Draco had known his fate could have been different if not for the lawsuit decided in his favour. But neither documents nor pardons had erased the regrets that had haunted him: choosing the wrong side, a failed marriage, and losing you—even while you'd been pregnant. Those mistakes stayed, untouched by time or forgiveness.

Since then, Draco has grown accustomed to living in routine.

The pops of Apparition and the crackle of Floo Network flames signal another busy morning for the Aurors. In moments like these, he prefers to keep to the sidelines, delaying the inevitable. The last thing he wants is to listen to Harry's briefing on a rainy morning like this—least of all after the bitter divorce.

He raises his face to the rain, letting the icy drops trace lines across his skin. His cashmere coat and fine three-piece suit are already sodden, and his platinum hair sticks to his forehead in damp strands. The sharp clicking of heels on the wet pavement interrupts his reverie, joined by the hurried murmuring of curses and the soft rustling of fallen scrolls. Draco's fingers tighten around his cane, and he lowers his gaze.

The Auror catches himself more than once arriving at the Ministry early, just to see you by chance.

“Good morning, Miss.”

Miss? The word rings hollow, absurdly formal for someone who once held you close, stealing fiery kisses. You hate him—he knows that; it is there in your distant stare, in the wry curve of your smile. It angers him, especially when he never walked away—not from you, nor from your daughter.

“How's Dracina?” The man kneels to pick up the scattered scrolls. His eyes flick to your face, tracing your familiar features—still so strikingly beautiful. As he places the papers in your hands, his fingers briefly graze your wrist, the touch fleeting but unbearably personal.

You stay silent. Wilfully silent, as if you want to unsettle him.

“Enough of this.” His gaze turns serious, his tone edged with steel. “She'll be off to school in two years. I want to be part of her life. And yours.”