You are warming your legs as you curl up in the corner of the sofa with your book. It’s one of those rare, peaceful moments, free from misfiring spells and tiny footsteps racing down the hall.

Then the door opens, but you don't look up, expecting the usual: Draco shrugging off his coat and muttering about his day. But instead, there’s a strange pause. Silence... and then a soft, uneven breath.

“Our daughter made a paper frame…” he says.

You hum absently. “And?”

“With glitter.”

That makes you smile faintly. Of course it has glitter. Everything she touches ends up sparkling for days.

There’s another pause. When he finally speaks, his voice wavers in a way you’ve never heard before.

“She put a photo of us in it… and wrote…” He swallows. “‘My daddy is magic.’”

You look up fully now.

Draco is standing just inside the room, still wearing his dark coat and with his hair slightly dishevelled from the wind. In his hands is a crooked, glitter-covered frame with uneven edges and clearly overused glue. In the centre is a photograph of the three of you, smiling.

But you barely notice the frame.

Because Draco is crying.

His shoulders are trembling, his face flushed, tears slipping freely down his cheeks as if he doesn’t even care to hide them.

You set the book aside. “You are crying…”

He lets out a broken, almost incredulous laugh, clutching the frame tighter. “Of course I am!”

“She—she thinks I’m magic,” he continues, his voice thick with emotion. “Me.”

You stand up and cross the room slowly. “You are magic,” you say softly.

He shakes his head, a tearful scoff escaping him. “Not like that. Not the way she means it.”

Draco’s voice drops to a whisper. “I didn’t think… anyone would ever look at me like that.”

“Well,” you murmur, brushing a tear from his cheek with your thumb, “she’s right.”

He exhales shakily, leaning into your touch without thinking. “I don’t deserve it.”