Birdsong and a slice of sunlight slipping through the curtains woke Harry.
It took him several long seconds to realize where he was—not the Slytherin dormitory, nor the cupboard-like, suffocating storage room at the Dursleys'.
The bed beneath him was absurdly soft, and the air carried a faint, pleasant fragrance.
Malfoy Manor.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes, his hair sticking out in all directions.
How had he gotten from the wine cellar back to his room last night?
His memory was fuzzy. He remembered the sweetness of pumpkin juice, the dim lamp, and the… wool blanket around him.
A gentle knock sounded. Before he could answer, the door cracked open.
Draco poked his head in, wearing a teasing smile. "Awake? I thought you'd sleep till noon."
He walked straight in—already dressed in his usual dark-green robes, hair perfectly in place, looking annoyingly refreshed.
Harry fumbled for his glasses. The world snapped into focus—and so did Draco's expression, that unmistakable You'd fall apart without me look.
"What time is it?" Harry's voice was still raspy.
"Early." Draco came over, sat casually on the edge of the bed, and reached out to ruffle Harry's hair, messing it up even more. "Come on, breakfast? The kitchen made pancakes—thick maple syrup and all."
Harry batted his hand away and tried to flatten his hair, failing spectacularly. "Don't."
Draco pulled back, grinning as he watched Harry wage a losing battle with his own head. "Leave it. Looks good."
He paused, eyes glinting. "Very 'struck-by-lightning chic.' Suits you perfectly."
Harry grabbed a pillow and threw it at him.
Draco caught it laughing and tossed it back onto the bed. "Hurry up. Food's getting cold. Unless…" He drawled, sweeping his gaze up and down Harry in his pajamas, "you need a house-elf to help dress you, Master Potter?"
"Get out, Malfoy." Harry glared, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
"At once." Draco stood, gave an exaggerated bow, then added at the door, "Seriously—hurry. After breakfast I'm taking you somewhere good. Can't get into Father's study, but the garden's full of fun things."
He winked and slipped out.
Harry stared at the closed door for a moment before sighing and getting up.
A beautifully made set of dark-green robes lay folded neatly on the chair—perfectly sized.
Narcissa's work, obviously.
After washing up and smoothing his hair (with minimal success), he headed downstairs. The long breakfast table held only Draco, poking a syrup-drenched pancake with bored elegance.
"Father went to the Ministry early. Mother's in the greenhouse," Draco said, perking up when Harry arrived. "Come on, I saved the best pieces for you."
Breakfast was infinitely easier than dinner.
Without Lucius's scrutinizing gaze, Draco was fully relaxed—chatting animatedly about childhood escapades in the garden maze, failed attempts to trim the white peacocks, and which barrel in the cellar supposedly held the oldest, most priceless vintage ("We could sneak a sip sometime?" he suggested with a conspiratorial wiggle of his eyebrows).
Harry listened, occasionally muttering a "Then what?" or "Serves you right," syrup clinging to the corner of his mouth.
"Slow down," Draco tossed him a napkin, sounding disgusted, but his eyes were warm. "No one's stealing your food. Did Hogwarts starve you?"
"Not all of us grow up pampered, Malfoy," Harry shot back, but wiped his mouth anyway.
After breakfast, Draco dragged him into the garden.
Sunlight poured down; the lawn glowed green. Several white peacocks strutted proudly—actually approaching Draco when they spotted him.
"Tch—out of the way," Draco waved dismissively. "Vindictive creatures."
He glanced at Harry. "Don't touch their tail feathers. They're petty."
They followed a pebble path deeper into the garden, passing fountains and statues.
Draco pointed things out like a proper guide. "That ugly bald statue's some great-great-something. Mum says don't come here at night—creepy. That greenhouse over there—Mum guards it like treasure, grows tons of rare ingredients. Godfather sneaks some sometimes…"
Harry trailed beside him, half listening, the warmth of the sun easing into his bones.
He hadn't had a morning like this—a morning with nothing to do— in a very long time.
In his last life, it had been battle or flight. After rebirth, calculation and vigilance. But here in this cold but magnificent manor, with this endlessly talkative boy beside him, he felt… a strange sliver of peace.
"What're you thinking?" Draco nudged him with an elbow.
"Nothing." Harry refocused. "Just… your garden is huge."
Draco snorted. "Costs a mountain of Galleons every year to keep it neat. All for show. Hogwarts grounds are better at least you can play Quidditch there." He paused. "Speaking of—sure you don't want to try? There's a brand-new Nimbus series in the broom shed."
Harry shook his head. "No interest."
Brooms meant freedom once, but also too much of the past.
"Suit yourself," Draco said lightly, shrugging. "Your loss."
Then he suddenly stopped and pointed ahead. "Look over there."
A small quartz courtyard lay half hidden behind tall rose bushes. Several sundials stood scattered among the stones, and at the center was a dry marble fountain filled with crisp yellow leaves.
"Place looks abandoned," Draco said, tugging Harry in. "I used to hide here a lot. No one could find me."
He hopped onto the fountain's edge and patted the spot beside him.
Harry sat. The sun-warmed stone was pleasantly hot.
For a while, neither of them spoke. Rose bushes rustled in the breeze. Sunlight filtered through tangled branches, scattering flecks of gold on their shoulders.
Draco suddenly sighed. His voice dropped. "Sometimes it all feels… strange."
"What?" Harry turned toward him.
"Just… this." Draco swung his legs idly, gaze fixed on the perfectly manicured hedges. "Getting a second chance. Everything feels different, but also exactly the same."
There was a thin layer of weariness in his tone.
Harry stayed silent.
He understood. Vengeance burned in him, kept him alive—but beneath it, sometimes, was bone-deep exhaustion.
"But…" Draco turned to him. In the sunlight, his gray eyes were startlingly clear, the weariness replaced by something gentler. "It's different now."
Harry held his gaze. Something in his chest stumbled.
Draco didn't look away. His voice softened, like he was afraid of disturbing the roses. "At least now, I've got someone to go through it with."
He smiled—an unguarded, simple smile, free of arrogance or mischief. "Even if that someone's hair is a bird's nest, eats like a disaster, and attracts trouble like a magnet."
Harry's ears warmed.
He tried to retort, but no witty words came. Finally he managed a feeble:
"…You're the one with a bird's nest."
Draco burst out laughing, shoulders shaking, nearly tipping backward off the fountain. He caught himself just in time.
"Careful, idiot." Harry instinctively grabbed his arm.
Draco steadied—and stilled. His laughter faded, but the curve at his mouth stayed. He looked down at Harry's hand on his arm, then up again—gray eyes bright.
Harry pulled back as if burned, staring at a dead leaf in the fountain instead.
The air thickened. The sun felt hotter. Roses scented the breeze.
"Harry," Draco said softly.
"…Yeah?" Harry still didn't turn.
"Nothing." Draco paused, then added, "Just calling."
Harry pressed his lips together, fingers picking at the rough stone under him.
He could still feel Draco's gaze lingering on the side of his face.
After a while, Draco spoke again—voice back to normal, though gentler than usual. "Hey… if someday—after everything's over—what do you want to do?"
Harry went quiet.
The question was too far away—so far he'd never thought about it. His life was shackled to revenge and purpose. He couldn't see beyond them.
"I don't know," he admitted.
"I want a boat," Draco said anyway, tone drifting with something like longing. "Not a huge one—just enough to live on. Sail around. Go wherever I want. No one telling me what to do."
He nudged a pebble with his shoe. "And… well… hopefully with someone who gets seasick."
Harry finally turned to look.
Draco was looking back.
Sunlight caught on his pale lashes, gilding them gold. In his always-calculating gray eyes was a clear reflection of Harry—and something else. Something Harry didn't dare name.
Wind rustled through the roses again.
Harry opened his mouth. He should say something—"Why would I go get seasick with you," or "Write your Potions essay first."
But the words dissolved into a barely audible:
"…Oh."
The light in Draco's eyes brightened for a second.
He turned away quickly, pretending to study the markings on a sundial, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him completely.
"Then it's settled," he declared, hopping off the fountain edge. His voice regained its usual jaunty arrogance. "Come on, I'll show you those brainless white peacocks. One of them can't tell left from right and keeps walking into trees."
He held out a hand.
Harry looked at it—long fingers, neatly kept nails—and then at Draco's face, trying (and failing) to hide the grin.
Slowly, he reached out.
Draco grabbed his hand and pulled him up, a little too forcefully—Harry stumbled, nearly bumping into him.
They stood very close. Draco didn't immediately let go.
"Clumsy," Draco muttered, squeezing Harry's hand once before releasing it and strolling ahead. "Hurry up!"
Harry watched his retreating back, then lifted the hand Draco had held. His fingers curled slightly—the warmth lingered.
He breathed in deeply—the mix of grass, roses, and sunlight filling his lungs.
Then he stepped forward, following the swaggering blond boy whose ears were… unmistakably a bit pink.
(And you tell me—does he know, or does he really not?)