Chapter Text
Chapter 1
The festive, Christmassy mood that seemed to grip the entire world had nothing in common with Harry’s own that year. The busy London street, awash with sparkling lights and smiling faces, the cheerful toy adverts flashing behind every shop window, the fairytale-like, snow-covered scenery—it all felt as distant from him as if it were sealed behind a glass wall.
He all but ran down the cobbled pavement, his chin buried deep in the collar of his coat—not so much to keep the freezing December night out, as to shield himself from the sight of the happy families strolling merrily past. Laughing, clinging to each other, tackling their last-minute shopping before the big day tomorrow.
They were too loud, too cheerful, and had too much light in their eyes for Harry to bear. Not tonight. Not after the worst two months of his life. He just... couldn’t. To look at them and be genuinely happy that at least someone still had what he himself had lost—that would ask too much of a man who’d spent weeks this lonely.
Absolutely, completely, bloody lonely—more than he’d ever been in his life. Not even during those years in the bloody cupboard under the stairs. Back then, he could at least rely on the sound of heavy boots stomping above his head. Now, there was only silence.
At least tonight, he didn’t have to stay cooped up in Grimmauld Place, dodging the excruciating conversations Kreacher insisted on having, seemingly just to make him suffer more. A marginal improvement, but one all the same.
The towering façade of the London Magical Theatre loomed ahead, promising an evening of theatrical artistry that was bound to be ‘interesting’, and most likely insufferable—because clearly, Kreacher’s daily dramatics weren’t enough. Harry sighed and braced himself as he stepped inside.
He could do this. If not for the welcome escape from that cursed, dusty house, then at least for Hermione. What wouldn’t he do for his friend, after all?
As of now, his only friend.
And the friend who was nowhere to be seen as Harry pushed through the glass doors into the warm, brightly lit theatre foyer. He looked about, awkwardly scanning the crowd for a familiar halo of bushy hair—still as unmanageable as ever, despite years and galleons spent on an army of hairdressers.
Not the best idea, really, considering at least half the room had likely read today’s Prophet—judging by the excited whispers that followed him—and the whole lot probably had nothing better to do than gawk at the biggest gossip magnet in the wizarding world.
Yes, they all knew him so well. Harry smiled bitterly and gave a stiff nod to a few familiar faces from the Ministry. At least tomorrow’s Prophet headline was now a given: ‘Harry Potter finally spotted in public!’ ‘Harry Potter on a hot date??’ ‘Potter forgets his family, moves on after ugly divorce—read all about his mysterious companion!’
“I’m so sorry! So, so, so sorry!” Hermione panted in Harry’s ear, arms flung round his neck as she caught her breath, pink-cheeked and windblown. “I got caught up at the office—”
“Like always.”
“Like always. And I completely lost track of time. Then this old witch fainted at the apparition point queue and we all had to wait and—”
“It’s fine,” Harry chuckled, straightening the askew shoulder of her dress robes. Honestly, one of the most powerful women in the Ministry shouldn’t be allowed to look quite this adorable. “I was enjoying myself anyway. Still can’t decide if I like Partridge Burton’s new violet hair more than Freyala Tulanporch’s nose. Didn’t think it was possible to lift it any higher. These rich people never cease to amaze me, no matter how long I’ve been avoiding them.”
“Harry!” Hermione huffed, amused, though her eyes softened at once. “You really shouldn’t avoid people. It’s not healthy—for anyone.”
“Ah, I beg to differ,” Harry replied, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “I think there are people more than thrilled that I am avoiding them right now.”
“That’s patently not true. Ginny misses you, honestly,” she added, as Harry made a face. “Just like Ron does. And the rest of the Weasleys. It’s just... complicated.”
“Terribly complicated.”
“I know.”
“Tremendously complicated.”
“Harry…”
“Divorcing-their-only-daughter-so-let’s-burn-his-scalp complicated.”
“Oh, stop it, you!” Hermione smacked his arm as he steered her out of the foyer and into the inner corridors of the theatre. A few heads turned and whispered frantically, likely inventing yet another outlandish romance story. Harry wondered if Hermione knew what she was in for, bringing him along tonight. Knowing her, she probably did—and didn’t give a toss.
“You know Molly and Arthur adore you. You’re family, just as much as Ginny is. In fact, I was told—not invited, mind you, told—to bring you to Christmas dinner at the Burrow tomorrow. As in, an order. With consequences if disobeyed.”
Harry faltered. This was the last thing he’d expected for Christmas Eve, given not a single Weasley had spoken to him in two months. He hadn’t spoken to them either, truth be told. His own shame had kept him away.
“I... I don’t know, Hermione.”
“Come on, Harry, it’ll be alright.” She stopped outside the women’s loo, her eyes soft and hopeful. “I know it’s awful, but it’s awful for everyone. We’ve got to prioritise the important people.” Her gaze turned gentle. “Be there for Rory, if for no one else. She needs her dad.”
Harry stared at her.
“Are you seriously doing this? You’re not above emotional blackmail, then. Good to know.”
“Well, it had to be done. Would you come for the roasted ham, though?” She shrugged, utterly unfazed. “Come on, Harry, you want to see her. You want to see all of them.”
Harry raked a hand through his hair. “This is a terrible idea.”
“On the contrary, I think it’s brilliant. How long are you going to skulk about in your den pretending you don’t know any of us? It’s going to happen eventually, so why not at Christmas?”
Harry shook his head.
“He’s going to be there. And he hated me three days ago at the Ministry, same as he did two months ago when I told him I was divorcing his sister. He couldn’t even look at me, Hermione. I can’t do this.”
He looked at her, hoping—desperately—that she understood. He could not, would not, face another silent standoff or another fight with his once-best friend.
“Harry,” she squeezed his hand, “Ron isn’t going to kill you or maul you or whatever it is you’re worried about, just for wanting to be happy. He might be infuriatingly thick-skulled and maddeningly protective, but he’ll understand. Trust me. He’s been my husband for thirteen years—I know him better than anyone.”
Harry scrubbed a hand down his face, wishing he could claw out his own brain rather than sit through a Christmas dinner worthy of a horror film. If only it were possible to say no to this woman.
“I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll pick you up at six. We’ll go together. If that helps.”
“I didn’t say—” Harry sighed, resigned to the triumphant sparkle in Hermione’s eyes. He knew that look all too well. There was no escaping once she’d decided you weren’t allowed to.
"I hope Molly's making her treacle tart,” he muttered darkly. “At least I'll die clutching it to my chest.”
---
Ten minutes later, they were meandering through the crowd, having managed the minor miracle of getting Hermione to the loo without her having to speak to too many people.
“Let me do something about this,” she said, tugging at her snow-matted, wildly frizzy hair. “Before I make an even bigger fool of myself in front of those potentates. I’ll be right back. Don’t run off anywhere.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he waved her off, watching her vanish through the door.
The corridor was empty, save for his own dejected reflection in the tall mirror on the wall. That was just as well—having a personal crisis wasn’t exactly a spectator sport. Especially not the kind where you suddenly realised you’d been a terrible husband and an even worse father for most of your life, and were about to have it all thrown in your face by roughly fifteen people who had once been the only family you’d ever known.
“Bollocks,” Harry muttered. The stupid theatre could go to hell. What he really needed was a glass of Firewhisky. Or three. He was already feeling far too sober.
“Bollocks!” he growled again at his own reflection, yanking at the necktie that was trying to strangle him, feeling anger bubbling like boiling water under his skin. “Bloody, fucking—”
“Excuse me?”
Harry spun around.
And froze.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but are you quite all right, sir?”
A boy, who must have just stepped out of the gents, now stood ramrod straight, watching him closely. His accent was posh but sincere, and there was a trace of concern in his voice.
“Are you lost, sir? Do you need anything? Or anyone? Shall I fetch someone?”
The boy hesitated, clearly put off by Harry’s stunned silence—or maybe just by his unblinking stare.
“Huh,” Harry muttered, eloquently.
The boy shifted under his gaze. Young. Eleven, perhaps ten—like Rory. The age wasn’t the issue. The real problem, as Hermione would undoubtedly point out if she were here, lay in the fact that this boy looked exactly like Draco Malfoy had at that age: the sleek black robes, the sharp chin held high, the impossibly slicked-back hair.
Harry glanced around, half expecting Nearly Headless Nick to glide through the wall, for staircases to shift, for the ceiling to reveal a charmed night sky. He shook his head. Maybe he was more drunk than he realised.
This was ridiculous. Ghosts didn’t take on the childhood form of the deceased, for one. And for another—Harry studied the boy fidgeting under his stare—there was no conceivable universe in which Draco bloody Malfoy would care about his wellbeing, alive or dead.
“Huh,” Harry huffed again, snapped from his daze by the sound of a door opening at the end of the corridor.
What he saw didn’t help his sense of reality.
“Come, it’s time,” said a man who, for a change, didn’t look much like the Draco Malfoy Harry remembered—but who was, without question, Draco Malfoy.
Because of course it was Malfoy. Despite the cropped, Muggle-style platinum hair. Despite the smart, formal Muggle clothes. Despite the clean-shaven face that softened—yes, softened—when the boy rushed into his arms and was welcomed with a gentle squeeze to his shoulder.
That was a smile. A real one. Warm, affectionate. Radiant, even from a distance.
Harry blinked. Had he ever seen Malfoy smile like that before? Not a smirk—a real smile?
He came up blank.
Then those grey eyes flicked across the corridor. They landed on Harry for a millisecond, unreadable.
And then moved on, completely uninterested. No recognition. No acknowledgment. Nothing.
“Malfoy,” Harry muttered, blinking. “Wha...?”
He took a step forward, but it was too late. The door clicked shut behind them.
Silence.
Shocked, deafening silence.
“I’m ready. Sorry it took me so long,” came Hermione’s voice, far too close behind him.
Harry jumped.
She looked at his stricken face and frowned.
“Harry? Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I might’ve,” he muttered, still dazed. “I just ran into Malfoy.”
“Which one?”
“Both.”
“Ah. I think I saw them here last week, actually. Funny, that. I hadn’t seen Malfoy’s face or heard his name in years before that. Last I heard, he was in business with magical creatures or something like that—but that might just be a rumour. He’s more or less vanished from the public eye. How is he?”
“I wouldn’t know. He looked right at me and walked away like I wasn’t even there.”
“Really?” Hermione frowned. “That’s odd.”
Harry nodded, irritated. “Didn’t even blink.”
“Maybe he didn’t recognise you? You’re not wearing your Auror robes, and that beard...”
“What’s wrong with my beard?” Harry scratched his chin, suddenly defensive.
“Nothing,” Hermione said quickly, steering him back towards the auditorium. “It just might benefit from a little... trim. Now and again.”
“I do trim it.” He pulled his arm free, though he followed her.
Hermione raised a brow, hand on the doorknob of their box.
“Do you, now? When was the last time?”
“I...” Harry growled. He couldn’t remember. “Are you saying I’ve let myself go?”
She gave him a soft smile and squeezed his arm. Inside, the box was dim. An elderly witch Harry didn’t recognise nodded to them and turned back to the stage. The play had already begun.
“All I’m saying,” Hermione whispered as the theatre darkened around them, “is that you’re going through a rough patch—believe me, I know. I just wish... I wish you still looked after yourself. Especially now there’s no one else doing it for you.”
“I’m at the office twenty hours a day, ’Mione,” Harry muttered back, too loud. The old witch hissed at him. “I barely have time to eat and sleep, let alone... doll myself up.”
“Yes, that’s another thing I want to talk to you about.”
Harry narrowed his eyes in the dark. “You’re not about to lecture me on overworking, are you? You, of all people?”
“I... I don’t work that much.”
The witch shushed them again. Hermione offered her an apologetic smile and patted Harry’s knee.
“Ah, we’ll talk about it later.”
“No, we won’t.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. Harry slumped back in his seat. The lights on stage dimmed, and the tightness in his chest returned.
---
Harry was suffering.
It was one thing for his personal life to be falling apart, but being forced to watch actors fall into irrevocable, fated love made him want to pull out his wand and fling the star-crossed lovers out of the nearest window. Had anyone in the entire history of humankind ever acted this stupidly just to get the girl they fancied into bed? And once they had, could anyone really be daft enough to top themselves over some silly boy?
Harry didn’t get it.
Then again, his entire romantic history consisted of two awkward kisses snatched in his youth, followed by a very long, very uneventful marriage in which he was never expected to play the romantic. In fact, he’d never been expected to play any role at all—which had suited him perfectly, right up until the realisation hit him like a ton of bricks: he was thirty-five years old and hadn’t slept in his own bed for the better part of nine of them.
And no one had missed him.
He was a stranger in his own home, a ghost that no one noticed as long as the bills were paid and he showed up to the obligatory family dinners. He was free to work as much as he liked—exactly what he’d claimed to want. So why did he hate it so ferociously?
Harry’s eyes snapped to the auditorium. In the dim, but sufficient stage lighting, it wasn’t difficult to spot Malfoy’s pale face. Next to him sat his son, the eager expression on the boy’s face mirroring a more serene version of his father’s.
Irritation rose in Harry like a tidal wave.
Why? Why had Malfoy pretended not to know him? Could he really not manage one bloody “Potter,” said in that infuriatingly smug way of his, and then sod off again? Couldn’t he summon even a hint of fake politeness?
And why, most of all, did it bother Harry so much?
It wasn’t as if Malfoy owed him anything. They weren’t friends—not like he was with Ron or Neville—so his indifference shouldn’t have stung quite the way it did. They didn’t drink pints together every Saturday, didn’t listen to Quidditch on the wireless every other Wednesday—which, in fairness, was a ridiculous idea to begin with. In any sense of the word, they weren’t close.
It shouldn’t have made Harry want to stand up and shake the git. To shout into that cold marble face of his and demand how he could forget everything they’d been through—the war they’d somehow ended up fighting on the same side of, shockingly enough. And even though they’d gone their separate ways after eight years at Hogwarts, Harry had still thought of Malfoy as… what? An ally? An acquaintance? At the very least, someone you nodded to in passing.
The sweet voice of the lead actress carried through the auditorium, singing a lullaby to her unmoving, very dead lover—and Harry’s eyes couldn’t move from that calm face in the middle of the awed crowd.
He was the one doing the staring, so perhaps he shouldn’t have been quite as shocked as he was when Malfoy’s eyes suddenly snapped to his, held his gaze for one petrifying moment—and then turned back to the stage.
As if Harry hadn’t just been left with his mouth agape, feeling like a right prat for imagining that Malfoy looked, in fact, amused by the way he was making a fool of himself.
Harry blinked, remembering that he needed to breathe if he wanted to stay alive.
And then he waited. Waited for it to happen again.
Yet somehow, no matter how long he stared at the side of Malfoy’s face, or how much he dared the bugger in his own mind to look again so he could return the favour, it never happened. The play went on, indifferent to Harry’s internal tantrum, and when the auditorium finally rose in a deafening ovation, Harry realised—mortified—that he’d just spent the last half hour playing hide-and-seek with someone who clearly didn’t give a flying damn about his existence.
It reminded him a bit too much of school.
Which, frankly, wasn’t a memory he was eager to revisit. Not if he wanted to avoid tumbling headfirst into a depression spiral.
So he stood, and he clapped, and all he really wanted was to go home and forget he’d ever promised Hermione he’d stay for the post-performance mingling with the political crème de la crème.
---
“So, who’s your victim for tonight? Should I feel sorry for them already?” he asked as they descended the stairs toward the theatre café, where the social horror was about to begin.
“Ah, the Minister’s assistant appears to be an avid opera fan. I have very valid expectations of meeting her tonight and making a terribly good impression.” Hermione leaned in to whisper, “I didn’t study Scottish opera all night for nothing.”
“Naturally.” Harry smiled tiredly, glancing around every corner they passed.
Not that he was looking for something. Or someone.
“I only wish there were enough champagne in the world to make me forget the horror of her breath while I’m making such an impression—what exactly are you looking for, Harry?”
“Oh, nothing,” he said—just as he saw exactly what he’d been looking for.
There, not far from the exit to the foyer, right under the staircase in what might’ve passed for an alcove, stood Malfoy. He was talking to an unfamiliar man—or, rather, listening, stone-faced, while the man rambled on. Scorpius stood just behind him, half-hidden, as if sheltering behind his father’s back.
“What—Harry!” Hermione nearly bumped into him as he stopped dead in the middle of the corridor, blocking foot traffic. “What—for Merlin’s sake—are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Alright,” she said, smiling nervously at a passing group of witches and wizards who now had the peculiar pleasure of Harry and Hermione intruding on their conversation. Still smiling, she leaned in and hissed, “Harry James Potter, you are not making any se—”
“He’s scolding him,” Harry interrupted, frowning. “That bloke over there. He’s having a go at Malfoy. What’s his problem?”
Before he could think better of it, Harry’s hand was already twitching—wand sliding into his fingers like second nature. Hermione’s eyes widened in horror.
“Harry,” she warned.
Too late.
With a quick, practiced flick of his wrist, Harry cast a spell he’d used more times than he could count on undercover missions. He didn’t even have to think the incantation anymore—it came instinctively, tuning his ears to the conversation across the hall.
Hermione narrowed her eyes.
“You’re not doing what I think you’re doing, are you?”
“Shh.” Harry tried to focus, despite the bustle of the corridor and the chatter all around them, which—thankfully—had begun to move on, odd behaviour from Harry Potter or not.
“…says the Manager. It is of the utmost importance to uphold the theatre’s reputation…”
“Harry,” Hermione whispered, frowning.
He tsked at her. “’Mione. Be quiet.”
“…a man of your history must understand that his place is not among the wizards of—”
“What the actual fuck?” Harry snapped.
“Harry!” Hermione hissed, scandalised. “This is utterly unacceptable. You cannot eavesdrop on people like this. It’s not just morally questionable, it’s a breach of at least a dozen Ministry regulations. You may be an Auror, but you’re not on duty—and neither of them are suspects!”
“Ha! The bloody nerve of him!” Harry huffed. “I can’t believe Malfoy’s just standing there, taking it. And with the little one listening, too!”
“What are you on about, Harry? Harry!” Hermione grabbed his sleeve as he began to move.
“Where are you going?”
“Be right back,” he muttered darkly—and strode off.
---
It was, by any measure, a spectacularly bad idea to pull rank on a civilian while off-duty—no matter how aggravating that civilian was. Hermione should’ve known better, though. She should’ve remembered that Harry knew the rules of his job backwards after fifteen years of living them. And with his accursed name—one that had brought him more suffering than privilege—he usually didn’t even need to invoke them to get what he wanted.
“Hullo, Malfoy! Long time no see—where’ve you been hiding?” Harry beamed as he walked straight into the middle of the other wizard’s tirade, cutting him off mid-word. He made sure to enjoy the man’s startled expression before glancing once between him and Malfoy. “Oh—did I just interrupt something? Oops, my bad. Hope you don’t mind too much—I haven’t had a proper chat with Mr Malfoy in ages. Mr...?”
“Refucalp Frudge,” the young man supplied stiffly. “First Assistant to the Director of Magical Theatre.”
“Potter. At your service,” Harry replied with a smile, extending a hand. The moment Frudge realised who he was speaking to, his face twitched—but he didn’t look thrilled to be interrupted, not even by Harry Potter. He barely brushed Harry’s hand in return. As Harry hadn’t been made aware he had the plague, he took an instant dislike to the man.
“Uh, I know, of course. Auror Potter.”
Harry smiled dangerously and looked the man over—or perhaps more a boy than a man. Much younger than both him and Malfoy, the wizard was still lanky, all arms and legs that didn’t quite fit his thin frame. That wasn’t what made Harry’s blood pressure rise. It was the way the boy peered at him through thin-rimmed glasses perched arrogantly low on his nose. As was often the case with youth, this one came with a hefty dose of self-righteousness—arrogance Frudge clearly devoured with his breakfast.
The boy fancied himself above Malfoy. Above them all, maybe. And there were few things Harry hated more than smug little pricks.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr Frudge,” Harry said, forcing a smile. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but when I joined you just now, it looked to me as though you were having a bit of trouble with something. May I offer my help with whatever it is that’s troubling you? I’m sure I could be just as helpful as Mr Malfoy here.”
The wizard quirked a thin eyebrow.
Hermione cleared her throat awkwardly.
“That won’t be necessary, sir,” Frudge said. “We were quite finished, anyway, so if you’ll excuse me—”
“Oh, but not at all!” Harry chuckled darkly. “I’m sure we’d all like to hear what you were so animatedly acquainting our old school friend with just a moment ago. Unless… it’s something personal, of course.”
He turned his gaze to Malfoy, who still stood like he’d been carved from marble. His posture was calm, composed—the very picture of aristocratic indifference, as if something as trivial as being thrown out of a public theatre was beneath his notice. And he still wasn’t putting this arrogant boy in his place, which was so out of character that Harry couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
It also annoyed him to no end.
Because the Malfoy he knew—or used to know—would never have let someone speak to him and his only son like that. He’d have shouted. He’d have made those ridiculous constipated faces. He’d have thrown a temper tantrum the likes of which no one else in the country could manage.
He certainly wouldn’t be looking at Harry like that—blandly, unreadably—when Harry, for once, was on his side.
“So?” Harry all but growled. “Is it personal?”
Malfoy regarded him for a moment. There was a faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes as he delivered his calm, perfectly measured response.
“No.”
“So I see.” Harry blinked, breaking the spell Malfoy had somehow cast over him with that one short word, and turned to the young assistant.
“Well?” Harry gestured for the boy to start. “Let’s hear you out.”
The beat of silence was heavy.
“I’m afraid that’s none of your concern, Auror Potter,” the wizard said after an obvious internal struggle to remain civil.
Harry bristled. “How come?”
“It is solely a matter between Mr Malfoy and the Magical Theatre. It does not—”
“Let me help you out,” Harry interrupted, his smile slipping. “You don’t want to share it with us because there’s nothing to share. Am I right?”
The confused expression on the boy’s face was priceless.
“That is to say, I’m certain that neither you nor the Director of this great theatre would be so short-sighted as to harass your guests, who only came to peacefully enjoy art tonight. Now, would you?”
“You do not understand, sir. There are rules, which must be adhered to within the fine society gathering in this place. Not just anyone can—”
“Since it would, as it happens, most certainly violate Magical Act No. 452/2016 on the Protection Against Discrimination and Other Prohibited Practices in Magical Relations—and that, I believe, is not only considered a misdemeanour, but also utterly disgusting.”
“I…” The assistant hesitated, his spectacles sliding lower on his nose.
Harry may have been the shortest of the trio by a good five inches, but he didn’t need height to be terrifying when he wanted to be.
“So I’m going to assume your original intention in approaching Mr Malfoy was simply to ensure that he enjoyed tonight’s performance. Am I right?”
Hermione’s hand tugged at his elbow, but Harry couldn’t stop now. It was too much—driving him mad that, fifteen bloody years after the war, someone could still be treated with contempt for existing. Had Malfoy done anything in that time to deserve it? Had he not earned the right to watch a play without being spat on?
“So?” Harry ground his teeth. “Was that what you wanted from Mr Malfoy?”
“Er…” The assistant glanced between Harry and Hermione, bravado fading in the presence of two of the most respected figures in the magical world. He swallowed. “Yes?”
“Go on, then. Don’t be shy. Ask away.”
“Harry,” Hermione exhaled beside him, exasperated. He could feel her eye-roll.
“I…”
“Do it,” Harry growled.
The assistant took a step back, glancing towards Malfoy. His fingers fidgeted with the papers in his hands.
“I… did you enjoy the performance tonight, Mr Malfoy?”
“Ah, yes,” came the upbeat answer from somewhere to Harry’s side. “It was satisfactory. Although, the production could certainly be improved.”
The assistant must have gone red from scalp to toes. The jab was undeniable—especially with the production likely his own responsibility as First Assistant. Malfoy surely knew that.
For some reason, it made Harry feel proud.
“Certainly,” the boy muttered bitterly.
“All right,” Harry clapped his hands. “I’m sure we’ve already kept you too long, and you’re needed elsewhere.”
“Auror Potter. Madame,” the boy said stiffly. He looked as though he’d been forced to swallow a frog. Still, he nodded at Malfoy. “Mr Malfoy. Have a… nice evening.”
His confidence might return by the time he reached the Director’s office, but for now, Harry was satisfied. Even if the assistant talked, Harry’s name could stand a little more defamation.
As long as he didn’t bother Malfoy again.
“Harry,” Hermione said, grabbing his arm. “That was uncalled for.”
Three pairs of eyes stared at him. Next to Malfoy, a pair of twinkling grey eyes beamed. They sparkled with amusement, and Harry grinned before Scorpius quickly ducked behind his father’s back.
Which left Harry with only one place to look—and he didn’t want to.
But when he did, the sight threw him.
Instead of rage, or insult, or even that familiar sneer, Malfoy was looking at him with a mixture of exasperation and something dangerously close to humour.
The expression, Harry realised, was one usually reserved for dumb little kids.
He stared back, stunned. Not being verbally slayed—or looked at like dog shit on a shoe—was… unfamiliar.
“So, Malfoy.” Harry cleared his throat, suddenly nervous. “How have you been?”
It didn’t even interrupt the weirdest line of events when Malfoy simply rolled his eyes.
“Granger?”
“Yes?” Hermione asked, resigned.
“Take the Saviour someplace else, would you?”
“I will.”
Harry looked from one to the other, thoroughly left out of the conversation.
“Send my regards to your husband,” Malfoy added, pulling his son into an embrace and clearly preparing to Disapparate.
“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.”
Harry caught the faintest twitch of a smile before Malfoy inclined his head to Hermione.
“Farewell, then.”
“Yeah. Goodbye.”
“Wait, you didn’t—” Harry took a step forward, hand lifted, but it was too late. The space where Malfoy and his son had stood was now empty. Only the faintest trace of cologne lingered in the air.
“—answer my question,” he finished lamely.
“Harry,” Hermione said tiredly. “What, for the gargoyles’ pants, were you thinking? Are you insane? Don’t you have enough press coverage already? Do you really need to give them more? What if that boy tells the Prophet you were bluffing? What kind of light does that cast on the Ministry?”
“He ignored me again.”
“What?” Hermione was caught off-guard by the change of topic.
“Just like before in the corridor—he wouldn’t even say my name. Am I see-through?” Harry turned to her, incredulous. “Or just not important enough to deserve an answer to one bloody, stupid, conversational question?”
“I don’t know, Harry. I really don’t.” She shook her head. “Maybe he just doesn’t want to know us anymore. It’s his right. He has his own life now. And it was a long time ago—the war and everything. Even if we knew each other then—and even that’s questionable—we were never friends. If Malfoy wants to forget us, we should let him.”
Harry swallowed.
Why was it so hard to accept that? To forget, to let the past rest—was that even possible? Could you really walk through the same world, past familiar people, pretending you’d never met just because you wished it were true?
“Come on, Harry. Let’s get to work for a bit. Those potentates in the café won’t wait for me forever.”
She took his hand gently.
She understood, of course, that it wasn’t just Malfoy’s rejection. That it was Ron’s rage, and Luna’s silence. That it had been two bloody months outside the house he’d called home for fifteen years, with his things still packed in the cold shadows of Grimmauld Place. Two months without a single reply from his daughter. Two months of being forgotten.
It wasn’t about Malfoy.
And also, it was everything about him.
What Harry really wanted was to Apparate to that bloody manor and punch that unreadable face square in the jaw.
Instead, he returned Hermione’s squeeze and nodded. There was a time to fall apart—and a time to smile while everything burned.
“Yeah, you’re right, of course. And thanks for taking me with you tonight. I know Ron must be fuming.”
“Ah, Ronald doesn’t need to know everything now, does he?”
“I miss him,” Harry said softly, his voice cracking despite his best efforts.
Hermione patted his hand. “He’ll come around. Maybe even tomorrow, at the Burrow.”
“Yeah,” Harry whispered. “Maybe even tomorrow.”
***
He wasn't entirely wrong.
The Burrow was surrounded by a thick layer of snow when he Apparated in front of the familiar door —much like the layers Harry was trying to build around his heart as he stepped into the old house. At least he didn't need to worry about Molly and Arthur. Cautious and hesitant, he returned their embrace with a tightness in his throat, unable to say how brilliant it felt to see the faces of what have been his only true family for as long as he could remember. Molly smiled at him a little sadly but quickly caught herself and patted his cheek with laughter, pulling him along to her kitchen.
An explosion of voices, sounds and laughter hit him like a Bludger as he trudged inside, hands deep in his pockets. The entirety of the Weasleys and their families seemed somehow crammed into the small living room — spread across chairs, kitchen counters, even leaning against walls. Harry chuckled at the sight of Fleur and Bill's youngest boy hanging from the wall lamp, viciously screaming as Fleur tried to undo the sticking charm – undoubtedly the work of George and his son Fred, who were performing exaggeratedly innocent expressions in Arthur’s low armchairs, munching on pie and looking anywhere but at the chaos they had caused.
Harry felt torn. On one hand, he wanted to stand there forever, unseen and invisible, watching the peaceful scene like a beautiful picture in a frame, without bringing his own gloomy colours to taint it. On the other hand, standing there alone was perhaps even worse than walking the rooms of Grimmauld Place on his own. There, it hadn't been so obvious what he had lost. Here, it screamed.
It was Molly who ended his internal struggle by calling to him to come in while she returned to the many pots and pans steaming on the stove.
„Uh, hi everyone,“ Harry smiled shyly, lifting one hand in greeting.
It was the first time he was seeing all of them since the news had broken about the divorce, so yeah... he didn't quite know what to expect. But when the clamour abruptly cut off, and all those beloved faces turned to him in a suddenly hushed room, it felt like being hit with Cruciato.
It lasted only a moment, not longer, before some of them stood to greet him properly. And no, he wasn't left out of their love entirely – Weasleys were simply too warm-hearted to leave anyone in the cold. Fred and his wife, Bill and Fleur, and their crowd of exuberant children blew so many kisses onto his cheeks he felt both overwhelmed and covered in drool. Arthur pulled him straight into a debate with Percy and his wife Audrey about some Ministry affair that Harry couldn't bring himself to follow.
Because Ron was standing across the room, aloofly leaning against the windowsill, watching the little kids play on the carpet. He nodded at Harry, slightly, when it became impossible to pretend he hadn’t noticed him—but that was it. Still, it was more civil than the day Ron had burst into the house, Daily Prophet in hand and a murderous expression on his face, demanding to know if it was true—if his sister and best friend were really in the middle of a divorce.
Ginny had cried. And Harry hadn’t been able to do anything but tell the truth. That night, he moved out of their home.
Harry looked away.
Almost at the end of the long table, with Charlie on one side and a vacant place on the other, sat Rory. She had neither stood up to greet him when he arrived, nor did she seem keen to do so now. In fact, she didn't even look up to meet Harry's eyes, engrossed in whatever school pamphlet she was reading so intently. She pulled her head even lower as he stared at her.
It was almost as if a huge DO NOT APPROACH ME sign flashed above her head, intended for him exclusively – so of course, that was exactly what Harry was going to do.
“Hey, Little Bug.“
Harry lowered himself into the empty space beside her, watching her whole body go completely stiff. “How's it going?“
Rory didn't move one bit.
Well. The warm welcome wasn't exactly what Harry had anticipated – not after two months of owls returned with no reply – but this was a whole new level of shit. Hermione looked at him empathetically from across the room.
“So,“ he hesitated, scrambling for words, “how's the holiday going so far? Last Christmas before Hogwarts, right?“
Again, not a single movement. Not a sound, or smile, or even the twitch of a muscle to prove she was registering her father's existence – or that she was, at the very least, alive.
It was so much like his run-in with Malfoy the night before that Harry wanted to blast his head against Molly's fine china until it all broke into pieces and he bled all over it. Although, considering she’d probably charmed it with half a dozen protective spells, it would just be him bleeding.
“How's young Longbottom doing, huh? Any developments?“ he tried—and failed again.
The only reaction to the question was the vivid raspberry colour that rose in Rory's freckled face, and a slight, embarrassed flutter of her red eyelashes. Her lips pulled into an even thinner line, shutting him off.
Brilliant. Just brilliant.
What was so wrong with that question, Harry had no idea. Neville's oldest son was, after all, Rory's long-time friend and even a kettle on the stove knew that she’d been crushing on him for about forever. Except for the weather outside and the state of this year’s Quidditch teams, there were exactly zero conversation topics coming to Harry’s blank mind—so he decided it was, perhaps, better to give up for now.
“Here, Harry, take it—it’s for you,“ Molly smiled gently at him over the table, handing him a platter piled with the best pieces of her famous roasted turkey. He smiled back weakly, accepting the food.
In a whirlwind of charmed glasses and plates and pitchers, Molly served the rest of the table, effectively luring the whole family in, and in a short moment there wasn’t a single seat empty or a spot without deafening clamour. Harry was grateful for it; at least he could excuse himself by staring at his own food without having to attempt small talk with his own kid.
How pathetic was he?
„Hand me the salt, would you?“
Harry asked mindlessly, lulled into a false sense of security after several minutes of familiar family jabber—almost believing, for a second, that everything might somehow be all right.
But when nothing happened, even after long seconds of waiting for Rory to hand him the salt—which stood right next to her arm on the table—and she simply kept eating as though no one had spoken, Harry realised he was quite wrong.
Nothing would be alright. And there was nothing he could do about it.
„Rory,“ Fleur admonished her softly from across the table, where she and Bill were seated. They exchanged looks with Charlie, and then pushed the offending salt in Harry's direction themselves. It couldn’t be helped.
„I... I'm sorry if I—“ Harry began, unable to sit beside his own child without hugging her, touching her hand, or at the very least talking to her.
But he was not allowed to finish.
Rory stood up so abruptly that it tugged the embroidered tablecloth and spilled soup from Harry's plate across it. Without another word, she stepped away from the table and left the room. In the shocked silence that followed, all eyes somehow found their way to Harry—some sorry, some uncertain, some accusatory.
The last ones were mainly Ron's, of course.
„Right,“ Harry said thickly, no longer feeling hungry. „Right.“
He turned to his platter and pretended to keep eating, not quite trusting his legs to carry him out in front of everyone. Hermione's hand was warm on his wrist.
“They say it's bad luck to pass the salt, anyway,” she said with an apologetic smile.
Harry nodded, gripping his fork like a lifeline. His throat burned. If he opened his mouth now, something other than words might come out.
They did their best to keep the upbeat Christmas mood going for the rest of the evening, but it was a doomed attempt. The thoroughly neutral conversation that Harry held with Charlie and Bill during dinner was the best of it. Far worse was standing in the corner of the living room while the Weasleys exchanged heaps of colorfully wrapped presents. He remembered Rory as a toddler, tearing through wrapping paper like it personally offended her, shrieking with joy at the stupidest little things—a Muggle sticker book, a plastic wand with glitter inside. Ginny would roll her eyes and call him soft when he let her open his gifts early. He missed those years with a hollow kind of pain, the kind that sat under his ribs and didn’t go away.
Not that he didn’t receive any gifts himself—of course he did. Molly gave him his obligatory H-marked knitted jumper, Charlie a pair of dragon-hide gloves, and Hermione a book about classical wizarding operas—lovely, though unnecessary, since he had no plans to return to the Magical Theatre anytime soon.
There was, of course, an obvious lack of personal presents from Ginny and Rory. That was expected. What wasn’t, though, were the shadows on Rory’s face. Each time she opened a gift—no matter how thoughtful, no matter how perfect—her smile barely reached her lips. She muttered her thanks, her voice strained, never once looking Harry’s way.
From his corner, Harry watched his little girl, took in the tension around her mouth, the dullness in her eyes, and couldn’t stop thinking that if he hadn’t made that decision, she’d be bouncing around the room right now. Ginny would be here too—smiling, laughing, not avoiding her ex-husband.
The holidays wouldn’t be ruined. They wouldn’t become one more sad memory to carry forward.
Maybe he should’ve waited until the new year. Maybe he shouldn’t have done it at all.
Who was he to take the happiness of others just to chase something like peace? And had he even found that? Was this any better than life with Ginny and Rory? In what way had his own improved since the day he had broken up his marriage, except being lonely and more miserable than ever?
He left the living room in silence, wandering toward the kitchen. But it wasn’t empty as he previously expected. For a moment, he just stood there in the doorway, every noise from the other room suddenly muffled, like someone had thrown a thick blanket over the house.
Ginny was there, alone, standing at the sink and washing dishes by hand.
Maybe she heard him enter, or maybe she sensed him. Her hands stilled for a moment then resumed their work. Harry stood frozen, completely clueless.
It was the first time they’d been in the same room since the night he’d left their apartment, and he just…wasn't ready. He hadn’t prepared for this – the possibility that the two of them would fall into the heavy silence, or, Merlin forsake, a conversation. He’d accepted that Ginny probably hated him. That she intended to avoid his ugly face forever, child or not.
“…Hullo,” he said, at last.
She didn't reply, but the platter slipped from her hands and clattered into the sink, sharp and jarring. Her shoulders jerked. For a second, Harry thought she might cry. But then she picked it up again without a word and washed it as if nothing happened.
Harry stepped cautiously into the room, then sat at the table facing her back.
“How have you been? Both of you.” Harry rubbed the back of his neck when she didn’t answer. “Right. I didn't know you wouldn't be at the dinner because of me. If I had —”
“Don't talk to me.”
The words were sharp and sudden, and from the way her shoulders squared, she regretted them instantly.
Oh, Merlin. She was crying.
“I…” Harry let his head drop onto folded arms.. “I don't even know what to say, I'm-”
“Why did you come?” Ginny turned around so fast it startled him. “Why did you come tonight? It wasn't to make amends, was it? You haven't changed your mind, have you?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Shook his head.
“No. I haven’t. But... I guess I just wanted to be here. With Rory. With the family. With… you, too.”
“Ah, yes,” she laughed bitterly. “I'm sure you were dying to spend the night with me. That's why you divorced me in the first place, isn’t it?”
“Ginny…”
“Don't.” She shook her head. “I don't need your sympathy. Neither me nor Rory. We're fine without you, just so you know. We're both doing just fine without your name or your money. We're living here, for the time being, so you can sell the flat, or whatever-”
“For Merlin’s sake, Ginny,” Harry growled. “You'll still have my name, my money—anything I own—forever. I can't believe you thought for a second I’d take anything from you or our daughter. The flat is yours. Just live there. Everything I have is, and always will be, yours.”
“Except you, yourself.”
Harry shook his head, unable to find an answer. It was hard enough just to look at the woman he’d spent fifteen years with. And it was impossible to pinpoint the moment he’d stopped loving her.
Maybe it had been a slow process—or maybe, horribly, almost certainly, he’d never truly loved her at all. Not the way a man ought to love his wife. The thought was horrifying.
“Rory wouldn't speak with me,” he said instead. “I thought maybe you could…”
“What?”
“Speak with her? I don't know. Just tell her I'm still her dad. After everything. Anything, really.”
Harry had expected many things. But Ginny laughing wasn’t one of them. When she burst out into dark, bitter laughter, it took him so completely by surprise he forgot to close his mouth.
“So you want me, of all people, to talk her into being nice to you? Well. Isn't that funny?”
“Ginny, come on.”
“What?!” she yelled, suddenly livid. “What exactly do you expect me to do about the fact that our daughter is crushed because her bloody family’s been torn apart? What am I meant to say to her? ‘It’s alright, love—your dad’s just having a full-blown mid-life crisis. He’ll be back once he figures himself out! Until then, be patient and understanding!’”
“That's not fair—you know it’s not. And stop yelling at me!”
“Ha! Who’s yelling now, Mr I-need-to-be-by-myself-right-now?”
“Fuck, Ginny!”
“Don't,” said a voice from the doorway.
Both of them froze, staring in stunned silence at Arthur, who stood with one hand resting gently on Rory’s shoulder. She clung to the doorframe, thin and pale, tears streaming silently down her face. It was worse than the disappointment on Arthur’s face. Worse than the quiet sadness in the eyes of the family now watching from afar.
Harry had no idea how long Arthur had been standing there—or how much of it he’d heard. From the look on Molly’s face behind him, it was enough.
“Just… don't, you two,” he said.
“Rory, I…” Harry took a step forward, heart breaking. He couldn’t bear the look on her face.
“Leave her be,” Ginny hissed, eyes flashing.
It was enough. Rage surged in Harry’s chest like a wave.
“You don't get to tell me—” he started, then stopped himself. He shook his head. “You know what? Fine. Go on. Blame me for every single problem. There you go.” He spread his arms. “You win. I’m the villain now. Does that make you feel better?”
Something broke in Ginny's face.
“I'm sorry, but…” Arthur said softly, apology in his eyes. “You should go, Harry. It'll be for the best.”
“I'm leaving, Arthur. Don't worry.”
He hated this. He hated how unwelcome he was here – the only place that had ever felt like home. Harry pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. Crying only made the whole thing more absurd, but he couldn’t stop now.
“If you ever…” He couldn’t keep his voice steady. “If you ever change your mind. If you want to see me, or talk, or… or be with me—I’ll be here. I’ll wait. As long as it takes.” He swallowed hard. “Nothing’s changed between us, Rory. Not for me. I still love you. I always will. Yeah… goodbye, then.”
With a short nod to Arthur and Molly, Harry Disapparated.
The emptiness of Grimmauld Place was almost a relief after all that. But it wasn’t enough to slow the wild pounding of his heart.
Only one thing could do that.
He reached for the bottle of Firewhisky before it could slip away like everything else. The bottle was warm in his hand. It called to him—offering a night without the constant stream of awful thoughts, of Rory’s tear-streaked face and Ginny’s fury. With a hard clatter of glass against the panelled wall, Harry left the room. An hour later, he collapsed face-down onto the sofa in the drawing room—done in, and done for.
During the war, he’d never had time to drink. Never even crossed his mind. Now, it was the only thing that made him feel still.
The bottle was easy. It didn't judge. The same couldn't be said for the Auror who appeared at some point in the night, his face hovering in the fireplace, staring with open disgust at Harry’s dishevelled living room.
“New crime scene,” the man said flatly.
Half-asleep, half-dead, definitely not sober—Harry stumbled out the door.