My Promises To Captain Malfoy || DRARRY

Chapter 8

"Father, Mione said you were looking for me?"

"Ah, yes, Harry. Come in."

As Harry steps into his father's reading room, the familiar scent of aged books wafts toward him, a comforting aroma that always greets him here.

"Sit"

his father says, gesturing to the armchair opposite. Harry sinks into the plush seat, facing his father across the polished oak table.

"Yes, Father?"

His father's gaze is steady.

"As you know, our family donates goods to the military every year."

"Yes, I’m aware,"

Harry replies, his voice calm and attentive. He adjusts his round glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his straight nose. A strong breeze sweeps into the room through the open window behind his father, stirring the pages of nearby books and rustling the heavy drapes. Harry feels a bit cooler there. His deep yellow cardigan can't even stand it any longer.

"So, with winter approaching, we will be donating goods specifically for the season,"

His father says, his tone calm but resolute as the wind continues to whisper through the room.

"I have to travel to London for a business affair with other entrepreneurs,"

Mr James Potter continues, his gaze steady.

"So, I want you, my eldest son, to oversee this donation in my place."

"All you need to do is meet with Captain Malfoy, just as I always have, and hand him the detailed lists of the goods we're donating. I trust you son."

Mr James Potter instructs, his voice firm but trusting.

"Yes, Father. Don't worry about the donation,"

Harry replies with quiet determination.

"I'll handle it as well as I can."

"Thank you"

Harry rises from the armchair and heads toward the door to his left, his steps steady and purposeful.

He feels a flutter of nervousness stirring within him as he takes on his new duty. He’s watched his father handle this countless times, a steady presence, always in control. But he never imagined the weight would one day rest on his own shoulders.

"I can’t believe it"

Harry whispers to himself, pushing his round glasses up the bridge of his nose. His palms are damp, betraying his unease, despite the mild weather outside.

"Sir?"

The familiar voice drifts toward him from the grand doorway of Potter Mansion, drawing his attention back to the present moment. A young boy in a old robe, standing right in front of the doorway.

"Kid?"

Harry’s eyes widen in surprise at the sight before him. Of all the things he might have expected, this wasn’t one of them. Standing in the doorway is the boy he met just days ago, his expression calm and unchanged, as though this were the most natural thing in the world.

In his hands, he cradles a basket brimming with Asters, their delicate petals swaying gently with the motion. It’s the same gesture the boy made when they first met, as if no time has passed and nothing between them has shifted.