

Harry's hand covered his own before he could finish, warm and steady. "Perfectly safe," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of Draco's ear. "I'd never risk either of you."

As if in response, a small but insistent flutter pressed against their joined hands. Draco sagged in relief, his racing heartbeat gradually slowing to match the steady rhythm of Harry's breathing against his back.

"Where exactly are we?" Draco demanded, twisting in Harry's arms to look around but a palm covered his eyes before he could see.

"Not yet," Harry whispered, his other arm tightened around Draco's waist as he guided them forward.

Grass, damp with morning dew, brushed against Draco's bare feet.

"I don't have any shoes on." 

"I'm aware," Harry said lightly. "I already casted a Protego on them." 

Draco huffed but didn’t resist when Harry led him forward. The air smelled different here - cleaner, with the faintest hint of woodsmoke and something floral he couldn't name. Birdsong filtered through the trees, louder and more varied than in the village.

"Harry," Draco said slowly, fingers tightening in the fabric of Harry's shirt. "What are we doing?"

"You'll see." Harry's voice was thick with barely-contained excitement.

"I hate surprises," Draco muttered, though there was no real heat behind it. His free hand remained pressed protectively over his stomach, the baby undisturbed by their sudden journey.

"I know," Harry admitted, unrepentant, his steps were measured, careful as he guided Draco forward. "But trust me."

The hand covering Draco's eyes fell away.

For a moment, Draco simply blinked against the morning light before his breath caught.

Before them stood their house, not the half-finished structure they'd last visited yesterday, but whole and complete.

Morning sunlight glinted off the freshly installed windows, catching on the delicate tendrils of ivy already climbing the stone walls. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, and the front door - painted a deep, rich green that made something in Draco's chest tighten stood slightly ajar, as if waiting.

But it was the garden that stole what remained of Draco's breath. Where there had once been only mud and construction debris, now sprawled a carefully tended landscape. Flower beds burst with color, their blossoms still heavy with dew. A stone path wound through the grass, leading to the old Scots tree now standing proud and healthy, its leaves whispering in the dawn breeze.

Harry's arms tightened around him. "I haven't slept, just finished it a few hours ago," he murmured, voice rough with emotion. "Every last detail that was on your little list, even the library shelves you insisted on, all done."

Draco couldn't speak, his throat had closed around something too large to name. The house, their house, stood as a physical manifestation of everything they'd built together.

Harry pressed a soft kiss to Draco's temple. "Welcome home."

Chapter Text

The morning air held the sharp, clean edge of autumn, turning every exhale into a ghost of silver that lingered between them before fading. Dew soaked into the grass beneath their bare feet, each blade bowing under their weight before springing back up, leaving dark, temporary prints in their wake.

Harry, though, didn’t feel the cold. All he felt was Draco’s hands in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him in with a force that made his heart hammer against his ribs.

Their first attempt at a kiss was off-kilter; Draco’s mouth landing clumsily on the corner of his, a product of haste and overwhelming feelings. Harry felt the warm puff of Draco’s frustrated breath against his cheek a second before he gently corrected their angle, his hands coming up to frame Draco’s face.

Draco’s fingers were chilled where they pressed into Harry’s jaw, trembling with a fine, almost imperceptible shake but his mouth was warm and sure, moving against Harry’s with a famished intensity, he could even taste the faint, herbal bitterness of the prenatal potion still on his lips.

When they parted, Draco was breathing as if he’d been running, short, ragged gasps that clouded in the cool air. Harry brushed his thumb over Draco's lower lip, tracing the soft, swollen curve, feeling the warmth he'd put there.

"Merlin," Draco choked out, the word raw and stripped bare, saying nothing and everything all at once, his grip twisting the fabric of Harry's shirt.

Harry’s hands slid beneath the soft wool of Draco’s jumper, skating up the warm skin of his back. He could feel the distinct ridges of his spine, the new, softer hollows at the small of his back. Draco leaned into the touch with a soft, yielding sound, pressing the solid curve of his stomach firmly against Harry’s side.

Harry dipped his head, nuzzling into the space beneath Draco’s ear, his lips finding the frantic rhythm of his pulse. “How did I get this lucky?” he breathed the words into Draco’s skin.

Draco let out a sharp, breathy laugh, his fingers threading into Harry’s hair. “Shouldn't that be my question?” he murmured, his voice unsteady. “The great Harry Potter, choosing all of… this.” His free hand gestured vaguely, encompassing the house, the garden, himself.

Harry captured his waving hand, bringing Draco’s wrist to his mouth and pressing a soft kiss over the delicate tracery of veins.

“I’d pick you every time,” he said, his voice low and certain. He turned Draco’s palm upward, his finger tracing the long curve that might have led to a different, darker fate, then the branching paths that had, against all odds, led them both here. “It's never been luck, has it, though? Only choice.”

For a stretched moment, Draco just looked down at their hands, his thumb stroking slow circles over Harry’s knuckles. The rising sun gilded his pale eyelashes, and when he finally lifted his gaze, his eyes were glassy.

“Sappy Gryffindor,” he whispered, the words thick and wavering.

Harry’s smile was a slow and easy, he leaned in to kiss him again, a deep, unhurried communication that said everything words couldn't. Draco sighed into it, his hands moving to grip Harry’s shoulders as if he were the only solid thing in the world.

When they finally parted, Harry kept their foreheads touching, sharing the same quiet space for a long moment.

“Come on,” he said softly, his hand sliding down to rest on the swell of Draco’s abdomen, he grinned at the familiar, firm kick against his palm. “I want to show you the nursery.”

Draco went rigid, leaning back to narrow his eyes. “It’s scarlet, isn’t it? You’ve gone and made a Gryffindor shrine in there—”

“Would I do that?” Harry asked, fighting a smile.

“Without a doubt!”

He stopped the complaint with another kiss and Draco grumbled against his mouth but yielded instantly.

“Just wait,” Harry whispered against his lips.

Draco exhaled a long, exasperated sigh, his face a comical mix of annoyance and affection before he gave a short, sharp nod, his fingers lacing tightly with Harry’s.

Together, they walked across the wet grass, the dawn light setting their path ablaze. The open door waited ahead, an invitation.

The stairs groaned a familiar protest under their weight as they climbed, he opened the nursery door, but his attention was fixed on Draco’s face, watching the first true sight of it bloom in his expression.

The walls were painted a gentle, earthy sage. Above them, the enchanted ceiling held the soft, hazy light of dawn, with whispers of gold and rose seeping through a depiction of fading stars. A sturdy crib of honey-toned oak stood against one wall, its sides carved with a delicate frenzy of snitches in flight and tiny, seeking broomsticks. Beside it, a deep rocking chair was draped in a quilt of shifting indigo and silver, its patterns slowly swirling like a calm sea.

Draco’s grip on Harry’s hand tightened almost painfully. "You didn’t," he breathed out, the words barely a whisper.

"Didn't what?" Harry asked, though he knew.

Draco slipped his hand free and moved into the room as if walking on hallowed ground. His fingertips skimmed the smooth rail of the crib, pausing to trace the outline of a carved snitch. "You didn't make it red and gold."

"Briefly considered it," Harry admitted from the doorway, a grin on his face. "Then, I remembered your commentary on Gryffindor aesthetic, said it lacked subtlety. And class."

A quiet, surprised laugh escaped Draco as he turned his attention to the quilt, the pads of his fingers brushing over the intricate stitching. "And this? Please tell me you didn't actually beg Molly Weasley for nursery decor."

Harry chuckled. "It arrived by owl yesterday. The note said if it wasn't on display within twenty-four hours, she'd know and my favourite treacle tart recipe would suffer a mysterious and permanent curse."

Draco bit the inside of his cheek, but Harry saw the pleased curve at the corner of his mouth, the way his hand lingered on the soft fabric.

Then his gaze landed on the bookshelf, he drifted toward it, his posture softening. He carefully extracted a volume whose dark cover was worn soft with age.

Harry shifted his weight. "Might be a bit advanced for a newborn, but... I thought, for later..."

Draco didn't speak. For a long moment, he simply held the book, his thumb stroking the embossed title as if reading it by touch alone and when he finally placed it back on the shelf, it was with the exacting care of someone handling a holy text.

When he turned, his face was carefully, painfully blank, but his eyes were shining.

"So," Harry ventured forward, a pleased grin already spreading across his face. "I did alright?"

Draco arched a single brow, crossing his arms in a feeble attempt at nonchalance. "Barely acceptable."

He caught Draco's hand, pulling him close until the soft wool of Draco's jumper brushed against his own shirt. "Go on, admit it. You adore it."

"It's... tolerable," Draco insisted, though he made no move to extricate himself, his nose doing that little crinkle it did when he was trying not to smile.

"Tolerable?" Harry laughed, the sound echoing warmly in the room. "You had a twelve-inch parchment of notes! I followed every single one. Even the bit about the 'optimum luminescence levels for developing infant eyesight.'"

But as he leaned in to kiss him, Draco’s hand came up, not to push him away, but to cradle his jaw, holding him in that small space between them. His grey eyes were wide, searching Harry’s.

"What?" Harry said, frowning. 

“You…” Draco started, his voice hushed with a kind of awe. “You remembered the snitches. And the sage for the walls, not the garish green I grew up with. You even…” He glanced at the bookshelf, then back at Harry, his thumb stroking Harry’s cheekbone. “You actually read my twelve-inch scroll? All of it?"

Harry’s grin softened into something more intimate. He covered Draco’s hand with his own, turning his head to press a kiss to his palm. “Of course I did.”

“No one,” Draco whispered, the words cracking. “No one has ever…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. The sentence hung between them, heavy with the weight of every time Draco had been ignored, dismissed, or misunderstood.

Harry’s heart clenched. He understood. This wasn’t just about a room. 

“Hey” Harry murmured, his voice thick. He leaned in, finally closing the distance, and kissed him.

This kiss was different. It wasn’t about triumph or happiness. It was a seal on a vow. It was slow, deep, and unbearably tender, a silent conversation.

When they parted, Draco rested his forehead against Harry’s, his eyes closed. “Prat,” he breathed, the old insult now a vessel for overwhelming gratitude. "It's perfect."

Harry just held him, feeling the truth of it all in the steady beat of Draco’s heart against his own, in the warm, sun-drenched air of the room, the house, the life they had built together, piece by careful piece.

By late afternoon , the last box had been unpacked, and a pleasant soreness lingered in Harry's muscles as he sat on the floor, leaning back against the sofa and just breathing it all in.

Into the silence, a soft, melodic waltz began to play from the wireless, its strings weaving through the quiet.

The soft pad of bare feet on wood announced Draco’s approach before Harry saw him. He opened his eyes to find Draco standing there, his sharp features gilded by the light, dressed in soft sleep trousers and that thin, worn vest that clung to the new, graceful lines of his body.

Draco held out his hand, palm upturned in the space between them. His voice was soft, but his gaze was certain.

"You owe me a dance, Potter."

Harry’s hand was in his before the words had fully settled, their fingers intertwining with the unthinking ease of long practice, he let Draco pull him to his feet, his body following willingly.

In one fluid motion, Draco stepped into the circle of Harry’s arms, closing the distance until the warmth of him bled through Harry's clothes. One hand came to rest on Harry’s shoulder, a steadying weight, while the other kept their fingers locked together.

“I can’t dance,” Harry mumbled, the protest automatic and weak yet, he made no move to pull away, his body already swaying into Draco’s orbit.

A dry, fond huff of air warmed his cheek. “You’ve told me,” Draco murmured, his thumb stroking the back of Harry’s hand. “I still don’t care.”

They weren't really dancing; it was a slow, gentle sway in the space between unpacked boxes. Draco rested his head against Harry’s shoulder, his cheek a focused point of heat through the thin cotton. 

The solid weight of Draco’s belly was a firm, living pressure against his own abdomen. His hand on Draco’s back mapped the precise geography of him, the heat of his skin through the thin vest, the familiar ridge of his spine, the new, softer landscape that had blossomed with their child. A faint tremor went through Harry's hands, so slight he doubted Draco would notice, the first physical betrayal of the shift happening deep within him.

This was a low, warm pulse that began deep in his core, a coil of heat that tightened low in his belly. It was the trust, the sheer domesticity of it all that fanned the warmth into a slow, spreading fire.

His fingers on Draco’s back curled inward, pressing him a fraction closer. His breathing shallowed, and he turned his face, his lips brushing accidentally against Draco’s ear.

Draco lifted his head. His silver eyes were dark and calm. A slow, knowing smile touched his lips. He didn't speak.

Instead, he brought their joined hands down, pressing Harry’s palm flat against the pronounced curve of his stomach and held it there, his fingers lacing through Harry’s.

The contact stole his breath, through the thin fabric, Harry felt the incredible warmth of Draco's skin, the firm tautness. A jolt traveled straight up his arm and down his spine, pooling as a sharp, aching heat low in his belly.

The music swelled, but Harry could only feel the frantic beat of his own heart and the slow, deliberate circle Draco’s thumb was tracing over his knuckles.

The final notes of the waltz faded into a silence that felt deeper and more profound than before. They did not pull apart. They kept swaying in the quiet, Harry's hand still splayed over the curve of Draco's stomach, their quiet sway now a language all its own in the deepening dark.

He was leaning in, drawn in by the magnetic pull of Draco’s parted lips, when a sound sliced through the quiet.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Draco’s eyes, which had been heavy-lidded, sharpened. He didn’t pull away, but his body tensed minutely against Harry’s. “Door,” he whispered, the word a soft complaint against Harry’s jaw.

Harry shook his head, nuzzling into the space behind Draco’s ear. “Ignore it,” he murmured, his voice rough as he tightened his arms, pulling Draco flush against him and capturing his mouth, pouring all his frustration and want into it, a silent argument against the outside world.

For a glorious moment, it worked. Draco melted into him, his fingers tangling in Harry’s hair, a soft sigh of surrender breathed into the kiss.

Then, the knocking came again. Sharper. More insistent.

Draco pulled back with an agitated sigh, his forehead resting against Harry’s. His silver eyes were bright with frustration and lingering desire. “I don’t think they’re leaving.”

“If we’re quiet, they will,” Harry said desperately, chasing his lips, not wanting the spell to be broken. 

He was just about to succeed, to lose himself in Draco again, when—

The third round of knocking came, a rapid-fire staccato that brooked no argument. Harry froze, his shoulders slumping in defeat as Draco pulled away completely.

Each rap of knuckles against wood carried Hermione's particular brand of impatient precision; three sharp taps, a pause, then three more. He could picture her standing on their front step, foot already tapping, arms crossed over that familiar beaded bag.

"Coming!" Harry called, though he took his time before reaching for the latch. The door swung open to reveal Hermione in mid-knock, her fist hovering in empty air.

"Finally!" she huffed, pushing past him in a swirl of bushy hair and rustling parchment. "Do you have any idea how many tracking charms I had to use just to find this place? You'd think you were running another underground resistance with how you've buried yourselves out here!"

Harry caught the door before it could slam shut with a wry smile. "Nice to see you too, Hermione."

She wasn't listening. Hermione had stopped dead in the center of their living room, her head swiveling as she took in the space with the intensity of a librarian cataloging new acquisitions. Harry watched her eyes dart from the freshly polished oak floors to the plush sofa they'd spent an entire afternoon magically adjusting until they declared it "tolerable."

"Oh," she breathed, the irritation draining from her voice, her fingers brushed along the mantelpiece where they'd displayed a collection of seashells from their walks along the beach. "This is... really lovely, Harry."

He leaned against the door, suddenly hyper-aware of the domestic scene they’d just been pulled from. "Mostly Draco's doing. I just handed him things and tried not to set anything on fire."

"Don't sell yourself short, Harry, you were fantastic at hanging things on the wall." A quiet clink of china from the kitchen signaled Draco's presence as he pulled out his favorite tea.

"Draco!" Hermione was across the room in three quick strides, her parchment bundle forgotten on the coffee table. "Merlin's beard, look at you!"

Harry moved to intercept as Hermione's eyes dropped to Draco's rounded stomach. "We were just about to..."

"Harry's birthday was ages ago," Hermione continued, either ignoring or oblivious to the tension coiling in Draco's shoulders. "You're absolutely glowing! Though, you must be what, thirty-four weeks now? Have you been keeping up with your nutrient potions? I read this fascinating study from the Berlin Institute about prenatal—"

"Thirty-two weeks, actually," Draco corrected, his voice taking on that particular edge Harry had learned to recognize; the one that meant he was about three comments away from either hexing someone or locking himself in their bedroom for the rest of the day. His free hand moved to the small of his back, a gesture Harry knew was more about stress than ache.

Harry stepped between them, casually bumping Hermione's elbow. "Licensing paperwork, you said?" He scooped up the abandoned documents, his eyes catching on the heading: 'Magical Venue & Provisions License.' "Merlin, this is thicker than our old potions textbook."

Hermione finally tore her attention from Draco's belly. "Because someone ignored the first three notices. Honestly, Harry, you can't just—"

"Tavern," Harry announced loudly, steering her toward the door by the shoulders. "We'll go over all this at the tavern, I'll make you a butterbeer."

Draco mouthed 'thank you’, the relief in his eyes so stark it made Harry’s chest ache. Harry winked at him. "Rest," he mouthed back before adding louder,  "I'll be back before dinner, take your evening potions."

"I know. I'm not some delicate—"

"— flower, I know," Harry finished, his voice fond. It was a well-worn refrain before he added with a mischievous grin. "Be a good boy and humor me anyway."

The door had barely clicked shut behind them when they heard the distinct sound of cutlery hitting the doorframe, followed by a muffled "POTTER!" that carried through the wood.

Hermione blinked. "Was that..."

"Teaspoon, probably," Harry said, fondly, tucking the paperwork under his arm. "Last week it was a gravy boat. Luna says its pregnancy hormones, now let's go before he finds the good china.”

The village was in the full, comfortable swing of the day; shopkeepers chatting with regulars, the baker's wife now sweeping flour from her step, the lingering, sweet scent of pastries mingling with the earthy smell of the market.

Mrs. Abbott looked up from her flower stall, her wrinkled face breaking into a smile. "Afternoon, Harry! That order of chamomile came in for Draco, shall I have it sent round?"

"Please," Harry said, returning her smile. "He's been wanting to try a new tea blend."

Tom waved from his fruit stand, tossing Harry a bright red apple without breaking stride in his conversation, Harry caught it reflexively, the fruit warm and smooth in his palm.

Hermione watched these exchanges with quiet intensity, her gaze tracking each interaction like she was studying some fascinating new spell. When Harry offered her the apple, she took it absently, her fingers worrying at the stem.

They passed the town square where a group of children shrieked with laughter, chasing charmed leaves that darted just out of reach.  They rounded the corner toward the tavern as the sun caught in Hermione's curls, turning them to burnished copper.

"You're awfully quiet," Harry pointed out.

"It's just..." Her fingers fluttered in the air between them, searching for words. "I don't think I've ever seen you look so..."

"Domestic?" Harry supplied, grinning when Hermione wrinkled her nose.

"At ease," she corrected softly. "Like you've finally stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop."

The observation settled between them as they walked past the cobbler's shop, its window displaying sturdy boots and delicate dancing slippers side by side. Harry thought of Draco's ridiculous velvet house shoes, the way he pretended to hate them but always slipped them on first thing in the morning.

"I am " Harry admitted, his voice low. "Waking up and just... being happy. No prophecies, no dark lords, no life-or-death decisions before breakfast."

Hermione's steps slowed as they approached the tavern door. "You deserve this, Harry. More than anyone I know."

The simple sincerity of it made his throat tighten but before he could respond, Hermione's expression shifted into something more tentative.

"Are you..." She worried her lower lip, a habit she'd had since they were eleven. "Prepared? For everything that's coming?"

Harry tilted his head. "You mean the midnight feedings and nappies? Pretty sure Molly's already stockpiled enough supplies to last us —"

"I mean," Hermione interrupted gently, "with Draco. With... everything between you two. This isn't exactly how you planned to start a family."

The words hung in the air between them. Behind them, a shopkeeper's bell jingled, and a burst of laughter spilled from the bakery. Harry turned the tavern key over in his palm, feeling the familiar grooves of the metal.

"You're right," he said finally. "It's not what I pictured. But when has anything in my life gone according to plan?" He met Hermione's gaze steadily. "That baby's been mine since the moment Draco told me about it. Doesn't matter how it started."

Hermione studied his face for a long moment before nodding, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. They stood in comfortable silence as the village hummed around them.

Harry paused just before he inserted the key, the words he’d been weighing for weeks were suddenly just there, simple and undeniable.

“I’m going to blood adopt the baby.”

Hermione's breath caught audibly. The apple slipped from her fingers, hitting the cobblestones with a dull thud before rolling into the gutter. She didn't seem to notice.

"Harry," she whispered. "That's... that's irreversible magic. Even if—"

"I know what it means." Harry's voice was steady. He'd lain awake countless nights considering every angle, every possible future. "Draco had the same concern, but...I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

The afternoon sun warmed the back of Harry's neck as Hermione searched his face. .

Finally, she exhaled sharply through her nose, she reached out, gripping Harry's forearm with surprising strength. When she spoke, her voice was thick. "Then I'm happy for you. All three of you."

The tavern key turned smoothly in the lock, the familiar creak of the door like a welcome home. As they stepped inside, the scent of polished wood and yesterday's fire enveloped them.

By the time Harry returned, the sun had bled away, leaving a bruised twilight in its wake. The solid thud of the front door latch was a welcome sound, sealing them back into the familiar scents of their home.

He found Draco in the kitchen, not clearing the tea things, but standing rigidly at the sink, a stark silhouette against the darkening window. Every line of his body was taut with suppressed energy.

“She means well,” Harry ventured into the quiet.

Draco didn’t turn. “I know," he said, the words clipped. “That’s what makes her so monumentally exhausting.” The carefully light tone couldn't mask the tension in his jaw, a clear signal that Hermione's well-intentioned intrusion had struck a deep nerve.

Harry crossed the room, the old floorboards creaking a familiar path beneath his feet. He came to stand behind Draco, not touching him yet, just sharing his space, looking out at the same patch of night. He could see their faint reflections in the glass—a distorted portrait of domesticity.

“She’s gone now,” Harry murmured. He gently placed his hands on Draco’s hips, feeling the firm, living curve of his stomach against his own abdomen. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the knob of Draco’s spine, right where his vest had ridden up. “It’s just us again.”

He felt the tension begin to bleed from Draco’s frame. A slow, surrendering sigh escaped him, and he leaned back into Harry’s chest, his head tilting to rest against Harry’s temple.

A frustrated sigh escaped Draco. "Sorry. It's these bloody hormones," he mumbled, leaning back into Harry's solidness. "I just felt... possessive. Seeing someone else in here..."

He didn't need to explain further. Harry felt the same primal pull; this house was their sanctuary, a sacred barrier they had built together.

"I know," Harry whispered, his lips grazing the warm skin of Draco's neck. "I get it."

Draco finally turned in the circle of his arms, a slow, genuine smile finally broke through his stormy expression. His grey eyes, which had been distant and sharp, now softened with a familiar heat.

“But lets circle back to before our interruption."

Harry allowed a slow knowing smile cross his face. "Yeah?"

"If recall correctly,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register, “you were about to prove that Gryffindor persistence has its uses.” He leaned in, his breath ghosting over Harry’s lips.

Harry’s hands found their way to Draco’s hips, his grip firm and sure. He was milliseconds from closing the final gap, from capturing that smirking mouth with his own.

When a single, sharp knock cracked through the tension.

They both froze.

Harry’s arms tightened around Draco’s waist. He let out a quiet, frustrated groan into his hair. “You have got to be kidding me. If she forgot her bloody parchmentwork…”

But the joke landed in flat as Draco went utterly rigid in his arms, all the softness of a moment before replaced by a statue-like stillness. Harry felt the frantic, rabbit-quick beat of Draco’s heart where their chests were pressed together.

"You okay?" Harry whispered.

Draco gave a tense, almost imperceptible shake of his head. “Don’t,” he breathed, the word barely audible. His gaze was locked on the kitchen doorway, his face pale. “Don’t answer it.”

This was different, Harry realized. This wasn’t irritation. This was pure, undiluted dread.

The knock came again. Not a series of taps, but another solitary, commanding thud. It was a sound that demanded acknowledgment.

A flicker of movement in the window beside the front door caught Harry’s eye, a shift in the darkness of the porch. 

There. Framed in the glass, a glimpse of platinum blond hair, paler than Draco’s, almost silver in the twilight. It was a sight he knew from a lifetime of moving pictures and wanted posters.

His blood ran cold.

“Potter, Draco. I know you’re in there.”

The voice was cold, cultured, and carried an authority that had been forged in marble halls. It was a voice that had not spoken his name in years, yet Harry would have known it anywhere.

Lucius Malfoy.