My Promises To Captain Malfoy || DRARRY

Chapter 16

Just yesterday, the Weasleys had come to visit, filling the Potter mansion with warm laughter and lively chatter. After dinner, as the evening wound down, Harry had slipped out to the hall for some fresh air. But as he passed by the parlor, he heard the soft murmur of voices, his mother, Mrs. Weasley, and Mr. Weasley, talking quietly.

"Ginny has always adored Harry."

Mrs. Weasley said in a hopeful tone, her voice soft yet full of a mother’s wish.

Mrs. Potter responded warmly.

"And I think they’d be wonderful together one day, don’t you? Such a bright future for them both."

Harry’s heart skipped as he listened, frozen in place just beyond the doorway. The adults spoke as if his and Ginny’s lives were already set, as if there was something inevitable about their paths aligning.

"She’s sweet on him, Molly." Mrs. Potter added with a gentle laugh.

"and I think Harry would make her very happy."

Mr. Weasley chuckled, sounding content,

"It’s hard not to imagine it,our families united, with those two together."

Harry felt his stomach tighten as he turned away, slipping quietly up the stairs. He knew Ginny was kind, genuine, and full of life, and he cared for her, certainly, as a friend. But deep down, he felt only a brotherly affection toward her, and the idea of romance felt strange, almost forced.

Later that night, as he lay awake, he couldn’t shake the conversation from his mind. The words pressed down on him, heavy with expectation. His thoughts drifted instead to someone else, to a different face, one that haunted him in quiet, unspoken moments. The feeling he harbored wasn’t meant for Ginny but for someone like Draco (He doesn't sure that yet.), buried deep in his heart. It was a secret he barely understood himself, a quiet truth that stirred within him, even as everyone around him seemed so sure of what his future should be.

Harry comes out of his thoughts with a long, quiet sigh, the memory lingering like a heavy weight on his chest. He shifts in his bed, feeling the warmth of his blankets, but his mind refuses to settle. He glances at the clock on his bedside table, it reads 3:45 A.M. The mansion is silent, the kind of deep, undisturbed quiet that only fills a house late at night. He feels almost entirely alone in the vastness of it.

Through the window, Harry notices a faint glow coming from the servants' place. The lights are just flickering on, perhaps a few of the staff beginning their early morning routines. The sight of the lights brings him a strange comfort, a reminder of life still stirring in the quiet hours, even as the rest of the world sleeps.

He sinks deeper into his blankets, but his mind drifts back to the conversation he overheard. His heart feels conflicted and restless, the weight of his family’s expectations pressing down on him. As he stares at the soft glow of the lights outside, he feels the pull of emotions he can’t share with anyone, a secret he keeps even from himself sometimes. The silence of the mansion wraps around him, but in his heart, he knows he is far from at peace.

Harry’s gaze drifts to the newspaper on his bedside table, its bold headlines detailing the latest about the Irish revolution. He’d read it carefully last night, each word fueling a quiet worry that he now carries into the early hours. The reports spoke of escalating violence, of British soldiers clashing with Irish rebels in Dublin’s streets. The articles painted a picture of turmoil, and Harry couldn’t shake the thought of Draco Malfoy, the captain leading those very soldiers.

Though he tried to focus on the general news, his mind kept returning to Draco, wondering where he was in all of this chaos. Was he safe? Was he somewhere on those streets, caught up in the heart of the conflict? The worry gnawed at Harry, a feeling that was both new and unnerving. It wasn’t just concern for a fellow officer, it was something deeper, something he could hardly admit to himself.

Harry looks out his window at the faint lights in the distance, feeling the weight of both his private feelings and the conflict tearing across Ireland. A part of him wants to dismiss the worry, to tell himself that Draco, ever the proud and competent captain, would handle things. But the words from the paper echo in his mind, and despite himself, he can’t ignore the quiet, persistent ache in his chest.

Harry feels a strange warmth whenever he thinks of Draco, an emotion that both confuses and captivates him. They had only spent a few days in each other’s company, moments stolen between their duties, yet Draco's presence had left a mark on him that he couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t something he fully understood; he didn’t even know if he could call it love. But the memory of Draco’s voice, his piercing gaze, and the quiet strength he carried stayed with him, even in these quiet, sleepless hours.

Draco had looked at him with an intensity that had caught Harry off guard, words slipping past his guarded walls, soft and surprisin.

"I love you."

The confession had echoed in his mind ever since, leaving him with a feeling he couldn’t quite define. There was something about Draco's declaration, vulnerable, almost tender, that stirred emotions Harry had never known before. It had made him feel seen, as if Draco understood a part of him he hadn’t dared show anyone else.

Harry isn’t certain if he loves Draco in return, not yet. But when he thinks of Draco, he feels an undeniable pull, a quiet thrill that makes him want to understand this connection more deeply. It’s as if his heart is waking up to something new, something that feels both daunting and beautiful. And though he doesn’t have all the answers, he can’t help but hold onto the hope that maybe, in time, he’ll understand what these feelings truly mean.

Harry’s eyes drift over to the small basket of dry asters on the table beside his bed, a gift from Draco. The delicate flowers, faded and fragile, hold a quiet beauty even in their stillness. They’re simple yet thoughtful, carrying a piece of Draco’s presence into Harry’s room.

He reaches out and gently touches one of the brittle petals, feeling a faint rush of warmth at the memory of Draco handing them to him, the faintest hint of a smile on his usually composed face. The gesture had surprised Harry; it was rare to see this softer side of Draco, and even rarer for Draco to share it so openly.

The asters hold a significance he can’t fully explain, a silent reminder of something unspoken between them. They’re a small token, yet every time he looks at them, he feels a quiet thrill, a glimmer of the feelings stirring within him since Draco’s unexpected confession. It’s as if, in these faded flowers, Draco had left a piece of himself for Harry to hold onto.

🍂🍂