The quiet in the attic didn't last long before it was broken by a soft knock at the door.
A house-elf's shrill voice came from outside. "Young master, Mistress sent Dobby to remind you—dinner will begin shortly. Would the two young gentlemen please prepare."
Draco called back toward the door, "Got it, we're coming."
He turned to Harry, the ease from earlier already fading, slipping back into the slightly arrogant Malfoy heir, "Come on, round two. The battlefield in the dining room will be worse."
Harry didn't reply. He shoved the crumpled candy wrapper into his pocket and followed him downstairs.
The dining room was exactly as Draco had warned—an absurdly long table loaded with glittering silverware and high-stemmed crystal glasses. The chandelier bathed everything in a bright, almost ostentatious glow.
Lucius and Narcissa were already seated.
Narcissa's smile bloomed the moment she saw them. "Come, sit, children. You must be hungry after such a long trip." She gestured to the seats beside them.
Lucius only inclined his head, his gaze lingering on Harry for a heartbeat.
With only four people spread across a table built for twice as many, the space felt strangely empty. Dishes appeared silently, delivered by house-elves—each plate so exquisite it looked like artwork.
"Are the meals at Hogwarts to your liking, Mr. Potter?" Lucius asked casually as he cut a piece of lamb.
"They're filling," Harry answered simply. His fork didn't pause. He was hungry—and food wasn't something worth picking a fight with.
Draco cut in, voice colored with disdain. "They're alright. The puddings are too sweet, the Yorkshire pudding isn't fluffy enough—not even a tenth as good as at home." As he grumbled, he naturally nudged the best piece of veal from his plate onto Harry's, the movement so practiced it had clearly happened countless times. "No idea what the house-elves there are doing."
Narcissa chuckled softly. "Hogwarts must prepare for so many tastes. Harry, dear, eat more—you're far too thin."
Lucius watched Draco's little gesture with no discernible reaction, merely dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "I've heard… Severus is quite attentive with you two?"
Harry's chewing paused.
Draco jumped in immediately, tone infused with easy familiarity toward his godfather. "Yeah, he's strict. Especially in Potions—won't tolerate a single mistake. But we manage."
"Strictness is good," Lucius said mildly. "Means you learn something worthwhile. He holds the position of Head of Slytherin well." The comment sounded offhand—but also like he was confirming something.
Harry swallowed his bite. "No one dares misbehave in Professor Snape's class," he replied evenly. Compared to last life's 'Potter Stinks' badges and endless point deductions, this calm was practically a miracle.
Lucius appeared satisfied with the answer. He didn't ask more about Snape, instead shifting toward the other professors—especially Dumbledore.
"Headmaster Dumbledore…" Harry weighed his words, eyes lowered to the dark red liquid swirling in his glass. "He's busy. Other than the Welcoming Feast and occasionally seeing him in the corridors, we don't run into him much." True enough.
"Busy scheming, more like," Lucius murmured. It was quiet, but in the stillness of the hall, perfectly audible.
Narcissa cleared her throat softly.
Draco kicked Harry under the table, then smiled brightly toward Lucius. "Who cares what he's doing? We're winning the House Cup for sure, and the Quidditch Cup too—Flint's training them like maniacs." Successfully changing the subject.
Harry lowered his gaze and continued eating.
Lucius's dislike of Dumbledore was unrestrained. Good.
But Harry knew that right now, that hostility came from differing ideology—not the kill-or-be-killed kind. And he needed it to become the latter.
The second half of dinner passed with fewer sharp questions. The atmosphere loosened, just a touch.
Narcissa asked about school stories; Draco exaggerated Peeves's pranks and Filch's temper, making her laugh behind her hand.
Harry mostly listened quietly, occasionally nodding when Draco glanced his way.
The long table felt like a stage. Everyone played a role. Narcissa the gentle hostess. Lucius the inscrutable patriarch. Draco the pampered yet shrewd heir. And Harry… the slightly reserved but promising Savior—an investment worth watching.
Only the boy beside him, slipping good food onto his plate and kicking him under the table—only Draco was real.
Dinner eventually drew to a close.
Narcissa rose with a warm smile. "You've both had a long day. Rest early. Draco can show you around tomorrow—though some parts of the manor…" She hesitated. "…aren't convenient to visit."
Lucius stood, cane tapping the floor. "Enjoy your weekend, Mr. Potter. I hope the Manor is to your comfort."
He left the hall. Narcissa followed after a few soft reminders to Draco.
The room fell silent—only the two boys left.
Draco exhaled dramatically and slumped back in his chair. "Finally. Eating with my father is more exhausting than fighting a troll."
Harry didn't argue.
He felt like he'd fought a battle too—a mental one.
"Come on," Draco said, standing. "Let's go somewhere better. No portraits, no house-elves staring."
They didn't return upstairs. Instead they walked through several corridors and descended. The air cooled, dampening with the scent of moss and old stone.
"The dungeons?" Harry asked.
"Sort of." Draco stopped before a heavy wooden door. He pulled his wand and murmured something. The hinges groaned. "This is where we keep the wine. But…" He stepped aside, smirking. "There's a bit more."
It was larger than Harry expected—rows of enormous oak barrels stacked to the ceiling, the air thick with wood and aged alcohol.
Draco moved around several barrels with practiced steps. Behind them was a small open area with a carpet, a few cushions tossed around, and a low table.
"Well?" Draco raised his brows proudly. "Found it when I was little. Father only cares about the wine—has no idea what's behind it."
He dropped onto a cushion and patted the spot beside him. "Sit. No one can hear us down here."
Harry sat. The carpet was plush; the cushions warm. Shadows from the barrels loomed high, and a single old oil lamp cast a dim yellow glow, stretching their shadows long across the wood.
"Your father…" Harry began, voice sounding soft in the wine cellar. "He cares a lot about my relationship with Dumbledore."
"Of course." Draco snorted. He reached into a tiny box beside him and tossed Harry a small bottle of pumpkin juice. "You're the famous 'Savior.' You're supposed to be Dumbledore's little golden boy. But you didn't go to Gryffindor, and you're hanging around with me—the 'Death Eater's son.' Dad would be an idiot not to be curious."
He took a swig of his own drink, tone cooling. "He's polite to you now partly because of me, and partly because he thinks you're valuable. If he ever finds out what we're actually planning…" Draco didn't finish. He just snorted.
Harry drank his pumpkin juice—cold and sweet. "How much does he know?"
"Nothing." Draco shook his head. "I told him you think Dumbledore's unreliable, the Ministry's useless, pure-blood ideology has its logic, and… well, we're friends."
Harry didn't smile. He studied the pattern on the bottle. "That's enough. For now."
"Yeah." Draco set his drink aside, expression sharpening. "Slow steps. Let him think investing in you is his own brilliant idea—not something we're pushing. But you really handled him well today."
"Learned from you," Harry said with a sideways glance.
Draco smirked. "Naturally. I'm a good teacher."
He paused, voice lower. "It's just… seeing you so tense, it's a bit…"
"What?" Harry asked. In the dim glow, Draco's expression was hard to read.
"…Nothing." Draco looked away, fingers picking the carpet. "Just… you don't have to be so wound up. At least not with me."
Harry didn't answer. Only the small crackles from the oil lamp filled the silence.
After a long moment, he murmured, "I'm used to it."
In hell, relaxing meant being devoured.
"Habits can change," Draco said quietly—but insistently. "Things are different now."
He turned his head; gray eyes focused, intense even in the dim. "You've got me, don't you."
Something bumped in Harry's chest. Not painful—just a little electric.
He looked away, staring at the grain of the barrel in front of them. "…I know."
They sat quietly again, drinking pumpkin juice. No more words—but the silence wasn't uncomfortable.
It wasn't the stiff, performative quiet of the dining room.
It was real quiet. Safe quiet.
Harry actually felt a little sleepy.
The whole day—from Hogwarts to the Manor, handling Lucius—he'd been tense as a bowstring. Here, in the dim cellar, beside the one person he didn't need to guard against, exhaustion crept in.
He leaned back into a soft cushion. His eyelids grew heavy.
Draco noticed. He didn't comment. He just set his empty bottle aside, stretched, and leaned back as well. "Sleep if you want. No classes tomorrow anyway."
Harry mumbled something faint. His consciousness was already slipping.
He thought he heard Draco laugh—very softly—and then something warm and light settled over him. A thin wool blanket, carrying Draco's body heat.
As he drifted under completely, his last hazy thought was:
Draco Malfoy's kindness is… annoyingly thorough.