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The light in Grimmauld Place was always strange in the mornings. The curtains in the bedroom never seemed to draw fully, no matter how many times Harry tugged them straight, so the sunlight filtered in at sharp angles, splintering into the dust that hovered in the air. The house groaned faintly as it warmed, old floorboards sighing like a restless sleeper.

Harry shifted under the blankets, one arm automatically reaching across the mattress. His hand met warmth- Draco’s back, narrow and angular beneath the fabric of his sleep shirt. Harry’s fingers curled, brushing idly at the hem, and he let his eyes drift closed again. For the first time in years, waking up didn’t come with the urgent sense of needing to be somewhere else, needing to run. He could just… stay.

Draco stirred, making a disgruntled noise into his pillow.

“You’re hogging the duvet,” he muttered, voice muffled and scratchy with sleep.

Harry cracked one eye open. 

 “Am not.”

“Are too. My knees are practically freezing. It’s like sleeping with a bloody thief.”

Harry snorted, rolled halfway onto his side, and tugged the covers further over Draco just to prove the point. Draco made a noise of triumph- and promptly tucked his toes against Harry’s shin like an icicle.

Harry yelped. 

“Merlin, your feet are freezing! You’re not human.”

“Correction,” Draco said with the kind of aristocratic dignity only someone still half-asleep could manage, “you’re warm. Consider it your duty to share.”

Harry shoved at him half-heartedly, but Draco only smirked without opening his eyes, curling closer.

By the time they managed to get out of bed, it was late morning. Harry padded down the corridor barefoot, hair in its usual hopeless state, Draco trailing behind in a dressing gown that looked far too expensive for the surroundings. Grimmauld was still half in boxes- Draco’s boxes. Harry had cleared shelves and drawers for him, but so far the house looked like a duel had broken out between Black heirlooms and Malfoy heirlooms, and no one had won.

The kitchen was no better. A stack of unopened crates leaned against the wall, one of which Kreacher had scrawled “Young Master Draco- FRAGILE” across in his cramped hand. A silver tea set glinted accusingly from where it had been shoved on top of the bread bin.

Harry sighed, flicked his wand to clear a space on the counter, and reached for the frying pan. 

“I’ll make breakfast.”

Draco sank gracefully into a chair at the table, folding his arms on the wood like he was settling in to be entertained. 

“You mean you’ll murder perfectly good ingredients while I watch.”

Harry shot him a look over his shoulder. 

“You’re welcome to make your own, if you’re so much better.”

Draco arched an eyebrow. 

“I wasn’t trained to cook, Potter. That’s what elves are for.”

“Kreacher’s busy,” Harry said firmly, though he could feel the elf’s disapproving gaze prickling at the back of his neck. 

Sure enough, Kreacher shuffled into the kitchen at that moment, muttering about “filthy half-unpacked boxes” and “heirlooms left to dust.” He stopped long enough to scowl at the sight of Harry with a spatula.

“Master Harry shouldn’t lower himself-”

“Master Harry is making eggs,” Harry interrupted, “and Kreacher is not taking the pan away again.”

Kreacher huffed like this was a personal insult but shuffled off toward Draco’s crates, muttering about “honoured Malfoy heir’s belongings not fit for this house of blood traitors.”

Draco smirked faintly, resting his chin in his hand as he watched Harry crack eggs into the pan. 

“He likes me more than he likes you.”

“He likes you because you’re related to Sirius,” Harry said dryly, reaching for the bread.

“Correction. He likes me because I know how to talk to him properly.” 

Draco’s lips curved in a smug little smile. 

“Respect, Potter. You should try it sometime.”

Harry rolled his eyes, buttering toast with unnecessary force. 

“Funny how your definition of respect usually involves reminding people you’re a Malfoy.”

Draco pressed a hand to his chest with mock injury. 

“I would never. My name is simply a fact of the universe. Like gravity. Or your appalling cooking.”

Harry barked a laugh despite himself, flipping the eggs. 

“You haven’t even tasted it yet.”

“I don’t need to. I’ve seen you try to make tea.”

“You liked my tea!”

“I tolerated your tea,” Draco corrected, “There’s a difference.”

By the time the eggs were done and the toast slightly singed but still edible, Harry slid plates onto the table with a little more force than necessary. Draco eyed his plate like it might bite him, but when Harry sat down opposite, he picked up his fork anyway.

“Not bad,” he conceded after a bite.

Harry smirked. 

“High praise.”

They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes. The kitchen was filled with the sound of cutlery against plates, Kreacher grumbling faintly as he rearranged Draco’s boxes, and the occasional creak of the old pipes.

Harry watched Draco from across the table- the way his hair fell into his eyes when he bent his head, the way he held his fork like he was attending a banquet instead of sitting in a slightly shabby kitchen surrounded by clutter. And yet, despite all that elegance, there was something soft about the way Draco looked back at him. A quiet kind of domesticity Harry had never thought he’d get.

“Place is a mess,” Draco remarked eventually, glancing at the teetering stack of books behind Harry.

“Because you moved in,” Harry shot back, “Half this kitchen is buried under your trunks.”

“They’re not trunks,” Draco said loftily, “They’re curated collections of essentials.”

Harry snorted. 

“Essentials? You brought seven sets of crystal glasses.”

Draco didn’t even flinch. 

“One must be prepared.”

“For what, hosting the Wizengamot?”

“Possibly.” Draco’s eyes gleamed with amusement, “You never know when a herd of aristocrats might descend for cocktails.”

Harry shook his head, laughing. 

“You’re ridiculous.”

Draco leaned back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself. 

“And yet, you keep me.”

Harry reached across the table then, stealing the last piece of toast from Draco’s plate before he could stop him. Draco gasped, scandalised.

“You thief-”

Harry grinned, mouth full. 

“Told you. Hogging things is my specialty.”

Draco stared at him for a long moment, then sighed, half-smile tugging at his mouth despite himself. He leaned his chin back into his hand, eyes softening in a way Harry was still getting used to.

Kreacher muttered from the corner about “young masters behaving improperly,” but neither of them paid him any mind.

For the first time in a long, long while, Harry felt something close to peace.

The cobbles of Diagon Alley were hot underfoot, the late summer sun beating down on the crooked street. Shop windows gleamed with enchanted displays- a stack of parchment fluttering itself into origami cranes outside Scribbulus, a bewitched broomstick hovering lazily in the air above Quality Quidditch Supplies. Children darted past in small packs, shrieking with laughter, dragging their parents toward the ice cream parlour.

It looked, on the surface, like peace. The war was over. Voldemort gone. No Dark Marks splitting the sky. But Harry could feel the tension brewing the moment they stepped through the archway from the Leaky Cauldron.

People still stared.

It wasn’t just at him, though there were always whispers when Harry Potter walked past. Today, though, the weight of those stares fell heavier on the man beside him.

Draco walked with his usual straight-backed poise, his hands tucked neatly into the pockets of his immaculate robes. His hair gleamed pale in the sunlight, his chin tilted at that faintly haughty angle Harry recognised from school. It was a mask- Harry knew that now. Draco wore composure like armour, polished and gleaming. But even armour couldn’t hide everything.

The whispers started before they’d gone ten paces.

“-Malfoy-”

“-pardoned, can you believe-”

“-looks just like his father-”

Harry’s jaw clenched. He tried not to glance around, but he could feel eyes tracking them from shopfronts, from doorways. Some widened in shock, some narrowed in suspicion. A child pointed openly until their mother yanked their hand down with a hiss.

Beside him, Draco’s mouth twitched- not quite a flinch, but close.

Harry’s chest squeezed. He hated this. He hated the way people looked at Draco like he was something dangerous dragged out into the sunlight. He hated the way Draco’s shoulders stiffened, just barely, every time another murmur rippled through the crowd.

“Quills,” Harry blurted, too loudly. 

His hand shot out and snagged Draco’s before he had time to think about it. Their fingers twined awkwardly at first- Harry’s palm clammy, his grip too tight- but he didn’t let go.

Draco blinked down at him, startled. 

“Quills?”

“Yes,” Harry said, and winced at the crack in his voice. 

He forged ahead anyway, desperate to keep Draco’s gaze on him instead of the crowd. 

“I, um- I was thinking we should get… quills. You know. Since you, er, you always complain about mine blotching.”

A few nearby witches stopped whispering to gape at the sight of Draco Malfoy’s pale hand firmly clasped in Harry Potter’s.

Harry flushed, throat dry, but ploughed on. 

“I mean, Scribbulus has, uh… good ones. The feather sort, not the cheap kind. And- and I know you like yours neat, so maybe we should get a whole set. A proper set.”

His words stumbled over each other, clumsy and too fast. He could hear himself babbling and hated it, but he couldn’t seem to stop. He wanted to build a wall of words around Draco, something to drown out the whispers.

Draco stopped walking.

Harry’s stomach lurched. He half-expected Draco to pull his hand away, to sneer, to tell him he was making a spectacle of them both.

Instead, Draco turned, his grey eyes soft in a way they rarely were in public. His mouth curved into something small and real, not the sharp-edged smirk he wore like armour.

“Thank you, my darling,” Draco murmured.

Harry froze. The words brushed against him like warm breath, low and intimate. He barely had time to register the endearment- darling, he called me darling in front of half the Alley- before Draco lifted their joined hands and pressed a brief, deliberate kiss against Harry’s knuckles.

The whispers surged into open gasps. Someone muttered Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy in the same horrified breath.

But Harry didn’t care. Because Draco was smiling now. Not brittle, not forced- bright . His whole face seemed to soften, eyes glinting with something mischievous and alive.

Harry felt his own lips tug helplessly into a grin, the tension in his chest loosening.

“Quills, then,” Draco said lightly, as though nothing unusual had happened at all. 

As though kissing Harry’s hand in front of a dozen gawking strangers was perfectly ordinary.

Harry’s ears burned, but he tightened his grip and nodded. 

“Yeah. Quills.”

They walked on, hand in hand, past the stares and whispers. And though Harry’s pulse still hammered and his palms were damp, he found he didn’t mind. Not if it meant Draco could smile like that.

Inside Scribbulus Writing Implements, the air was cooler and thick with the scent of ink and parchment. Rows of quills lined the shelves, enchanted to scribble sample strokes onto floating parchment. The soft scratching filled the shop, almost like whispers of their own.

Harry tugged Draco toward a display. 

“See, these ones don’t blotch-”

Draco arched an eyebrow, plucking one up delicately. 

“These are goose feather, Potter. Amateur’s choice. Ink runs too quickly. You’d destroy your essays in minutes.”

Harry rolled his eyes. 

“I don’t write essays anymore, love.”

“Exactly my point. If you insist on writing at all, you need quality.” 

Draco moved down the shelf with brisk efficiency, fingers trailing over labels. 

“Dragon scale- too flashy. Raven feather- overpriced nonsense. Ah.”

He stopped in front of a display of sleek, black quills with silver-tipped nibs. He picked one up with the reverence of a collector.

“German precision. Perfectly weighted. Balanced. You can even charm them to correct your spelling.”

Harry snorted.

 “Merlin forbid you spell something wrong.”

Draco smirked faintly. 

“Unlike some of us, I value literacy.”

Before Harry could retort, a throat cleared behind the counter. The shopkeeper, a thin, balding wizard with ink stains on his sleeves, was watching them with narrowed eyes. His gaze flicked between Harry and Draco, lingering on Draco with open suspicion.

“Looking for something?” the man asked, tone clipped.

Harry straightened, already wary. 

“Yeah, quills. We’ll take-”

The man’s eyes cut to Draco again, sharp as a knife. 

“You’re a Malfoy.”

It wasn’t a question.

Draco’s back stiffened, his chin lifting a fraction higher. 

“Astute of you,” he drawled, the words brittle.

The man’s mouth thinned. 

“We don’t usually sell to-” 

His eyes darted to Harry, then back. 

“To that sort.”

The bottom dropped out of Harry’s stomach. Heat surged in his chest.

“That sort?” Harry repeated, voice low and dangerous, “You mean a war survivor who was cleared in front of the Wizengamot? Or do you just mean anyone who doesn’t fit your neat little definition of what is fucking acceptable?”

The man faltered, colour rising in his cheeks. 

“I didn’t-”

“You did,” Harry snapped. His jaw was tight, his fists clenched, but he didn’t let go of Draco’s hand. 

“Draco’s with me. And if you’re saying you won’t sell to him, then you’re saying you won’t sell to me either. Which means I’ll be taking my business elsewhere- and telling every witch and wizard I know to do the same.”

The shop was quiet. Too quiet. A witch near the parchment display glanced away quickly, pretending to study a roll of vellum.

The man swallowed, his bluster shrivelling. 

“I… of course, Mr. Potter. If you’d like to purchase…”

“Too late,” Harry said flatly, “You just lost a customer for life.”

He tugged Draco toward the door, chest heaving.

Once they were back outside in the sunlight, Harry realised his face was burning. His pulse still thundered with leftover anger. He looked down at Draco, half-expecting him to be furious at the scene.

Instead, Draco was smiling. Softly. Almost fondly.

“What?” Harry demanded, still bristling.

“You pout when you’re angry,” Draco said lightly.

Harry blinked. 

“I do not.”

“You do.” Draco’s eyes glinted with mischief. 

“Bottom lip sticks out. Very Gryffindor of you. Adorable, really.”

Harry flushed hot, glaring. 

“I was defending you.”

“I know,” Draco said simply. 

He squeezed Harry’s hand, his smile gentling. 

“And I’ve never liked quills more in my life.”

Harry’s indignation wavered, something warm sparking in his chest. He ducked his head, embarrassed.

“Git,” he muttered.

“Darling,” Draco corrected smoothly, pressing another quick kiss to Harry’s knuckles.

And for the first time that day, Harry realised he didn’t care about the whispers. Not if Draco was smiling like that.

The living room at Grimmauld looked like a paper storm had blown through it.

The morning’s owl post had come in waves, one after another, until Harry had finally given up trying to pile everything neatly and just let the letters, booklets, and leaflets flood the table. Now the oak surface was buried under glossy pamphlets from St Mungo’s, crisp envelopes embossed with Ministry seals, and even a few flashy adverts charmed to sing the virtues of various programs.

The sound of rustling still filled the room, punctuated by the occasional thunk of another box being set down. Draco had been unpacking all morning, his neatness clashing violently with the general chaos. A stack of leather-bound books teetered on the hearth rug, a silver-framed mirror leaned against the sofa, and Kreacher was muttering furiously as he tried to reorganize everything Draco had already arranged.

Harry flopped onto the couch with a sigh, an entire stack of leaflets sliding off his lap and fanning across the floor like oversized playing cards. 

“This is ridiculous.”

Draco arched an eyebrow from where he knelt by one of his crates, carefully unwrapping a glass decanter. 

“What is?”

“All this.” 

Harry gestured to the mess of parchment covering every flat surface. 

“Half of them are for jobs I don’t even want. Auror recruitment letters, teaching offers, some- Merlin, this one’s from the Department of Mysteries, of all places.”

Draco smirked faintly. 

“Of course they want you. You’re Harry Potter. Saviour of the wizarding world, twice over. Everyone wants their name attached to yours.”

Harry frowned, shoving aside an especially gaudy pamphlet that proclaimed Potter for Progress! in flashing gold script. 

“It’s not fair, though. I don’t even know if I want half these things. They’re just-” 

He broke off, running a hand through his hair. 

“They’re just sending them because it’s me.”

Draco set the decanter down with precision, dusting his hands. 

“That’s called the Chosen One effect. You’re famous, Potter. Infamous, really. You could announce you wanted to open a bakery and you’d have twenty applications from suppliers by tomorrow morning.”

Harry made a face at him. 

“I’d be a terrible baker.”

“Yes,” Draco said smoothly, “but you’d still be Harry Potter, Terrible Baker. There would be queues out the door just to buy your burnt scones.”

Harry rolled his eyes, though his mouth twitched in reluctant amusement. He reached for another stack of parchment- then froze.

Because the other half of the table, Draco’s half, looked pitiful in comparison.

Only a handful of letters sat there, neatly stacked, no glossy enchantments, no singing adverts. A few were so thin they looked like form letters, the kind bureaucrats sent when they didn’t want to waste the effort of writing something personal.

Harry picked one up before Draco could stop him. It was from the Department of Magical Transportation, offering an “entry-level filing clerk position.” Another was from a minor cauldron manufacturer, looking for someone to “review regulations.” Both were phrased with the kind of politeness that felt like distance, each line undercut with the unspoken: we’re only offering because we have to, not because we want you.

Draco had gone still. He was sitting back on his heels now, arms crossed lightly over his chest, his face arranged in that careful blank mask he wore whenever he didn’t want anyone to see what he was feeling.

Harry’s chest tightened.

He dropped the letter back onto the pile. 

“Draco-”

“It’s fine.” 

Draco’s tone was crisp, dismissive. Too crisp. 

“Of course they’re not falling over themselves to hire me. I’m lucky they sent anything at all.”

Harry frowned. 

“It’s not fine.”

“It is.” 

Draco’s chin lifted slightly. 

“I don’t need their approval. I knew what I was signing up for when I stood in front of the Wizengamot. I’m not naïve.”

But Harry saw the flicker in his eyes, quick and sharp, before Draco looked away. Saw the faint whiteness at the edge of his knuckles where his arms were pressed too tightly against himself.

Harry pushed himself off the couch, leaflets scattering again, and crossed the room in three strides. He crouched down in front of Draco, reaching out to gently take his hands and uncurl them.

“Draco,” he said softly, “Look at me, my love.”

Draco hesitated, then met his eyes.

Harry’s chest ached. All that poise, all that aristocratic calm- and under it, the sting of rejection, the shadow of every time someone whispered Death Eater when they thought he wasn’t listening.

Without thinking, Harry leaned forward and kissed him.

It was a soft kiss, barely more than a brush of lips, but it carried all the words Harry couldn’t find. 

I see you. I know it hurts. You’re not alone in this.

When he drew back, Draco’s eyes were wide, his breath caught. Harry squeezed his hands tighter.

“It doesn’t matter if the Ministry sends you two letters or two hundred,” Harry said quietly, “You still have something none of them can take away from you. You’re Lord Malfoy. You’ve got a seat on the Wizengamot, a voice in the law. You can change things from the inside, Draco. That’s worth more than any clerk’s job offer.”

For a moment, Draco just stared at him. The mask slipped, just a little, and Harry saw the vulnerable boy he’d glimpsed at Hogwarts, the one who’d never truly believed he could be enough.

Then Draco’s mouth curved slowly, a smile that was both wry and warm. 

“You’re right,” he said, voice soft.

Harry grinned. 

“I usually am.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders eased. He leaned forward, closing the gap, and kissed Harry back. This kiss was slower, deeper, a promise and a thank-you rolled into one.

When they finally pulled apart, Draco rested his forehead lightly against Harry’s. 

“You really are insufferable,” he murmured, though his lips were still curved in that soft smile, “But I suppose you are mine.”

“And you love that,” Harry whispered back.

“Unfortunately,” Draco said, but his thumb traced idly across Harry’s knuckles, betraying the fondness in his tone.

And that smile Draco gave him, Harry thought, was worth more than any job offer in the world.

The knock on the door came just as Harry was ladling the pasta into bowls. He and Draco had made far too much- Draco had insisted on doubling the recipe “because you always eat like you’ve been starved for weeks, Potter,” and Harry hadn’t argued. The kitchen smelled rich with tomato and herbs, steam curling in the air.

Kreacher shuffled forward muttering about “interruptions at dinnertime,” but Harry wiped his hands on a dish towel and went to the door himself.

He wasn’t surprised to see Ron and Hermione standing there. Hermione looked flushed, her curls frizzed from Apparition, while Ron’s ears were already pink, his expression wary.

“Thought we’d stop by,” Hermione said quickly, her smile a touch too bright, “We haven’t seen you in ages, Harry.”

Harry blinked, then smiled despite the surprise. 

“Come in. We’ve just made dinner.”

Hermione’s face lit in relief, and Ron muttered, “Good timing then,” as they stepped inside.

Harry led them to the kitchen. The moment they crossed the threshold, Ron froze. His gaze landed on Draco, who was sitting at the table in his immaculate shirt sleeves, sleeves rolled just enough to look casual, though Harry knew he’d been fussing with them for ten minutes straight. A glass of water sat untouched in front of him, condensation beading down the side.

“Malfoy,” Ron said stiffly.

“Weasley,” Draco returned, equally clipped, his voice smooth but his posture tight.

Hermione cleared her throat quickly. 

“We didn’t mean to intrude- oh, that smells delicious, Harry.”

Harry forced a smile. 

“It’s pasta. We made too much anyway.” 

He caught Draco’s eye as he set down the serving bowl, giving him a look that said it’s fine, stay with me . Draco inclined his head a fraction, but his mouth was pressed thin.

They sat. The table felt smaller than usual, crowded with dishes and the weight of everything unsaid. Harry served Ron and Hermione first, then set a bowl in front of Draco, his hand brushing Draco’s wrist deliberately. He caught the flicker of gratitude in Draco’s eyes.

Conversation started haltingly.

Hermione, ever the diplomat, asked about Grimmauld. 

“You’ve been… redecorating?” 

Her eyes slid over the mismatched clutter of Black heirlooms and Malfoy possessions.

Harry laughed. 

“Trying to. It’s a mess, but it’s home.”

Draco stayed quiet, focusing on twirling his pasta with too much precision. Ron shovelled food into his mouth with the kind of determination that meant he didn’t want to talk.

Hermione soldiered on. 

“So- job offers? Have you decided what you’ll do?”

Harry shifted. 

“I don’t think Auror work is for me anymore. I want to help people, just… not that way.” 

He glanced at Draco, almost unconsciously. 

“I’ve been thinking about sticking to being on the Wizengamot or maybe even becoming a social worker.”

Hermione’s brows rose, her face softening. 

“That sounds perfect for you.”

Ron nodded, though his expression was guarded. 

“Better than running after dark wizards for the rest of your life.” 

His eyes flicked briefly to Draco, then away.

Draco’s fork stilled. Harry noticed, and something inside him twisted.

Hermione, sensing the pause, quickly turned the spotlight. 

“And you, Draco? What about you?”

It was the first time she’d said his name all evening, and even then, it sounded careful, like she was testing unfamiliar ground.

Draco lifted his gaze, calm mask firmly in place. 

“Law. Reform, ideally. I intend to train in the DMLE.”

Ron’s fork clattered against his plate. He stared, open-mouthed. 

“ You? ”

“Why not me?” Draco’s tone was even, but Harry saw the tension in the set of his shoulders.

Ron sputtered. 

“Because- because you-” He broke off under Hermione’s sharp look, muttering, “Never mind.”

Hermione cleared her throat. 

“That’s… ambitious,” she said, carefully neutral, “And difficult. But… worthwhile, I suppose.”

Draco inclined his head stiffly. 

“Precisely.”

The silence stretched. Harry felt it pressing in, heavy and stifling. He hated it. Hated how Draco sat there, rigid, pretending he didn’t hear the hesitation in Hermione’s tone or the disbelief in Ron’s. Hated how his friends looked at Draco as if waiting for him to slip up.

Harry reached under the table and found Draco’s hand. He tugged gently, sliding it onto his thigh, holding it there firmly. His thumb traced slow circles against Draco’s knuckles, steady and deliberate.

Draco’s breath hitched so quietly Harry almost missed it.

Harry turned to him, offering the first real smile he’d managed all evening. Not the polite one he gave Hermione, not the forced one he aimed at Ron- but the one that belonged only to Draco. The one that said I’ve got you. Always.

Something shifted in Draco’s expression. His eyes softened, his lips curving into a faint smile that was private, just for Harry.

The conversation stumbled on- Hermione asking Harry about social worker training requirements, Ron grumbling about the Cannons- but Harry barely heard it. His focus was on the warmth of Draco’s hand against his thigh, the way Draco squeezed back gently, the unspoken thank you in that touch.

Harry’s nerves prickled; he could feel Ron’s glances, Hermione’s careful avoidance. But it didn’t matter. Not compared to this.

No one, not even his oldest friends, would make Draco feel unwanted at his table.

Harry straightened, meeting Ron’s doubtful look head-on. 

“You don’t have to like it,” he said suddenly, voice firm, cutting through Hermione’s chatter, “But I’m happy. Happier than I’ve ever been.” 

He glanced sideways at Draco, letting his thumb stroke once more across pale skin. 

“That’s what matters.”

Ron opened his mouth, closed it again, ears burning scarlet. Hermione’s expression softened, though guilt flickered across her features.

Draco, for his part, said nothing. He just sat a little taller, a little more at ease, his hand still warm in Harry’s.

And Harry thought- as pasta cooled on plates and silence fell thicker than the food deserved- that falling in love had never felt so sharp, so terrifying, or so completely worth it.

Grimmauld Place was quiet.

Dinner plates had been cleared away, Kreacher muttering irritably as he washed up despite Harry telling him not to. The fire in the hearth burned low, casting flickering light across the sitting room, where parchment leaflets still lay scattered across the coffee table. Most of them were creased and dog-eared from being handled again and again.

Harry sat slouched on the sofa, arms folded loosely around his knees. His hair stuck up worse than usual from running his hands through it, and his glasses slid down his nose every time he ducked his head. Across from him, Draco lounged in the armchair, his long legs stretched out, a pamphlet dangling between his fingers like it was a dead thing.

Neither spoke for a while. The clock ticked. Somewhere upstairs, one of Draco’s trunks gave a creak as if protesting being ignored.

Finally, Harry let out a sigh that sounded heavier than it should have. 

“I don’t want to be an Auror.”

The words hung in the air, soft but certain.

Draco looked up sharply, pale brows raised. 

“I’d say that’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard all day.”

Harry gave a weak laugh, then rubbed the heel of his hand against his eyes. 

“Everyone just expects it. Kingsley. Ron. Even Hermione, I think. Like it’s the obvious choice.” 

His voice dropped. 

“But I can’t. Not after everything.”

Draco’s gaze sharpened, but he didn’t interrupt.

Harry stared at the table, at a glossy Auror recruitment leaflet with its proud slogan- Protect, Defend, Enforce. The sight made his stomach twist.

“I don’t want to keep fighting,” he said quietly, “I’ve done enough of that. And… I don’t want to use my wand like that anymore. To hurt people. To…” 

His throat closed for a moment. 

“To kill. I’ve done it. Once. And that’s already too many times.”

The fire crackled.

Harry swallowed hard. 

“Sometimes I can still feel it, you know? The spell, the way it-” 

He broke off, shaking his head as if to fling the memory away. 

“I don’t want my life to be about hurting people. I want… I want something else. Something good.”

He realised his hands were shaking slightly, his knuckles pale against his knees. He felt raw, exposed.

Then Draco’s voice came, low and careful. 

“What about healing?”

Harry glanced up, startled. 

“Healing?”

“Yes.” 

Draco set the pamphlet aside, leaning forward slightly in his chair. 

“You’re good with people. Annoyingly good, actually. You’ve always had a way with first-years, with the ones who look up to you. You never brush them off.” 

His mouth curved faintly. 

“You’re patient with them in a way I’ve never been. And children… they deserve someone who’ll see them, not just their illnesses. Paediatrics, perhaps.”

Harry blinked. He hadn’t thought of that. Not really.

Draco’s gaze softened, losing its usual sharp edges. 

“It still means you’ll be protecting people. The most vulnerable people. But not by hurting anyone. By helping them instead. Isn’t that what you want?”

Harry’s throat tightened. 

He opened his mouth, closed it, then finally whispered, “Yeah. I think it is.”

For the first time in weeks, a little spark of warmth flickered in his chest at the thought. He could picture it- not chasing shadows in dark alleys, not duelling, not fighting. But kneeling beside a child’s bed, telling them it would be okay, actually making it okay. Helping. Healing.

Draco leaned back, satisfied, though the softness in his eyes lingered. 

“Then there’s your answer.”

Harry smiled faintly, a little shaky but real.

“And what about you?” he asked after a pause.

Draco exhaled through his nose, looking down at the table. 

“That’s the harder part.” 

He picked up the one thick pamphlet on his side of the table- the one from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, detailing juror training programs. He turned it over in his hands. 

“This is the only solid offer I’ve got. Everything else is either insulting or meaningless. Filing paperwork, reviewing cauldron bottom thickness… They don’t want me anywhere near real responsibility.”

His lips curled, though not in amusement. 

“They’re terrified of me. Half of them think I’ll sneak poison into the ink wells if they let me into the Ministry.”

Harry’s chest clenched again, but Draco continued, his voice steadier.

“But this,” he said, tapping the juror pamphlet, “this is real. And it’s what I want, if I’m honest. To fight corruption where it lives. To pull the Ministry apart and force it to rebuild itself into something better. If they’ll let me through the door, that is.”

He paused, then met Harry’s eyes, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. 

“Besides, someone has to make sure you’re not the only noble Gryffindor saving the world. Might as well be me.”

Harry huffed a laugh, but his chest felt warm. 

“You’d be brilliant at it. You already argue like a barrister half the time.”

Draco’s smirk softened into something quieter. 

“That’s settled then.”

For a moment, they just looked at each other, the firelight painting the room in gold and shadow. Harry reached out impulsively, brushing his fingers over Draco’s where they rested on the pamphlet. Draco didn’t pull away.

“Paediatrics for me,” Harry said, voice low, “Law for you.”

Draco inclined his head, the faintest of smiles curving his lips. 

“Quite the respectable pair, aren’t we, my dear?”

Harry grinned, feeling lighter than he had in days. 

“Reckon so, love.”

They spent the next hour writing applications, their parchment littered with crossed-out phrases and splatters of ink. Harry struggled over every line of his, hating the formal tone required, while Draco wrote with elegant precision, his script as sharp as his wit.

When they were done, Harry tied their letters to the waiting owl and sent them off into the night. The bird disappeared into the darkness, wings beating steadily.

Harry stood at the window a moment longer, Draco’s presence warm beside him. For the first time, the future didn’t feel like a void. It felt like something they were building together, choice by choice, letter by letter.

Draco slipped his hand into Harry’s, their fingers twining easily now.

“Here’s to new beginnings,” he murmured.

Harry squeezed his hand back, heart swelling. 

“Together,” he said.

And for once, he believed it.

The lobby of St. Mungo’s was buzzing with the kind of mid-morning chaos Harry hadn’t seen since the war: witches in lime-green robes darting back and forth with clipboards, patients in various states of magical misfortune sitting in long rows of waiting benches, and reception witches flipping through quills and parchment as though they’d been born with extra arms.

Harry shifted uncomfortably on the mat just inside the door, his internship acceptance letter tucked awkwardly under his arm. He’d thought he could slip in quietly. He’d been wrong.

The first person to notice him was a receptionist- a young witch with flyaway hair tied in a messy bun. Her quill stilled mid-scratch as her eyes went wide.

“Oh,” she breathed, “Oh! It’s- it’s Harry Potter!”

Harry winced.

The name travelled through the lobby like a spell. Heads turned. Patients craned their necks. A healer paused mid-step, levitating a chart above her head, her mouth falling open in delight.

In seconds, a small crowd had gathered. Someone clapped him on the back. 

A witch in lime-green robes pressed his hand with a fervent, “My son’s alive because of you, Mr. Potter.” 

Another witch dabbed her eyes, whispering something about Hogwarts.

Harry flushed, his throat dry. He opened his mouth, but words failed him. 

He wasn’t here for that. Not anymore.

Then, mercifully, a voice cut through the noise.

“Alright, enough gawking, back to work! Mr. Potter’s here as an intern , not a trophy!”

The speaker was a tall witch with iron-grey hair pulled into a bun so severe it tugged at her cheekbones. Her lime-green healer’s robes were spotless, her expression sharp as she strode through the throng with the air of someone used to command.

The crowd reluctantly dispersed, muttering with excitement as they returned to their tasks.

The witch stopped in front of Harry, arms folded. Her eyes swept over him- the scar, the messy hair, the slightly too-big set of trainee robes.

“You’re Potter, then.”

Harry swallowed, nodded. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

She extended a hand. 

“Senior Healer Miriam Greengrass. I’ll be supervising your internship.”

Harry blinked, startled. Greengrass? For a split second he thought of Astoria- one of Draco’s friends- but this woman’s brisk manner allowed no time for questions. He shook her hand quickly, trying to match her firmness.

“Good grip,” she said approvingly, “We’ll make a healer out of you yet.”

Harry flushed. 

“I, uh… thank you. I’m really grateful for the chance.”

Miriam’s mouth twitched, the closest thing to a smile. 

“We’re grateful to have you. I can’t tell you how many owls we’ve had since your application came in. Everyone wants to say they trained alongside the Chosen One.”

Harry winced at the title, ducking his head. 

“I’d rather they just call me Harry.”

“Then Harry it is,” she said briskly, with the faintest nod of respect, “Now, let’s get you settled before someone drags you off for autographs.”

As she led him toward the lifts, Harry tried not to squirm under the gazes that still followed him. He caught snatches of conversation:

“-Potter’s really here-”

“-imagine him healing your kid-”

“-wonder if he’ll get fast-tracked to Senior-”

His stomach knotted. He didn’t want to be here because of his name. He wanted to earn it .

The lift doors opened with a ding, and Miriam ushered him inside. 

“We’ll start with the basics. Tour first, then paperwork, then you can shadow me for the afternoon.”

Harry exhaled in relief. Something solid. Something normal. 

“Sounds perfect.”

They stopped on the fourth floor first- the Spell Damage ward. Harry glanced around with interest as patients shuffled past, some with singed eyebrows, others muttering nonsense under their breath. Miriam kept up a steady commentary.

“Spell Damage- curses, jinxes, hexes. You’ll shadow here eventually, though paediatrics is where you’ll specialise, as I’ve been told.”

“Paediatrics?” Harry asked, blinking.

“Yes,” Miriam said crisply, “Didn’t you indicate an interest in children on your application?”

Harry’s ears turned red. 

“I- yeah. I did. I just… didn’t think it’d happen so fast.”

Miriam shot him a sidelong glance, her expression softening just slightly. 

“You’ve got the temperament for it, from the look of it. I can believe children trust you. That’s rarer than you’d think.”

Harry’s chest warmed at the words, though he ducked his head to hide his grin.

They moved through ward after ward- Artefact Accidents, Potions and Plant Poisoning, Creature-Induced Injuries. Everywhere they went, staff paused to greet him, eager to shake his hand or tell him a story. One healer described how his cousin had survived the Battle of Hogwarts because of Harry. Another said she still remembered him in the Triwizard Tournament.

Harry smiled politely, but every time the war was mentioned, his chest tightened. By the time they reached the Paediatrics wing, he couldn’t stop the sigh that slipped out.

“Problem?” Miriam asked, sharp-eyed.

Harry shook his head quickly. 

“No ma’am, it’s just-” He hesitated, then blurted, “I don’t really want to talk about the war anymore. I just want to… work. Help. Be useful here, not because of that.”

Miriam studied him for a long moment. Then, to his relief, she nodded once. 

“Understood. No one becomes a healer to relive battles. You’ll make your own name here.”

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

He smiled- a real smile, wide and unguarded- and asked, “So… can I have the rest of that tour around the hospital now? And maybe find out where my office is?”

Miriam chuckled, the sound warm despite her briskness. 

“Eager. Good. Follow me, Potter.”

Harry grinned as he fell into step beside her. For the first time since the leaflets had arrived, he felt like he was exactly where he belonged.

The Ministry atrium had always made Draco uneasy.

He’d walked through its marble halls plenty of times as a child, trailing behind his father’s elegant stride, chin lifted in imitation. Back then, it had been a place of power. Respect. His name carried weight- the kind that parted crowds, opened doors.

Now the same name earned whispers.

“Is that-?”

“-Malfoy-”

“-should be in Azkaban-”

The words slithered through the air as Draco crossed the atrium, his polished shoes clicking sharply against the gleaming floor. His robes were immaculate, his posture perfect. But his hands itched to curl into fists, to fold in on himself.

He didn’t.

He held his head higher, the way his mother had taught him, spine straight, every movement deliberate. If they wanted to whisper, let them. He’d give them nothing to use.

The lifts were crowded with Ministry employees. Draco stepped inside, the hum of enchanted lifts filling the silence. No one moved closer to him. A witch clutched her briefcase tighter. A young wizard stared openly at the mark that had once marred his arm, as though expecting it to glow through the fabric.

The doors slid shut with a soft clang, and Draco stared at his own reflection in the polished brass wall. His jaw was tight, his grey eyes cold. Inside, his stomach churned.

The lift dinged open at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

He stepped out into a wide corridor buzzing with activity. Trainees clustered in groups, voices low but urgent, parchment rustling. Ministry officials strode past in crisp robes, their eyes sharp. The air smelled faintly of parchment, polish, and ink- and suspicion.

Conversation stuttered the moment people noticed him. A few fell silent entirely. Others lowered their voices, but not enough.

“-what’s he doing here-”

“-Death Eater-”

“-Shacklebolt must’ve lost his mind-”

Draco’s ears rang with the words. He set his jaw and kept walking.

He reached the trainee assembly room, where a cluster of recruits his own age stood waiting. Their chatter dipped to silence as he entered. He felt their eyes crawl over him, heavy with judgment.

One of them, a tall young wizard with sandy hair, leaned toward his friend and muttered just loudly enough, “Ferret.”

A hot flush burned up Draco’s neck. For one terrifying moment, he almost snapped back, almost let the old instincts take over- sharp tongue, sharper wand. But Harry’s face flashed in his mind: Harry smiling that soft, rare smile reserved only for him.

Draco straightened his shoulders and ignored it.

The door opened with a sweep, and the whispers fell away instantly. Kingsley Shacklebolt strode into the room, his presence commanding silence before he even spoke. His purple robes shimmered faintly in the light, his bald head gleaming.

Draco felt the knot in his chest ease- just slightly.

“Good morning,” Kingsley said, his voice deep and steady, filling the room like a bell, “Today marks the beginning of your training. Each of you has been chosen because you show promise- not only in skill, but in character.”

His eyes swept the room, lingering deliberately on Draco.

“And yes,” Kingsley continued, his tone sharpening, “that includes every one of you here. This department does not believe in wasted lives. We believe in second chances. We believe in what people choose to do now, not just what they have done.”

Draco’s throat tightened. For a moment, the whispers seemed further away, muted beneath the strength of Kingsley’s words.

“Make no mistake,” Kingsley went on, “the work here is not easy. It will test you. But if you commit yourself, if you hold true to justice, you will leave this program ready to change our world for the better.”

The room was silent when he finished.

Draco stood taller. He let himself imagine Harry standing just beside him, hand in his, whispering you can do this. The image steadied him more than he wanted to admit.

When Kingsley dismissed them to collect their training schedules, Draco stepped forward. Ignoring the stares boring into him, he inclined his head with as much dignity as he could muster.

“Thank you, Minister,” he said quietly, his voice even but laced with sincerity, “For giving me this chance. I intend to use it well.”

Kingsley’s gaze softened- just slightly, but enough for Draco to feel the warmth behind it. He rested a large hand briefly on Draco’s shoulder.

“Do me proud, Malfoy. And do Harry proud as well.”

The words struck deeper than Draco expected. He swallowed hard, fighting the rush of emotion threatening to break his composure.

“I will,” he said firmly.

As he turned to join the others, the whispers began again. 

“Death Eater,” someone hissed. 

A chair scraped too loudly. A parchment crinkled.

Draco ignored them.

He imagined Harry again- Harry’s hand warm in his, Harry’s smile like sunlight, Harry’s voice steady with quiet faith.

He would not be his father’s son. He would not be the ferret, the slur, the whispered threat.

He would prove them wrong.

One day, they would see him for who he was becoming- not who he had been.

And when that day came, Harry would be there, smiling that precious, private smile, the one that made all of this worth it.

Grimmauld Place was quiet when Harry pushed the door shut behind them. Kreacher had long since vanished into whatever corners he haunted at night, leaving only the faint crackle of the fire in the sitting room and the creak of old floorboards overhead.

Harry shrugged off his healer trainee robes, tossing them over the back of the sofa, and flopped down with a long exhale. The couch gave a tired groan beneath him, the cushions swallowing him whole.

“Merlin,” he muttered, rubbing at his face, “I didn’t think I’d be this tired. My feet ache.”

Across the room, Draco hung his immaculate cloak on the coat stand with practiced precision, smoothing out a non-existent wrinkle before sitting primly in the armchair opposite Harry. He looked untouched by the day- crisp, composed- though Harry could see the faint tightness around his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders that betrayed otherwise.

“You were only shadowing,” Draco said dryly, crossing one leg over the other, “I hardly think walking about a hospital all day qualifies as exhausting.”

Harry peeked at him through his fingers. 

“Says the man who spent his day striding about the Ministry like a peacock.”

Draco sniffed, though his lips twitched faintly. 

“I’ll have you know, striding requires far more effort than mere walking. One must embody elegance and superiority at every step.”

Harry snorted, dropping his hands from his face. 

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” Draco said, leaning back with that faint smirk, “you keep me.”

Harry shook his head, but he was smiling now, warmth bubbling beneath his fatigue. He shifted on the couch, pulling his knees up loosely against his chest.

“Alright,” he said, voice brightening, “I have to tell you about this one kid I met today. He was-” 

He broke off with a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Merlin, he couldn’t have been more than two. Maybe three. In for a magical rash, nothing dangerous, but he was so-”

His words tumbled over each other, hands moving animatedly as he described the toddler’s giggle, the way his little hands clapped when Harry conjured bubbles to distract him, the determined scowl he wore when the healer tried to dab potion on his arm.

Draco listened, his face carefully composed, grey eyes tracking Harry’s every word. He gave small interjections- an arched brow at “magical rash,” a faint smirk when Harry mimicked the boy’s giggle- but he didn’t interrupt the flow. He never did, not when Harry got like this.

Harry’s voice softened as he went on. 

“He grabbed my glasses at one point. Nearly smudged them all to hell. Just looked at me with these wide brown eyes, like… like I was the most fascinating thing in the world. And when I put them back on, he laughed like it was the funniest joke anyone had ever told. It was-” 

Harry faltered, his chest tightening. 

“It was good. Really good. Made me feel like… maybe I’ll be alright at this.”

Silence lingered in the space that followed, filled only by the low pop of the fire.

Draco’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. He forced his mouth into a faintly amused curve. 

“Well, I hope you washed those spectacles afterward. Children are little germ factories.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but his smile stayed. 

“Don’t pretend you don’t find it sweet.”

“I never said I didn’t.” 

Draco tilted his head, elegant as ever. 

“I merely prefer not to be assaulted by sticky hands. Or worse- nose prints.”

Harry laughed quietly, shaking his head.

But as the laughter died down, he noticed it. The careful way Draco held himself, a little too still. The faint downturn of his mouth when he thought Harry wasn’t looking. The way his eyes kept drifting to the fire instead of meeting Harry’s.

“Your day?” Harry asked gently.

Draco’s lips thinned, but he didn’t falter. 

“Educational,” he said briskly, “A tour of the Ministry. Endless introductions, whispered commentary at every turn. Fascinating in its own way.”

“Fascinating,” Harry repeated slowly, watching him.

“Yes,” Draco said, sharper now, like the word was armour, “How often does one get to be observed like a rare specimen in a glass case? Riveting, truly.”

The bite in his tone was soft, but Harry heard it. Felt it. His chest tightened.

“Draco,” he said quietly.

Draco’s gaze snapped to him, defensive gleam in his eyes. But Harry didn’t push, not directly. He unfolded himself from the couch and crossed the short distance, sinking down onto the rug in front of Draco’s chair.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Harry said, voice low, “Not about this.”

For a moment Draco didn’t move. His hands stayed clenched lightly on the armrests, knuckles pale. He opened his mouth, shut it again, then finally exhaled slowly, his posture loosening just slightly.

“It wasn’t… pleasant,” he admitted at last, his voice so soft Harry almost missed it, “The whispers. The looks. I might as well have been wearing my father’s face for the way they stared.”

Harry’s heart ached.

He reached up, covering Draco’s hand where it gripped the chair. 

“Hey. Look at me.”

Draco hesitated, then did. Grey eyes met green, tired and shadowed but still sharp with that endless spark Harry loved.

“You’re not your father,” Harry said firmly, “You’re not who they think you are. And one day- maybe not soon, maybe not easily- they’ll see it. They’ll see you for who you really are. Brilliant. Sharp. Brave as hell. And when that happens…” Harry’s voice gentled, his thumb brushing Draco’s knuckles, “…you’re going to be the greatest juror the wizarding world has ever seen.”

Draco’s composure cracked like glass under strain. His breath caught, his lips parting as though Harry had knocked the air from him.

Then, suddenly, he moved.

He all but pounced, surging forward out of the chair and onto the rug, pressing Harry back against the couch in a flurry of robes and pale hair. His mouth found Harry’s with urgent heat, desperate and unguarded.

Harry gasped, startled, then melted, one hand curling into Draco’s shirt as the kiss deepened. It was hungry, yes, but also fierce in its sincerity- a thank-you, a plea, a vow.

When they finally broke apart, both of them breathing harder, Draco pressed his forehead to Harry’s, lips brushing as he whispered, “I adore you, mon chéri. I cannot believe you belong to me.”

Harry blinked, then let out a startled laugh, soft and incredulous. 

“Isn’t mon chéri what you’d say to a girl?”

Draco pulled back just enough to scowl, a faint pout tugging at his mouth. 

“Don’t ruin the moment, Potter.”

Harry laughed again, quiet and breathless, brushing a hand over Draco’s jaw. 

“I don’t mind. Really. You can call me whatever you want.” 

His voice dropped to a whisper, tender and sure. 

“And yes. I love you too.”

Draco stilled, eyes wide for a fraction of a second. Then his expression softened, lips curving into the kind of smile Harry rarely saw- raw, unguarded, full of something too big for words.

Harry’s chest swelled with warmth, his laughter fading into silence as they just sat there, tangled together on the rug, the fire painting them in gold and shadow.

For the first time all day, Draco’s shoulders eased. 

The tea shop Hermione had chosen was tucked away on a quieter side street off Diagon Alley. It wasn’t Madam Puddifoot’s- thank Merlin, Harry thought- but a neat little café with lace curtains and teapots that refilled themselves whenever the cups dipped too low. The air smelled of cinnamon and cardamom, warm and faintly sweet, and a hum of conversation filled the room.

Harry spotted them easily. Hermione was already there, back straight in her chair, curls escaping the knot at her neck. A thick folder rested on the table beside her teacup, and she was tapping her quill against her notes with barely restrained impatience. Ron sat opposite, hunched in his seat with a plate of scones already half-demolished, crumbs dotting his jumper.

“Harry!” Hermione’s face lit when she saw him, and she waved him over, nearly upsetting her teacup.

Harry grinned and slid into the seat beside her, adjusting his scrubs and robes as he did. 

“Sorry I’m late. The amount of accidents today at Mungo’s is ridiculous.”

“You’re here now,” Hermione said warmly, reaching to squeeze his hand before he could even take his coat off, “How’s the internship? Tell us everything.”

Harry settled, pouring himself tea. 

“It’s… good. Busy. A bit overwhelming, but in a good way. I shadowed in Paediatrics most of the week.” 

His face softened. 

“I think it’s the right fit. The kids- they don’t care who I am. They just want someone to sit with them, distract them, make the potions taste less awful. It feels…” 

He hesitated, searching for the word. 

“…real. Worthwhile.”

Hermione’s expression softened, her eyes warm with pride. 

“Harry, that sounds perfect. I’m so glad you’ve found something that makes you feel that way.”

Ron swallowed his mouthful of scone. 

“Yeah,” he said, though it came out muffled. He grabbed for his teacup, ears a little pink. “Sounds better than chasing curses all week.”

Harry tilted his head. 

“How’s Auror training?”

Ron puffed up slightly, though his shoulders slouched under the weight of exhaustion. 

“Hard. Gruelling, really. But it feels good, you know? Like I’m doing something that matters. Robards says I’ve got a good head for strategy.” 

He tried to sound casual, but his grin gave him away.

“That’s brilliant, Ron,” Harry said genuinely, “I knew you’d be great at it.”

Ron flushed, ducking his head back toward his scone.

Hermione rolled her eyes fondly. 

“I’ve been at the Ministry too. Department of International Magical Cooperation. Assistant work for now, but…” 

Her voice warmed, her hands fluttering as she spoke. “It’s fascinating, Harry, oh really! So many treaties are still being renegotiated after the war. It feels like there’s real potential to make a difference.”

Harry smiled. 

“That’s perfect for you. You’ve always been the one who sees the bigger picture.”

Hermione beamed at him, but her expression faltered a little. She set her teacup down, folded her hands together, and cleared her throat.

“And Draco?” she asked carefully.

Harry’s heart squeezed at the sudden shift. 

“What about him?”

Hermione hesitated. 

“Harry… you know I’ve always supported you. And I’ve seen how you are with him. You seem… different. Happier.” 

She glanced down at her folded hands, then back at him. 

“But I worry. He’s-”

“A Malfoy,” Ron interrupted sharply, his tone clipped.

Hermione shot him a look, but Harry’s jaw tightened.

“He’s also my boyfriend,” Harry said evenly.

Ron leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, the defensive stance so familiar Harry could almost predict it. 

“I just don’t get it, mate. After everything? He made your life hell at school, he-”

“He was sixteen when the war started,” Harry cut in, his voice quiet but firm, “Sixteen, Ron. I I don’t excuse his actions at the time, but you have to understand he was forced into things none of us should have faced at that age. You know that.”

Ron flushed but didn’t look convinced. 

“Still. People don’t change that much.”

Harry leaned forward, his eyes steady on Ron’s. 

“They do. He has. And you’ve seen it, even if you don’t want to admit it. He’s working harder than anyone to prove himself. And I’ve never seen him try with anyone the way he tries with me.”

Ron opened his mouth, but Harry didn’t give him the chance.

“And I know,” Harry pressed on, his voice tightening, “that some of this is about Ginny. That you still think I should’ve stayed with her. But that was last year, Ron. She and I weren’t right for each other. We’re closer now as friends than we ever were as a couple. You know that.”

Ron’s ears went scarlet. 

“I-”

Harry’s gaze softened, though his voice stayed firm. 

“I love her, but not like that. And she deserves better than someone pretending. You know I was right to end it.”

Hermione’s hand brushed Harry’s arm, gentle. 

“He’s right, Ron. You know he is.”

Ron scowled at his teacup, muttering under his breath. But he didn’t argue.

Harry exhaled slowly. He leaned back, shoulders loosening. 

“I love Draco. That’s it. You don’t have to like it, but you do have to respect it. Because he’s the one I’ve chosen. And I’m happy. Really, genuinely happy. Isn’t that what matters?”

Hermione’s eyes softened with something like guilt. 

“It is. It does. I just… needed to say it out loud, I suppose. It’s hard, Harry. He hurt us too. Not just you. But-” she swallowed, and her voice gentled, “-I’ve never seen you like this before. You look… settled. Like you’ve finally found some peace.”

Harry’s throat tightened. 

“That’s because of him. He’s not perfect, but neither am I. We fit. We understand each other. And I’m not letting anyone make him feel unwelcome in my life.”

The weight of his words lingered. The clink of teacups from nearby tables filled the silence.

Ron sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. 

“Bloody hell, Harry. You always did pick the hard path, didn’t you?”

Harry’s lips quirked. 

“Maybe. But it’s the right one for me, I should think.”

Ron shook his head, but the edge in his expression eased. Hermione reached over, squeezing Harry’s hand again, her smile soft and a little sad.

And though Harry knew it wouldn’t be easy- that there’d be more arguments, more tension- he felt something settle between them. A line drawn, but firm, clear.

They were his friends. They’d catch up eventually.

Because Harry had chosen Draco. And he wasn’t going back.

The conference room at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement smelled faintly of ink, parchment, and nerves. It was lined with tall shelves stacked neatly with statute volumes, the spines gleaming gold under enchanted lamps. A long oak table ran the length of the room, polished to a high shine, though the surface was already cluttered with scrolls, quills, and steaming cups of tea.

Draco sat near the end, a step back from the centre where the senior barristers clustered. He had been assigned to shadow Mr. Hargrave, a broad-shouldered wizard with thinning hair and the kind of voice that could silence a courtroom. Hargrave hadn’t spoken more than three words to him since they’d arrived, and Draco suspected he was only here because Kingsley himself had insisted on it.

The meeting had started stiffly. Six barristers, all older, all established, their robes impeccable, their tone brisk as they dissected the newest draft of a reform bill aimed at revising interrogation practices for suspected dark wizards. Draco had listened in silence, spine straight, hands folded on the parchment before him.

“Clause Four,” one of them said- a witch with sharp spectacles and a sharper tone, “It proposes mandatory oversight by a Wizengamot representative during extended questioning. Necessary, I think.”

“Necessary?” scoffed another, a barrel-chested wizard with ink smudged on his cuffs, “It’s bleeding-heart nonsense. Oversight only slows investigations.”

“It prevents abuse,” the witch countered.

“And ties our hands,” the man shot back.

The debate went back and forth. Words like “due process” and “security risk” flew across the table, but Draco noticed none of them actually addressed the language of the clause itself. They were circling the issue, all bluster and politics.

His fingers itched.

He told himself to stay silent. This wasn’t his place. He was here to shadow, to observe, not to speak. He could almost hear his father’s voice sneering at the idea of a Malfoy lowering himself to fight for scraps of recognition. But then- another voice cut through, soft but steady, one that belonged to Harry, though he wasn’t even here. 

You’re not your father. You’re better than this. Show them.

And so, when Hargrave cleared his throat to move on, Draco’s voice slipped out before he could stop it.

“If I may,” he said.

The room stilled. Six pairs of eyes swivelled toward him, a mixture of irritation and thinly veiled surprise. Draco kept his posture impeccable, chin lifted just enough to project calm, though his stomach coiled tight.

“The flaw isn’t in the idea of oversight,” he continued smoothly, his voice even, “It’s in the drafting. Clause Four as written would require the Wizengamot representative to be present for every questioning session past the first three hours. That is, admittedly, excessive. However-” 

He flicked his wand at the parchment, highlighting a line. 

“If you shift the threshold to five hours, with exceptions only by written request from the barrister in charge, you preserve the safeguard and allow for practical flexibility. It’s an amendment in phrasing, not in principle.”

Silence followed.

The witch in spectacles tilted her head, narrowing her eyes as she reread the line. The ink-stained wizard huffed, clearly preparing to dismiss him, but stopped short.

Hargrave, at the head of the table, studied Draco for a long moment. 

“And what makes you think that would satisfy both concerns, Mr. Malfoy?” 

His tone wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t warm either.

Draco’s pulse thundered, but his voice remained steady. 

“Because it addresses the Ministry’s own precedent. The Code of Interrogative Ethics, paragraph eight, already stipulates that ‘continuous questioning exceeding five hours requires explicit justification.’ This amendment would simply align Clause Four with existing law while strengthening oversight.” 

He tapped the statute volume open in front of him, his hand as steady as if he’d rehearsed the gesture a hundred times. 

“It’s elegant, precise, and defensible.”

A longer silence this time.

The witch with spectacles blinked, then gave a single, grudging nod. 

“He’s correct.”

The ink-stained wizard scowled but said nothing.

Hargrave leaned back in his chair, lips pressing into something that might have been annoyance- or faint respect. 

“Not bad,” he allowed finally. 

His voice was clipped, like the words tasted sour on his tongue. 

“Not bad at all.”

The conversation shifted back to the parchment, the barristers debating the finer points of Draco’s suggestion as though it were their own. Quills scratched. A new draft was annotated. Someone muttered about how “elegant” the revision sounded.

Draco sat back, his expression schooled into neutrality. Inside, though, his chest burned with something sharp and bright. Satisfaction, yes- but also relief. He had spoken. He had been heard. And for once, they had listened.

By the end of the meeting, Hargrave gave him a curt nod.

 “You may have a mind for this work, Malfoy. We’ll see if you can sustain it.”

Draco inclined his head, the picture of poise. 

“Of course, sir.”

He left the Ministry with his mask still firmly in place, walking through the atrium under the weight of whispers he no longer cared to register. His shoes clicked against marble. His robes swished at his ankles. He held himself tall.

But when he closed the door of Grimmauld Place behind him that night, the weight slipped from his shoulders.

Harry was in the sitting room, sprawled on the sofa with a medical text half-open on his lap. He looked up at once, glasses slipping down his nose, his smile blooming without hesitation. 

“You’re home, love.”

Draco toed off his shoes, setting them neatly aside, but for once he didn’t bother with commentary or posture. He crossed the room in long strides, sank into the space beside Harry, and let himself exhale, long and quiet, the corners of his mouth curving upward despite himself.

Harry tilted his head, curious. 

“Good day?”

Draco schooled his face into calm, but the glow in his chest betrayed him. He leaned back, brushing his hand lightly against Harry’s. 

“It wasn’t terrible,” he said, which for him was as close to admission as Harry would ever need.

Harry squeezed his hand anyway, eyes bright. And Draco, for once, let himself feel it- the satisfaction, the relief, the spark of possibility.

For the first time, he thought: Perhaps I can do this.

And the thought carried him lighter into the night.

The Paediatrics ward of St. Mungo’s always felt different from the rest of the hospital.

It wasn’t quieter- if anything, it was noisier, full of clattering toys and the occasional wail of a frustrated toddler- but the energy had a softer edge. The walls were painted with charms that shimmered like watercolour rainbows, the ceiling enchanted with drifting clouds that sometimes rained glitter instead of water. There was always a faint smell of peppermint in the air, calming charms woven into the corridors.

Harry loved it.

Today, he followed Healer Greengrass down the corridor, her sensible heels clicking smartly against the floor. She moved with purpose, sharp-eyed and efficient, but her voice softened when she stopped outside one of the smaller rooms.

“This one’s yours, Potter,” Miriam said, pausing with her hand on the doorframe.

Harry blinked. “Mine?”

She gave him a measuring look. “The little girl inside- Eloise, five years old- is scheduled for minor surgery this afternoon. Nothing dangerous, but she’s terrified. Won’t stop crying. The staff can’t get her to calm down. I want to see how you do with her.”

Harry’s stomach fluttered nervously. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” Miriam’s mouth curved almost imperceptibly, the ghost of a smile, “Children trust you. I’ve seen it already. Don’t overthink it. Just… be yourself.”

Harry exhaled slowly, nodded, and pushed the door open.

The room was bright, charmed stars twinkling on the ceiling, but the little girl curled in the bed looked small and fragile against the pillows. Her cheeks were blotchy from crying, her eyes red-rimmed. She clutched a ragged stuffed Kneazle so tightly its fur was almost bald.

Two junior healers stood at the foot of the bed, exchanging helpless looks. One tried to coax Eloise with a chocolate frog, but she buried her face in her toy and whimpered.

Harry stepped inside, shutting the door gently behind him. 

“Hi, Eloise.”

The girl peeked at him with watery eyes. Her lip trembled. 

“Don’t… want the potions,” she mumbled.

Harry crouched down so he was level with her bed, resting his forearms on the edge. 

“You don’t want the potions, sweetheart?”

She shook her head fiercely, curls bouncing.

“Fair enough,” Harry said solemnly, “I don’t much like them either. You know, once, Madam Pomfrey tried to give me Skele-Gro after I broke my arm-” 

He leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was telling a great secret. 

“-and it tasted like drinking old socks dipped in dragon dung.”

Eloise’s eyes widened. A tiny, startled giggle escaped her.

Harry grinned, relief flooding him. 

“See? You understand. It was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever tasted. I told her I’d rather keep my floppy noodle arm.” 

He flapped one arm limply for emphasis.

Eloise giggled again, this time louder, her shoulders loosening.

The junior healers glanced at each other in astonishment.

Harry smiled at Eloise. 

“But you know what I learned? Sometimes, even when we don’t like the potions, they help us feel better. Like, imagine if your stuffed Kneazle here-” 

He gestured to the toy. 

“-got a little hole and all its stuffing was falling out. Would you leave it like that?”

“No,” Eloise whispered.

“Exactly. You’d stitch it up. Maybe put a patch on it. It might hurt the Kneazle a bit while you sewed, but afterwards, it’d be good as new.”

She looked down at her toy, brow furrowing thoughtfully.

Harry leaned closer still, lowering his voice. 

“And I’ll let you in on another secret. Do you know what helps when you’re really scared?”

Eloise shook her head, eyes wide.

“Happy thoughts,” Harry said softly, “When I was a bit older than you, I learned a spell that only works if you think of the happiest memory you can. And it helps you fight the scariest things.”

Her eyes lit with curiosity. 

“What spell?”

Harry drew his wand slowly, holding it so she could see. 

“Want me to show you?”

Eloise nodded, curls bouncing.

He flicked his wrist, and silver light burst forth, coalescing into the familiar stag. Prongs leapt gracefully into the middle of the room, antlers gleaming, hooves making no sound on the floor. The room filled with soft silver light, warm and protective.

Eloise gasped, sitting up straighter in bed, her mouth forming a perfect little “o.” She reached out a tentative hand, and the stag dipped its head, allowing her to stroke its shimmering nose.

“It’s so pretty,” she whispered, awestruck.

Harry’s throat tightened, but he kept his voice gentle. 

“This is my Patronus. He reminds me that no matter how dark things get, there’s always light. Always hope. And do you know what makes him appear?”

She shook her head, still petting the glowing stag.

“Happy thoughts,” Harry said softly, “When you’re scared, think about the things that make you happiest. Your mum. Your Kneazle. Laughing at your favourite joke. Anything that fills you up inside. And then, no matter what, you’ll be strong enough to get through.”

Eloise’s eyes shimmered, but she nodded fiercely. 

“I can do that.”

Harry smiled at her, his chest aching with tenderness. 

“I know you can.”

The stag flickered, then dissolved into motes of silver light, fading into the ceiling stars. Eloise clutched her Kneazle, calmer now, a small smile tugging at her mouth.

Harry tucked his wand away, standing slowly. 

“I’ll check on you after your surgery, alright? Make sure your Kneazle’s still guarding you.”

Eloise nodded. 

“Okay.”

The junior healers stared at Harry as if he’d grown another head. 

One whispered, “How did you- she hasn’t stopped crying for hours-”

Harry flushed, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“I just… talked to her.”

The door opened, and Miriam stepped inside. She must have been listening, because her eyes softened in a way Harry hadn’t seen before. She looked from Eloise- calmer now, still stroking her toy- to Harry, standing a little awkwardly by the bed.

“Well done, Potter,” she said, her voice warm but firm, “Very well done.”

Harry blinked. 

“I didn’t really do anything-”

“You did exactly what needed to be done,” Miriam interrupted briskly, “You reminded her she was more than her fear. That is half of healing. And not every healer has the patience- or the heart- to manage it.”

Harry’s ears burned. He ducked his head, but a smile tugged at his lips despite himself.

Miriam’s eyes glinted with rare approval. 

“You have a gift with children. Don’t waste it.”

Harry felt his chest swell, lightness blooming through him like he could float. For the first time since the war, he didn’t feel like Harry Potter the soldier, or Harry Potter the symbol. He felt like Harry- someone who could make a difference with gentleness, with kindness, with light.

As he stepped out of the room, Miriam’s words echoed in his ears. 

You have a gift. Don’t waste it.

The training hall at the DMLE smelled faintly of polish and parchment. Long rows of desks lined the room, each covered with statute books and draft cases. Trainees hunched over their parchment, quills scratching as they worked through their exercises. The air hummed with tension, the kind that came from too many ambitious minds locked in a single space.

Draco sat at his desk near the centre, posture perfect, quill gliding in sharp, precise strokes. He had been assigned to analyse a mock case: an Auror accused of overstepping his authority in an arrest. Most of the others scribbled hastily, their arguments scattered and emotional. Draco, on the other hand, took his time, building his reasoning with elegant precision.

He was just drafting the conclusion when the snide voice came from across the room.

“And what’s a Malfoy doing here anyway?”

The words hung in the air, too loud to be ignored. Heads lifted. Quills stilled. A few people exchanged glances, waiting.

Draco looked up slowly. The speaker was a sandy-haired wizard, broad-shouldered and red-faced, his lip curling in disdain. 

“Why does someone with your history get to sit here and train with the rest of us?”

A murmur rippled through the room. Some nodded faintly, others looked away, but the tension thickened.

Draco set his quill down with deliberate calm. His pulse hammered, but his face remained impassive, voice cool and even.

“I presume,” he said, “for the same reason you do. Because the Ministry deemed me qualified.”

The man scoffed. 

“Qualified? You stood trial for serving Voldemort.”

Draco tilted his head, his expression one of polite interest. 

“Ah, yes. And was acquitted. By the Wizengamot itself, in a unanimous ruling.” 

His voice sharpened, though his tone stayed smooth. 

“Are you suggesting their judgment was unsound? Or perhaps that your personal opinion carries greater weight than the body entrusted with governing our laws?”

A ripple of quiet laughter moved through the room. The man flushed scarlet.

Draco leaned back slightly, eyes glinting. 

“You see, that’s the difference between you and me. You rely on prejudice. On rumours. On your own comfort. I rely on law. On precedent. On facts.”

He reached for the statute volume on his desk, flipping it open with elegance. 

“Section Thirty-Four of the Rehabilitation Act, enacted in 1998, clearly states that any individual acquitted by the Wizengamot is entitled to pursue civic duty without obstruction, unless otherwise barred by specific decree. I was acquitted. I was not barred. Therefore, I am here. Legally. Rightfully. Unarguably.”

The sandy-haired wizard’s mouth opened and closed like a fish.

Draco’s lips curved in a faint, cutting smile. 

“If that troubles you, I suggest you file a complaint with the Minister himself. I’m sure he’d be delighted to hear your views on the Wizengamot’s competence.”

“Indeed, I would.”

The deep voice came from the doorway. Silence fell instantly. Kingsley Shacklebolt stepped into the room, his presence commanding even without raising his voice. His purple robes shimmered faintly in the lamplight, his eyes sharp as they swept the trainees.

The sandy-haired wizard paled. 

“Minister-”

Kingsley lifted a hand. 

“No need.” 

His gaze settled on Draco, and for the first time in weeks, Draco saw something almost like warmth in the man’s eyes. 

“Mr. Malfoy is correct. He was acquitted by this very government. He was accepted into this program on merit, not favour. And while his past may give some of you pause, I remind you: this department believes in what people choose to do now . Not just what they have done.”

A hush fell.

Kingsley’s voice deepened, steady as stone. 

“If anyone here doubts that principle, then perhaps it is you who are in the wrong place.”

The sandy-haired wizard looked down at his parchment, ears burning crimson.

Draco inclined his head, careful not to let triumph show too plainly. 

“Thank you, Minister,” he said smoothly.

Kingsley gave him a brief nod, then addressed the room at large. 

“The law is not a weapon for old grudges. It is a tool for justice. Remember that.”

With that, he departed, his robes sweeping behind him.

For a long moment, the room stayed utterly still. Then quills began to scratch again, softer this time, more subdued. A few trainees shot Draco glances- some wary, some appraising. One witch near the back, who had avoided his eyes since the first day, gave him a small nod of acknowledgment before bending back over her parchment.

Draco lowered his gaze, resuming his work as though nothing had happened. His quill glided with the same elegance as before, his mask of calm unbroken.

But inside, a quiet flame burned.

He had stood his ground. He had not faltered. And for once, the whispers had not drowned him- they had been silenced.

That night, when he stepped into Grimmauld Place and saw Harry waiting for him on the sofa, Draco felt lighter. His shoulders, so long burdened with the weight of his name, loosened just a little.

And though he said nothing of the incident- not yet- he let Harry tug him down onto the cushions, let Harry’s hand slip into his, and allowed himself to breathe.

Because for the first time in years, Draco Malfoy had faced the world head-on. And the world, however grudgingly, had begun to yield.

The cinema smelled faintly of popcorn and butter, the air heavy with the soft hum of the projector. It was nothing like the theatres Draco remembered from wizarding childhood- grand halls with enchanted curtains, orchestras charmed into symphonies, sparkling chandeliers overhead. No, this place was dim, the seats scratchy, the floor faintly sticky underfoot, and the screen at the front cast the whole room in flickering light.

Harry loved it. He’d been the one to suggest a Muggle film night, grinning sheepishly as he explained the basics to Draco in the lobby: tickets, snacks, seats. Draco had looked faintly horrified at the sight of the concessions counter, whispering, “You expect me to eat sweets from a paper bag?” but he hadn’t protested when Harry bought a tub of popcorn and a couple of bright-red fizzy drinks.

Now they sat together in the middle row, shoulders brushing in the dark. Harry leaned back comfortably, his hand resting on the armrest between them, fingers occasionally brushing Draco’s as he reached for popcorn. Draco, in his perfectly pressed shirt and coat far too formal for the setting, sat rigid at first, his eyes darting around the dimly lit theatre as if expecting something to leap from the shadows.

But after twenty minutes, Harry felt him relax. His arm settled against Harry’s, his posture softening, the faint crease in his brow smoothing as he let himself be pulled into the strange Muggle magic of moving pictures.

Harry glanced sideways more often than he should have, more interested in the faint glow of the screen across Draco’s sharp cheekbones than in the film itself. He didn’t say anything, though- didn’t want to break the fragile peace of the moment.

It was halfway through, during a particularly dramatic scene of music swelling and actors shouting, that Draco shifted slightly in his seat. His hand slipped, almost hesitantly, across the armrest until his fingers brushed Harry’s.

Harry smiled in the dark, turning his hand palm-up so Draco could twine their fingers together. The simple contact was grounding, steady, the warmth of Draco’s skin reassuring in a way the film could never capture.

They sat like that for several minutes. And then, quietly- so quietly Harry almost thought he imagined it- Draco whispered, “I’ll always be branded a Death Eater, won’t I?”

Harry froze, his chest tightening. He turned to look at Draco, but Draco’s gaze was fixed firmly on the screen, his face blank in the flickering light. Only the tension in his hand, the faint tremor in his grip, betrayed the weight behind the words.

“Draco,” Harry murmured, low enough that no one around them could hear.

Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line. 

“It doesn’t matter what I do. Every room I walk into, every corridor at the Ministry- I can feel it. The whispers. The stares. It’s written on my skin like a brand. I’ll never be free of it.” 

His voice cracked just slightly on the last word, and he tried to disguise it with a scoff. 

“I could rewrite every law on the books and they’d still look at me and see him. See my father. See the mark that used to sit on my arm.”

Harry’s heart ached. Without thinking, he squeezed Draco’s hand tightly, tugging it into his lap so he could hold it with both of his own.

“Listen to me,” Harry said firmly, his voice low but steady, “People can change. You have changed. You’re not the boy who made bad choices at sixteen. You’re not your father. And you are not defined by something you were forced into during a war you didn’t start.”

Draco’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. His eyes flicked to Harry’s for the briefest moment, grey and glinting with doubt. 

“You think the rest of the world cares about that distinction?”

“I don’t care what the rest of the world thinks,” Harry said fiercely, “I care what you think. And I need you to know this- you’re not a Death Eater anymore. You’re Draco Malfoy. Brilliant. Stubborn. Infuriating sometimes. But good. Better than you think. And you’re mine.”

Draco’s breath hitched. The flickering light from the screen caught on the sharp edges of his face, softening them. For a moment, he looked younger- not the polished man in expensive robes, but the boy who had once stood alone in a bathroom, cornered by the weight of choices he never wanted.

Harry lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss to Draco’s knuckles, lingering there until he felt Draco’s fingers tremble. 

“You’ve already proved you’re not who they think you are. And you’ll keep proving it. One day, they’ll have no choice but to see it.”

For a long, silent beat, Draco just stared at him. Then, slowly, almost reverently, he turned his head and pressed his lips to Harry’s hand in return. The kiss was soft, lingering, full of something raw and unspoken.

When he drew back, his voice was barely more than a whisper. 

“I don’t know what I would do without you.”

Harry’s chest swelled. He leaned in until his forehead brushed Draco’s temple, their joined hands resting warm between them. 

“You’ll never have to find out, my love,” he murmured.

The Ministry atrium gleamed brighter than usual, its polished marble floors reflecting the soft glow of enchanted lanterns strung overhead. The Fountain of Magical Brethren had been charmed to sparkle with golden light, the spray of water catching like diamonds in the air. Banners bearing the Ministry crest hung from the rafters, and a string quartet played politely near the lifts, their music barely rising above the hum of voices.

It was one of those post-war commemorative events- not quite a gala, not quite a political meeting. Somewhere between celebration and spectacle. Witches and wizards in elegant robes mingled in clusters, champagne flutes hovering at their elbows, the air buzzing with polite laughter and the occasional pointed whisper.

Harry tugged a little at his collar as he and Draco stepped through the golden gates. His black dress robes felt too formal, too heavy, and his palms were already clammy. He could feel the stares the moment they entered- not unusual, not for him- but tonight they felt sharper, cutting not just toward him but toward the man walking at his side.

Draco Malfoy carried himself with impeccable composure, robes immaculate, posture straight, expression cool. He looked every inch Lord Malfoy, heir of an ancient family, untouchable. But Harry knew him too well now to miss the subtle stiffness in his shoulders, the way his pale fingers flexed once at his side before stilling.

The whispers began almost immediately.

“Potter-”

“-with Malfoy?”

“-thought he’d be in Azkaban-”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he ignored them. Instead, he reached out and twined his fingers with Draco’s. The movement was casual to anyone watching, but deliberate. Draco’s eyes flicked to him, startled, then softened just slightly.

“Breathe,” Harry murmured, low enough that only Draco could hear, “It’s just one night.”

“You say that like it isn’t an eternity,” Draco whispered back, though his lips curved faintly, betraying his amusement.

A Ministry official in deep purple robes swept toward them, her face alight. 

“Mr. Potter! Lord Potter!” 

She clasped Harry’s hands in both of hers. 

“So delighted you could attend. We are honoured- truly honoured.”

Harry gave a stiff smile, nodding. He hated this part- the fuss, the flattery. He never knew what to say. 

“Er- thank you. It’s… good to be here.”

The woman barely spared Draco a glance, her smile slipping into cool politeness as she inclined her head. 

“Lord Malfoy.”

Draco dipped his chin in perfect aristocratic acknowledgement, his mask firmly in place. 

“Madam.”

Harry caught the flicker of dismissal in her eyes, and something hot flared in his chest. Before she could sweep him away into a circle of eager officials, Harry tightened his grip on Draco’s hand and tugged him subtly closer.

“Actually,” Harry said, forcing his voice steady, “I was hoping to introduce Draco properly. He’s starting his juror training with the DMLE. Brilliant at it, too. Kingsley himself has said so.”

The official blinked, startled, her gaze snapping back to Draco. A few nearby witches turned their heads, clearly listening.

Draco raised an elegant brow, his expression betraying nothing, but Harry felt the faintest squeeze of his hand.

The official hesitated, then inclined her head again, more deeply this time. 

“How… admirable. Reform work is much needed these days.”

“Exactly,” Harry said quickly, “That’s why Draco’s so determined. He’s one of the sharpest minds I know. He’ll make a difference.”

Around them, the murmurs shifted- still wary, still sceptical, but less scathing than before.

As the woman excused herself, another wizard sidled closer, clearly hoping for a word with Harry. But every time someone tried to draw him into conversation, Harry angled his body so Draco was included, introducing him, pulling him into the discussion, never allowing him to be sidelined.

Some accepted it with faint surprise. Others with clear discomfort. But by the third or fourth time Harry did it, people began to respond differently- not warmly, not yet, but with grudging acknowledgment. Lord Malfoy, in the same breath as Lord Potter. A pairing they hadn’t expected, but one they could no longer ignore.

Through it all, Draco’s poise never cracked. He spoke when addressed, his words sharp and precise, his wit perfectly timed. But Harry saw the flicker in his eyes when someone turned away too quickly, the faint tension in his jaw after a particularly barbed comment.

Eventually, Harry managed to guide them toward a quieter corner near the fountain. He exhaled shakily, tugging at his collar again. 

“Merlin. I hate this.”

Draco turned to him, brows arching. 

“ You hate this? You’re the Ministry’s golden boy. They worship you.”

Harry huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“That’s the bloody problem. They never stop. I never know what to say. Half the time I feel like I’m going to say something wrong and they’ll all realise I’ve got no idea what I’m doing.”

Draco blinked, startled, then softened. 

“Harry…”

Harry shrugged, avoiding his gaze. 

“I get anxious. Always have. I thought maybe it’d get better after the war, but-” 

He gestured helplessly to the glittering room, the crowd of eyes. 

“I-It never does.”

There was a pause. Then Draco stepped closer, his hand coming up to rest lightly against the back of Harry’s neck. His touch was steady, grounding.

“Then let me worry about them,” Draco said softly, so only Harry could hear, “All you have to do is stand here with me. Nothing more.”

Harry met his eyes then, green on grey, the flickering lantern light casting shadows across Draco’s face. His chest loosened.

“You’re not alone in this,” Draco murmured, “Not anymore. I’ll always be here. Beside you.”

Harry swallowed hard, then nodded. He leaned subtly into the touch, letting himself breathe again.

For the rest of the evening, the whispers didn’t stop. The stares didn’t vanish. But they were softer now, less certain. And as Harry stood with Draco’s hand entwined in his, he realised something important: they didn’t need to convince the whole room tonight.

All they needed was each other.

Draco, for his part, let Harry tug him closer when the anxiety prickled again, let Harry whisper awkward jokes in his ear to break the tension. And though his mask never slipped in public, inside, he was shaken- not by the suspicion, but by Harry’s fierce insistence on holding him up through it.

As they left the Ministry together, Draco’s fingers still twined with Harry’s, he thought- not for the first time- that he truly didn’t know what he would do without him.

And maybe, just maybe, the world was beginning to see what Harry already knew.

Grimmauld Place was quiet by the time they finally stumbled through the door, the ancient house creaking faintly as though acknowledging their return. Kreacher had long since retired for the evening, leaving only the soft glow of enchanted lamps and the faint crackle of the fire in the sitting room.

Harry kicked off his trainers by the door and padded inside, tugging at the drawstring of his healer’s scrubs. The pale green fabric was wrinkled from a day of running between wards, and his hair stuck up at odd angles from where he’d tugged his hands through it in frustration or fatigue.

Draco followed more gracefully, though he, too, looked worn. His robes hung loose at the shoulders, the fine wool creased in a way that would have horrified his younger self. He dropped his leather satchel by the armchair with a soft thump, exhaling as though the weight of the entire Ministry had been resting on it.

Harry flopped onto the sofa first, stretching out with a groan and sprawling like a starfish across the cushions. 

“Merlin, I don’t think I’ve sat down all day.”

Draco arched a brow, undoing his cuffs with practiced flicks. 

“From the look of you, you haven’t stopped running. Honestly, Potter, you resemble a trainee who’s just been dragged through a hedge backwards.”

Harry smirked, eyes half-lidded. 

“That’s because I was. Or at least it felt like it. Two kids with dragon pox and one toddler who threw up every time anyone tried to give her a potion. I swear, if I never see lime-green sick again, it’ll be too soon.”

Draco made a faintly disgusted noise, but there was affection beneath it. 

“Charming. Truly, your work is the epitome of glamour.”

Harry shifted over, patting the cushion beside him. 

“Come on, Lord Malfoy. Drop the aristocratic act for once and sit down before you keel over.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Draco lowered himself onto the sofa. Harry immediately curled against him, tucking his head beneath Draco’s chin and slinging an arm across his middle.

Draco huffed, though his arm slid easily around Harry’s shoulders. 

“You really are like a Kneazle. No sense of personal space whatsoever.”

“Mm. You love it,” Harry mumbled, already half-dozing against the warmth of Draco’s chest.

For a while, they sat in silence. The fire popped softly, casting shadows across the room. The exhaustion in their bones began to ease, replaced by something gentler, quieter.

It was Harry who broke the silence, his voice soft and thoughtful. 

“Can you believe this is our life now?”

Draco glanced down at him. 

“What, collapsing like invalids on a moth-eaten sofa in an ancient townhouse?”

Harry elbowed him lightly, grinning. 

“No. I mean… this. Work. Coming home. You in your posh robes, me in scrubs that look like they’ve seen a battlefield. Us. Being… actual adults.”

Draco was quiet for a moment, his hand absently stroking Harry’s arm. 

“No. I can’t believe it. Not really.” 

He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling as though the cracked plaster might provide answers. 

“At Hogwarts, I thought adulthood meant endless power and polish. Family estates, gala dinners, controlling the narrative.” 

He paused, then let out a soft, almost incredulous laugh. 

“And here I am. Fighting tooth and nail to prove myself to bureaucrats who barely look me in the eye.”

Harry shifted to look at him, brow furrowed. 

“But you are proving yourself. You know that, right? Even Kingsley thinks so.”

Draco’s lips twitched. 

“Perhaps. I’m getting the DMLE to crack, I’ll admit. Less hostility, more… grudging acknowledgment. A far cry from admiration, but-” 

His voice softened. 

“It’s something.”

Harry smiled, squeezing his side. 

“It’s more than something. It’s progress. And you’re brilliant, Draco. They’d be stupid not to see it.”

Draco glanced at him, his expression unreadable. Then, with a faint sigh, he brushed his thumb over the back of Harry’s hand. 

“And you? You look more alive than I’ve ever seen you. Even covered in sick.”

Harry laughed, cheeks warming. 

“I feel alive. I don’t know… being with the kids, calming them down, helping them through it- it feels like I’m doing something good. Not because people expect me to. Just because I want to.”

There was a pause, then Draco’s voice, softer still. 

“You’re extraordinary, you know that?”

Harry ducked his head, embarrassed. 

“I’m just me.”

Draco leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of his messy hair. 

“And that’s more than enough.”

For a long while, they simply breathed together, the rhythm of it steady and grounding.

Eventually, Harry murmured, “We’ve come a long way since Hogwarts, haven’t we?”

Draco snorted quietly. 

“From trying to hex each other in corridors to this?” 

He gestured faintly at their entwined limbs on the sofa. 

“Yes. Quite a journey.”

Harry chuckled, but then his expression softened, his voice dropping. 

“I wouldn’t change it. Not any of it. Because it brought us here.”

Draco stilled, his chest tightening in a way he didn’t often allow himself to feel. He looked down at Harry- messy, tired, utterly unpolished- and thought about how much he had despised him once. How much of himself he had wasted on bitterness.

And how grateful he was now, for every twist of fate that had led them to this sofa, this warmth, this quiet hope.

Harry tilted his head up, green eyes bright despite his exhaustion. 

“We’ll keep building, won’t we? Step by step, my love?”

Draco’s throat tightened. He pressed another kiss to Harry’s hair, lingering. 

“Step by step, my darling,” he promised.