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Chapter Text

Harry Potter had thought the war would end with silence.
Not peace—he’d never been naïve enough to hope for that—but at least quiet. A world without constant battle cries, without another betrayal breaking open old wounds. Instead, what he found was louder, crueler. His so-called family, the friends he’d bled beside, turned on him in ways Voldemort never could: with petty jealousy, grasping hands, and honeyed words sharpened to knives.
So he left.
He walked away from Britain, from wizarding society, from all the pieces of himself that had been claimed and twisted. He cut ties with everyone but the boy who was never really his by blood yet had always been his in truth. Teddie Lupin became his son, bound by blood and love, and Harry poured everything he had into building a world where the boy could grow untouched by war.
Seoul was far enough. Muggle enough. Safe enough.
Ten years passed in a house wrapped with wards and wildflowers, where Dobby and Kreacher fussed in equal measure, and where Harry let himself learn—slowly, awkwardly—what it meant to breathe again.
But safety was not the same as living. He rarely left their land, only venturing into the city when absolutely necessary. Crowds still made his chest lock, voices still felt like spells cast at him, and he carried himself the way a soldier always did: tense, guarded, never fully at ease.
It was Teddie, as always, who pulled him forward.
On his tenth birthday, eyes bright with mischief and hope, he asked, “Can we go to AEGIS’s concert, Dad?”
Harry had stammered, heart hammering at the thought of crowds and lights and strangers pressing in. But Teddie’s voice was pleading, describing the group like a lifeline: their story about survival and unity, their songs about scars and healing. Words Harry recognized because they were his own, only turned into music.
That night, Harry ordered two backstage passes. He told himself it was for Teddie. He almost believed it.

The concert was chaos.
Music thudded through Harry’s ribs like cannonfire, the roar of the crowd swallowing every thought. Lights stabbed across the stage until his eyes watered, and sweat broke out along his palms. His body remembered battlefields too easily; the stadium felt like both a warzone and an altar, and Harry’s heart threatened to shake itself apart.
But Teddie was incandescent beside him. His hair shimmered gold and silver under the lights, changing with every beat of joy, his laughter breaking through Harry’s panic like Patronus-light. Watching his son, Harry breathed, and stayed.
Later, backstage, the noise softened but didn’t vanish. Fans lined up, clutching albums and posters, cheeks flushed from screaming. Harry twisted his lanyard until the string bit deep, shoulders hunched, curls falling forward like a shield.
“Dad,” Teddie whispered, tugging his sleeve. “You’re killing that thing.”
Harry managed a thin smile. “Better this than fainting.”
Then their turn came.
Teddie bounded forward, bright as summer, chattering thanks that spilled over into giggles. The idols welcomed him easily, laughing, ruffling his hair, writing encouragements in bold script. Harry tried to anchor himself in the sight, but his chest still felt too tight, his hands too empty.
And then he stepped forward.
The curls slipped back, revealing his face, and the world shifted.
One man stilled. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a gaze like iron anchored in calm seas. His eyes locked on Harry, widened, and for a heartbeat the stage lights might as well have gone out.
Xiao.
Leader. Singer. Thirty-four, though he carried himself like a pillar carved centuries ago. His presence was grounding, commanding—but right now, it faltered.
“…It’s been said you were missing,” he murmured, so soft no one else could hear.
Harry froze. The words were a blade sliding under old scars. His breath caught, grip tightening on the glossy poster until it crumpled. He forced his voice into a whisper, unsteady: “People say a lot of things.”
Xiao studied him—really studied, like no one had in years—taking in the luminous green eyes, the delicate frame, the scars half-hidden by pale skin. His expression softened, but he didn’t push. Instead, he placed the signed album into Harry’s hands with a kind of reverence, his fingers brushing too long against Harry’s.
Harry flushed, ducking his head quickly, curls falling forward like armor. “I just came for my son,” he murmured, almost apologetic. “He… he loves your music.”
Xiao’s professional smile returned, but the intensity in his gaze didn’t waver. His hand shook faintly as he signed Harry’s poster, pressing it back as though reluctant to let go. “It’s an honor you came,” he said, the words weighted heavier than they should have been.
Harry tugged Teddie toward the exit, heart pounding, every instinct screaming hide, hide, hide. Teddie waved, bubbling about the concert, oblivious to the tension that clung between his father and the idol.
Behind them, Xiao watched, mask of composure back in place. His eyes were steady, knowing.
Harry Potter was alive. And not nearly as hidden as he believed.

Harry’s curls trembled as he guided his son away, the soft weight brushing his waist like a reminder of how exposed he’d been. Teddie was already talking about the songs he loved most, about how AEGIS felt like family, about how Xiao’s voice had made his chest ache in the best way.
Harry only half-heard. His chest was still tight, but not from panic alone. Something else lingered—something steadier, heavier—like the echo of Xiao’s gaze still pinned to him.
It unsettled him.
It made him feel seen.
And he wasn’t sure which terrified him more.

Chapter Text

The car ride back from the arena should have been quiet. It was late; the city lights bled into long ribbons across the windows, headlights washed the streets pale, and the driver Harry had hired from the local car service barely spoke. The world outside passed in silence.

But inside the car, Teddy was anything but still.

He was a blur of limbs and uncontainable delight, twisting in his seat to look at Harry every few seconds, waving the signed album like it was Excalibur itself. His hair, no longer turquoise, had shifted to a restless shimmer of deep bronze streaked with bright flecks of silver, shifting in the car’s dim light with each bounce of his body. “Dad, did you see him? Did you hear Xiao when he said those words? He looked right at me! I swear he looked at me!”

Harry’s lips curved faintly, his curls slipping forward to shadow his face. He turned his eyes to the passing streetlights, their glow catching in the glass. “I saw,” he murmured, his voice low and fond despite the tightness in his chest. “You nearly shouted yourself hoarse, Teddy.”

Teddy snorted and shook his head, grinning wide. “It was worth it. They were—Merlin, Dad, they were everything. Better than the videos, better than the albums. And Xiao—” he hugged the signed cover to his chest dramatically, sighing like he’d just seen heaven. “He has *the voice*. I could feel it in my bones.”

Harry let out something between a laugh and a sigh. He had felt it too, though not the way Teddy meant. Not just the resonance of music pulsing through the arena, but something deeper, more unsettling. Xiao’s voice had seemed to slip past his defenses, low and steady and warm. For a man like Harry, whose entire body braced even in rest, that voice had been dangerous in its gentleness.

Dangerous, too, had been the way Xiao’s gaze had locked onto him backstage. Harry could still feel it now, like an imprint on his skin. The memory made his hands clammy, his chest hollow.

“Dad.” Teddy nudged him, drawing him back from the spiraling thoughts. “Why are you so quiet? You didn’t hate it, did you? You can tell me if you did.”

Harry blinked, startled, and finally turned to look fully at his son. Teddy’s mischievous eyes—bright as always, curious, searching—studied him carefully. For all of his boyish excitement, Teddy had inherited Lupin steadiness, the quiet perceptiveness that reminded Harry far too much of his godfather’s calm smile.

“I didn’t hate it,” Harry said softly, reaching out to smooth Teddy’s shifting hair with one hand. “You looked… happy. That was enough.”

Teddy’s grin returned instantly, wide and unstoppable. “Good. Because I’m never going to forget tonight. Not ever.” He turned toward the window, pressing his nose to the glass as the car curved through the city streets. “I can’t wait to tell Kreacher and Dobby. Do you think Kreacher will understand K-pop?”

The thought startled another quiet laugh from Harry, though it was frayed at the edges. “He’ll understand because it matters to you.”

By the time they reached home, Teddy’s excitement had mellowed into a tired hum. He stumbled through the doorway still clutching the signed album and poster, yawning wide but refusing to let go. Dobby popped into the hallway immediately, eyes wide with joy at their return.

“Harry Potter sir! Young master! You is back safely!” Dobby squeaked, already bouncing from one foot to the other.

“We’re back,” Harry said gently, easing Teddy out of his shoes while his son continued to babble about lights and music and Xiao’s smile. Kreacher appeared too, muttering darkly about the dangers of “muggle mobs” and “foolish noise,” but even he softened when Teddy shoved the signed album under his nose and declared proudly, “Look what we got!”

Harry watched them, his heart softening. This was the life he had chosen: quiet, tucked away, nothing to do with war or politics. Just Teddy, his elves, and a little house that finally felt like home. Yet tonight had disturbed that carefully built peace. Xiao’s voice, Xiao’s eyes—it all echoed too loud in his mind.

Later, after baths and warm milk, Teddy finally let himself collapse into bed. He clutched the signed poster to his chest, curling protectively around it as though it were the most precious thing he’d ever held. His breathing evened out quickly, hair darkening to its natural soft black in sleep.

Harry lingered by the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. His heart softened at the sight, at the easy joy etched into Teddy’s dreaming face. Protectiveness swelled in him so fiercely it almost hurt. For Teddy, he had left everything behind. For Teddy, he had built a life where laughter came easily and scars were softened by warmth.

He would do anything to keep that safe.

And yet…

Harry’s gaze dropped to his own hands. They were trembling. He curled them into fists, but the tremor didn’t stop. Slowly, he crossed to his own room, carrying the weight of the signed poster and album Teddy had entrusted him to keep safe overnight.

He lit a candle, the flame soft and steady in the dimness. The house elves had long retreated, leaving the rooms in silence. Harry sat at his desk, the familiar clutter of quills and parchment pushed aside, and laid the signed album down before him.

There it was. Xiao’s bold signature, ink dark and deliberate, cutting across glossy paper. Harry traced it with a fingertip, almost reverent, though the contact sent another shiver down his spine.

It was only a name. Only ink.

But to Harry it felt like a weight pressed into his palm, heavier than a wand, heavier than prophecy.

Because when Xiao had looked at him—really looked, not just glanced the way strangers do—it had been like recognition. Not the shallow kind of celebrity awe, not even curiosity. Recognition. As though Xiao had stripped through Harry’s shields and seen something truer than the war hero mask, truer than the recluse father.

Harry shuddered. His curls fell forward as he pressed both hands to the desk, head bowed.

He had built a life of invisibility, of carefully guarded anonymity. No more wars, no more battles, no more people pulling at him like he was a symbol instead of a man. And yet tonight, one man’s gaze had pierced all of that, leaving him trembling before nothing more than ink on paper.

His chest felt hollow. His breathing came shallow. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing steady inhales, steady exhales, the way he always did when panic crept close.

It should mean nothing. Xiao was a singer. A stranger. A man on a stage, beloved by millions, who had glanced at Harry once and seen—what?

What had he seen?

The candlelight flickered, casting long shadows over the room. Harry opened his eyes again, staring at the neat loops of the signature. His hands were still trembling, the tips of his fingers raw from where he had twisted the lanyard earlier.

His mind replayed the moment in relentless loops: Xiao’s voice pitched low, his words careful—*It’s been said you were missing.* The weight of those words. The way they carried knowledge, not curiosity.

Harry’s heart pounded. Missing. Not dead. Not forgotten. Missing.

That was too close. Too dangerous.

And yet a part of him, buried under years of defense and scars, whispered something else. A dangerous thought. A fragile hope.

Seen.

Harry dragged in a sharp breath, pushing back from the desk, pacing the length of the room with hands knotted in his hair. No. He couldn’t think like that. Xiao was a stranger. He couldn’t—he mustn’t—let himself believe in something so reckless.

But even as he tried to bury it, the memory lingered. Xiao’s steady presence, his commanding calm, the strange safety Harry had felt for just an instant beneath that gaze.

The candle flickered again. Harry sat heavily on the edge of his bed, fingers digging into the album’s cover, knuckles white. His body was tense, his shoulders hunched, but his expression… it betrayed him.

His viridian eyes shimmered, vulnerable, unguarded.

He was shaking, but not from fear alone.

He didn’t know what to do with this weight pressing into him, this recognition from a stranger’s gaze. He only knew he couldn’t forget it.

Chapter Text

The hotel suite was quiet in the way only expensive rooms could be: too clean, too sterilized, too carefully arranged by unseen hands. Outside, Seoul buzzed with its endless hum of neon and midnight traffic, but inside, everything was muffled behind thick glass and blackout curtains.

Xiao sat on the edge of the bed, towel slung over his shoulders, hair still damp from the quick shower he’d taken after the concert. He should have been exhausted. He *was* exhausted — his muscles thrummed with the ache of two hours spent commanding a stage, his voice scraped faint from endless choruses, his ears still rang with the crowd’s roar.

Normally, exhaustion meant release. The afterglow of performance always carried him, warm and steady, until sleep claimed him without struggle. But tonight, his body was restless, his mind sharper than it should have been.

Because he couldn’t stop seeing *him.*

The fan. The man. The one who had stepped forward at the meet-and-greet with a kind of hesitant grace, curls falling forward like silk curtains, eyes too piercing to belong in any ordinary face.

Green. Not jade, not hazel, not the shifting moss of so many shades he’d seen before — but viridian, luminous, almost glowing under the harsh backstage lights.

Harry Potter.

The name he’d written, neat and careful, across glossy paper still burned behind his eyes.

*It’s been said you were missing.* He hadn’t meant to say it aloud. The words had slipped out, pulled from somewhere deeper, older, as though his tongue had betrayed him with the truth. And Harry — yes, he was certain now, the name *fit* — had flinched at them, shoulders curling inward, lips trembling like he carried the weight of every war in silence.

Xiao exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. He should let it go. He had no right to carry a stranger’s fragility into the quiet of his own mind. But he couldn’t.

Not when the moment had felt like recognition.

He rose, pacing the length of the hotel room in steady strides, muscles twitching with too much energy. The others were scattered between their own rooms, staff tucked away in the suite down the hall, but he felt every ounce of solitude pressing down on him.

A knock sounded lightly against the connecting door, two sharp raps. “Hyung?”

Xiao pinched the bridge of his nose, straightening. “Come in.”

The door opened, and Minho slipped inside with the ease of someone who didn’t bother with formality. His hair was damp too, his clothes loose from the shower, but his eyes were alert, glinting with the particular kind of mischief only Minho carried like a second heartbeat.

“You’re pacing,” Minho said, flopping onto the armchair with zero grace. “That’s not normal for you. Normally you finish a concert and sleep like the dead.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Uh-huh.” Minho smirked, resting his chin on his hand. “So what’s her name?”

Xiao shot him a flat look. “Not her.”

“Oh?” Minho leaned forward, teeth flashing in a grin. “So *him*?”

Xiao didn’t dignify it with an answer, but the silence stretched too long, and Minho’s grin widened into triumph. “Hyung,” he drawled, laughter in his voice, “don’t tell me the unshakable Xiao finally got struck by Cupid’s arrow in a fan line.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Right. Because it’s totally normal to look like you saw a ghost when some random pretty boy smiles at you.”

Xiao’s jaw tightened. He turned away, staring at the blackout curtains as though they held the words he couldn’t form. Minho quieted, his teasing softening into something more thoughtful.

“You’re serious,” he said after a beat.

Xiao finally looked back, his expression unreadable but his voice sharper, lower. “He wasn’t just… beautiful. He was… *familiar.*”

Minho’s brows rose. “Familiar?”

“Yes.” Xiao folded his arms, grounding himself in the motion. “Like recognition. Like I knew him, but from somewhere I can’t name. And he looked at me like he hated being seen.”

Silence settled for a moment, heavy. Minho’s mischief didn’t vanish entirely, but it dulled into curiosity. “You get millions of faces in front of you, hyung. Every fan thinks they’re unforgettable. Maybe you’re just tired.”

Xiao shook his head. “No. This was different.”

Different — the word itself was too weak, but he had nothing else. He remembered the tremor in Harry’s voice, the way his curls slipped forward like armor, the trembling hands that had clutched the pass as though it might anchor him to reality. And beneath it all, something steadier, older, like the echo of power carefully hidden.

Xiao wasn’t just a singer. He never had been. The world saw AEGIS’s leader, their grounding presence, but beneath the spotlight he carried another truth: he was wizard-born. His magic had lived quiet inside him for years, folded carefully into music, into words, into the comforting aura he lent the group.

And tonight, in that split second of meeting those luminous green eyes, his magic had stirred.

He hadn’t told Minho that part. He didn’t know how.

Instead, he forced his voice even. “Don’t mention it to the others.”

Minho tilted his head. “So you’re really going to brood over some stranger?”

“Not a stranger.”

The conviction in his tone startled even himself. Minho blinked, then leaned back, hands raised in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Not a stranger.”

But when Minho left, Xiao didn’t feel lighter. He felt heavier, as though the admission had set something in motion that couldn’t be stopped.

---

By the time the suite went still, long after midnight, Xiao was no closer to rest. He sat cross-legged on the floor now, towel abandoned, hair drying into soft dark strands around his face. A candle flickered on the nightstand — mundane enough to the eyes of staff, but steady enough to serve as focus.

He closed his eyes and let his breathing even.

Magic stirred. Not the wild, dangerous kind he’d read about in his grandmother’s stories, but the steady current he had nurtured in secret for years. He shaped it carefully, as he always did — not to sing, not to perform, but to *search.*

He thought of those green eyes, of the trembling hands, of the signature pressed into glossy paper. He thought of the weight of recognition that had clung to the moment.

And he reached.

It was meant to be a simple pulse. A ripple of presence stretched across the city, quiet and harmless, the kind of brush that would slide over ordinary wards without notice. He had used it before, to check on his own protections, to test the strength of other hidden places.

But tonight, the pulse didn’t travel far. It struck a wall almost immediately, hard enough that his breath caught.

Xiao’s eyes snapped open.

There was something in the city. No — not just something. Someone.

He pushed again, careful, threading his magic like water through cracks. But the wards around that place were deep. Old. Not raw and jagged, like the rushed protections of amateurs, but layered and deliberate, woven with care. They shimmered against his touch, unyielding, warning him back with the weight of authority.

Whoever had built them was no ordinary wizard.

Xiao’s heart pounded, his palms pressed flat to the floor as though he could steady himself through wood and stone. He hadn’t expected resistance, not here, not in Seoul where magic lived quiet and subdued. But this…

This was a fortress.

And behind it—

Green eyes.

Harry Potter.

The name settled in him with the weight of certainty. He hadn’t spoken it aloud since signing the poster, but now it reverberated through him like a spell cast into bone.

The wards didn’t just protect. They *hid.*

Which meant Harry Potter wasn’t just a beautiful stranger in a fan line. He wasn’t even just a man who had caught Xiao’s attention in ways that unsettled him.

He was someone who had chosen disappearance. Someone who had wrapped his life in secrecy strong enough to rebuff even Xiao’s careful touch.

Someone powerful.

Xiao withdrew the pulse slowly, carefully, until the wards stilled again. He sat in silence, breath shallow, sweat dampening his hairline despite the cool room.

The candle flame flickered.

Harry Potter.

Not ordinary. Not safe. And not someone Xiao could forget.

Chapter Text

The wards shivered.

It was faint, like the brush of fingers against glass, a tremor subtle enough that most would have missed it entirely. But Harry felt it. He always felt it. The wards were his skin, his ribs, his lungs — they hummed through his bones with every beat of his heart. A touch against them was a touch against him, and this one left his breath ragged.

Harry froze where he sat at his desk, quill slipping from his fingers. The candlelight trembled, shadows stretching long across the walls. His curls slid forward into his face, shielding his eyes even though no one else was there to see. He gripped the edge of the desk until his knuckles whitened.

No. No, no, no.

He had built these wards himself. He had poured everything into them — blood, time, grief, every scrap of power he’d hoarded since the war. Dobby and Kreacher had helped him stitch them tighter, layer over layer until the magic hummed like an unbreachable fortress. He’d told himself they were unshakable. Unseen. Untouchable.

But tonight, someone had touched them.

The brush hadn’t broken through. It hadn’t even cracked the outer layers. But it had been deliberate. Searching. *Reaching.*

Harry’s pulse stuttered, panic coiling hot and sharp in his chest. He rose so quickly his chair scraped against the floor, hands already moving through the practiced motions of reinforcement. His magic surged in response, threads of silvery-green spilling from his fingertips to weave tighter around the house, the land, the very air.

He whispered the incantations like prayers, each word pressed into the wards with desperate precision. Sweat slicked his temples, curls sticking to his pale skin. His hands shook, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Not when safety was already fraying at the edges.

*Not again. Never again.*

By the time he finished, his whole body ached. His palms throbbed, raw from channeling so much energy, and his chest heaved with shallow breaths. The wards hummed stronger now, doubled and tripled in thickness, but the tremor in Harry’s hands didn’t ease.

“Dad?”

The voice was soft. Sleep-heavy, but laced with worry.

Harry turned, startled, to see Teddy standing in the doorway. His son’s hair was dark and mussed from the pillow, his eyes wide and shining in the candlelight. He padded barefoot across the floor and pressed against Harry’s side before Harry could protest, small hands curling into the fabric of his sweater.

Harry stiffened, then sagged, pulling Teddy close. His son’s warmth was grounding, steady in a way his wards never could be.

Teddy tilted his head up, pressing his cheek against Harry’s chest. “We’re safe, Dad,” he whispered, voice muffled. “You always keep us safe.”

Harry swallowed hard. His arms tightened around the boy, almost crushing, as though he could shield him from every danger in the world with sheer will. His curls fell forward, brushing Teddy’s hair, hiding the burn of tears in his viridian eyes.

*Safe.*

He wanted to believe it. But his mind betrayed him, spiraling back into memories that had never left.

Ron’s voice, sharp with envy. Hermione’s sigh, weary and cold. Ginny’s touch, not of love but of expectation, possessive and greedy. The Weasleys’ gazes, heavy with judgment, with hunger for the fortune and fame he had never wanted.

Every betrayal had seared him open, had left him raw and bleeding. And before that — the Dursleys, their punishments sharp as broken glass. The war, where every ally might turn, every death was laid at his feet.

He had failed so many. Sirius, Remus, Tonks. Fred. Colin. Countless others. Names that never left him, faces that haunted his sleep.

The weight of it pressed down, heavy enough to crush. He bowed his head over Teddy, lips trembling as he breathed into his son’s hair.

“I won’t fail you,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Never. Never again.”

Teddy’s small arms squeezed tighter, as though he understood more than his years allowed.

---

Across the city, Xiao sat awake.

The hotel was dark around him, the other members of AEGIS long since fallen into exhausted sleep. Staff had retreated to their own rooms, schedules printed and taped neatly to the fridge for tomorrow’s interviews. The silence was thick. But Xiao’s mind refused to rest.

The wards had been stronger than anything he’d ever felt. He could still sense the echo of them in his veins, the sharp hum of magic that had bitten his pulse back. Whoever lived behind them wasn’t ordinary. Whoever *wove* them had power most modern wizards couldn’t dream of.

And Xiao already knew the truth, even if he hadn’t said it aloud.

Harry Potter.

The name tasted strange on his tongue, both familiar and foreign. He’d known it once, years ago, when he was younger and still devoured every wizarding text he could get his hands on. His grandmother’s library had been thick with old journals and smuggled histories from abroad, half-burned tomes whispered about in their enclave.

*The Boy Who Lived.*
*The Chosen One.*
*The Vanisher.*

He’d been the legend every child knew, even across oceans. The boy who had survived what no one else could, who had walked into death’s arms and returned. The boy who ended a war that had consumed Britain.

And then… nothing.

The records stopped. Newspapers speculated for months, even years, but there were no sightings, no interviews, no public appearances. Only whispers, conflicting rumors: Harry Potter had died in secret. Harry Potter had gone mad. Harry Potter had fled across the seas to escape the weight of his fame.

But no proof. No grave. No body.

And tonight, Xiao had looked into luminous green eyes and known.

He crossed to his bag, pulling out the leatherbound notebook he carried everywhere. Its cover was worn, pages stuffed with notes from years of reading, research, and quiet study in places no idol was expected to go. He spread it open across the desk, candlelight spilling over neat handwriting, and began to sift through memory.

Old clippings. Citations. A name scribbled in the margins: *Potter.*

The more he read, the sharper his conviction grew. The texts painted a picture half-formed, but even that was enough.

The boy who had lived had vanished.

And Xiao had found him.

He leaned back in the chair, black eyes narrowing as he stared into the flame. The memory of Harry’s curls, his trembling hands, the way he had ducked his head like a man burdened with too many scars, replayed in endless loops.

This wasn’t coincidence.

This was fate.

---

Back in his warded home, Harry sat long into the night, Teddy finally asleep again in the next room. His hands still ached, faint tremors running through his fingers, but his eyes stayed fixed on the flickering candle.

Somebody had reached for him.

Somebody had *found* him.

And for the first time in ten years, Harry Potter didn’t feel invisible.

But he wasn’t sure if that was safety… or the beginning of something far more dangerous.

Chapter Text

The morning broke soft and pale, thin threads of light filtering through the gauzy curtains Harry insisted on keeping drawn. Seoul’s late summer humidity pressed faintly against the glass, but inside their little cottage, everything smelled of candlewax, parchment, and the faint sweetness of the lavender Teddy had tucked into jars on every sill.

Harry stirred awake in the same way he always did: slowly, cautiously, as though even in sleep his body never truly trusted rest. His hand went automatically to Teddy’s bed, fingertips brushing over rumpled sheets and finding them already empty. His son woke early most days, his energy irrepressible, spilling into every corner of the house before Harry had even gathered his bearings.

For once, Harry let himself linger in the quiet. His bones ached from reinforcing the wards the night before, his palms still tender, magic stretched taut in his veins. He rubbed at his eyes, his curls falling into disarray, and dragged himself upright.

That was when the flutter came.

A faint *whirr* of paper brushing against air, soft but deliberate. Harry’s head snapped toward the window, every nerve alight. Instinct had him reaching for his wand before he was fully aware of moving. The sound grew closer — the faint rustle of parchment folding against itself, wings beating in a rhythm not quite natural.

Then, through the crack in the curtains, it appeared.

Not an owl.

A paper bird.

The thing darted and wheeled gracefully, white parchment gleaming in the morning light, every fold sharp as if pressed by exacting fingers. Magic shimmered faintly along its creases, runes inked in strokes so fine only someone with years of study would catch them.

It tapped delicately at the window.

Harry’s stomach clenched. His grip on the wand tightened until the wood dug into his palm.

“Dad!” Teddy’s voice carried from the kitchen. “Come quick! You have to see this!”

Too late.

The bird had already slipped through the tiny gap in the wards designed to allow only harmless things inside — insects, breezes, the faint shimmer of summer rain. Harry cursed under his breath, realizing too late that the wards hadn’t recognized it as a threat. *Because it wasn’t,* not exactly. Its magic was deliberate, steady, careful enough to mimic gentleness.

It swooped into the room with elegance that felt almost mocking and landed neatly on his desk. Its folded head tilted, as if watching him.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Teddy whispered from the doorway, eyes wide with wonder. His hair shimmered silver in the morning light, unconsciously reflecting his awe. “It’s like—like origami, but alive.”

Harry forced his breath out, steady but shallow. His stomach was a knot, dread clawing up his throat. He didn’t need to open it to know who had sent it. The wards had brushed against Xiao’s signature the night before. He had *felt* it, that deliberate touch, as intimate as fingers trailing over skin.

And now here was proof.

“Teddy,” Harry said carefully, his voice low, tense. “Stay back.”

His son frowned but didn’t move. “It’s just a letter, Dad. Look at it.”

Harry’s gaze flicked to the bird again. It sat motionless on the desk, waiting, its wings twitching faintly. He imagined it exploding, imagined curses spilling from its folds, imagined everything that could go wrong if he touched it. His muscles locked with the urge to destroy it before it could reveal them.

Teddy took a hesitant step forward. “He seemed… good. Last night. He didn’t feel scary. Not like—” The boy’s voice caught, his gaze flicking briefly toward the floor where memories neither of them wanted to name lingered. “Maybe it’s safe?”

Harry’s chest ached. Teddy was only ten, but his empathy cut deep, truer than most adults’. He saw light where Harry only saw shadow.

Slowly, wand raised, Harry extended his free hand. The bird fluttered, then unfolded itself with delicate grace, parchment smoothing out flat upon the desk. The ink glowed faintly before settling into neat, measured lines of handwriting.

Harry read.

---

**To Harry Potter,**

I hope this letter reaches you without offense. I mean no intrusion, only respect.

If I’ve overstepped, you may burn this without reply, and I will not reach out again. But if there is even a small chance you might grant me your trust, I would ask to meet.

Neutral ground. No pressure. Only conversation.

You have lived long in shadow. It does not suit you.

Respectfully,
—X

---

Harry’s throat tightened. The words were simple, but every line carried weight. Not desperate, not cloying — steady. Too steady. He could hear Xiao’s voice in them, that calm resonance that had cut through even the roar of the concert crowd.

Teddy leaned in, eyes shining as he traced the letters with one finger. “See? He’s not demanding. He’s… asking. Like a friend would.”

“Friends don’t breach wards,” Harry muttered, bitterness scraping his throat raw. He wanted to crumple the parchment, strike it alight with a flick of his wand, watch the ashes scatter. He lifted his hand to do it.

But Teddy caught his sleeve.

The boy’s expression was quiet, almost solemn. “He seemed good,” he repeated softly. “When he looked at you. Like he… like he cared.”

Harry froze. The weight of Teddy’s gaze pressed harder than any spell.

He could lie. He could insist they ignore it, that no one beyond their walls deserved even a flicker of trust. He could burn the letter and bury the moment with the rest of the past.

But Teddy was watching, hope trembling in his eyes. And Harry couldn’t crush it. Not this. Not when Teddy had grown up watching his father flinch from the world, build cages out of safety.

The silence stretched until Harry’s shoulders slumped. He set the parchment back on the desk, curling his fingers around the edge to steady himself.

“One meeting,” he said finally, his voice rough. “Neutral ground. No more.”

Teddy’s smile bloomed wide and bright, relief spilling out of him like sunlight.

Harry dragged parchment toward himself, dipped quill in ink with hands that trembled despite his effort to steady them. The reply came haltingly, each word heavy as if it were being pulled from his veins.

---

**To X,**

Your letter reached me.

I do not make promises lightly. One meeting. Neutral ground. Nothing further.

If you accept these terms, send your reply by the same means.

—H.

---

Harry sealed the reply with a flick of his wand. The parchment folded itself into a plain bird, less elegant than Xiao’s but serviceable, and fluttered once before slipping out the window into the bright Seoul morning.

As it vanished, Harry pressed his face into his hands, curls spilling forward like a curtain. His stomach still knotted tight, fear twisting alongside something else he refused to name.

Teddy slipped his arms around him from the side, cheek pressing into Harry’s shoulder.

“You’ll see,” the boy whispered, soft as prayer. “It’ll be okay.”

Harry didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Because nothing in his life had ever been okay. And yet, against every instinct, he had just opened the door a crack — and let something in.

Chapter Text

The café was older than the streets that wound around it, older even than the city that had risen, fallen, and risen again in different skins. Hidden between narrow alleys lined with neon signs and steaming food stalls, it was easy to miss if one didn’t know what to look for. To Muggles, the place was a shuttered teahouse, windows cloudy, door warped with time. But to Harry—who had learned the secret whispers of Seoul’s small wizarding undercurrent—it was sanctuary.

He hadn’t come here often. Once, years ago, when Teddy had begged for hot chocolate after a day of errands, Harry had slipped them both through the warped door, grateful for the quiet hum of magic and the shelves of steaming kettles. Since then, he had kept it in mind for emergencies. A place off the beaten path. Neutral. Unthreatening.

And now he was here again, his chest tight with dread.

The air inside smelled of roasted barley and cinnamon. A string of charms floated above the tables, gently dimming or brightening with the shift of conversation, ensuring no voice ever carried too far. The clientele was sparse at this hour: an elderly witch nursing a clay cup, a pair of young students bent over notes, a tired man in Ministry robes who looked as though he’d long forgotten what sleep was.

Harry’s curls fell thick and heavy around his face as he ducked into a shadowed booth near the back. His shoulders hunched automatically, his body angled so he could keep the door in his sightline. He slid into the seat, every movement careful, precise, as if minimizing his presence might somehow make him invisible.

He couldn’t believe he’d agreed to this. His hands wouldn’t still, fingers tapping against the rough grain of the table before he forced them flat. Beside him on the bench lay his wand, hidden beneath the folds of his sleeve, always within reach.

*One meeting,* he reminded himself, heart pounding against his ribs. *Neutral ground. Nothing more.*

The paper bird had returned with a simple reply two nights ago:

---

**To H,**

Thank you. I will respect the terms.
Name the place, the hour. I will come alone.

—X

---

Harry had stared at those few lines for an hour, the ink sinking into his chest like stone. He had nearly called it off a dozen times. But Teddy’s shining hope had anchored him, that small, unshakable faith that Harry couldn’t bring himself to crush.

So he had chosen this café. Public but quiet. Magical but not Ministry-run. Secure enough that he could reinforce the wards if necessary. And then he had waited, every muscle taut with expectation of betrayal.

The door creaked open.

Harry’s fingers tightened reflexively on the wand hidden beneath his sleeve. He didn’t need to look up to know it was him. The presence that entered was too steady, too commanding, as if the air itself had been waiting for him.

Xiao stepped inside, his frame filling the doorway with ease. Six-foot-two of restrained strength, black hair falling across his brow, eyes dark as onyx. He wasn’t dressed as he had been on stage—no shimmering jacket, no careful styling—but in simple clothes that only emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the clean lines of his build. Still, his presence carried the same weight.

The charms above the tables shifted subtly, dimming around him as if to soften the edges of attention. Xiao inclined his head briefly toward the owner, murmured something respectful in Korean, and scanned the room. His gaze landed on Harry, and for a moment he stilled.

Harry’s breath snagged.

Those black eyes—calm, unwavering—swept over him as though taking in not just the man hunched behind curls, but the entire shape of his fear, his defenses, his exhaustion. There was no sharpness in them, no pity, no demand. Only recognition.

Xiao moved forward. His steps were measured, unhurried, the careful tread of someone who knew his size could intimidate. He stopped at the edge of the booth, his hand resting briefly against the table before he slid into the opposite seat.

“Thank you,” Xiao said quietly, his voice low, resonant. “For agreeing to this.”

Harry’s throat worked, but no sound came. He dropped his gaze, curls spilling forward like a shield. His shoulders curled inward, body angled half-away as though preparing for impact.

Xiao didn’t push. He folded his hands on the table, waiting.

The silence stretched, taut as wire. Harry hated it. Hated how his heart thudded like a drum in the quiet, how the memory of Xiao’s voice on stage—warm, steady, carrying those lines of defiance and hope—echoed in his chest.

Finally, Harry forced himself to speak. His voice came thin, almost brittle.

“Why?”

Xiao tilted his head slightly. “Why what?”

Harry’s fingers curled against the table. “Why send the letter. Why… this.” He gestured vaguely, curls sliding across his cheek, shielding the sharp edge of his eyes. “You could have ignored me. Pretended I wasn’t there.”

For a moment, Xiao studied him. The weight of his gaze was steady, grounding. Not invasive, but unavoidable.

“Because I couldn’t,” Xiao said simply.

The words struck harder than they should have. Harry’s jaw tightened, his shoulders hunching deeper. “You don’t know me.”

“I know your name,” Xiao replied, his tone quiet but unyielding. “I know your story—or at least the fragments history left behind. And I know what I saw when you walked into that room.”

Harry’s chest constricted. He wanted to scoff, to spit back that no one *knew* him, that stories and scars and whispers weren’t truth. But his throat locked around the words.

Xiao leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the table. Even in the casual gesture, his presence filled the space between them. His voice softened, threaded with a gentleness Harry hadn’t expected.

“You looked like someone who had carried everything alone for far too long.”

Harry’s breath caught. His fingers clenched hard enough against the table to leave pale marks. He angled his body further, every line defensive, but the words had already lodged under his skin.

“Don’t,” Harry whispered, the word raw. “Don’t look at me like that. Don’t—” His voice fractured, breaking before he could finish.

Xiao’s brow furrowed faintly, but he didn’t push closer. “I’m not here to harm you,” he said, every syllable deliberate. “I gave you my word. Neutral ground.”

Harry closed his eyes, dragging in a shaky breath. His curls fell forward again, curtain and shield. When he opened them, he fixed his gaze on the grain of the table, anywhere but Xiao’s face.

“You don’t understand,” he murmured. “Everyone who ever promised me safety broke it. Everyone I trusted—” His voice faltered, thick with memory, with betrayals that still bled in the dark corners of his mind. “So don’t expect me to believe you.”

“I don’t,” Xiao said quietly.

Harry blinked, startled into glancing up.

Xiao’s expression was calm, steady as stone. “I don’t expect belief. Trust isn’t given with words. It’s proven. Over time.”

Harry stared at him, lips parting slightly, breath shallow. Something in Xiao’s tone—solid, grounding—slipped past his defenses in a way that felt dangerous.

He forced himself to look away, shaking his head faintly. “You sound like you know me.”

“I don’t,” Xiao admitted. “But I’d like to.”

Harry’s chest tightened again, but not with fear. Something warmer, unfamiliar, pressed beneath his ribs, and it left him unsteady. He curled his fingers in his lap, hidden beneath the table, gripping the fabric of his trousers to keep them from trembling.

Silence settled again, thick but not hostile. For the first time in years, Harry realized, he wasn’t being interrogated. He wasn’t being demanded from, cornered, coerced. Xiao simply… waited.

The realization was almost worse.

Harry’s voice was small when he finally asked, “Why me?”

Xiao’s dark eyes held him steady. “Because when I saw you, I recognized strength hidden under fear. And because… your son deserves someone who sees him, too.”

Harry froze.

Teddy.

His instinct bristled, protective and sharp. His wand twitched under his sleeve. But Xiao’s tone was not possessive, not hungry. Only respectful. Acknowledging.

Harry exhaled shakily, tension bleeding from his shoulders inch by inch. He hated how much relief slipped into his chest at the words, how much it mattered that someone had thought of Teddy—not as leverage, not as burden, but as person.

His curls trembled as he ducked his head, voice barely audible. “He’s everything.”

“I could see that,” Xiao murmured.

The quiet stretched again, but this time it didn’t feel suffocating. Harry’s breath came easier, though he still kept his body angled, still clutched his wand tight. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe peace could last.

But for the first time in years, in this quiet café with cinnamon and barley in the air, Harry felt his lungs fill without pain.

And when Xiao eventually rose, bowing his head slightly in respect before leaving, Harry’s chest felt both lighter and unbearably hollow.

Chapter Text

The cottage was quiet except for the scratch of Teddy’s quill.

The boy hunched over his desk, tongue sticking out in concentration, curls of soft black hair slipping into his eyes. The room smelled faintly of ink and candlewax, shadows stretching across the walls as the sun sank low. He kept glancing at the door, listening for the creak of floorboards, the telltale shuffle of his father’s slippers. But Harry was in the garden, reinforcing wards again, shoulders hunched and wand raised as though fending off invisible enemies.

Teddy’s chest ached at the sight earlier—his dad’s hands trembling as he worked, his curls a dark curtain hiding the tightness of his mouth. Harry had smiled less since the war ended. He smiled less even in Seoul, away from the betrayals and politics. But last night, at the café, Teddy had noticed something.

A flicker. A breath.

A moment when Harry’s face softened as he looked across the table at Xiao, as though—for once—he wasn’t alone in carrying the weight of everything. Teddy had seen it. And he wasn’t about to let it slip away.

So he wrote.

The enchanted parchment had been hidden for years in a drawer, a gift from one of Harry’s vaults. It paired itself to another sheet when activated, allowing conversation across distance. Teddy had “borrowed” it weeks ago, meaning to use it for harmless pranks. Tonight, he bent over the page, nib of his quill scratching words in a messy but eager scrawl.

---

**Dear Mr. Xiao,**

I don’t know if this will reach you. But if it does, thank you.

You made my dad smile. He doesn’t do that much. He tries for me, but it’s different when it’s real.

I think you’re good. Please don’t stop.

—Teddy

---

He blew gently on the ink, heart pounding as the words shimmered and vanished, absorbed into the parchment. For a moment nothing happened. Teddy bit his lip, half-worried the spell was too old to work.

Then, faint and deliberate, lines began to unfurl across the page in neat, measured handwriting.

---

**Dear Teddy,**

It reached me.

Thank you for your words. Your father is a remarkable man. If I was able to bring even a moment of ease to him, then I am grateful.

And thank you for your trust. That means more than you know.

I promise I will never bring harm to either of you. Only what your father allows, and nothing more.

Warmly,
Xiao

---

Teddy grinned, the ink glinting as though the words themselves carried warmth. He quickly dipped his quill again, eager.

---

**Dear Mr. Xiao,**

You don’t have to call me Teddy like I’m little. Just Teddy is fine.

And you don’t have to be so formal. I can tell you mean it.

I just want him to be happy. He thinks he hides it, but I know when he’s sad. He gets smaller. He curls in like he’s bracing for something bad. But with you, he sat straighter. He breathed different.

So… thank you again.

—Teddy

---

The reply came slower this time, as though Xiao considered every word.

---

**Teddy,**

Then Teddy it is.

You see your father clearly. That is a gift. Many people only look at the surface.

I cannot promise to erase his sadness. But I can promise to stand steady, so that when he needs rest, he has a place to lean.

I hope that is enough.

—Xiao

---

Teddy’s throat tightened unexpectedly. He wasn’t used to adults speaking to him as though he mattered, as though his words carried weight. He wiped at his eyes quickly and scribbled one more line before Harry could come in from the garden.

---

**Dear Xiao,**

That’s more than enough.

—Teddy

---

The ink shimmered, then stilled. Teddy folded the parchment quickly and stuffed it beneath his pillow, heart racing. For the first time in a long while, he felt like he’d nudged the world toward something better.

---

Harry discovered the correspondence three nights later.

He had gone into Teddy’s room to straighten blankets, smoothing a quilt over his son’s sleeping form. Teddy mumbled in his sleep, turning over, curls sticking to his cheek. Harry brushed them back with careful fingers, heart squeezing with that familiar rush of love so fierce it scared him.

That was when he noticed the glow.

Faint, silvery light leaking from beneath the pillow. Harry’s stomach dropped. He slid the parchment free, his breath catching at the feel of old magic humming against his palm. Enchanted parchment. Active.

Dread coiled in his gut as he unfolded it. His own name wasn’t on the page—but Xiao’s was. And Teddy’s messy scrawl was right there beside it.

Harry read. Every word. His chest tightened until it was hard to breathe.

By the time he lowered the sheet, his hands shook so badly the parchment quivered between his fingers.

---

The next morning, Teddy bounded into the kitchen, hair flickering turquoise with excitement, only to freeze at the sight of Harry waiting at the table. The parchment lay flat in front of him, his curls shadowing his face.

“Sit,” Harry said, his voice soft but strained.

Teddy swallowed, climbing into the chair across from him. His toes curled against the rung of the chair, and he fiddled with the hem of his shirt.

Harry didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. The disappointment in his eyes was worse.

“You wrote to him,” Harry said quietly, fingertips brushing the edge of the parchment. “Behind my back.”

Teddy bit his lip. “I just—”

“You could have given away our location.” Harry’s voice sharpened, fear threading through every syllable. “You could have endangered us both. Teddy, do you understand? This isn’t a game. It’s not—” His voice cracked. He pressed a hand to his eyes, forcing the tremor down.

Teddy’s chest ached. “I wasn’t trying to hurt us,” he whispered. “I just… wanted you to be happy.”

Harry flinched, like the words had struck him harder than any curse. His hand fell from his face, revealing eyes too bright, too raw.

“You’re happier when you talk to him,” Teddy said softly, brave even as tears pricked. “I saw it. You breathe easier. You smile different. You don’t even notice, but I do. And I thought… maybe he could help. Just a little. So you wouldn’t feel so alone.”

Harry’s defenses faltered, trembling like glass under strain. His lips parted, but no sound came. He stared at his son, curls shadowing eyes wide with guilt and hope, and something inside him wavered.

For the first time in years, Harry didn’t know whether to protect or to yield.

And the parchment between them shimmered faintly, waiting.

Chapter Text

The invitation came two days later.

It arrived not through parchment this time but through something subtler—an innocuous slip of folded paper tucked into the handle of the gate, spelled so only Harry would see it when he returned from the market. Teddy was skipping along beside him, hands full of sweets, humming under his breath.

Harry almost missed it. The faint shimmer at the corner of his vision caught his eye, the sigil etched in the fold that pulsed once when he touched it. He froze, pulse kicking hard in his throat. Xiao’s magic.

He almost destroyed it on instinct. Almost. But Teddy’s presence beside him stopped him—the boy’s bright laughter, the way his curls bounced when he moved. Harry had promised to keep his son safe. That meant weighing risk against reward.

He read it at the kitchen table after Teddy went to his room.

The handwriting was neat, measured, the strokes steady.

---

**Harry,**

There is a place above the city, quiet despite the noise below. A rooftop garden tended by an old friend of mine. Few know it exists.

If you would come, I would be honored to share the space with you and Teddy. No stage, no audience, only the night air.

If you choose not to, I will understand.

—Xiao

---

Harry sat staring at the page until the candle burned low, shadows dancing across his clenched hands.

---

They went three nights later.

Harry told himself it was because Teddy wouldn’t stop asking. The boy’s eyes lit up when Harry mentioned the rooftop garden, as though the very idea of stars above Seoul was some sort of treasure hunt. Teddy had been restless, too, his energy bubbling over. Harry couldn’t deny him—not when the world had already taken so much.

So he agreed.

But as they wound their way through the quieter streets of Seoul, Harry’s stomach knotted tighter with every step. The crowds, though thinner at night, still pressed in close, voices echoing against the buildings. He kept Teddy close, one hand firm on the boy’s shoulder, his wand hidden in the sleeve of his jumper. Every sound made his nerves spark.

Xiao met them at the mouth of a narrow alley, dressed simply, no trace of the glittering performer the world knew. A plain shirt, dark trousers, hair tied back loosely at his nape. He inclined his head when Harry approached, a warmth in his gaze that was steady but never invasive.

“Teddy,” Xiao greeted first, crouching slightly so he was level with the boy. “It’s good to see you again.”

Teddy grinned, curls shining under the lamplight. “You too! Is it really a secret garden?”

Xiao’s lips curved. “It is. You’ll see.”

He straightened and gestured for them to follow.

The stairwell was narrow, spiraling upward through brick and shadow. Teddy bounded ahead, his excitement echoing in quick footsteps. Harry kept behind him, tense, every muscle alert. Xiao followed at his side, his pace measured, presence quiet but grounding.

When they reached the final door, Xiao pressed his palm to the wood. The wards shimmered, recognizing him, then dissolved. The door opened with a sigh.

Harry’s breath caught.

The rooftop stretched wide, hidden from the city below by tall hedges and charms that muffled sound. Lanterns floated lazily above, shedding golden light across winding paths of stone and lush greenery. Vines curled along trellises, blooms opening in the cool night air. The sky stretched vast above them, stars glittering despite the faint glow of the city.

Teddy let out a delighted gasp. “It’s like magic Hogwarts!” he exclaimed, darting down a path toward a cluster of glowing blossoms.

Harry couldn’t move for a moment. The tension in his chest eased fractionally, the relentless hum of the city muted into nothing. It was… peaceful.

Xiao’s voice was quiet beside him. “No one will disturb us here. The wards are old, strong. You are safe.”

Harry’s throat worked, but he gave a short nod.

---

They wandered slowly through the garden, Teddy dashing ahead and circling back with every discovery. Harry trailed after him, curls shadowing his face, posture still guarded. But when a sudden burst of laughter from the street below filtered faintly through the wards, Harry stiffened instinctively, his hand tightening on his wand.

Before he could fully react, Xiao moved without thought. His hand settled gently against Harry’s shoulder, broad and steady, a quiet shield between him and the sound.

The touch startled Harry—warm, grounding, not forceful but firm enough to remind him he wasn’t alone. His breath hitched, then steadied despite himself. He realized Xiao had placed himself just slightly in front, angled to absorb whatever threat Harry imagined.

For a moment, Harry let it happen. He let someone else hold the line. The realization left him unsteady.

“Crowds,” Harry muttered finally, curling his fingers tight around his wand. “I don’t… do well with them.”

Xiao didn’t press. He simply inclined his head. “Then we won’t have them here.”

The simplicity of it nearly undid Harry.

---

They found a bench tucked beneath a trellis heavy with night-blooming flowers. Teddy sprawled in the grass nearby, humming tunelessly as he traced patterns in the dirt.

Harry sat stiffly, curls falling forward to hide his expression. Xiao settled beside him, not too close, but near enough that his presence radiated steady warmth. For a while, they said nothing, the quiet of the rooftop wrapping around them.

Then Xiao asked, “What food do you and Teddy like best?”

Harry blinked, caught off guard. He glanced over, wary. “Food?”

“Yes,” Xiao said simply. “Everyone has favorites.”

Harry hesitated, then exhaled. “Teddy likes sweets. Treacle tart, chocolate frogs. Anything that makes a mess, really.” His mouth curved faintly despite himself. “I suppose I cook more stews than anything else. Easy to stretch, easy to hide vegetables in. Comfort food.”

Xiao’s lips twitched. “Stews are honest food. Strong. They keep people alive.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “You… cook?”

“When I can.” Xiao’s gaze softened, distant. “My grandmother taught me. She said a good meal is like a ward—it holds people together.”

Harry startled, a quiet laugh escaping before he could stop it. The sound was sharp in his own ears, as though it didn’t belong to him. He froze, breath catching.

Xiao turned toward him slowly, his expression quiet, reverent. As though the laugh itself was something fragile and precious.

Harry’s cheeks burned. He ducked his head, curls falling forward. “I don’t—”

“You should,” Xiao interrupted softly, his voice steady as earth. “It suits you.”

Harry’s stomach lurched, heart stumbling against his ribs. He pressed his hands together, fingers trembling slightly, unsure what to do with the sudden warmth in his chest.

---

The conversation drifted.

They spoke of music—Teddy’s newfound obsession with Xiao’s band, Harry’s bemused admission that he still preferred old wizarding wireless programs. Xiao described the first instrument he’d ever held, the way the vibrations had felt like magic under his skin.

They spoke of childhood—Harry carefully sidestepping details of the cupboard, offering only fragments of summers chasing Snitches, of Ron’s laughter echoing in the Burrow. Xiao shared stories of festivals, lanterns lit along rivers, his grandmother scolding him for climbing too high in trees.

They spoke of small things—books Teddy liked, Harry’s stubborn fondness for tea brewed too strong, Xiao’s habit of sketching wards in margins of song lyrics.

And for each thread, Harry found himself breathing easier, his chest loosening. The garden, the stars, the quiet—together they built something fragile but real.

Once, Teddy laughed so hard he fell onto his back in the grass, arms spread wide. Harry laughed too, startled again by the sound of it leaving his throat. It felt foreign, but good. Dangerous, maybe, in how much he wanted to cling to it.

Xiao said nothing, only looked at him with that same quiet reverence, as though storing the moment away like a sacred oath.

And Harry, shaken, realized how good it felt.

Too good.

Chapter Text

The first rumor came in a whisper.

In the dim corridors of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, a junior clerk leaned over to his colleague and murmured that a Muggle entertainment magazine in South Korea had posted photos of a boy with hair that changed color. A trick of the light, perhaps, or a new Muggle dye. But to wizarding eyes, the truth was obvious: a metamorphmagus.

And beside him, a man with impossible eyes and hair as black as night. A man who, if you squinted at the grainy photograph, looked familiar.

Too familiar.

“Potter,” someone said under their breath.

The word spread like wildfire through the Ministry’s lower floors. It made its way to the gossip network of the old families, where everything about Harry Potter—his disappearance, his fortune, his fame—was treated as both a wound and an opportunity. For the first time in a decade, the Boy Who Lived might not be gone forever.

And opportunity always summoned wolves.

---

Harry felt it before he saw it.

The wards around his Seoul home had been steady for years, pulsing quietly with his own magic, Dobby’s meticulous work, Kreacher’s ancient precision. But three days after the rooftop garden with Xiao, Harry felt the faintest brush—a foreign ripple across the boundary. Not Xiao’s. Not soft or respectful. This was prying, testing.

Harry’s entire body went cold.

He doubled the wards immediately, hands raw from the runes he carved into stone and etched in blood. Teddy watched from the doorway, his curls limp with unease.

“Dad?” Teddy’s voice was small, uncertain.

Harry forced calm into his tone. “Just strengthening. Nothing to worry about.”

But Teddy saw the tremor in his hands, the way his shoulders hunched as though expecting a blow. Harry’s fear was an old friend by now, but Teddy had grown up under it—enough to recognize when it coiled tighter than usual.

That night, Harry sat at the kitchen table long after Teddy had gone to bed, parchment scattered around him. His quill scratched line after line of escape routes: new countries, hidden valleys, places where Teddy might have a chance at peace.

Leaving again. Always leaving.

And the thought hollowed him out.

---

The envoy arrived two days later.

He was no one of consequence, not really—just a middling Ministry agent with delusions of grandeur, sent under the pretense of “international magical tourism oversight.” His name was Pritchard, a pale, nervous man whose robes never seemed to fit properly. He knew nothing of Korea, nothing of the wards that veined its hidden magical enclaves. But he knew ambition. If he could return with proof—*Harry Potter alive*—the higher floors of the Ministry might finally take notice of him.

So he followed the signatures.

The metamorphmagus child had been a beacon, his shifts leaving traces like sparks in the air. Pritchard tracked them through markets and side streets, toward the quieter neighborhoods where foreign wards hummed just out of reach.

It was there that he met Xiao.

---

Xiao had been waiting.

He had felt the shift in the wards the same as Harry had, though he said nothing at first. He watched from afar, studied the ripples, tested the direction of the pull. When the foreign presence crept closer, Xiao rose from rehearsal, ignoring Minho’s sarcastic “Going somewhere, hyung?” and left without explanation.

Now he stood in the narrow alley just outside Harry’s neighborhood, hands clasped loosely behind his back. His height alone was imposing, but it was the steadiness of his stance that made the air vibrate with authority.

Pritchard nearly walked into him before realizing the way was blocked.

“Oh—ah—excuse me,” Pritchard muttered, attempting to sidestep.

Xiao shifted a single step, and somehow the alley seemed narrower. His gaze pinned Pritchard where he stood. Black eyes, fathomless and unyielding.

“You are far from home,” Xiao said, his Korean laced with an undercurrent of magic that translated the words cleanly into Pritchard’s mind.

The agent stiffened, clutching his satchel. “Just… sightseeing.”

“No.” Xiao’s voice was calm, but it carried the weight of stone. “You are searching.”

Pritchard tried to muster indignation. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m simply here on Ministry business.”

“The Ministry of Magic in Britain,” Xiao said, not a question but a statement.

The color drained from Pritchard’s face.

Xiao took one step closer. His presence filled the alley, a command that pressed down on the air itself. “You will leave Seoul. Tonight. You will not return.”

“I—I have clearance,” Pritchard stammered. “I have authority—”

“Not here.”

The words struck like a ward slamming shut. The faint lanternlight flickered, shadows bending to Xiao’s will. Magic radiated from him—not flashy, not loud, but ancient, steady, and immovable. It was the magic of mountains, of foundations laid deep.

Pritchard’s knees nearly buckled under the weight of it. He swallowed hard, the back of his neck damp with sweat. “I—there were reports, rumors—”

Xiao’s gaze sharpened. “There is nothing for you here. If you value your life, you will turn back.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a simple fact, delivered with the finality of stone meeting earth.

Pritchard fled.

---

Harry felt the wards relax hours later, the pressure of intrusion dissolving like fog burned away by sun. But relief didn’t come. Instead, dread pooled deeper. Whoever it was would report back. Whispers would spread.

He spent the evening reinforcing barriers until his hands shook. Teddy hovered nearby, curls shadowing his worried eyes.

“We’re safe, Dad,” Teddy whispered, tugging at his sleeve. “You always keep us safe.”

Harry closed his eyes. He wanted to believe it. But every failure haunted him: Cedric, Sirius, Dumbledore, Fred, Remus, Tonks. Too many names, too many graves. He had never been enough to keep anyone safe.

And now, Teddy—his son, his everything—was the one he couldn’t afford to lose.

His voice cracked when he finally spoke. “I won’t let them take you. I swear it.”

Teddy pressed against his side, small and solid.

---

The knock came the next night.

Harry’s wand was in his hand before he reached the door, every nerve screaming. He slid it open a fraction—enough to see a tall shadow, shoulders broad, eyes dark and steady.

Xiao.

Harry’s breath caught. He had never invited the man to his home. He had never allowed anyone this close.

But Xiao didn’t push inside. He only inclined his head. “The intruder will not return.”

Harry froze, pulse stuttering. “…What?”

Xiao’s gaze was unwavering. “A Ministry agent. He sought you. I sent him away.”

Harry’s grip on the doorframe tightened until his knuckles went white. His world tilted, the air pressing too thin. Xiao’s voice was calm, but the implications thundered in Harry’s ears.

“You—you’re a wizard,” Harry whispered. It wasn’t a question. He had felt Xiao’s presence before, yes, but this—this was confirmation.

Xiao’s expression softened, but his presence remained immense, grounding. “I am.”

Harry’s throat worked. Panic and gratitude warred inside him, tangled so tight it hurt. Xiao wasn’t just an idol, wasn’t just a man with steady eyes and a voice that anchored him. He was power. Old, commanding power.

And he had just turned away the Ministry.

Harry staggered back a step, curls falling forward to shield his face. His chest felt too tight, his breath coming quick. He didn’t know whether to run, to hide, or to—

The thought broke off, unfinished, because all he could do was *feel*. The weight of Xiao’s power still lingered, and for the first time in years, Harry realized he wasn’t the strongest person in the room.

Chapter Text

Backstage smelled of sweat, resin, and faint ozone from the stage lights. It wasn’t unpleasant—more alive than anything Harry had let himself linger in for years. The hum of the concert still pulsed through the walls, muffled but insistent, like the echo of a storm that had just passed.

Harry had told himself this was for Teddy. That he could tolerate another encounter with Xiao and the others because it would make his son’s eyes light up. Because Teddy deserved joy unshadowed by Harry’s endless caution.

But as Xiao guided them through the winding corridors, security charms humming in the plaster, Harry couldn’t stop the restless twitch of his fingers at his sides. His curls fell forward, curtain-like, as though hiding could make the fluorescent lights less sharp, the world less pressing. He didn’t belong here—he never belonged anywhere public—and yet Teddy’s hand was a small, insistent weight in his own.

Teddy was practically vibrating, turquoise hair flashing streaks of silver in the too-bright light. “Dad, can you believe this? We’re really going to meet them—*all of them*! Not just Xiao-hyung but everyone!”

Harry’s lips curved faintly at the honorific, a trace of amusement threading through the anxiety. Teddy soaked up languages the way he soaked up magic—without effort, with joy. He squeezed his son’s hand once, more for his own steadiness than Teddy’s. “Yes. I can believe it.”

He wasn’t sure he could, not really. But his son’s happiness was enough.

---

The door they stopped at was ordinary, painted a dull gray, but the wards woven into it prickled against Harry’s skin. Strong, intricate, familiar enough that he recognized Xiao’s touch on them. Xiao rested his palm flat against the surface, murmured something low, and the wards folded away with the ease of silk drawn back from a window.

The room beyond was warm with laughter.

It was smaller than Harry expected—a lounge with mismatched couches, a long table stacked with water bottles and towels, the air heavy with the mingled scents of cologne, fabric softener, and magic pressed down to a whisper. Five young men sprawled across the space, half-tired, half-exhilarated, their voices still pitched high from performance.

They looked up when the door opened.

Teddy gasped, the sound high and sharp, and then he was *beaming*. “Hyung!” he squeaked, dashing forward before Harry could stop him.

The youngest—Hyunseok, if Harry remembered right—caught him with an easy laugh, scooping him up as if ten-year-olds leapt into his arms every day. “Hey, little one,” Hyunseok said, voice warm with Seoul’s accent. “You came!”

“I did! Xiao-hyung invited us and Dad said yes and—” Teddy’s words tumbled over themselves. His hair rippled gold now, catching the light, and Hyunseok’s eyes widened in delighted recognition.

“A metamorph,” he breathed, then laughed, spinning Teddy once before setting him down gently. “You’re amazing.”

Teddy grinned so wide Harry thought his face might split.

---

Harry stayed near the door, stiff as a post, trying not to shrink from the five pairs of eyes that flicked toward him in curiosity. He wasn’t used to this—being studied openly without malice, just interest. It was… unnerving.

Xiao stepped smoothly into the space between Harry and that scrutiny, his presence steady, commanding without words. “This is Harry,” he said simply, voice pitched like an anchor dropped in deep water. “And his son, Teddy.”

The other members softened immediately.

Taehwan—the dancer with restless energy—grinned and waved from where he was perched on the arm of a couch. “Welcome! Don’t mind the mess—we kind of explode after shows.”

Minho leaned back against the wall, sharp-eyed but with a smile that wasn’t unfriendly. “Explode is right. Don’t let him near your kitchen.”

“Hey!” Taehwan protested, laughing.

The quietest—Jisoo, Harry thought—nodded once, his expression gentle, gaze lingering more on Teddy than on Harry. There was something in his eyes that reminded Harry faintly of Neville—quiet strength that didn’t need to shout.

And Teddy was already lost to Hyunseok, perched beside him on the couch, chattering a mile a minute. The youngest listened with genuine attention, laughing when Teddy’s hair flashed into a quick copy of his own, down to the streak of blue at his temple.

“You’re better than me already,” Hyunseok said, pretending to pout. “I’ve been working on this look for weeks.”

Teddy’s laughter rang out, clear and unselfconscious.

---

Harry couldn’t move for a long time.

He stood rooted, curls shadowing his face, chest too tight. He had spent so long in silence, in suspicion, always weighing every word, every glance. And now—

Now he was standing in a room full of strangers who didn’t demand, didn’t pry, didn’t scheme. They let Teddy’s joy be enough.

Harry’s throat ached.

“Come,” Xiao murmured beside him, low enough that only Harry heard. He tilted his head toward the couches. His tone wasn’t commanding, not quite, but it carried weight, steady and unyielding.

Harry hesitated, then let Xiao guide him forward. He sat on the very edge of a cushion, posture taut, hands clasped too tightly in his lap.

The others didn’t push conversation onto him. They let him sit in quiet while Teddy wove himself seamlessly into their laughter. They spoke around him, not over him, letting the rhythm of their camaraderie fill the space.

Harry listened.

He hadn’t meant to, but he did. He listened to Taehwan teasing Minho about a missed dance step, to Jisoo murmuring an absentminded correction to lyrics scrawled on a notepad, to Hyunseok encouraging Teddy’s stories with genuine delight.

It felt like… family.

Not the kind that demanded and betrayed. Not the kind that measured love by usefulness or obedience. But something looser, warmer. Found in laughter and trust instead of blood.

Harry’s chest clenched. He pressed his lips together, staring down at his hands.

---

Xiao watched him.

He saw the way Harry’s shoulders curled inward, every instinct screaming to vanish into shadow. He saw the faint tremor of Harry’s fingers, the way he never quite let go of tension, even here. But Xiao also saw the moments Harry’s guard cracked—the flicker of his viridian eyes when Teddy laughed too loud, the brief softening of his mouth when Hyunseok ruffled the boy’s hair.

There was tenderness there. Tenderness Harry hid like a wound, as though showing it would invite pain.

Xiao’s jaw tightened. He knew that kind of scar. He knew what it meant to carry softness like a liability.

And it made him all the more determined to protect it.

---

Teddy, oblivious to the weight curling through the room, leaned against Hyunseok’s shoulder, chattering about Quidditch. “It’s like football—but on broomsticks!”

“Broomsticks?” Hyunseok repeated, brows shooting up. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope! Dad was the youngest Seeker in a century—”

“Teddy,” Harry said sharply, his voice cutting like glass.

The room stilled. Teddy blinked, cheeks pinking. “…Sorry, Dad.”

Harry’s curls curtained his face, his shoulders hunched, guilt and fear knotted in his chest. Too much. He had let too much slip.

But Xiao spoke before the silence could harden. “A Seeker,” he said smoothly, as though it were nothing more than a casual detail. His tone was steady, gentle. “It suits you.”

Harry’s head jerked up, eyes wide, searching his face for mockery. There was none. Only quiet certainty.

Something inside Harry trembled.

---

The evening blurred after that.

Teddy dragged Hyunseok into teaching him half a dance routine, collapsing into giggles every time he tripped over his own feet. Taehwan joined in, exaggerating moves until Minho threw a towel at him. Jisoo hummed a melody under his breath, jotting down notes while the others tangled themselves into chaos.

And through it all, Harry sat on the couch, his posture still tense but his eyes softening despite himself. He didn’t laugh—not quite—but the corners of his mouth curved once, fleeting as a shooting star.

Xiao saw it.

And he stored it away like something sacred.

Chapter Text

The home was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed into bone. Teddy had gone to bed hours ago, curled into blankets with his hair still glowing faintly silver from the laughter of the evening. The wards hummed softly, reinforced until Harry’s hands ached, but even their steady pulse couldn’t ease the unrest inside his chest.

The memory of Teddy’s joy lingered—his bright laughter, the way Hyunseok had bent low to mimic his clumsy dance steps, the ripple of easy camaraderie that Harry had watched but not touched. It should have been enough, should have been simple: his son was happy. That was the only thing that mattered.

And yet.

And yet.

Harry sat at the edge of the worn sofa, candlelight flickering shadows across his face. He told himself he was just waiting for the restlessness to pass, that sleep would come if he waited long enough. But his gaze kept straying to the folded scrap of enchanted parchment resting on the table, Xiao’s words glowing faintly across it.

*If you ever want to talk, really talk, I’ll listen. No questions you don’t want. No judgments.*

The words had no right to settle so deep.

Harry reached for the parchment, fingers trembling, then pulled back. His throat worked around a breath. What would talking even mean? What could possibly be said that hadn’t already been dissected, weaponized, twisted by the world that had once claimed him?

He told himself to ignore it. He told himself to let it burn.

Instead, he lit the rune on its edge.

The parchment shimmered once. And then Xiao was there, not in flesh, but in the projected shimmer of his face—sharp lines softened by the magic’s haze, hair damp as if he’d just showered, eyes steady as stone.

“Harry,” Xiao said simply.

Harry swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean—”

“You meant enough,” Xiao interrupted, voice low, threaded with something Harry couldn’t name. “I’m here.”

---

It started small.

Fragments, not confessions. Harry spoke haltingly, words dragging like splinters through his throat. Not the whole truth, not the unvarnished horrors, but pieces. Shards. Enough to cut.

“The war ended, and it was supposed to be… peace. But peace isn’t peace when all anyone sees is what you’ve done, not what it cost. They wanted a savior, a symbol. Not a person. Never a person.”

Xiao’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes deepened, as if dark wells had opened inside them. “Symbols are easy to worship,” he said quietly. “Easier than living with the weight of someone real.”

Harry’s chest tightened.

He pressed on. “I thought… maybe I could disappear. Let them have their stories and their statues. But people don’t let go. Not when they think they’re owed pieces of you.” His voice frayed, sharp with bitterness he hadn’t allowed himself to speak aloud in years. “And the ones I trusted most—”

He cut himself off, jaw locking, the rest trapped behind his teeth.

Xiao didn’t push.

Instead, he said, “They hurt you.”

The words were not a question.

Harry’s breath caught.

He waited for pity, for that soft tilt of head, that hushed sorrow he hated more than scorn. But Xiao’s tone was steady, grounded. Not pity—recognition. Respect.

“They betrayed me,” Harry admitted at last, voice hoarse. “And I let them. Again and again. I kept believing… that love meant forgiveness. That friendship meant loyalty. That family—” He broke off, shaking his head, curls falling like a curtain. “I was wrong.”

The silence stretched.

Xiao leaned closer in the shimmer of the projection, his voice rough like stone turned in a river. “You endured. That matters more than what anyone else says.”

The words struck harder than any praise, any hollow comfort. They landed like truth—like someone had finally seen the rawest, ugliest core of him and chosen not to flinch.

Harry’s throat burned. He looked away, blinking hard against the sting in his eyes. “You don’t understand,” he whispered.

“I do,” Xiao said softly. And the weight in his tone, the quiet certainty, made Harry believe him.

---

The minutes slid by, heavy and strange, filled with a silence that wasn’t empty.

Harry wanted to speak again. He wanted—Merlin, he *wanted*. The ache rose in his chest, sharp and startling, an ache for trust, for leaning without fear of knives in the dark. He had buried that wanting so deep he’d thought it dead.

But Xiao’s voice made it stir. His gaze made it burn.

Harry’s fingers flexed restlessly in his lap. He wasn’t sure when the projection had dimmed enough that he could almost forget it was magic, that it felt instead like Xiao was *here*, across from him, close enough to touch.

And then—

Xiao’s hand lifted, slow, deliberate, the shimmer of it brushing against the edge of Harry’s knee where the magic could almost mimic warmth. Harry froze, breath strangled in his throat.

It wasn’t a grasp. Not even a hold. Just a brush. Just the barest whisper of contact, fleeting as lightning.

But Harry jolted as though struck. His whole body tightened, every nerve sparking alive. His heart slammed hard against his ribs, a wild, unsteady rhythm he hadn’t felt in years.

He snatched his gaze to Xiao’s face, startled, searching.

Xiao didn’t look away. His eyes held steady, quiet, offering nothing but presence.

Harry’s breath shuddered out.

The ache inside him surged, fierce and terrifying.

---

He wanted.

Merlin help him, he wanted.

Chapter Text

The house had never felt small before.

Harry had bought it on instinct—an acre of land tucked at the edge of Seoul, shielded by Muggle wards and old blood protections layered over newer spells until it thrummed like a living thing. It was meant to be sanctuary. A place where Teddy could grow up without whispers at his back, where the ghost of Harry Potter could finally lay down his wand and simply *be*.

But sanctuary could curdle into prison, when fear pressed too close.

The parchment had barely cooled from Xiao’s last message when the wards shivered. Harry froze at the kitchen table, ink still wet on his fingertips from marking Teddy’s homework. The quill rolled from his hand and landed with a soft clatter against the grain.

Not Xiao this time.

Something sharper, colder.

The kind of magic that didn’t knock so much as it pried.

Teddy looked up from where he’d been sketching Quidditch players in wild colors, his hair flickering to an uneasy brown. “Dad?”

Harry’s chair scraped back hard enough to make the boy flinch. He was at Teddy’s side in a heartbeat, wand in hand, every nerve strung taut. “Upstairs,” Harry said, voice rough. “Go. Don’t come down until I say.”

Teddy opened his mouth to argue—always too brave, always too much like his parents—but one look at Harry’s face made him nod. He bolted, curls bouncing, the thud of his feet up the stairs a rhythm Harry clung to until silence swallowed it.

The wards thrummed again. Not breaking. Not yet. But coaxing. Persuasive fingers pressing against the seams.

And then the knock.

Soft. Courteous. The kind of knock that pretended it had a right to be there.

Harry’s grip on his wand whitened his knuckles. He crossed to the door, heart hammering. His curls slid forward as if to shield him, brushing against his cheeks.

He opened it.

Two figures stood on the threshold. Robes polished to an almost oily gleam, the faint shimmer of Ministry crest charms stitched at their hems. The first was tall and narrow, face stretched thin like he’d been poured into his skin too quickly. The second shorter, rounder, but with eyes that gleamed like knives.

“Mr. Potter,” the tall one said, tone just shy of polite. “At last.”

Harry’s stomach lurched.

He said nothing.

The shorter envoy stepped forward, smile sharp. “We’ve come on behalf of the Ministry of Magic. To discuss… opportunities. Restoration. Your name still carries weight, Mr. Potter. You needn’t hide away like this. Not when you could have your honor restored, your inheritance properly managed, your future—”

Harry slammed the door.

The wards flared gold. The envoys’ muffled voices turned sharp. “You cannot shut us out forever. The Wizengamot still recognizes—”

A hand braced against the doorframe before Harry could retreat. He spun, wand raised—

And nearly collapsed in relief.

Xiao.

Not apparition, not parchment projection—Xiao himself, standing solid at Harry’s side as though he’d always belonged there. He filled the narrow entryway with quiet force, shoulders squared, eyes black as polished stone.

“Step away,” Xiao said.

The words were not loud. They didn’t need to be.

The envoys faltered, their polished airs unraveling under the weight of that voice. The tall one swallowed audibly. “And you are…?”

“Someone who doesn’t tolerate vultures.” Xiao’s gaze didn’t flicker. “Leave.”

The shorter envoy bristled. “This is Ministry business—”

“Leave,” Xiao repeated. Not a shout. Not even heated. Just final, like stone settling into place.

The wards hummed in agreement, recognizing the dominance in his tone, amplifying it.

The envoys shifted, muttering. For all their bluster, for all their gilded crests and bureaucratic arrogance, they were not fools. They knew power when it stared them down.

And Xiao radiated it, calm as earth, unshakable as mountain.

With stiff nods, they stepped back, retreating down the garden path. Their voices carried, mutters of *“stubborn, dangerous, can’t stay hidden forever”* before the wards sealed them out.

Silence followed.

Harry’s body shook with the aftershock, wand hand trembling so hard he nearly dropped it. The slam of his heartbeat drowned the hum of the wards. He pressed his back to the wall, sliding down until he half-sat, half-collapsed on the floorboards. His curls fell like a curtain around his face, shielding him from the sight of the world.

A hand touched his shoulder.

Steady. Warm.

Xiao crouched beside him, grounding him with nothing more than presence. His grip was firm but gentle, anchoring Harry where panic threatened to sweep him away.

“You’re not alone,” Xiao said.

The words burrowed deep, steady as bedrock.

For a moment—just a moment—Harry believed him.

---

But belief was a fragile thing.

Harry’s breath hitched, the ghosts of the envoys’ words still clawing through his skull. *Restored honor. Inheritance. Future.* Empty promises laced with threats. He’d heard them before, in softer tones and sharper knives. He knew what they meant: chains dressed as gifts.

The Ministry didn’t come offering—they came to *take*.

His hand curled into the fabric of his sweater, nails biting into his chest as though he could hold himself together that way.

“They’ll come back,” Harry whispered.

“Yes,” Xiao said, unflinching.

“They’ll never stop.”

“Then neither will I.”

Harry’s head jerked up. His curls slid aside, revealing wide, haunted green eyes. “Why?” His voice cracked raw. “Why are you—why do you care?”

Xiao’s gaze didn’t waver. His hand stayed steady on Harry’s shoulder, grounding. “Because you deserve more than to be hunted like prey. Because you’ve carried enough alone.”

The words shouldn’t have been enough. They shouldn’t have cut through the years of armor and scar tissue. But Harry’s throat burned, his vision blurred, and for the first time in years, the trembling inside him felt like it might not consume him entirely.

He leaned, just slightly, into Xiao’s hand.

Not surrender. Not yet.

But a crack.

A beginning.

---

Teddy crept down the stairs, bare feet silent against the wood. His turquoise hair shimmered with silver at the edges, betraying nerves. He peeked around the bannister, eyes wide.

He saw his dad pressed against the wall, shoulders shaking, and the tall idol crouched beside him, steady as stone.

And for the first time since the knock at the door, Teddy’s heart eased.

Because Xiao didn’t just look like a shield. He *was* one.

And Harry, though trembling, wasn’t alone anymore.

Chapter Text

The decision felt heavier than any duel Harry had ever fought.

It was only an invitation, words written in his looping hand on enchanted parchment and sent fluttering toward Xiao with a pulse of hesitant magic. But when the message had dissolved and flown, Harry sat at the kitchen table with his heart thudding as though he’d signed away his life.

Inviting Xiao was one thing. Inviting the whole of AEGIS—six strangers, no matter how kind their smiles—was something else entirely. It meant opening the wards, unfastening the locks, letting his home be seen. Letting *him* be seen.

Teddy had been delighted. He’d hugged Harry around the waist until his curls hid his grin. “Really, Dad? Really?”

Harry had nodded stiffly, as though the gesture might collapse if he admitted how much it terrified him. “Really.”

Now, the day had come.

The wards pulsed with foreign signatures, testing, recognizing. Harry stood in the kitchen with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, wand tucked into his pocket, and heart crawling up into his throat.

The front door opened with a chime of acceptance.

Laughter spilled in first—warm, boyish, unguarded. Teddy’s voice lifted, bright and jubilant, as he dragged Hyunseok by the hand into the hall, both of them grinning like conspirators. Minho followed, mock-scolding, his words too fast for Harry to catch but carrying humor instead of heat.

Then Xiao entered.

He filled the doorway without trying, presence steady as earth, and Harry’s pulse faltered. Black eyes swept the house once, assessing, protective before softening as they found Harry. His lips curved faintly—not the blinding idol smile, but something quieter. Real.

Harry’s stomach twisted.

“Welcome,” he said, voice thin.

---

The kitchen became the center of gravity.

Harry cooked because it gave his hands something to do, something to hide their trembling. Vegetables lined the counter, knives flashing as he chopped with precision born from years of practice. His sleeves slipped higher as he stirred, revealing scars faint against pale forearms, the long lines of muscle wiry but steady.

Xiao leaned against the doorway, watching.

It should have been ordinary: a man preparing a meal, sleeves rolled, hair falling forward in ringlets. But the sight hit Xiao like a song that pierced straight through the chest. The intimacy of it—the soft focus on each motion, the faint crease between Harry’s brows as though even cooking demanded vigilance.

Harry did not notice he was being watched. Or perhaps he did, because his shoulders were drawn taut, angled slightly away as though expecting censure. Yet he never stopped moving, knife rocking, wrist flicking, ladle stirring.

Xiao wanted to step closer. To press a hand over Harry’s and ease the tension from it. To say, *You don’t have to prove anything here.*

Instead, he stayed where he was. Grounded. Waiting.

---

The others made themselves at home quickly—Teddy made sure of it.

He had Hyunseok and Taehwan sprawled on the living room floor with a board game, their laughter rising every few minutes as Teddy’s hair shifted colors in triumph or mock defeat. Minho leaned over to cheat blatantly, drawing indignant shrieks, while Jisoo sat with quiet amusement, sketching lazy chords on a guitar Teddy had dug out of the cupboard.

The house, which had been too quiet for years, filled with sound. With life.

Harry’s hand shook as he set a pan on the stove. He told himself it was from the heat, from the effort of chopping, not from the laughter drifting through the walls. Not from the way it reached him, curling around old scars like balm.

Not from the way it made him want.

---

Xiao stepped forward at last, crossing the kitchen in slow, measured strides until he stood close enough for Harry to feel his presence at his side.

“You cook,” Xiao said, voice low, not a question but a reverent observation.

Harry startled slightly, curls falling into his face. “Someone has to.”

“You do it well.”

Harry’s cheeks warmed. He ducked his head, pretending to adjust the flame. “Practice.”

Xiao’s gaze lingered, tracing the careful grace of Harry’s motions—the flick of slender wrists, the small hands moving with deliberate precision. Scars caught the light, faint white lines along his knuckles. Battle wounds repurposed for gentler work.

“You move like someone who expects a fight,” Xiao murmured.

Harry froze. His knife stilled against the board.

The words were not wrong. His whole body bore the shape of defense: shoulders slightly hunched, stance angled, every motion wary of attack. Even here, in his own home, in his own kitchen, cooking for his son and six guests—he moved like prey bracing for the strike.

Slowly, Harry set the knife down. He pressed his palms to the counter, trying to ground himself. “Habit,” he said. His voice shook despite the steel of the word.

Xiao didn’t argue. He simply nodded, presence steady, as if to say: *I see you. And you don’t need to explain.*

---

Dinner came together. Bowls filled the table—stir-fried vegetables glistening with sesame, steaming rice, roasted meat fragrant with ginger and garlic. Harry set each dish down with meticulous care, avoiding eyes, curls falling forward like a shield.

The others dug in eagerly, Teddy leading the charge with unabashed delight. His hair shifted turquoise as he shoveled rice onto his plate, chattering about how Dad always cooked better than restaurants. Hyunseok nodded fervently, cheeks already full. Taehwan clapped Harry on the back in thanks, nearly making him drop the serving spoon.

Harry’s lips twitched at the corners. Almost a smile.

Xiao watched it happen.

---

The meal stretched long. Stories traded, laughter spilling, the house vibrating with warmth. Teddy’s giggles echoed, bouncing against the walls that had been silent for too many years.

And for a fleeting moment, Harry felt… normal.

Not a weapon. Not a symbol. Not a fugitive.

Just a man in his kitchen, feeding people he cared about, listening to his son laugh until his hair blazed gold.

It soothed him.

And it terrified him.

Because normalcy was fragile. It could be torn away in an instant, the way every other moment of peace in his life had been. Sitting at this table, shoulders softening, heart unclenching—it felt like tempting fate.

Harry’s chest ached with the contradiction.

He wanted to stay in this moment forever.

And he wanted to run before it could be stolen.

---

Xiao saw it all.

The flicker of joy, the shadow of fear, the way Harry’s green eyes softened when they caught Teddy’s grin and then shuttered as though bracing for loss.

He wanted to reach across the table. To anchor him. To promise that this, at least, would not be taken.

But he stayed still.

For now.

Because Harry had let him in. That was enough.

For now.

Chapter Text

The laughter lingered long after the door closed.

Harry stood in the hallway as the last of AEGIS disappeared down the path, Teddy leaning out the doorway to wave until they vanished from sight. Only when the house was quiet again, the wards humming softly with renewed closure, did Harry realize his hands were shaking.

He curled them into fists.

The kitchen still smelled of ginger and garlic, the table cluttered with dishes that had been scraped nearly clean. Teddy’s voice still rang faintly in Harry’s ears, bright and unburdened, telling Hyunseok stories about Hogwarts trick staircases, his hair flashing gold when Jisoo played something lighthearted on the guitar.

It had been warm.

It had been normal.

It had been everything Harry had sworn he would never allow himself to want again.

---

Later, when Teddy finally collapsed into bed—exhausted, but still grinning in his sleep—Harry lingered by the doorway, watching his son’s chest rise and fall. The quiet should have soothed him. It did not.

His chest ached with a weight he could not name. The warmth of earlier had seeped into his bones, and with it, an ache sharp enough to cut.

Closeness. Belonging. Laughter that felt unforced.

It was poison.

Harry turned from the doorway and stalked back into the kitchen. The dishes clattered too loud as he scrubbed them, steam rising like smoke, scalding his wrists. His hair clung damp to his forehead, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Every scrape of porcelain was a ward layered over his heart. Every slam of a dish into the rack was a lock snapped shut.

He had let them in. He had let *him* in.

And now the terror was eating him alive.

---

When Xiao came by the next evening, he didn’t knock. The wards let him know he was there: a brush of power like steady earth against the edge of Harry’s magic, a presence both foreign and achingly familiar now.

Harry froze where he stood, dish towel clutched in his hands.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Xiao waited. A long silence stretched, the weight of it pressing against the door, against Harry’s chest.

Finally, Harry whispered, voice raw, “Go away.”

The wards thrummed, not rejecting, but tightening.

Xiao did not push. His presence lingered a moment longer, warm but restrained. Then it faded.

Harry’s breath shuddered out of him, hands braced against the counter.

He told himself it was a relief.

It felt like loss.

---

The days that followed twisted into a rhythm that hurt more than the war ever had.

Harry woke each morning to the same quiet, brewed tea too strong, moved through the motions of care with mechanical precision. Teddy, bright-eyed, tried to fill the silence with chatter, with small jokes, with sudden hugs. Harry tried to match the smile, but it felt stiff on his lips.

And through it all—through the garden, through the wards, through the stretch of the city—he felt the absence.

Xiao had been a constant, a steady orbit. Now, where that presence had stood, there was only emptiness.

Harry told himself it was what he wanted. What he *needed*.

He was safe this way.

Safe.

So why did the silence feel like suffocating?

---

Teddy noticed. Of course he noticed.

He’d noticed the change in Harry’s shoulders, the way the lines of tension had eased when Xiao was near. He’d noticed the laugh—the one that had startled Harry as much as it had him—spilling out on the rooftop garden. He’d noticed how Xiao’s gaze softened when he looked at Harry, and how Harry, for once, had let it happen.

And now he noticed the withdrawal.

The sharp way Harry flinched when the wards hummed as if anyone brushed past them. The clipped tone in his voice. The way he avoided even saying Xiao’s name, as though it might conjure him.

One night, when the silence was unbearable, Teddy padded barefoot into the kitchen where Harry sat hunched over a mug gone cold.

“Dad,” Teddy said softly.

Harry’s head lifted, curls falling into eyes that were too bright in the low light. “What is it, Teddy?”

Teddy crossed the room, climbing onto the chair beside him. His knees tucked up to his chest, chin resting atop them. His metamorphmagus hair shifted a shade of muted brown, dulled by worry.

“You’re scared of being happy,” Teddy said. His voice wasn’t accusing. It was gentle, curious, almost sad.

Harry froze.

His throat worked, but no words came.

Teddy didn’t push. He just sat there, small and steady, watching his father’s silence like it was an answer all its own.

---

The wards hummed around the house, stronger than ever. Layer upon layer, woven so tightly Harry’s hands ached from the effort.

But no magic could shield him from the truth Teddy had laid bare.

Happiness was the one danger Harry could not protect against.

And it terrified him.

Chapter Text

The wards screamed.

Not the soft hum of a bird brushing past the boundary, not the faint ripple of energy that came when a stray witch or wizard wandered too near. This was a sharp, jarring keening—magic grinding against magic, as though invisible claws scraped the air itself.

Harry was out of bed before he was conscious of moving, wand in hand, heart slamming so hard it hurt. Teddy stirred in the next room, a muffled sound of sleep turning into a whimper at the noise.

“Shh,” Harry whispered hoarsely, rushing to his son’s door. Teddy sat upright, hair already shifting in alarm, wide eyes glowing faintly in the dark. “It’s alright. It’s alright, stay in here.”

“Dad—?”

“Stay,” Harry repeated, firmer this time, though his voice shook. “No matter what.”

He sealed the door with a flick, layering wards over it even as the ones around the perimeter shuddered again, sparks hissing in the corners of his vision.

Someone was testing them. Probing.

Forcing.

Harry’s breath stuttered in his chest.

The cottage seemed to close in around him as he stumbled toward the front window, wand clutched in his fist so tight his knuckles went white. The wards flared once, twice, as though struck from the outside.

It was too much. Too strong.

He remembered battlefields lit in green. He remembered bodies falling. He remembered the taste of dirt and blood in his mouth, the helpless certainty that he was too late, always too late.

Not Teddy. Not Teddy. Not again.

Harry staggered back, slammed into the wall, clutching at his ribs as if he could hold himself together by force. His chest locked tight, lungs refusing to expand, every breath a shallow rasp that only made the panic worse.

He had failed.

He was failing.

The wards would break. Teddy would—

“No.” Harry’s voice broke ragged in the empty air. “No, no, no—”

His knees hit the floor. His wand clattered from his grip, useless. His hands clawed at the floorboards, trembling so violently his vision blurred. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t—

And then, suddenly, warmth.

Arms closed around him, solid, unyielding. The ground vanished beneath his terror, replaced by strength—by a body that held without question, without demand.

“Harry.”

Xiao’s voice.

Deep. Calm. So steady it cut through the cacophony.

Harry jerked, tried to pull away, words catching on his tongue, but the panic was too sharp, too loud. His chest convulsed, air sawing in and out too fast, too shallow.

Xiao’s arms only tightened, anchoring him against a chest that rose and fell with slow, deliberate rhythm.

“Breathe with me,” Xiao murmured, his voice low, resonant, like stone warmed by the sun. “That’s it. In. Slow. You’re not alone. Out. Good. Again.”

Harry’s body shook, every muscle taut, but some part of him—some desperate, drowning part—latched onto the rhythm.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

The air tore through his throat like fire, but it came.

His hands, frantic and clawing, found Xiao’s shirt and clenched. He hadn’t meant to hold. He hadn’t meant to *cling*. But his body betrayed him, clutching at the only solidity in a world spinning out of control.

Xiao’s warmth didn’t falter. His voice didn’t waver. “You’re safe. Teddy is safe. I’m here. You’re not alone.”

The words carved through the panic, cut through the years of silence and self-punishment, sank deep into the marrow of Harry’s bones.

Safe.

Teddy is safe.

You’re not alone.

The truth of it struck with such force that Harry’s body buckled. His forehead pressed against Xiao’s chest, breath breaking in shudders, tears burning hot trails down his face before he could stop them.

He hadn’t cried like this in years. He hadn’t *let himself*.

But now—now he couldn’t stop.

And still, Xiao held him.

No judgment. No questions. Just arms wrapped firm and steady, grounding him against the storm.

Harry’s sobs broke into ragged gasps, his hands fisting tight, his whole body leaning, surrendering to the solidity of Xiao’s embrace. The panic didn’t vanish, but it dulled beneath the rhythm of another’s heartbeat, beneath the steady heat of someone who didn’t let go.

For the first time in so long, Harry let himself lean.

The world narrowed to warmth. To strength. To Xiao.

---

Time blurred.

When Harry’s breathing finally slowed, his body exhausted, he realized with a jolt that he was still wrapped in Xiao’s arms. That he hadn’t pulled away. That the tremble in his hands had quieted only because Xiao had covered them with his own, broad and warm.

The wards hummed outside—strong, whole, unbroken. Whoever had tested them was gone.

Teddy slept on, untouched.

And Harry… Harry was still here.

Clinging.

Chapter Text

The house had settled back into silence.

The wards hummed their usual steady rhythm now, like the faint thrum of a heartbeat beneath the earth, but Harry could still feel the echo of their earlier scream crawling along his skin. His hands ached from clenching his wand so hard, and the sharp taste of panic lingered bitter on his tongue.

He’d tucked Teddy back into bed hours earlier. His boy had stirred when Harry entered, rubbing sleep-heavy eyes, hair flickering between silver and brown in anxious reflex.

“Everything’s fine,” Harry had whispered, brushing curls from Teddy’s forehead. “It’s alright. Sleep, love.”

And Teddy, trusting as ever, had pressed into his touch, whispering, “You’re safe too, Dad,” before drifting back into dreams.

Harry had almost broken then—kneeling there in the dim light, hearing his son believe in him so easily, so utterly, when Harry himself believed in nothing but his failures.

He hadn’t meant to step outside. He hadn’t meant to breathe air that wasn’t laced with panic. But somehow his feet had carried him through the door, into the little garden he and Teddy had coaxed from foreign soil. Herbs, wildflowers, ivy clinging stubbornly to the stone wall. A sanctuary stitched together over years of hiding.

And Xiao was there.

Not looming, not intruding. Simply present. Seated on the low stone bench, posture at once relaxed and alert, as though he belonged in the space without ever needing to claim it.

Harry froze in the doorway, curls tumbling forward to shield his face, body taut with wariness. He should have dismissed him. He should have retreated. Instead, he lingered.

Perhaps because his body still remembered those arms anchoring him, that voice guiding him back to breath when he had been sure he was drowning.

The door clicked shut behind him. His bare feet whispered against the grass as he crossed into the garden, every movement sharp with tension.

Xiao looked up.

Their eyes met.

For a heartbeat, Harry wanted to vanish. Those black eyes were too steady, too knowing. They stripped through every defense Harry tried to hold.

“Sit,” Xiao said softly, not as command, not as plea, but as simple fact—as though he had already saved a place for Harry, and Harry’s absence had been the only thing that didn’t fit.

Harry’s throat worked. His legs carried him forward before his mind caught up. He lowered himself to the bench’s edge, shoulders hunched, curls cascading like a shield.

The garden was quiet save for the chirp of night insects and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. Harry could feel Xiao’s warmth beside him even without contact, steady as the earth itself.

“Harry,” Xiao said at last, voice quiet, deep. “You were terrified tonight.”

Harry flinched. His fingers twisted together, pale scars catching the candlelight that spilled faintly from the house.

“I’m always terrified,” he admitted, the words scraped raw from his throat.

Xiao didn’t contradict him. Didn’t soften the truth. He only nodded once, slow, like a man accepting an oath.

Harry wanted to curl in on himself. He wanted to deny the way his hands still shook, the way his chest still seized whenever he thought of the wards faltering. But Xiao’s silence was too patient, too unrelenting.

“You don’t understand,” Harry whispered, voice shaking. “Every time I thought it was over, it wasn’t. The war. The betrayals. Everyone I—” His breath stuttered, words splintering. “I can’t— If the wards break, if I fail again—”

Xiao shifted, not closer, not yet. But his presence seemed to expand, steady and immovable.

“You didn’t fail tonight.” His voice was low, certain, like bedrock beneath shifting ground.

Harry turned his head sharply, curls falling back to reveal wide, glass-bright eyes.

“You think I don’t know failure?” Xiao continued, gaze steady on him. “I’ve carried others until my body broke. I’ve guarded when I should have rested. I’ve stood alone because I was too afraid of losing if I asked someone to stand beside me.”

The words settled between them, heavy, unvarnished truth.

Harry’s breath caught. His lips parted, but no words came.

Xiao moved then. Slowly, deliberately. A broad hand lifted, pausing just short of Harry’s face, waiting.

Harry’s heart thundered. Every instinct screamed to retreat. To hide. To guard.

And yet—he leaned.

Just barely. Enough.

Xiao’s knuckles brushed his cheek, feather-light, as though touching something sacred. He traced away the damp trail of tears with infinite care.

Harry trembled. His body betrayed him, leaning imperceptibly into the touch even as his breath stuttered in panic.

“You’re not alone,” Xiao murmured, words threaded with the same grounding certainty he’d spoken inside. “Not anymore.”

Harry’s chest ached. His curls quivered in the night breeze. And before he could retreat—before he could remind himself of every betrayal, every scar—Xiao leaned in.

The kiss was nothing like Harry had ever imagined.

Not desperate. Not searing.

Slow.

Steady.

Reverent.

Xiao’s lips pressed to his with a care that made Harry’s breath catch, a weightless touch that asked nothing, demanded nothing—only offered.

Harry froze. His hands curled into fists against his knees, nails biting into his palms. Panic surged, colliding with something sharper, deeper—yearning so fierce it left him trembling.

He didn’t pull away.

Xiao lingered just long enough for Harry to feel the warmth, the solidity, the quiet reverence in the press of lips. Then he drew back, gaze steady.

Harry’s eyes flew open. Viridian wide and luminous, raw with fear and want all tangled together. His lips parted, breath shaking, curls falling wild around his face.

He looked at Xiao as though he were standing at the edge of a cliff, wind screaming in his ears, the ground falling away beneath him.

Terrified.

Yearning.

Both at once.

His voice broke on the smallest whisper.

“…Why?”

Xiao’s black eyes softened, but his presence remained unyielding. “Because you deserve gentleness,” he said simply.

Harry’s throat closed. His body trembled, caught between fleeing and falling, between panic and surrender.

The night wrapped close around them, the garden silent save for the hammer of Harry’s heart.

And still, Xiao sat steady beside him, warmth radiating like earth beneath storm, waiting.

Harry had never felt so exposed.

So seen.

So utterly undone.

Chapter Text

Harry woke with the heaviness of memory pressing down on him.

The kiss.

It lingered on his lips like a ghost, soft and impossibly steady, the warmth of it impossible to banish no matter how hard he tried. He turned his head into the pillow as though he could smother the memory, as though he could bury it beneath the weight of breath and cotton and denial.

But it remained.

His body ached with shame.

He hadn’t stopped Xiao. He hadn’t pulled away, hadn’t done what every scar in his chest screamed he should have done. Instead he’d trembled, eyes wide and foolish, heart hammering like a boy’s. He had leaned into it—if only the smallest fraction, if only enough to damn himself.

Harry sat up sharply, curls spilling forward, breath catching.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t allow it.

His hands were unsteady as he pulled on his robe, slipping down the narrow stairs into the kitchen. He needed routine—something familiar, grounding. Tea, toast, the scrape of butter against bread. Teddy would come down soon with bed-warmed cheeks and sleep-ruffled hair, eyes still carrying the glow of his dream-shifting. Harry needed to be normal, steady, safe.

But the moment he touched the kettle, his hands shook so violently the handle rattled against the counter.

Last night replayed in broken fragments—the terror of the wards, Xiao’s arms closing around him, the grounding voice that had pulled him back from suffocating. And then, later, in the garden, the brush of fingers against his cheek, the kiss.

Slow. Gentle. Reverent.

Nothing like the frantic imaginings Harry had built over the years, fueled by panic and yearning in equal measure. Nothing like the snatched touches of nightmares where closeness turned into betrayal.

It had been… safe.

And that terrified him more than anything.

---

By the time Teddy came down, Harry had managed to pour tea and arrange toast on plates, but his hands still trembled, betraying him as he buttered another slice.

“Morning, Dad,” Teddy mumbled, rubbing his eyes. His hair flickered turquoise and gold in patches before settling back to soft brown.

“Morning, love,” Harry replied, voice tight, too soft. He slid a plate toward his son, keeping his eyes lowered.

Teddy eyed him, perceptive even half-asleep. He didn’t press, though. He bit into his toast, crumbs scattering across the table, and began chattering about some silly dream—a garden where all the plants sang in different languages, and how confusing it had been to understand them.

Harry tried to smile. Tried to let the sound of his boy’s voice stitch the frayed edges of his nerves back together.

But his chest ached.

He didn’t notice Xiao until the door creaked.

The man filled the kitchen doorway like a shadow that somehow warmed rather than chilled. Tall, steady, his presence carrying the same grounding weight as earth beneath bare feet. His black eyes caught Harry’s, but his expression didn’t press. He inclined his head in silent greeting, then poured himself tea as though he belonged.

Harry’s throat closed. He ducked his head quickly, curls falling forward like a curtain.

The shame gnawed at him.

---

The morning passed in silence. Xiao didn’t push. He didn’t demand. He moved through the cottage as though his presence had always been accounted for: fixing a broken hinge on the back door, stacking kindling in the shed, mending a loose wardstone at the garden wall.

Harry watched from the window, guilt knotting his stomach. He should tell him to leave. He should reclaim the sharp lines of solitude he had drawn so carefully around himself and Teddy.

But every time he opened his mouth, the words crumbled.

Because Xiao didn’t ask for anything.

He was simply there.

Steady.

---

It was in the afternoon, when Teddy darted off to his room with a book and a grin, that Xiao stepped inside from the garden, sleeves rolled to the elbow, forearms strong and dusted with sunlight. Harry stood by the sink, washing the last of the dishes. His hands trembled, water spilling.

Xiao approached, slow, deliberate. He didn’t crowd. He simply reached out, fingers brushing Harry’s wrist—barely there, a touch so soft it could have been mistaken for a breeze.

Harry stiffened. His breath caught.

But he didn’t pull away.

The world narrowed to that point of contact, the weightless press of skin against skin.

Xiao’s voice was low, quiet. “Just here.”

Harry’s eyes stung. His grip faltered on the plate, and Xiao took it gently from him, setting it aside. His hand didn’t leave Harry’s wrist, though he didn’t tighten either. Just a steadying warmth, a reminder.

Harry swallowed hard. His voice shook. “I… I don’t…”

“I know,” Xiao said simply.

The words stole the breath from his lungs.

He didn’t explain, didn’t ask, didn’t press. He simply stood there, grounding Harry with a touch that held no expectation, no demand.

And something in Harry cracked.

His free hand rose—hesitant, trembling—and brushed against Xiao’s fingers. Not grasping, not clinging. Just the barest brush, enough to feel the warmth of skin, the solidity beneath.

It was so small. So insignificant.

And yet it felt monumental.

Xiao’s gaze softened, but he didn’t move, didn’t shift, didn’t change the fragile balance. He let Harry set the pace, let him linger in the smallest of touches until his hands trembled too much to hold.

Harry pulled back sharply then, breath ragged, curls falling forward again. Shame burned through him, hot and sharp.

But Xiao only nodded once, calm, as though even that fleeting contact had mattered.

---

In the days that followed, the rhythm of it unfolded in quiet increments.

A brush of fingers when Xiao passed him a teacup.

A steadying hand on his back when Harry stumbled in the garden.

The warmth of shoulders barely touching on the bench at dusk, Teddy laughing nearby as fireflies sparked into life.

Harry hated how much those touches lingered in his chest afterward. Hated the way they warmed him. Hated how desperately he wanted more.

And yet he couldn’t deny the way his body leaned into them, the way his defenses cracked with every steady presence Xiao offered.

---

Teddy noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He watched his dad with mischievous eyes, taking in the way Harry smiled more, even if just in fleeting sparks. How his shoulders loosened sometimes when Xiao was near, how the tension bled just slightly from his body.

Teddy didn’t say anything.

Not directly.

But when Harry caught him smirking one evening, eyes darting between the two of them as though he were the cleverest little matchmaker alive, Harry flushed scarlet.

“Don’t you dare,” Harry warned, voice soft but shaky.

Teddy blinked innocently, curls shifting silver at the edges. “Dare what?”

Harry groaned, pressing a hand to his face.

His son only laughed.

But later, when Harry tucked him in, Teddy murmured drowsily, “You smile more, Dad.”

Harry’s chest clenched. His hand lingered on Teddy’s hair, brushing soft strands back.

“Do I?” he whispered.

Teddy hummed, half-asleep. “Yeah. I like it.”

Harry sat there long after Teddy drifted off, the words echoing in his chest, loosening something that had been bound tight for far too long.

And when he finally returned downstairs, Xiao was waiting in the quiet of the kitchen, black eyes steady, offering nothing more than presence.

Harry hesitated at the doorway. Trembled.

Then, slowly, he crossed the room and let his fingers brush Xiao’s where they rested on the table.

It wasn’t much. Barely anything at all.

But for Harry, it was everything.

Chapter Text

Harry wasn’t sure how the evening had bent toward this.

The day had passed in its usual rhythm: tea at dawn, Teddy sleepily shuffling into the kitchen, Xiao mending a loose ward by the garden wall. There had been errands in Seoul — a discreet visit to the apothecary, Teddy tugging Harry’s hand as they slipped between Muggle and wizarding districts, Xiao a silent shadow who never let them out of sight. Ordinary, in the way Harry had come to define it: quiet, careful, threaded with small, steady touches that he never seemed able to refuse anymore.

And now — night settled over the house, Teddy asleep upstairs, and Harry sat across from Xiao in the sitting room, firelight painting the walls in restless gold.

His nerves twitched like wires.

Xiao was too close. Not physically — he sat in the armchair across from Harry’s worn sofa — but in presence. His gaze was steady, unblinking, and Harry felt stripped bare beneath it, as though all his walls had been peeled away and only the fragile, trembling core of him remained.

Harry wrapped his arms around himself, fingers digging into the fabric of his sleeves. He could hear the crackle of the fire, the faint hum of wards thrumming like a heartbeat against the windows.

Xiao spoke.

“I should tell you something.”

Harry flinched, head jerking up. His throat tightened. “What?” His voice came out sharper than he intended, defensive, like the snap of a trap.

Xiao didn’t recoil. His posture was calm, hands resting loosely on his knees, every line of him grounded and unmovable.

“I am falling in love with you, Harry.”

The words hung between them like a spell detonated in silence.

Harry froze.

The blood drained from his face; his chest constricted so sharply it felt like he’d been hexed. The firelight blurred, his breath shuddering out of him as panic surged like floodwater.

“No,” he whispered, more to himself than to Xiao. “No, no, you can’t—”

Xiao tilted his head slightly, expression as steady as stone. “I can. And I am.”

Harry shot to his feet, hands trembling so violently he nearly knocked over the chipped mug on the table. His curls fell into his eyes, wild and frantic. “You don’t—you don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do.”

The certainty in Xiao’s tone made Harry stumble back a step, spine hitting the bookshelf. His breath came ragged, his chest heaving as though he were back in the middle of battle.

“You can’t,” he spat, voice cracking. “You can’t say things like that. You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’ve done, what I’ve—what I’ll ruin if you stay here.”

Xiao rose slowly, unthreatening, a mountain moving at its own deliberate pace. His height filled the room, but his presence was not crushing. Instead, it was grounding — an anchor against Harry’s spiraling.

“I do know you,” Xiao said softly. “Not everything. But enough. Enough to know the weight you carry. Enough to see the way you protect Teddy. Enough to see the way you keep breathing, even when it hurts.”

Harry shook his head violently, curls whipping. “That’s not—that’s not enough, you don’t—you can’t—” His voice broke. “You’ll only get hurt. Everyone does. Everyone who—” He choked, the rest dissolving into air.

Xiao stopped just short of reaching for him. His hands remained loose at his sides. “Then let me be hurt. That’s my choice. Not yours.”

Harry’s knees nearly buckled.

The words lodged in his chest like glass, sharp and impossible to breathe around. He pressed a shaking hand to his face, digging his palm against his eyes as though he could push the world away. “Don’t. Please, don’t.”

“Harry.” Xiao’s voice was low, even, steady. “I’m not asking you to love me back. Not now. Not ever, if you can’t. I am telling you what I feel. Because it’s truth. And you deserve to hear truth, not the lies you’ve been fed your whole life.”

Harry dropped his hand, staring at him through blurred vision.

The fire popped loudly.

Something inside Harry quaked, unmoored. Shame and fear clawed at him — the same old refrain: don’t trust, don’t believe, don’t hope. He had never let anyone close enough to even consider words like this. He had never allowed it. Because closeness meant betrayal, meant loss, meant ruin.

But Xiao stood there, immovable, offering no pressure, no demand. Just truth.

Harry’s lips trembled. His voice cracked raw. “I… I don’t… I don’t know what I feel.”

Xiao’s gaze softened, dark eyes steady as night.

Harry’s chest heaved. He grasped at words like fragments of glass, sharp and slippery in his throat. “But I… something. I feel… something. I don’t know what to call it.”

The admission tore out of him like a confession.

For a moment, silence hung heavy, broken only by the frantic pounding of Harry’s heart.

Then Xiao stepped closer, slow, deliberate. He stopped within reach, not touching, but close enough that Harry could feel the steady warmth of him.

Harry trembled.

His breath shook as Xiao leaned down slightly, bringing himself level. He didn’t close the space completely; he waited.

Harry’s hands clenched at his sides, knuckles white. Fear coiled tight, shame gnawed at him, but beneath it — yearning burned, raw and helpless.

And before he could think better of it, Harry tipped forward, just barely, closing the smallest fraction of the gap.

Their foreheads touched.

The contact was featherlight, tentative, yet it sent a jolt through Harry like lightning. His breath caught, mingling with Xiao’s in the narrow space between them.

Eyes closed, he trembled, overwhelmed.

Xiao didn’t move. Didn’t claim. Didn’t press. He simply remained, steady as stone, his breath slow and calm against Harry’s own ragged rhythm.

For the first time in years, Harry let himself lean — just the slightest bit.

Their breaths mingled.

The world narrowed to that fragile closeness, the fragile honesty of it.

And Harry felt the terrifying, aching truth: he wanted this. He wanted *him*.

Chapter Text

The invitation arrived folded into enchanted silk, its edges shimmering faintly with runes Harry didn’t recognize. Teddy found it first, his delighted gasp echoing through the kitchen as Harry stirred tea.

“Dad! Look—it’s from Xiao!”

Harry’s grip on the spoon faltered, tea sloshing over the rim. He turned, heart lurching, and saw Teddy clutching the folded square with both hands, as though it were the most precious treasure in the world.

The silk unfolded in Teddy’s eager fingers, dissolving into air to reveal an elegant script.

*For Harry and Teddy,* it read, in fluid strokes that seemed more spoken than written. *An invitation to a private concert. Warded, safe. For you.*

Harry’s stomach twisted. His first instinct was *no*. His whole body tensed with the familiar urge to refuse, to protect, to keep walls high and impenetrable. Crowds. Music. Exposure. All of it was danger.

But Teddy was looking at him with eyes that gleamed like sunlight through glass. Hope shimmered in his features, so open it hurt.

“Please, Dad,” Teddy whispered. “It’s just us. And Xiao. He made it safe. He wants us there.”

Harry closed his eyes. He could almost feel the walls of the house pressing in, the old wards humming with their ceaseless burden. Safety, yes—but safety that strangled. Safety that starved.

Teddy’s hand slid into his. Small, warm, insistent.

Harry let out a shaky breath.

“Alright,” he murmured. “We’ll go.”

---

The venue wasn’t a stadium or arena. It was a hall tucked behind layers of glamour and spellwork, hidden in the folds of Seoul’s magical quarter. From the outside, it looked like nothing more than a modest theater, its signboard glowing faintly in Hangul, unreadable to Muggle eyes.

Inside, the wards hummed, old and intricate, woven into the very air. They pressed gently against Harry’s senses—protective, not invasive. Xiao’s work, he realized. Xiao had shaped this place, secured it.

And it was empty, save for them.

Rows of seats stretched before the stage, but only two were occupied: Harry and Teddy, side by side in the center. Their footsteps echoed when they walked down the aisle, Harry’s shoulders hunched, Teddy’s excitement barely contained.

“Feels weird,” Teddy whispered, settling into his chair. “Like we’re kings or something.”

Harry’s lips twitched despite his nerves. “Something like that.”

The lights dimmed. The hum of wards deepened, resonating like a heartbeat through the hall.

And then Xiao stepped onto the stage.

He wasn’t in his usual AEGIS performance attire—no glittering jackets or stylized makeup. Tonight, he wore simple black, his long sleeves rolled to the forearms, his presence stripped of spectacle. His hair framed his face in soft, unstyled waves, and in his hands rested a microphone that seemed almost unnecessary.

Harry’s breath caught.

There was no prelude, no announcement. The moment Xiao looked at him, everything else fell away.

The music began—gentle, a piano’s low notes filling the hall. Then Xiao’s voice rose.

It wasn’t the polished perfection Harry had glimpsed at the larger concert. This was raw, stripped bare. A voice that held weight, warmth, and wounds all at once.

The lyrics unfurled like confession.

Words about scars—scars no one else saw, scars carried in silence. Words about survival, not as triumph but as endurance, the quiet courage of breathing when the world wanted you to stop. Words about being seen, wholly and without judgment.

Harry’s throat tightened, his nails digging into his palms. The song wasn’t just for an audience. It wasn’t for a crowd of faceless fans. It was *for him.*

Every line carried the shape of his story, though Harry had never spoken it aloud in full. Every note curved toward the hidden fractures he’d spent years burying.

And Xiao’s gaze never wavered.

Not once.

Through every verse, every refrain, his eyes locked on Harry like an oath.

Harry’s vision blurred.

He blinked hard, but the tears spilled over anyway, hot trails streaking down his cheeks. He didn’t move to wipe them away. For once, he couldn’t. For once, he didn’t want to hide.

The music swelled, Xiao’s voice breaking into a soaring chorus that spoke not of perfection but of persistence. Harry’s chest ached as if the sound itself pressed against his ribs, urging something long-frozen to thaw.

And then Teddy’s hand slid into his.

Harry startled, turning sharply. Teddy’s eyes were bright, shimmering with a child’s fierce, unwavering certainty. His voice was a whisper, but it carried like a spell.

“See? He loves you.”

Harry’s breath shuddered out of him.

The tears came harder, streaming freely, but he didn’t bow his head. He didn’t turn away. He sat there, trembling, hands gripping Teddy’s, face wet and open, while Xiao sang to him as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

For the first time, Harry let himself be seen.

Chapter Text

The night was deep, the house hushed save for the faint hum of wards and the soft rhythm of Teddy’s breathing from his bedroom down the hall. For once, Harry didn’t feel the usual edge of panic in that quiet. Tonight, the silence seemed to wait, charged with something he couldn’t name, something that made his pulse race as if it were echoing the heartbeat of another.
Xiao was there.
They’d drifted to the sitting room after Teddy had gone to bed, candlelight flickering along the shelves and throwing warm shadows across the walls. Harry had meant to keep the evening simple—tea, conversation, nothing dangerous. But slow-burn tension had a way of slipping past every defense, coiling tight until it demanded release.
Harry sat close, closer than he ever had, his curls falling in a curtain that half-hid his face. His body hummed with nervous energy, his chest tight with fear and want. Xiao didn’t crowd him, didn’t push. He simply existed beside him, steady and grounding, his presence filling the air like earth beneath Harry’s feet.
Harry’s fingers twisted in the hem of his sweater. He didn’t look up at first, didn’t trust himself to. But the weight of Xiao’s gaze pressed gently against him, unyielding, impossible to ignore. Slowly, hesitantly, Harry lifted his eyes.
Viridian met black.
And Harry’s breath caught.
Something broke loose inside him then. Something fragile and fierce, something he’d kept locked behind layers of scar tissue for years. His body moved before his mind could stop it—awkward, trembling, but sure in its longing.
He climbed into Xiao’s lap.
The motion was clumsy, almost childlike in its urgency, his knees bracketing Xiao’s thighs, his smaller frame pressed against the broad solidity of the man beneath him. Harry’s curls spilled forward, brushing Xiao’s cheek as he settled, trembling with the audacity of it.
Xiao inhaled sharply, not in surprise but in recognition, as though he had been waiting for this. His large hands rose, hesitating for a fraction before resting on Harry’s waist, steady and grounding, the heat of his palms searing through the thin knit of Harry’s sweater.
Harry’s arms lifted, wrapping around Xiao’s neck. His movements were jerky, uncertain, but when his lips met Xiao’s, the hesitation shattered.
The kiss was a spark to kindling.
Harry moaned into it, the sound spilling out of him unbidden, raw and startling in its openness. His lips were soft, pliant, clinging to Xiao’s with desperate hunger. Every brush of contact sent lightning through him, every stroke of Xiao’s mouth deepened the ache he had tried so long to smother.
Xiao’s response was steady, sure. He kissed Harry back with reverence and restraint, matching the urgency without overwhelming it. His tongue teased gently at Harry’s lower lip, and Harry shuddered, tightening his arms around Xiao’s neck as though he might dissolve if he let go.
The taste of him—tea, nerves, something uniquely Harry—made Xiao groan low in his throat, the sound vibrating into Harry’s chest.
Harry gasped, breaking the kiss only long enough to breathe before diving back in, lips swollen, eyes bright with fear and want. His thighs trembled where they pressed against Xiao’s, his wiry frame taut with the effort of holding himself there.
And then Xiao moved.
With a strength that felt effortless, he rose from the couch, lifting Harry as though he weighed nothing. Harry clung to him, legs locking around his waist, arms tightening desperately.
The kiss didn’t break.
Xiao carried him through the dimly lit house, guided not by sight but by the pull of magic itself. Harry’s wards recognized him, shifting to open pathways, their hum aligning with Xiao’s steady power. The air itself seemed to know where they were going.
Harry’s bedroom door yielded at a brush of Xiao’s will. They crossed the threshold, and with one flick of his hand, Xiao closed it behind them.
Another spell followed, quiet but strong—a silencing ward, precise enough that Teddy would hear nothing, yet gentle enough that Harry and Xiao could still sense the boy’s breathing down the hall.
Harry felt the ward settle into place like a blanket, and a wave of relief broke through his panic. Safe. Teddy was safe.
The thought barely anchored before Xiao laid him on the bed.
Harry landed in a sprawl of limbs and curls, breathless, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow gasps. Candlelight brushed over his pale skin, caught in the wet sheen of his lips, the flush high on his cheeks.
Xiao leaned over him, bracing his weight on one arm, his other hand cupping Harry’s face with unbearable tenderness. Their eyes locked, Harry’s wide and trembling, Xiao’s dark and steady.
The kiss resumed.
Slower now, deliberate. Xiao’s mouth moved against Harry’s with reverence, coaxing rather than claiming. His lips traced the fullness of Harry’s, lingering, savoring. Every brush sent shivers down Harry’s spine, every press coaxed soft, startled moans from his throat.
Harry arched into it, overwhelmed by sensation, by the sheer reality of being wanted, being held, being kissed as though he mattered. His hands slid from Xiao’s neck into his hair, tangling in the black strands, pulling him closer.
The world narrowed to warmth, to breath, to the steady rhythm of lips meeting lips.
Harry trembled beneath him, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. The fear was still there, coiled tight, but it was drowned out by the ache of wanting, the dizzying relief of being allowed to want.
And Xiao kissed him as though they had all the time in the world.

The kiss broke with a ragged gasp. Harry’s lips were swollen, slick, trembling as he panted beneath Xiao, chest rising and falling like a bird desperate to take flight but tethered by invisible strings.
Xiao’s dark gaze lingered on him for a long moment, steady and grounding as always, then—without a word—he began to move.
Harry’s breath hitched as he watched Xiao straighten, hands going to the hem of his shirt. The fabric stretched over broad shoulders, the motion unhurried but unbearably deliberate. Piece by piece, clothing slipped away: fabric sliding from skin, the lines of muscle revealed in the flickering candlelight. His chest was sculpted yet soft, arms thick with steady strength, thighs powerful beneath fitted trousers.
Harry’s throat went dry.
And then Xiao’s hands went lower, to the fastening of his pants. Harry couldn’t look away even if he tried. The sound of fabric unfastening filled the hush, louder than any spell.
The trousers fell.
And Harry’s breath stuttered, body locking in shock as Xiao stepped free, utterly bared.
Harry’s wide eyes flickered downward—and stayed.
Xiao was large. Very large. His cock curved heavy and thick, the sight enough to send Harry’s pulse skyrocketing. His lips parted soundlessly, viridian eyes darkening with panic and awe all at once. Inwardly, he couldn’t help the frantic thought: How will that fit?
The question lodged sharp in his chest, half terror, half dizzying ache.
But then Xiao bent, lowering back to him, and Harry was caught again—not by size, not by fear, but by the grounding steadiness of his gaze. Xiao kissed him once, slow and soft, and Harry melted into it, moaning faintly, fingers curling helplessly in the bedding.
When Xiao pulled back, he didn’t rush. He didn’t demand. Instead, his hands moved with reverence, sliding beneath Harry’s sweater, urging him gently upright.
“Let me,” Xiao murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in Harry’s bones.
Harry’s hands shook, but he let Xiao lift the hem. Inch by inch, the fabric rose, baring pale skin, the slender curve of his waist, the faint scars scattered across ribs and arms. Finally, the sweater cleared his head, and his long black curls spilled free, cascading down his back in spirals that reached all the way to his butt.
The sight made Xiao’s breath falter.
He guided Harry gently back onto the bed, lowering him into the pillows, but his hands paused at the waistband of Harry’s soft pants. His palms rested there, warm and grounding, and his eyes sought Harry’s.
“Can I?” he asked softly, voice hushed but unwavering.
Harry’s cheeks burned crimson. His lips parted, but words failed him. Instead, he gave the smallest nod, shy and hesitant, his curls falling forward to half-hide his face.
The blush deepened when Xiao’s hands shifted.
Carefully, reverently, Xiao hooked his fingers into the waistband and began to tug. Slowly, inch by inch, the soft pants slid downward, brushing pale thighs, slipping over the curve of his buttocks. Harry lifted his legs instinctively, helping though his face burned with embarrassment, every inch revealed making him feel more fragile, more bared.
The candlelight painted him in gold and shadow, his small waist tapering delicately, his thighs soft and thick beneath Xiao’s hands, his body plump in ways that made him flush harder under the man’s gaze.
And then Xiao’s motion stilled, his dark eyes going wide in quiet surprise.
Because beneath the pants, clinging tight to Harry’s trembling body, was black lace.
Panties.
Harry whimpered, turning his head away, curls spilling over his cheek as if to hide. His chest rose and fell fast, shame warring with desperate need. He expected mockery, shock, rejection.
Instead, Xiao’s voice came low, soft, and full of reverence.
“Pretty,” he whispered.
Harry’s eyes snapped back to him, wide, disbelieving. His blush spread down his throat, his lips trembling as though he didn’t know how to accept the word, how to hold it.
But Xiao meant it. The word lingered in the air, heavy with truth, steady as stone.
Harry moaned softly at the sound, shivering, caught between wanting to hide and wanting to believe.
Xiao’s hands moved again, slow and careful. He slid the lace downward, inch by inch, gliding it over Harry’s thighs. As he bared pale skin, he lowered his mouth, lips brushing the inside of one thigh, then the other, pressing reverent kisses into the softness there.
Harry gasped, a sound halfway between shock and pleasure, his body twitching beneath the attention. Every press of lips seared into him, trembling moans spilling from his throat before he could stop them.
When the panties were gone, Xiao stayed close, kissing his thighs, trailing warmth higher, closer, until Harry was shaking apart.
Overwhelmed, Harry reached for him, hands pulling desperately at his shoulders. He tugged Xiao between his spread legs, closing the distance in a hungry, trembling kiss.
Their mouths clashed, messy and hot, Harry moaning into it as Xiao pressed close. And then Harry felt it—the thick heat of Xiao’s cock brushing against his own smaller one, the contact startling and electric.
Harry gasped into the kiss, hips jerking up in instinct before he could think. His small cock rubbed against the heavy thickness above, the friction dragging a cry from his lips. His body moved on its own, tentative, clumsy, but desperate, grinding up in short, needy bursts.
Xiao groaned low, deep in his chest, and pressed down in answer. His cock ground firmly against Harry’s, the weight overwhelming but so good Harry almost sobbed.
Their hips fell into rhythm—tentative upward thrusts from Harry, steady downward pressure from Xiao—heat and slickness building between them.
Xiao’s hands roamed, broad palms sliding over Harry’s body, memorizing every inch. He stroked over narrow shoulders, down wiry arms, across the soft swell of thighs. His fingers lingered at Harry’s waist, tracing the smallness, the fragility, before spreading wide to grip and massage.
Harry moaned helplessly into Xiao’s neck, mouth pressed to skin as though to anchor himself. His breath came in ragged bursts, his thighs trembling with effort. He tightened his legs instinctively around Xiao’s waist, pulling him closer, desperate for more of the friction, more of the weight, more of him.
“Xiao,” Harry gasped, the name muffled against hot skin, trembling with need and fear and want.
And Xiao held him steady, grounding him even as they burned.

Xiao pulled back, breath warm against Harry’s lips, gaze steady and intent. His dark eyes searched Harry’s face, as if weighing every tremor, every ragged breath, every flush of pink across his pale skin. For a long moment, the silence stretched, heavy with heat and want and uncertainty.
Then, his voice came, low and deliberate, vibrating through Harry’s bones.
“Are you ready for more?”
Harry’s lashes fluttered, his chest heaving. He swallowed once, lips trembling as if words might betray him. But his head moved—slow, deliberate, a small nod that still carried the weight of trust.
“Yes,” he whispered, barely audible, but enough.
Xiao’s expression softened, reverence and hunger braided together. His hand lifted, hovering just above Harry’s trembling stomach, and then he murmured a spell under his breath—old, subtle magic that hummed in the air before sinking into Harry’s body.
Harry gasped.
The spell swept through him, cleansing, loosening, a strange tingling that made him squirm in place. His body wiggled softly against the bedding, curls spilling across his face as he whimpered, the unfamiliar sensation sparking nerves deep inside him. It wasn’t painful—just strange, invasive in a way that made his toes curl against the sheets.
Xiao watched the reaction closely, patience in every line of him, waiting until Harry’s trembling eased into soft pants, until his body stopped fighting the magic. Only then did he lower himself again, lips trailing kisses down the column of Harry’s throat.
Harry shivered, moaning faintly, hands clutching at the blankets beneath him.
Xiao continued lower, slow and reverent, brushing his lips over Harry’s collarbones, down his chest, across the soft swell of his stomach. Every press of his mouth was deliberate, coaxing Harry to relax, to feel rather than fear. His lips lingered on Harry’s hipbones, teasing the edge of his sensitivity, and Harry moaned again, hips twitching helplessly under the weight of attention.
But it was when Xiao’s mouth found his thighs that Harry broke into pieces.
Xiao kissed the inner flesh reverently, lips soft and steady against pale skin. He lingered there, mapping every inch with slow affection, his stubble scraping lightly across tender flesh. Harry’s thighs trembled at the contact, the muscles fluttering uncontrollably beneath each kiss.
“Xiao—” Harry gasped, voice cracked with need.
Xiao didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His mouth moved higher, closer, until Harry realized exactly where this was going.
And then he was there.
Harry jolted violently as Xiao’s tongue pressed against his hole, licking slow and deliberate.
The cry that tore from Harry’s throat was raw, startled and loud, his back arching off the bed in reflex. His hands clutched at the sheets, curls spilling wild across his face as he moaned again, louder this time, utterly undone by the sensation.
It was new—utterly, terrifyingly new.
Heat flared through him, liquid and unstoppable, as Xiao’s tongue pushed deeper, swirling, tasting, teasing. Harry gasped again and again, noises spilling unrestrained as his thighs twitched on either side of Xiao’s head.
Instinct made him try to close them, his body seeking to shield itself from the overwhelming pleasure. His thighs snapped inward toward Xiao’s face, curls falling over his flushed cheeks as he whimpered.
But Xiao’s hands were ready.
He grabbed Harry’s thighs firmly, strong fingers digging into soft flesh, forcing them wide again. Wider, until Harry was spread open, bared entirely, nothing hidden from Xiao’s hungry mouth.
“Ah—Xiao!” Harry cried, voice breaking. His body trembled, muscles taut with sensation, but the grip on his thighs held him steady.
And Xiao didn’t stop.
He licked deeper, harder, tongue working into Harry with relentless focus. His eyes flicked up, catching Harry’s, and the sight nearly undid him. Xiao watched him writhe, every flicker of his tongue deliberate, every moan he coaxed measured and savored.
Harry’s face burned crimson, his lips parted in ragged cries as he writhed on the sheets, back arching helplessly under the assault of sensation.
His toes curled tight in the air, the motion instinctive, desperate, his legs quivering in Xiao’s unyielding grasp.
“Please,” Harry gasped, the word breaking on his tongue, “more—please—”
Xiao groaned low against him, the vibration making Harry sob out another moan.
Harry’s hands scrambled blindly, searching for purchase, until finally they found Xiao’s wrists. He clutched them desperately, fingers tight around the strong bones, anchoring himself in the steady solidity of Xiao’s touch as the man licked deeper into him.
The rhythm grew stronger, the wet heat unrelenting. Harry’s head tipped back, curls spilling over the pillow, mouth open in cries he couldn’t swallow. His body quaked, every nerve alive, as Xiao consumed him with a devotion that made him feel worshipped rather than undone.
And still, Harry moaned for more, trembling, clutching at Xiao’s wrists, his voice breaking as the pleasure tore through him.

Harry’s body was trembling, every nerve alive, his thighs quivering under Xiao’s relentless grip. But even in the haze of pleasure, even with his back arched and his moans spilling unchecked, something inside him reached for more.
His hands moved on their own. One slipped down into Xiao’s dark hair, tangling in the strands, tugging desperately as though to drag him deeper. The other cupped Xiao’s cheek, thumb trembling against warm skin, grounding himself in the solidity of Xiao’s presence even as his body spiraled apart.
“Xiao—” Harry gasped, voice cracking, every syllable soaked with need. His head tipped back against the pillows, curls sticking damp to his forehead. His hips jerked helplessly, seeking more, needing more.
“Yes,” he moaned, voice raw, broken into pieces. “Yes—yes—yes—”
The words tumbled out like a prayer, repeated over and over, his body writhing under Xiao’s mouth.
And then instinct surged. Harry fought past Xiao’s grip, muscles shaking as he pulled his thighs free. His legs moved fast, desperate, planting his feet firmly against the mattress. With strength born of need, he lifted his hips, arching high, grinding down against Xiao’s tongue.
“Ah—” His cry split the air, high and unrestrained, his whole body bucking with the motion.
Xiao’s eyes snapped up, watching him, hunger and awe colliding in his gaze. Harry’s movements were frantic, almost wild, the desperate grind of someone too overwhelmed to think, too lost to do anything but chase sensation.
He ground harder, panting, his fingers yanking at Xiao’s hair as if trying to pull him inside, his other hand pressing hard against Xiao’s cheek as though to anchor him there.
Xiao groaned low in his throat, the vibration deep inside Harry making him sob out another moan.
Harry’s rhythm faltered, hips jerking uncontrollably, but Xiao was there—steady, unyielding.
And then Xiao’s hands returned, gripping Harry’s thighs again, stronger this time. He forced Harry still, pinning his legs wide against the bed, holding him down even as his hips bucked weakly.
Harry gasped, body thrashing, but Xiao’s tongue pressed deeper, harder, never relenting.
The pleasure surged too fast, too sharp. Harry’s moans broke into cries, strangled and high, as his body arched helplessly. His chest heaved, sweat dampening his curls, his arms flailing for purchase until his fingers clawed at the sheets, the pillows, Xiao’s shoulders—anything.
And then it hit him.
The orgasm ripped through him without warning, untouched elsewhere, coaxed only by Xiao’s tongue. His cry tore the air apart, raw and hoarse, his body bowing off the bed as he came hard.
“Xiao!” he screamed, clutching wildly, hips jerking though Xiao held him down.
Xiao didn’t stop.
His tongue worked Harry through every shudder, licking him relentlessly, drinking down every sound, every tremor. He stayed pressed against Harry until the man sagged into the bed, wrung out and trembling, legs falling weakly open.
Harry lay gasping, chest heaving, body quaking with aftershocks. His curls stuck to his wet face, eyes glassy, lips parted in ragged moans that hadn’t yet faded.
And then Xiao moved.
Slowly, reverently, he crawled back up Harry’s body, his lips brushing against damp skin along the way, until he hovered over him once more. He lowered himself beside Harry, gathering him close with one arm before pressing his mouth gently against Harry’s swollen lips.
Harry whimpered into the kiss, still shivering, his arms winding shakily around Xiao’s neck. He clung to him, desperate and vulnerable, moaning softly as their mouths melded.
Xiao’s free hand moved lower, slow and careful. His fingers slipped between Harry’s trembling thighs, brushing against the sensitive flesh there. And then, with a touch that was both gentle and deliberate, he began to rub around Harry’s still-quivering hole.
Harry gasped into the kiss, body jolting at the sensation. His arms tightened around Xiao’s neck, pulling him closer, desperate to drown in the comfort of his warmth. His moans spilled into Xiao’s mouth, every sound caught and savored.
And then, trembling, Harry reached down with one of his own hands. His fingers brushed Xiao’s strong wrist, gripping it firmly, as if needing to feel the reality of Xiao’s touch. He held on tightly, shuddering, as Xiao’s fingers continued to rub, drawing soft moans from his lips with every stroke.
Harry clung to him, arms wrapped around his neck, body pressed close, moaning helplessly into the kiss while holding onto Xiao’s wrist as though it were the only thing tethering him to the world.

Xiao kissed Harry softly, lips warm and unhurried, steadying him through the aftershocks still rolling across his trembling frame. Harry melted into it, breath shuddering against Xiao’s mouth, his arms looped tightly around Xiao’s neck as though afraid he might vanish if he let go.
Then Xiao shifted, breaking the kiss only long enough to whisper, voice low and careful, “I’ll prepare you.”
Harry shivered at the words, heart pounding so hard he thought it might rattle his ribs. But he didn’t pull away. He pressed his face into Xiao’s neck, hiding his blush in the curve of muscle and skin, and nodded. His curls fell forward, tickling across Xiao’s throat, and his soft whisper came muffled but sure.
“Yes,” he breathed.
Xiao’s hand slid lower, lingering at the curve of Harry’s waist before gliding down between his thighs. Harry gasped at the intimate touch, burying his face deeper into Xiao’s neck, his lips brushing against warm skin as he moaned softly.
Xiao kissed Harry’s temple, soothing, grounding, then drew in a careful breath as his finger circled Harry’s entrance.
Harry tensed, hips giving a little jerk, but he didn’t pull away. His grip on Xiao’s wrist tightened, the bones of his delicate hand pressing into Xiao’s skin as though he needed to hold on for courage.
The first finger pressed in slowly, deliberate and unhurried. Harry whimpered into Xiao’s neck, muffled moans escaping against the hot press of skin. His thighs trembled, closing slightly, but Xiao’s other hand stroked calming circles on his hip, steadying him as the digit sank fully inside.
Harry gasped when it did, soft body clenching around the intrusion, his moans spilling free. His curls stuck to his damp forehead as he tilted his head back, lips parted, green eyes glassy with sensation.
“Good,” Xiao whispered, voice a rumble against Harry’s ear. “You’re doing so good.”
Harry shivered at the praise, hips shifting unconsciously against Xiao’s hand, seeking more.
Another kiss—gentle, coaxing—before Xiao slid a second finger inside, stretching him slowly. Harry whimpered louder this time, nails digging into Xiao’s wrist, his thighs trembling with the strange fullness.
His voice cracked when he moaned, clinging tighter to Xiao as the fingers moved, careful but unrelenting. “Xiao—ah—”
Xiao’s steady presence anchored him. His strength was undeniable, but he wielded it with such patience, such reverence, that Harry could let go, could allow himself to feel.
By the time the third finger slid inside, Harry was panting openly against Xiao’s neck, his grip fierce on Xiao’s wrist as though it were the only thing keeping him grounded.
“Too much?” Xiao murmured, pausing, his lips brushing Harry’s damp curls.
Harry shook his head violently, whimpering, “No—please—” His words broke into a moan as Xiao began to move his fingers, stretching him, stroking him, coaxing more and more sound out of him.
Harry’s thighs squeezed tightly together around Xiao’s arm, instinctive, desperate to hold onto the sensation. His soft legs pressed against Xiao’s strong muscle, trembling with the effort, locking around him as though to trap the pleasure inside.
Xiao’s strength held steady, unshaken, fingers working deeper, faster, unyielding even with Harry’s thighs clamped desperately around his arm. He watched Harry’s face—every moan, every gasp, every flicker of ecstasy writ clear in those piercing green eyes.
Harry’s cries grew higher, more desperate, his hips jerking helplessly as Xiao’s fingers drove him toward the edge. His grip on Xiao’s wrist turned almost bruising, his knuckles white as he clung.
And then Harry broke.
His orgasm tore through him again, hips bucking wildly onto Xiao’s fingers, body arching off the bed. His cries filled the room, high and unrestrained, curls flying around his flushed face as he came hard.
Xiao’s fingers never faltered. He held Harry steady, working him through it, stroking him until every shudder eased, until the tension bled from his trembling body.
Only then did Xiao withdraw, fingers sliding free with gentle care.
Harry collapsed against him, boneless, moaning softly into his neck. His whole body quivered with aftershocks, thighs still twitching as he gasped for breath.
But then, to Xiao’s surprise, Harry shifted.
With a trembling kind of determination, he pressed a final kiss to Xiao’s throat and then gently pushed at him. Xiao let himself be guided, lowering onto the bed beneath Harry’s insistent hands.
Harry crawled away, curls tumbling forward around his flushed face as he moved, body still shaky but driven by intent.
Xiao’s breath caught as he watched, struck silent by the sight of Harry—angelic, undone, yet determined—as he shifted down the bed.
Until he stopped between Xiao’s legs.
Harry settled there, slender body stretched out along the mattress, his curls falling in a dark curtain around his face as he lifted his head to look at Xiao. His green eyes were wide, uncertain but burning with quiet resolve.
His delicate hand reached out, trembling slightly, and wrapped around Xiao’s cock. The size difference was startling—his small, soft hand barely able to encircle the thick length of him.
Harry swallowed hard, eyes flicking up to meet Xiao’s gaze.
“I want to give you pleasure too,” he whispered, voice shaking but sure, the words like a vow spilling from his plump lips.

Harry’s fingers trembled where they curled around Xiao’s cock, the sheer size of it overwhelming in his hand, his green eyes darting up to meet Xiao’s steady golden gaze. His curls tumbled forward over his flushed face, and when he spoke, his voice came out raw, fragile, yet determined.
“Help me,” Harry whispered, the plea spilling from his lips like a secret.
The sound made Xiao’s composure crack. A guttural grunt escaped him before he surged forward, large hands seizing Harry’s waist and pulling him upward, dragging him up onto his knees. Their mouths crashed together in a kiss that was less careful now, less restrained—a deep, consuming kiss that stole the breath from Harry’s lungs.
Harry clung to him, melting into the strength of Xiao’s grip, their lips moving hungrily, tongues tangling, Harry moaning into the demanding press of it. The taste of him, the heat of him, made Harry dizzy, and when he finally broke away, panting for breath, his lips were swollen, slick with Xiao’s kiss.
Still kneeling between Xiao’s legs, Harry shifted back down, curls bouncing with the movement, his narrow hips raised instinctively, leaving his ass in the air. He reached again for Xiao’s cock, wrapping his small, pale hand around the thick length with more certainty this time, stroking gently as he settled himself lower.
With trembling care, Harry tucked his messy curls behind his ears, exposing the flushed pink of his face, every ounce of his vulnerability laid bare before Xiao’s burning gaze.
He bent forward, lips parting, and pressed the lightest of kitten licks against the head of Xiao’s cock. A tentative touch, a testing one, but it sent a hot jolt through Xiao all the same. Harry’s tongue flicked again, cautious, then firmer, licking across the sensitive slit, and the sound of Xiao’s sharp grunt urged him on.
Confidence bloomed slowly. The kitten licks deepened, lengthened, Harry tracing wet lines down the shaft, mouthing at him with growing boldness. His hand stroked clumsily but earnestly as his lips closed around the head.
Harry moaned softly at the taste, the heavy weight of Xiao on his tongue, and pressed down farther. His throat tightened around him as he pushed himself deeper, determination etched in every line of his flushed face. Inch by inch, he took more of Xiao into his mouth, until with a shiver and a gagging sound he forced the thick length all the way in, burying Xiao down his throat.
His eyes watered at the fullness, but when he lifted them, Xiao was watching him—intently, hungrily, golden gaze locked on Harry like nothing else existed.
The sight sent heat rushing through Harry. He began to move, pulling back until only the head remained in his mouth, then sinking down again, throat stretching to take him. Slowly at first, learning the rhythm, learning the feel of Xiao’s cock filling him, Harry bobbed his head, his hand steadying the base as his mouth worked him with earnest devotion.
Xiao’s breathing grew rougher, his chest rising and falling in sharp heaves. A low, raw grunt tore from his throat, and one of his hands lifted, large and sure, threading into Harry’s hair. His fingers curled through the messy strands, gathering the locks, and he held Harry firmly, not forcing him yet, but guiding, steadying, claiming.
Harry moaned around him at the touch, the vibration sending a shock through Xiao.
His control snapped a little. With a sharp breath, Xiao tugged gently on Harry’s hair, easing him back off his cock, pulling the thick length from Harry’s glistening mouth. A thick strand of spit clung between Harry’s lips and the flushed head, breaking when Harry panted, face wet, eyes glassy.
“I’m going to cum soon,” Xiao warned, voice low, frayed with restraint.
Harry’s breath hitched, a whimper escaping as he met Xiao’s gaze, his voice hoarse, breaking with need.
“Help—want you to cum down my throat.”
The plea was desperate, shameless. Harry’s lips parted again, and before Xiao could respond, he ducked his head, swallowing him down once more, throat stretching, lips sealing around him with stubborn determination.
Xiao’s hand tightened in Harry’s hair, grip firm as he guided him down, burying himself deep in the wet heat of Harry’s mouth. With his other hand, he reached over, fingers finding Harry’s hole again. He pressed inside, slick from before, sliding a finger deep while holding Harry’s head steady on his cock.
Harry moaned helplessly around him at the double sensation, his whole body rocking back against Xiao’s hand, fucking himself on the invading fingers even as his throat worked around Xiao’s length. The sounds were obscene—wet, muffled moans, the slap of spit-slicked skin, the deep grunts tearing from Xiao’s throat.
Harry’s moans vibrated through him, tipping Xiao over the edge. With a ragged growl, his hips bucked, and he spilled hot and thick down Harry’s throat.
Harry gagged slightly but forced himself to swallow, throat working desperately as Xiao’s hand kept him pressed down, holding him there until the last pulse of release shuddered through him.
When Xiao finally eased his grip and let him go, Harry pulled back with a wet gasp, coughing lightly, spit and seed shining on his lips. His chest heaved, his curls damp with sweat and tears, his green eyes dazed but glowing with pride.
Xiao slowly withdrew his fingers from Harry, slick with his own arousal, and tossed them aside to reach for him. His strong arms dragged Harry upward, shifting his trembling body until he was straddling Xiao’s lap.
Harry wrapped his arms tightly around Xiao’s neck the moment he was pulled close, pressing their chests together, his breath still ragged. His hips moved instinctively, grinding softly against Xiao’s spent cock, needy even in the aftermath, desperate to stay close.
Xiao kissed him then, swallowing his soft moans, not caring for the taste of himself lingering in Harry’s mouth. His hands spread wide across Harry’s back, holding him steady as the smaller man writhed gently, grinding down with quiet desperation.
And Harry moaned into the kiss, arms clinging, hips moving, body seeking more even in his exhaustion.

Harry stayed straddling Xiao’s lap, arms still tight around his neck, his whole body trembling with the aftershocks of everything they’d already done. His face was buried against Xiao’s skin, green eyes half-lidded, lips parted and wet, still whispering soft sounds of need even as he ground down helplessly against him.
Xiao looked at him, at the way Harry’s messy curls stuck to his flushed face, at how small he seemed curled into his arms, and something inside him tightened with a mix of feral desire and aching tenderness.
Without breaking their kiss for long, Xiao shifted his grip. His strong arm wrapped easily around Harry’s waist, steadying him as though he weighed nothing at all. With one smooth movement, he lifted Harry up slightly, holding him with one arm while his free hand guided his cock.
The thick head of him pressed against Harry’s slick, stretched hole, sliding against the tight ring with a promise that made Harry whimper. Xiao’s voice rumbled low, rough with need but impossibly gentle as he angled himself, his mouth brushing Harry’s temple.
“Ready, baby?” he asked.
The word baby made Harry shiver, made his breath catch in his throat. His green eyes fluttered shut, a moan breaking from him, high and desperate. He nodded against Xiao’s neck, his voice trembling when it came out.
“Yes… please…”
Xiao groaned at the sight of him so pliant, so eager. He pressed forward slowly, guiding Harry down onto his cock with steady, patient control. Inch by inch, the thick length stretched Harry open, filling him more than he had ever thought possible.
Harry clung to him, arms looped tight around his shoulders, his nails digging into Xiao’s back as the pressure built. His mouth fell open on a long, needy moan, his thighs shaking as Xiao sank deeper, guiding him carefully down, never letting him slip.
By the time Xiao was fully sheathed inside him, Harry was shaking all over, overwhelmed by the fullness, the stretch, the dizzying weight of being taken so completely. His body clenched around Xiao’s cock, his head tipped back, curls spilling down his back in wild waves.
The sensation was too much, too sharp, too consuming. Harry’s body bucked once, then collapsed against Xiao’s chest. His arms locked tighter around his neck, and with a broken cry, he came untouched, his release spilling hot across his stomach as he writhed helplessly in Xiao’s lap.
“Fuck, Harry…” Xiao groaned, feeling the sudden tight spasms around his cock, watching the smaller man fall apart from nothing but being filled. He kissed Harry’s temple, holding him through the storm, murmuring praise low and steady.
When Harry sagged limp against him, Xiao began to move. Gentle at first, his strong arms guiding Harry up and down his length, lifting and lowering him with a strength that made Harry’s mind reel.
Harry tried to help, tried to move his hips, but he was too weak, too overwhelmed, his body trembling and useless. His legs trembled around Xiao’s waist, his arms clung tighter, and he could do nothing but let himself be lifted, filled again and again, each movement pulling ragged moans from his throat.
“I… I can’t—” Harry whimpered against his ear, but Xiao only shushed him, kissing the corner of his mouth.
“You don’t need to, baby. Just feel me.”
And Harry did—his whole body burning with it, clinging helplessly as Xiao used his strength to move him, every thrust hitting deep, every motion grinding against nerves that made him cry out.
But Xiao wanted more. With a low growl, he shifted, rolling them easily until Harry was flat on his back against the bed, sprawled and flushed, his hair a wild black halo against the sheets. Xiao hovered over him for a heartbeat, drinking in the sight of Harry laid out, chest heaving, lips parted, eyes glassy with need.
Then Xiao shifted again, sitting back on his heels, his large hands gripping Harry’s thighs firmly. He pressed them upward, folding Harry in half, pressing his knees back toward his chest until he was completely open beneath him.
Harry gasped, eyes going wide at the new angle. Before he could speak, Xiao thrust forward, burying himself deep, the angle hitting so perfectly that Harry’s cry broke into a wail.
The force of it stole his breath, ripped another orgasm from him almost instantly. His back arched sharply off the bed, his hands scrabbling uselessly against the sheets, green eyes rolling back as wave after wave of pleasure tore through him.
“Xiao—ah, gods—” Harry wailed, his voice raw, cracked. “Faster—please—harder—deeper!”
The desperation in his voice undid whatever control Xiao still held. He obeyed without hesitation, thrusting harder, faster, his thick cock slamming into Harry with a rhythm that made the bed creak beneath them.
Harry came again, and again, body unable to withstand the relentless pleasure. His thighs quivered in Xiao’s grip, but the larger man only pressed them tighter, holding him open, fucking him deeper with every thrust.
The sound of Harry’s cries filled the room, unabashed, raw. He wailed Xiao’s name, voice breaking, pleading through his orgasms, gasping “yes, yes, yes” over and over as his body convulsed with release after release.
Xiao’s chest heaved with the effort, sweat dripping down his temple as he watched Harry fall apart beneath him, beautiful and broken open, undone by his touch.
But still it wasn’t enough. Xiao shifted again, bracing himself as he sat up on his knees, never slipping free. He lifted Harry’s trembling hips off the bed entirely, raising him up so that the smaller man was suspended in his grip.
Harry cried out at the sudden change, arms reaching helplessly for purchase, his back arching even higher, head thrown back. His hole clenched desperately around Xiao’s cock as the new angle drove into him impossibly deep.
Xiao slammed into him with brutal strength, the force of it shaking Harry’s entire body. His muscular thighs met Harry’s ass with each thrust, the sharp sound echoing through the room, filling the air alongside Harry’s screams.
Harry’s hands fumbled for purchase against the sheets, pushing against Xiao’s thighs where they framed him, his back bowing in an almost impossible curve. His cries broke into sobs of pleasure as orgasm after orgasm wracked him, leaving him shaking, sweat-slick, undone.
“Xiao!” Harry screamed his name, voice hoarse and cracked, the sound of pure surrender. “Yes—yes—yes—”
His body writhed in Xiao’s hold, completely overwhelmed, his release spilling again and again, untouched, ripped from him by nothing but the relentless pounding of Xiao’s cock. His green eyes shone wet, his lips trembling, every inch of him undone as he came endlessly.
And still, Xiao fucked him, holding him steady, driving into him deeper, harder, giving him no escape from the storm of pleasure.

Harry was already raw with pleasure, his body trembling with exhaustion and bliss, but still he reached for Xiao. His small hands gripped desperately at the man above him, fingernails dragging down sweat-slicked skin, green eyes wide and shining with tears. His voice broke on a moan, ragged and needy, the words spilling out like a prayer.
“Closer… please… want you closer…”
The sound of it nearly undid Xiao. He groaned deep in his chest, the rough sound vibrating through them both. His grip on Harry’s thighs tightened for a heartbeat before he shifted, lowering Harry’s hips back onto the bed without breaking his relentless rhythm. His cock drove in deep, steady, merciless, but now his body folded down over Harry’s smaller frame.
The press of it made Harry gasp, his back arching to meet the weight and heat of him. Xiao’s chest pressed against his own, their slick skin sliding together, their breaths tangling hot between open mouths.
Xiao moved his arms beneath Harry, wrapping them around him, holding him tight as if he would never let go. Each thrust slammed him deeper, the bed shaking beneath them, Harry’s small body rocking helplessly with the force. The embrace made everything sharper, more consuming — the intimacy of being held, of being filled, of being taken so completely.
Harry’s cries grew louder, rawer, every sound spilling directly into Xiao’s ear. His nails scratched red lines down Xiao’s back, desperate, clinging, grounding himself in the unrelenting storm of sensation.
“Xiao—ah—ah—” Harry moaned, his voice breaking, his body convulsing as another orgasm tore through him. He writhed in Xiao’s arms, trembling and shuddering, unable to hold back as the waves consumed him.
Xiao’s control began to slip. His thrusts grew harder, faster, the sharp sound of flesh meeting flesh filling the room in a frantic rhythm. He growled low against Harry’s neck, his breath ragged, his body shaking with the effort of holding back even as his hips snapped forward with brutal strength.
Harry clung tighter, arms and legs locking around Xiao’s body. His heels dug into the small of Xiao’s back, urging him deeper, harder, never to stop. His voice broke on another desperate moan, words tumbling out between cries.
“Cum inside me… please… cum inside me…”
The plea shattered what little control Xiao had left. He groaned Harry’s name, the sound raw, guttural, his whole body tightening as pleasure coiled white-hot inside him. He slammed deep one last time, burying himself completely, and then he was coming — thick, hot, spilling deep inside Harry’s trembling body.
Harry cried out sharply at the first rush of heat, his back arching violently off the bed. Even without being touched, his body broke again, convulsing in a dry orgasm triggered only by the sensation of Xiao filling him. The tight spasms of his channel milked Xiao’s release, drawing every drop deeper.
They writhed together, Xiao’s cock still thrusting, slower now but still relentless, carrying them both through the shattering peak. Harry’s nails raked down his back, his voice breaking on ragged sobs of pleasure, his whole body convulsing with aftershocks. Xiao groaned against his ear, kissing the damp curls plastered to Harry’s temple, holding him tighter, never letting go as he fucked them both through it.
At last, when their bodies began to still, Xiao shifted again. He rolled them carefully, his strength effortless, until Harry lay sprawled on top of him. The movement left Xiao on his back against the sheets, his large body stretched out, while Harry collapsed across his chest, boneless and trembling, his breath shuddering against Xiao’s skin.
But Xiao didn’t slip free. His cock stayed buried deep inside, still hard, still pulsing, locked in Harry’s heat as though his body refused to let go.
Harry whimpered faintly at the sensation, too raw to form words, but his arms tightened around Xiao’s shoulders, clinging even now.
Xiao’s hand came up slowly, tenderly, sliding along the curve of Harry’s spine. His fingers traced the delicate bumps of vertebrae, moving up and down with reverent care. He kissed Harry softly, lips brushing against his own swollen ones, and then again, deeper, their tongues meeting in a slow, lingering kiss that stole Harry’s breath all over again.
Harry moaned into the kiss, exhausted and overwhelmed but unable to stop himself from responding. He melted into it, into the warmth of Xiao’s mouth, into the steady caress along his spine. Every nerve in his body still trembled from the aftermath, every muscle quivering, but he gave himself over to the kiss completely, arms tightening around Xiao’s neck as though he belonged there.
Xiao held him close, his lips moving with aching gentleness, his hand never ceasing its slow, soothing path up and down Harry’s back. His cock still pulsed inside him, the fullness constant, grounding, a reminder that they were still joined, still bound together in the most intimate way.
Harry trembled, soft moans spilling into Xiao’s mouth, his whole body surrendering to the closeness he had begged for — the closeness that terrified him as much as it set him free.

Harry trembled against Xiao, boneless and breathless, still sprawled across his chest with Xiao’s cock buried deep inside him. His whole body quivered with the exhaustion of too many orgasms, but the fullness pressed into him, the steady pulse of Xiao inside him, was too much to ignore.
A needy sound slipped from his throat before he could stop it, soft and raw. His green eyes fluttered half-open, dazed and glassy, and his hips shifted without thought. Slowly, tentatively, he began to grind against the thick cock still lodged inside him.
It was not the desperate, frantic movement of before. It was slow, drawn-out, the smallest rock of his hips back and forth, the drag of Xiao’s length against every sensitive spot inside him. The sensation made his lips part on a long, broken moan, the sound spilling directly into Xiao’s waiting mouth.
Their lips brushed, then pressed harder, the kiss messy and wet, Harry moaning loudly into Xiao’s lips as he ground himself down again, and again, every motion sending sparks of sensation racing up his spine.
Xiao groaned in return, his chest vibrating against Harry’s smaller body. His large hands never faltered in their path up and down Harry’s back, strong fingers stroking soothingly, grounding even as his hips answered.
He thrust upward in time with Harry’s slow grind, matching him, deepening every movement. The rhythm became a push and pull, Harry rocking forward as Xiao pushed up into him, their mouths locked, their bodies straining against each other with every slide.
Harry broke the kiss first, his head tipping back, curls falling in dark waves as he cried out. His voice cracked on Xiao’s name, high and desperate, the sound ringing in Xiao’s ears like music.
“Xiao—ah—Xiao…”
The way he said it, breathless, begging, undid him. Xiao’s hips jerked upward harder, his cock driving deep, and Harry whimpered, clutching tighter at his shoulders.
With a trembling inhale, Harry forced his body upright. His muscles screamed in protest, but some stubborn spark inside him pushed him higher, using what little strength remained.
His thighs shook, his arms wavered, but still he lifted himself, green eyes squeezed shut with effort. His hole stretched further as he rose, Xiao’s cock dragging against every nerve-ending until only the thick head remained inside.
For one dizzying moment, Harry hovered there, breathless, his body trembling with strain. Then he slammed himself back down, taking Xiao to the hilt in one desperate motion.
The cry that tore from his throat was raw, shattering, his body convulsing instantly as pleasure tore through him.
Xiao’s head fell back with a groan, his eyes locked on the sight of Harry moving above him.
“Fuck, Harry—”
But Harry wasn’t finished. His trembling hands reached blindly for Xiao’s, locking their fingers together. He used the anchor of Xiao’s strength to brace himself as he planted his feet against the mattress.
Every motion cost him, but still he pushed, lifting himself inch by inch before slamming back down, the sound of skin meeting skin sharp and wet in the air.
Again.
And again.
Each movement ripped another orgasm from him, his body clenching tight around Xiao’s cock, milking him as Harry broke apart over and over. His cries filled the room, breathless and broken, his curls sticking to his sweaty face as he rode with desperate abandon.
Xiao could only watch in awe, chest heaving, his hands tightening around Harry’s as the smaller man gave everything he had left. Every slam down onto his cock drove him deeper, harder, until Harry was nothing but sensation, his thighs trembling violently, his voice hoarse from screaming Xiao’s name.
At last his strength faltered. His legs shook too hard to lift him again, his arms gave out, and with a low whimper Harry collapsed forward. His chest pressed against Xiao’s, his curls falling into his face, his lips brushing against the curve of Xiao’s neck.
The sound that left him was muffled, fragile — a long, shuddering moan against Xiao’s skin.
Xiao immediately shifted, letting go of Harry’s hands. One large palm slid up, cradling the back of Harry’s head, his fingers tangling in damp curls as he pressed him closer. He whispered softly against Harry’s ear, voice rough but gentle, spilling sweet nothings between ragged breaths.
“You’re beautiful… perfect… so good for me, baby…”
His other hand wrapped firmly around Harry’s waist, holding him steady.
And then he moved.
Planting his feet firmly against the mattress, Xiao began to thrust up into Harry, faster, harder, relentless. Each snap of his hips drove him deep, slamming into Harry’s trembling body with enough force to make the bed shudder.
Harry cried out against his neck, arms tightening desperately around him. His body convulsed as the new rhythm ripped through him, tearing orgasm after orgasm from his already spent frame.
He wailed, sobbed, moaned Xiao’s name over and over as pleasure consumed him. His body trembled violently, his hole clenching desperately around Xiao’s cock as he came again, and again, and again.
Xiao held him close, whispering against his hair, thrusting harder, faster, giving Harry no escape from the waves of release. His hand stroked along his spine even as his hips pounded upward, every motion a mixture of relentless possession and infinite tenderness.
Harry’s moans grew incoherent, raw and pleading, his face buried in Xiao’s neck as his body shattered beneath the onslaught. Still Xiao fucked him, whispering softly, holding him tight, driving him into orgasm after orgasm until there was nothing left but sensation, nothing left but them.

Xiao held Harry against him, the smaller body trembling and pliant in his arms. His cock was still buried deep inside, every thrust making Harry moan, every drag of length against his inner walls forcing his body into yet another wave of shaking pleasure. Xiao’s lips brushed Harry’s ear, his breath hot and ragged, and his voice spilled low and tender, even as his hips kept moving.
“Good boy… perfect for me… mine…”
The sweet nothings slipped out in a steady stream, half-whispered, half-groaned, his words meant only for Harry’s ears. He could feel Harry shiver at each phrase, could feel the way his body tightened around him every time he murmured those quiet reassurances. He was still fucking him deep, his thrusts measured but relentless, filling Harry over and over until the smaller man was clinging desperately.
Harry’s face pressed against his neck, curls sticking to damp skin. His voice was raw, breathless, but the words tumbled out in a whimper, loud enough to echo between them.
“I’m… I’m gonna cum again—”
The words dissolved into another moan, muffled against Xiao’s throat.
The admission snapped something in Xiao. His jaw clenched, muscles flexing as a guttural sound tore from his chest. He shifted his grip, braced his feet harder against the mattress, and began to fuck up into Harry faster. His thrusts lost their rhythm, growing sharper, harder, more desperate.
“Together, baby,” Xiao grunted against his ear, voice rough with the edge of his own approaching release. “Cum with me.”
Harry’s answering moan was loud, broken, his lips finding Xiao’s in a kiss that was nothing but frantic need. Their mouths collided messily, teeth clashing, tongues tangling. Harry moaned directly into the kiss, the sound vibrating between them, swallowed by Xiao’s mouth.
Xiao slammed upward into him, each thrust driving them closer, deeper, until Harry’s body shook violently in his arms. His cry ripped free, muffled against Xiao’s lips, his body convulsing as another orgasm ripped through him. He sobbed in pleasure, every nerve raw and burning, his hole clenching down tight as though trying to hold Xiao inside forever.
Xiao’s release followed in the same heartbeat. With a ragged groan, he slammed into Harry a final few times before spilling deep inside him. His cock throbbed with each hot pulse, filling Harry’s trembling body with his release.
Harry sobbed again at the sensation, not of fresh cum but of the warmth of it, the fullness, the way his own body responded instinctively. His orgasm was dry this time, his body shuddering with aftershocks, his muscles locking around Xiao even though he had nothing left to give.
Still Xiao kept moving, fucking them both through it, dragging out the pleasure until neither could tell where one release ended and the next began. His thrusts grew weaker only gradually, the desperation fading into exhaustion.
Finally, at last, Xiao slowed. His hips stilled, the sweat-slick press of their bodies pressed flush together. Harry trembled in his arms, his nails dragging faint lines down Xiao’s back, his face buried in the crook of his neck.
Xiao’s breaths came heavy, chest heaving as he leaned down, pressing tender kisses against Harry’s temple, his cheeks, wherever his lips could reach. Harry’s tears were hot against his skin, and Xiao’s thumb brushed them away gently, wiping them from his flushed face.
“Shh… you’re okay… I’ve got you,” he murmured softly, kissing him again, gentler now. Their lips lingered together, a slow, tender press after all the frenzy.
They stayed locked together like that for long moments, Xiao’s cock still buried deep. He waited, not moving, not rushing, his own body patient as he let himself soften gradually inside Harry’s spent warmth.
When at last his cock slipped free, he eased out slowly, carefully, one hand steady on Harry’s back. The movement earned him a soft whimper, fragile and helpless, from the boy in his arms.
Hot cum spilled out instantly, leaking from Harry’s well-used hole. It dripped between his thighs, a vivid reminder of everything Xiao had just given him, everything they had shared.
Harry sighed against his mouth, the sound exhausted but content, breathing into Xiao’s tender kisses as if he had nothing left but trust.

After kissing for a while, Xiao broke the kiss, though it took effort to pull his mouth away from Harry’s. His lips lingered a moment longer against Harry’s damp, trembling ones, as though reluctant to part even for a breath. The sound of Harry’s soft whimper followed him as he finally drew back, his forehead pressing against Harry’s for one last heartbeat before he shifted his hold.
Xiao tightened his arms around the smaller man, lifting Harry carefully from the bed. Harry’s body was still pliant, exhausted and boneless from the intensity of what they had just shared. He clung to Xiao instinctively, his arms looped around Xiao’s neck, curls brushing his cheek. His legs dangled briefly before Xiao adjusted, one strong arm bracing beneath Harry’s thighs, the other around his back, holding him close in a firm bridal carry.
Harry buried his face against Xiao’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. His own breath was still shaky, catching at intervals, but there was a comfort in being held so securely. Xiao’s warmth wrapped around him as tangibly as his arms, and Harry couldn’t help but sigh against his skin, small fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulder.
The bathroom light flickered on with a muttered word, the faint glow chasing away the dark. Xiao set Harry gently on the counter for a moment, balancing him carefully while he turned the taps. Water rushed into the tub, steam beginning to curl upward almost instantly, the sound of it filling the quiet room. Xiao tested the temperature with his hand, adjusting it until it was perfect — not too hot, not too cool, just warm enough to soothe sore muscles.
Harry sat silently, blinking at him through lashes still damp from tears. The sight of Xiao moving so casually — hair slightly disheveled, body still damp with sweat — struck something tender inside him. He bit his lip, unable to put words to the strange ache in his chest.
Without another word, Xiao returned to him, slipping his arms beneath Harry once more. He lifted him as though he weighed nothing at all and stepped into the tub, lowering himself carefully with Harry cradled against his chest. The warm water rose around them, lapping at their bodies, soothing the aches left behind by passion.
Harry let out a soft sigh as the heat enveloped him. He shifted slightly until his back rested comfortably against Xiao’s chest, his head tucked beneath the strong curve of Xiao’s jaw. The position was intimate, grounding, and he found himself melting further into the embrace.
For a while, there was no sound except the gentle splash of water and their quiet breaths. Harry reached down, almost shyly, his small hands finding Xiao’s larger ones where they rested around his waist. He played with Xiao’s fingers, tracing over the calluses and scars with delicate curiosity. His thumb brushed along Xiao’s knuckles, then his palm, as if learning them by heart.
Xiao bent his head, pressing soft kisses to Harry’s damp hair, then to the delicate line of his temple. Each kiss was slow, lingering, filled with reverence rather than urgency. Harry closed his eyes, shivering faintly each time lips touched skin.
When Xiao tilted his chin gently and captured his mouth again, the kiss was soft — nothing like the fevered ones from earlier. It was slow, patient, a coaxing reminder that intimacy didn’t always mean fire; sometimes it could mean quiet, unhurried devotion. Harry answered with a faint hum, his lips moving tentatively against Xiao’s, his fingers still tangled with the larger hand beneath the water.
They kissed lazily, in small, unhurried intervals. Every time they broke apart, Harry leaned back just enough to catch his breath, then leaned forward again, chasing Xiao’s lips. It was like breathing — impossible not to return.
Eventually, Xiao shifted slightly, reaching for a cloth. He poured water over Harry’s skin with one hand, his other steadying the smaller body against him. The warm streams cascaded over Harry’s chest, rinsing away sweat, tears, and remnants of their passion. Harry shivered at the sensation but didn’t protest, leaning into the careful attention.
They helped each other clean off, movements gentle and unspoken. Harry, still trembling but determined, took the cloth once Xiao finished with him and turned in his lap as much as the tub allowed. His motions were clumsy, hesitant, but he ran the cloth across Xiao’s chest, down his arms, lingering at the ridges of muscle and the faint marks left by Harry’s nails.
Each touch felt almost ceremonial, a wordless exchange of trust. Neither spoke, yet the silence between them was thick with meaning.
When the water had cooled, Xiao stood carefully, lifting Harry out with him. He set him gently on the soft mat, grabbing a towel to wrap around him. Harry laughed quietly as Xiao ruffled his curls with it, the giggle bubbling up in an unguarded moment of joy. The sound startled both of them, but it lingered in the air like a fragile gift.
Xiao’s lips curved faintly, and he bent down to kiss the corner of Harry’s mouth, catching the laughter there. Harry’s cheeks flushed pink, but he smiled shyly as Xiao reached for another towel, drying himself quickly before returning to Harry’s side.
They dried each other off, trading small touches that were more caress than necessity. When Harry’s towel slipped, Xiao caught it, steadying him with a large palm against his hip. Harry blushed but didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned closer, pressing his forehead against Xiao’s shoulder in silent gratitude.
Once finished, Xiao scooped him up again, bridal style, earning another startled giggle from Harry. He clung instinctively, arms circling Xiao’s neck as they left the bathroom. The sound of their steps was muffled against the floorboards, the quiet of the house wrapping around them.
The bedroom awaited, the bed still mussed from before. Xiao paused at the doorway, murmured a spell under his breath, and the sheets shimmered, all traces of sweat and mess vanishing in an instant. Clean, crisp fabric settled in its place, the room restored to calm.
Xiao carried Harry over and set him gently onto the mattress, careful as though he were placing down the most fragile treasure. Harry sank into the softness, blinking up at him with heavy-lidded eyes.
Xiao reached for his own things first, tugging on a pair of pajama pants. His movements were slow, deliberate, giving Harry time to breathe. Then he returned, picking up a pair of soft black panties and easing them gently onto Harry’s hips. Harry’s blush deepened as he lifted himself slightly to help, curls falling into his face.
When they were settled, Xiao grabbed one of his own shirts, oversized and worn, and slid it over Harry’s head. The fabric swallowed him, hanging down to his thighs, sleeves dangling past his hands. Harry tugged the collar closer to his nose, inhaling the faint scent of Xiao clinging to the cotton.
Xiao’s chest tightened at the sight, but he said nothing, only helping Harry settle against the pillows. Then he slid beneath the sheets himself, the mattress dipping with his weight.
Immediately, Harry shifted, curling toward him without hesitation. His head found its place against Xiao’s chest, ear pressed to the steady heartbeat there. One leg hooked instinctively around Xiao’s waist, pulling himself as close as possible, as though trying to merge with him.
Xiao wrapped an arm firmly around him, palm stroking slowly up and down Harry’s back in soothing circles. His other hand settled lightly against Harry’s hip, grounding him.
Harry closed his eyes, listening to the rhythm of Xiao’s heart beneath his cheek. Each beat was strong, steady, unyielding — the perfect counterpoint to the chaos that always lived inside him. His breath evened out gradually, his body sinking deeper into the cocoon of warmth and safety.
Xiao pressed a final kiss into Harry’s curls, holding him tighter. Harry’s leg remained tangled around him, their bodies pressed close in every possible way. The world beyond the room seemed to vanish, leaving only the two of them in the quiet.
They lay together like that, curled into one another, until sleep finally began to pull them under.

Chapter Text

Morning came softly. The curtains in Harry’s bedroom glowed faintly with the golden wash of dawn, sunlight bleeding in around the edges to paint the walls in muted warmth. It should have felt like any other morning. The stillness, the air thick with the faint scent of sleep and skin, the hush of the house just before Teddy would begin stirring in the next room — all of it was familiar.

But for Harry, this morning was different.

He woke slowly, his lashes fluttering open against the dim light, every muscle heavy and languid from the night before. He became aware of the warmth first — the solid heat at his back, the arm curved around his waist, the steady rhythm of a heartbeat he wasn’t sure he had ever truly listened to before. His body went still, his breath catching as memory rushed back in waves.

Xiao. His kisses. His hands. The way he had touched Harry like he was both fragile glass and fire, something to be worshipped, something to be held. The way he had whispered his name, over and over, until Harry had broken apart in his arms.

Heat rushed into Harry’s cheeks. His stomach curled, twisting in equal parts fear and shame.

He was ruined now, wasn’t he?

The thought rooted deep in his chest, bitter and sharp. He could already imagine the look Xiao would wear when he woke — realization dawning, the disappointment setting in once he saw Harry clearly for what he was. Not a hero. Not a lover worth holding. Just a man who had broken too many times, who had scars carved into every part of him, who didn’t know how to be touched without trembling.

Harry’s throat burned. He pressed his lips tightly together, trying not to let the sound of his breathing give him away. He wanted to move — to pull free, to escape before Xiao woke and the inevitable happened. Better to flee before rejection could root itself in his bones.

But before he could shift, the arm around his waist tightened slightly. A sleepy murmur brushed against his ear, low and deep, Xiao’s voice still rough from slumber.

“Harry.”

Just his name. Simple, soft, carrying none of the judgment Harry expected.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. “I—” His voice cracked. He tried again, quieter, “You don’t… you don’t have to…”

But the words fell apart. He couldn’t even finish the sentence. Didn’t have to what? Pretend? Stay? Touch him like last night hadn’t been a mistake?

Xiao stirred behind him, shifting until he could press closer. His lips brushed Harry’s curls first, then the side of his head, then the curve of his temple. The kisses were tender, unhurried, like each one was a reassurance.

“Don’t,” Xiao said quietly, his voice sure in the hush of the morning. “Don’t run from me.”

Harry’s breath trembled. His shame surged up in protest anyway. “You’ll see,” he whispered. “You’ll see I’m… not worth this. I’m broken.”

That was the truth of it, wasn’t it? Not a noble, tragic secret but a pathetic, ugly one. He had been cracked open so many times there was no way he could ever be whole again.

But Xiao didn’t recoil. He didn’t argue or deny with words alone. Instead, he shifted Harry gently onto his back, moving slowly, giving Harry every chance to pull away. When Harry didn’t — couldn’t — Xiao leaned over him, eyes searching his face.

“Broken?” he echoed softly, almost like the word itself was fragile. “No.”

Harry tried to turn his head, but Xiao caught his cheek in a steady hand, forcing him to meet his gaze. Those dark eyes didn’t flinch away. They didn’t pity, either. They simply… saw.

Then, without a word, Xiao bent down and pressed his lips to one of the pale scars tracing Harry’s collarbone. A kiss. Then another, lower, against the faint mark across his chest. Another, softer, along the line of his ribs where war had left him marred. Each kiss landed with reverence, as though Xiao were rewriting every memory carved into Harry’s body with something new, something gentler.

Harry’s breath hitched, his eyes wide. His hands, trembling, reached up and caught at Xiao’s shoulders. “Don’t—”

“Shh.” Xiao’s voice was steady, grounding. He kissed the scar at Harry’s hip, then moved up again, lips brushing over the raised line across his abdomen. “Every scar,” he murmured between kisses, “is proof that you lived. That you endured. You think they make you less. I see them, and I only see more.”

Harry’s chest ached. Tears pricked hot at his eyes. He tried to blink them away, but one slipped free anyway, trailing down his temple. Xiao caught it with his thumb, brushing it gently aside before bending to kiss that spot too.

“You’re precious,” Xiao whispered. “Exactly as you are.”

The words shattered something inside Harry. For a moment he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. All he could do was cling tighter to Xiao, his fingers curling against warm skin as though anchoring himself to the truth being spoken over him.

Precious.

No one had ever said that to him. Not like this.

He couldn’t answer, not with words. But when Xiao finally leaned back, Harry reached up shakily, grabbed the back of his neck, and pulled him down into a kiss. It was clumsy, desperate, full of the sharp ache that came from not knowing how to hold onto something that mattered so much.

Xiao kissed him back with infinite patience.

When they broke apart, Harry was panting, his curls falling wild around his face. It was then he realized what he was wearing — the oversized shirt he remembered Xiao pulling over his head the night before. It hung loose on his shoulders, the fabric soft, smelling faintly of Xiao’s warmth. The hem brushed against his thighs, his legs bare beneath it.

Harry shifted slightly, pulling the collar up higher, as if hiding in it. The movement made Xiao’s lips curve faintly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Looks better on you,” Xiao said simply.

Harry flushed scarlet. “It’s yours,” he muttered.

“And now it’s yours too,” Xiao replied, just as calm, brushing another kiss to Harry’s temple.

Harry curled into him then, unable to fight the warmth spreading through his chest. He buried his face against Xiao’s shoulder, the oversized fabric of the shirt pooling around him, his curls spilling freely over it. He felt absurdly small, absurdly safe.

Safe.

That was what stunned him the most. He hadn’t felt safe waking up before. Not ever. His mornings had always been filled with dread — the next attack, the next betrayal. But this morning, with Xiao’s arm curved protectively around him, his body draped in the shirt that smelled like him, the soft weight of kisses still lingering on his scars…

For once, Harry didn’t feel alone when he woke.

Chapter Text

Life, for the first time in Harry’s memory, began to shift.
It was subtle at first, like the slow turning of seasons that crept past unnoticed until one day you woke and found the air smelled different, softer. Harry noticed it most in the mornings, when he no longer woke with his stomach clenched in dread. He noticed it in the evenings, when he didn’t immediately lock himself away after Teddy went to bed. He noticed it in the way Xiao’s presence no longer felt like a looming possibility of danger but something steady, anchoring, inevitable.
It frightened him, how natural it began to feel.
Harry had built his life on the belief that nothing good stayed. Friends, family, peace — all of it had slipped through his fingers before. To imagine permanence was a luxury, a temptation he’d never allowed himself to entertain. And yet now, when Xiao’s laughter filled his kitchen, when Teddy chattered about his day to an attentive ear that wasn’t only Harry’s, when he caught himself watching Xiao’s hands move with practiced grace — he began to imagine.
A future.
He could see it, faint but shimmering: mornings where Xiao’s warmth was always beside him, evenings where Teddy’s laughter was joined by Xiao’s deep chuckle, nights where Harry didn’t have to carry the weight alone.
It was dangerous, this imagining. But Harry couldn’t stop.

Teddy, of course, noticed before Harry was ready to admit anything aloud. Children always did.
It was one evening when Xiao had stopped by after rehearsal, still in loose, comfortable clothes that made him look more like the young man he was than the untouchable idol the world believed him to be. Harry had fussed over dinner, moving around the kitchen with sleeves rolled up, curls falling into his face as he chopped vegetables.
Teddy leaned casually against the counter, watching. His grin was far too knowing for someone his age.
“You like him,” Teddy said, sing-song, his voice carrying the kind of mischief that made Harry freeze with the knife half-raised.
Harry nearly dropped it. He turned, wide-eyed, cheeks burning before the words even fully landed. “I—Teddy, that’s—” He sputtered, his blush blooming hot across his face. “That’s not—”
Teddy only grinned wider, clearly enjoying the rare sight of his father so thoroughly undone. “You so do. You smile more when he’s around. And you laugh.” He tilted his head, his hair falling into his eyes, but his voice softened in a way that cut through Harry’s embarrassment. “I like it. I like you better when he’s here.”
Harry swallowed hard, throat tight. “Teddy…” He tried for sternness, but it faltered.
The boy just shrugged, still smiling, and skipped out of the kitchen before Harry could compose an argument.
Left alone with the flush in his cheeks and the warmth curling in his chest, Harry pressed a hand to his face. His heart raced, his pulse loud in his ears. Teddy was right. And that was what terrified him most.

That night, Harry cooked with more care than usual. His hands moved almost automatically — slicing, stirring, seasoning — but his thoughts tangled hopelessly. Each time he glanced up, Xiao was there at the table, helping Teddy with a small drawing, his long fingers surprisingly nimble as he held a colored pencil. He was patient, his smile faint but genuine, nodding as Teddy explained something in vivid detail.
It was such an ordinary sight that it stole Harry’s breath. For years, his life had been anything but ordinary. There had been chaos, war, shadows at every corner. And then there had been silence, isolation, the heavy solitude of survival. This — this domestic evening of dinner and pencils and laughter — felt almost unreal.
The food came together as if guided by instinct. Harry tied his curls back with a quick twist, pushing them out of his eyes, and brought dishes to the table. His sleeves were still rolled up, revealing the strong line of his forearms, faint scars etched into the skin. He avoided looking at Xiao at first, afraid of what he might see in his expression.
But when he finally dared a glance, Xiao was watching him.
Not with pity. Not with judgment.
With warmth. With something quiet and intent, a gaze that saw Harry as more than his fears.
Harry’s blush returned in full force. He ducked his head quickly, curls slipping forward again, but not before Xiao’s lips curved in the faintest smile.
They ate together, the clatter of chopsticks and spoons mingling with Teddy’s chatter. Xiao was quieter, content to listen, but when he did speak, his voice rolled through the room like steady earth, grounding everything.
Harry found himself smiling. Really smiling. Not the polite one he gave when necessary, not the sharp-edged one he used as armor, but a soft, shy curve of his lips he barely recognized as his own.
He caught Xiao’s gaze once more across the table.
And this time, Harry didn’t look away.

Dinner stretched into laughter. Teddy told stories with his hands waving dramatically, nearly knocking over his cup more than once. Harry chuckled, shaking his head, and Xiao reached out smoothly to steady the glass before it could spill. Their eyes met briefly, the movement seamless, wordless.
The longer the evening lingered, the more Harry felt the tight coil in his chest begin to loosen. He leaned back in his chair at one point, a strand of curls falling loose from the tie and brushing against his cheek. He tucked it back absently, only to realize Xiao’s eyes had followed the movement, dark and unreadable.
Harry’s heart skipped.
He cleared his throat, focusing on his food, but the warmth in his chest betrayed him.
Teddy eventually yawned, rubbing his eyes, and Harry rose to guide him toward bed. Xiao offered to help clear the table, and Harry hesitated, torn between instinctive refusal and the surprising comfort of the offer.
“Thank you,” he said softly at last.
Xiao nodded simply, already gathering plates with practiced ease.
By the time Harry returned, Teddy tucked in and drifting toward dreams, the kitchen was clean. Xiao stood at the sink, sleeves pushed up, drying the last dish with a towel. He glanced over his shoulder when Harry entered, and the sight of him there — in Harry’s kitchen, sleeves rolled, framed by the soft light — sent another wave of heat through Harry’s chest.
For a moment, Harry let himself imagine again. A future where this wasn’t temporary, where Xiao’s presence here wasn’t fragile or fleeting. A future where laughter and warmth filled these rooms every night.
It was dangerous, this imagining. But it was beginning to feel less like a dream, and more like the first steps of something real.

Chapter Text

The owl came at dawn.

Harry had risen early, restless from dreams he couldn’t quite remember, and found it perched on the windowsill like a herald from a life he thought he’d escaped. The parchment tied to its leg bore the unmistakable seal of the Ministry of Magic: the imprint of authority, of power, of chains disguised as law.

He knew before he even opened it that nothing good waited inside.

Xiao was still asleep in the bedroom, his breathing steady, the faintest crease between his brows even in rest. Teddy’s door was shut, quiet except for the occasional rustle that marked the boy’s dreams. Harry had a moment — a fragile, fleeting moment — where he thought of leaving the letter unopened. If he didn’t break the seal, if he didn’t read the words, maybe they would cease to exist.

But Harry Potter had never been allowed the luxury of pretending threats away.

He untied the parchment, hands steady despite the dread curling in his stomach, and unrolled it.

The words struck like a curse.

The Ministry of Magic, in its infinite arrogance, declared him negligent of duty, derelict of heritage. They would move to strip him of inheritance, titles, and recognition unless he returned to Britain within a fortnight. They threatened not just the Potter estate, but every claim to the Black name, every protection afforded to his bloodline.

It wasn’t enough that he had left. They wanted to own him, even in absence.

Harry read the words twice, then a third time, though the meaning never changed. The ultimatum was clear: submit or be erased.

For a long time, he stood at the window, parchment trembling slightly in his grip. The old instincts surged — flight, denial, the crushing weight of expectation. But something in him had shifted, solidified over these months. He wasn’t a boy running from fate anymore. He wasn’t the weapon they’d made him or the savior they’d demanded.

He was a father. He was… perhaps, if he dared name it, a partner. He was someone who had more to lose than himself.

And for once, he didn’t waver.

Harry folded the letter with deliberate care and set it on the table.

When Xiao appeared some minutes later, hair tousled from sleep, pajama pants hanging low on his hips, he paused at the sight of Harry’s face. Concern shadowed his sharp features instantly.

“What happened?” Xiao’s voice was rough with sleep, but steady, grounding.

Harry almost faltered under the weight of those dark, unwavering eyes. But he lifted the letter, holding it out. “The Ministry. They’re trying to force me back.”

Xiao took the parchment, scanning the words quickly. His jaw tightened, though his expression otherwise remained unreadable. When he looked up, there was no hesitation, no doubt.

“Then we fight,” Xiao said simply.

Two words. But they steadied something deep inside Harry that had been trembling since the moment he broke the seal.

He exhaled shakily, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in something almost like a smile. “You don’t even need to think about it, do you?”

Xiao’s gaze softened, though his voice remained even. “There is nothing to think about. You are not alone, Harry. Not in this.”

The words lodged in Harry’s chest, hot and impossible to dislodge. He looked down, fingers curling against the edge of the table. For so long, every battle had been his alone. Even when others had fought beside him, the weight had been his to bear. To have someone stand beside him now — not because of prophecy or obligation, but by choice — felt almost unbearable in its tenderness.

“I’m not letting them take this from me,” Harry said at last, his voice quiet but firm. “Not Teddy. Not…” His throat tightened around the next word, but he forced it out. “Not you.”

Xiao reached across the table, his hand closing around Harry’s. Warm, solid, grounding. “They won’t.”

And Harry believed him.

---

The day that followed was heavy with decisions. Harry wrote letters — not to the Ministry, not yet, but to allies old and new. He contacted Gringotts through the secure channel he had once sworn he’d never use again, informing them of the Ministry’s attempted overreach. The goblins, he knew, would not take kindly to political maneuvering that threatened vaults and contracts.

Teddy sensed the tension, as children always did, and Harry forced himself to smile, to keep the edges of his fear hidden. Yet Teddy was sharper than most gave him credit for. He tugged at Harry’s sleeve that afternoon, peering up with wide, searching eyes.

“Are they trying to take you away again?” he asked softly.

Harry’s chest ached. He knelt, brushing Teddy’s hair back gently. “No one is taking me away. I promise you that.”

The boy studied him a moment longer, then nodded, though not without worry lingering in his gaze.

Behind them, Xiao stood silent but watchful, like a sentinel. His presence alone was a shield, one Harry found himself leaning on without hesitation.

---

That evening, they gathered around the dinner table again. The atmosphere was quieter than usual, the laughter subdued, but the comfort remained. Harry cooked with deliberate care, grounding himself in the familiar motions. Xiao set the table without being asked, his movements smooth, efficient. Teddy tried to lighten the mood with stories from his day, and Harry smiled, grateful for the boy’s resilience.

When Teddy finally went to bed, Harry lingered in the kitchen, staring down at the parchment once more. He expected anger, fear, the familiar urge to run. Instead, what filled him was resolve.

“They don’t get to decide who I am anymore,” Harry said quietly.

Xiao stepped closer, his hand brushing against Harry’s, the touch light but steady. “No,” he agreed. “You decide. This time, you fight for what you choose.”

Harry turned his head, meeting Xiao’s gaze. For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence between them was thick, not with fear, but with something stronger — the quiet, unshakable bond that had been forged not in destiny, but in choice.

And for once, Harry felt ready.

Not for the Ministry. Not for Britain. Not for the world that had demanded too much of him.

But for Teddy. For Xiao. For the fragile, beautiful future he had finally allowed himself to imagine.

Chapter Text

The conversation began quietly, almost without Harry noticing.
The night was still, the house wrapped in the calm hush of Teddy’s sleep, the wards humming steady and strong around them. Harry had lit only a single lamp in the living room, its glow painting golden warmth across the walls, across the curls that spilled loose around his shoulders, across Xiao where he sat close — always close.
Harry had thought they were only talking, only breathing together in the fragile comfort of survival. But Xiao, steady and unshakable as stone, turned toward him with a seriousness that made the room feel suddenly smaller.
“There is something I want to offer you,” Xiao said softly. His voice carried none of the usual distance, none of the shielded detachment he wore in battle. This was bare, earnest, heavy with meaning.
Harry blinked, heart thudding faster. “Offer?”
Xiao’s eyes, dark and sharp as obsidian, softened as they searched Harry’s face. He reached, brushing a stray curl behind Harry’s ear. “A bond,” he said. “A magical bond. Between us. Protective… and more than protective.”
The words sank like stones in Harry’s chest, rippling through every part of him. A bond. He knew what that meant — binding, sacred, tethering souls together as surely as vows, as surely as love. Old magic, deeper than blood, more intimate than any promise spoken aloud.
Harry froze. “You mean…?” His throat went dry. “You mean like—”
“Like us,” Xiao said simply. His hand remained steady at Harry’s cheek, thumb brushing the edge of scarred skin. “I would tie myself to you. To protect you. To protect Teddy. But not only that. To stand beside you, not just in war but in everything that follows.”
The lamp flickered, the air itself trembling around the weight of the offer. Harry’s breath stuttered, chest aching. He couldn’t speak at first. Couldn’t move.
All his life, bonds had been chains. Blood ties that cut deeper than knives. Prophecies that shackled him to battles he hadn’t chosen. Promises that turned to ash in his hands. To be bound was to lose, to surrender freedom, to give someone else the power to shatter him.
And yet—
The way Xiao looked at him now wasn’t the way Dumbledore had looked at him, or the way the Ministry looked at him, or even the way the world had once looked at him as its weapon. Xiao looked at him like he was something precious, something chosen, something wanted.
Harry’s lips trembled. “Xiao, I—”
“You’re afraid,” Xiao said gently, filling in the silence Harry couldn’t. “I know. You have every reason to be. But listen to me.” He leaned closer, pressing their foreheads together, grounding him. “This bond would never be a chain. It would not trap you. It would anchor you. Give you strength when you falter. My magic would answer yours, always. You would never be alone in it again.”
Never alone.
The words broke something open inside Harry. His chest felt too tight, his eyes burning before the first tears even fell. He had fought so long to keep everyone safe by standing apart, by shouldering everything alone. And here was Xiao, offering not rescue, not command, not demand — but choice.
“I don’t know if I can,” Harry whispered, voice cracking. “I don’t know if I know how.”
Xiao cupped his face fully now, thumbs brushing tears as they fell. His voice stayed soft, steady, unshakable. “Then let me show you. Let me carry some of it with you. You don’t have to be ready for everything. Just… say yes to this. To me.”
Harry’s hands trembled as they rose, clutching at Xiao’s wrists. His vision blurred with tears, but through it he saw the truth: Xiao meant it. Every word. He wasn’t asking for a soldier, or a savior, or a martyr. He was asking for Harry. Just Harry.
And God, Harry wanted to say yes.
He swallowed hard, chest heaving with uneven breaths. “I’m… terrified.”
“I know,” Xiao murmured, kissing the wet trail of a tear. “So was I.”
That admission shook Harry almost as much as the proposal itself. Xiao — strong, calm, unwavering Xiao — had known fear too. Had walked into this anyway. For him.
Harry choked back a sob, nodding before his courage could fail. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes.”
The word left him trembling, but it was out, alive in the air between them. And once spoken, there was no taking it back.
Xiao exhaled, his own eyes softening with something Harry had only ever glimpsed — relief, reverence, love. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Harry’s forehead. Then he began to speak, low and steady, words in a language older than Hogwarts, older than any magic Harry had been taught. The air stirred around them, thick with power, warm and thrumming with intent.
Harry felt it immediately — a pulse against his skin, a thread tugging at his core. It wasn’t invasive. It wasn’t demanding. It was steady, patient, waiting for him.
“Breathe,” Xiao whispered against his temple. “Let it in.”
Harry’s chest hitched, tears still slipping free as he closed his eyes. He reached inward, to that wild, untamed part of his magic that had always been more curse than blessing. And for the first time, it didn’t rage against him. It listened. It answered.
The bond wove itself slowly, threads of gold and silver twining between them, from Xiao’s core to Harry’s, from Harry’s to Xiao’s, until Harry could feel it — not chains, not shackles, but connection. Strength. A tether that held without constricting.
He gasped, overwhelmed, tears spilling freely now. “It’s—”
“I know,” Xiao murmured, his own voice thick, though his magic never wavered. “I feel it too.”
Harry clung to him, sobbing quietly, not from pain but from the sheer immensity of it. For the first time in his life, he felt anchored not to duty, not to war, not to destiny — but to love. To choice. To someone who had chosen him in return.
The last thread settled into place, the magic humming steady, resonant between them. And when Harry opened his eyes, he saw it reflected in Xiao’s: a light, a bond, a vow made flesh.
Xiao kissed him then.
It was nothing like their frantic touches, nothing like desperation. It was slow, steady, reverent — a kiss that felt like a vow in itself, sealing the bond not with magic alone, but with the truth of their hearts.
Harry trembled, clinging to him, kissing back with tears still wet on his cheeks. He had never been kissed like this — like he was precious, like he was safe, like the whole world could end and it wouldn’t matter so long as they stayed here, tethered together.
When Xiao finally drew back, his lips brushing Harry’s damp skin, Harry couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. He only knew this: for the first time, he wasn’t carrying it all alone.
For the first time, he was tethered to love.

Chapter Text

The confrontation came first.
The Ministry’s reach had always been long, and Harry had known, deep down, that even oceans and wards could not keep them away forever. Still, when the knock came — not on his front door, but against the very walls of his wards — the sound sent a chill lancing through his veins. It wasn’t the polite tap of a visitor. It was the measured strike of authority, of intrusion.
Harry’s magic surged instinctively in answer, the wards shuddering as if preparing to bare their teeth. Teddy had been in the garden with a book and came running inside, eyes wide with alarm. Before Harry could even react further, Xiao was there — steady, unflinching, his presence a wall of calm.
“Stay with Teddy,” Harry whispered, voice raw. His hands shook as he pressed his son back. “Don’t open the door for anyone.”
Teddy clutched his sleeve. “Dad—”
“I’ll be fine,” Harry lied, because that was all he could ever give: lies of reassurance, promises he never felt sure of.
But Xiao stepped forward, brushing Harry’s trembling hand from the door. “You don’t have to face them alone.”
The wards peeled back with a crack like thunder, revealing two black-robed envoys with the faint insignia of the Ministry stitched at their hems. Their expressions were carefully neutral, but Harry saw the flicker of recognition in their eyes.
“Harry Potter,” one said, voice smooth with practiced diplomacy. “You are summoned to return to Britain immediately, under the authority of the Wizengamot. Refusal may result in the forfeiture of inheritance and titles.”
The words were knives. For so long, Harry had thought he had escaped them, that he had slipped free of the grasp of politics, bloodlines, duty. And now it was all clawing its way back, threatening to drag him into the same suffocating cycle.
His breath hitched, panic surging sharp. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
And Xiao stepped into the space between them.
The shift was subtle but absolute: his presence filled the air, his power rolling out in a steady wave. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. “Harry Potter owes you nothing,” Xiao said, each syllable measured, immovable. “He will not return. He will not bend. If you continue pressing, you will answer to me.”
The air itself seemed to vibrate with the weight of his authority, with the solid strength of the magical bond that had settled between him and Harry weeks earlier.
The envoys paled. One’s lips parted, a protest trembling there — but the words withered under Xiao’s gaze. After a tense pause, they bowed stiffly and withdrew, muttering amongst themselves as they vanished with the faint crack of Apparition.
The silence afterward was deafening.
Harry’s knees nearly buckled. He had stood against Voldemort, had stood in battle after battle — but this kind of confrontation, this endless demand for pieces of himself, still carved at him.
His breath came sharp and uneven until Xiao’s hand found his shoulder, grounding, warm. “You’re safe,” Xiao murmured. “They’re gone.”
Harry wanted to believe it. But his body trembled, a deep, bone-deep exhaustion rolling over him. He wanted to collapse, to hide. Instead, he forced himself upright, pressed a hand against his chest, and nodded. “Right. Gone.”
Yet something inside him whispered that the Ministry wasn’t finished.

Weeks passed. The confrontation faded to memory, but the fear it left behind stayed lodged in Harry’s chest. It wasn’t the only thing lingering, either.
Odd surges of magic began to ripple through him at strange moments — uncontrolled bursts that left lamps flickering, tea spilling, wards humming with too much force. At first, he told himself it was stress. Then came the nausea, waves of it striking without warning, leaving him pale and shaking over the sink.
He didn’t tell Xiao at first. He didn’t tell Teddy. He buried it, as he had buried so many things, convinced that if he just ignored it, it would pass.
But it didn’t.
It grew worse.
One morning, after nearly collapsing while tending the garden, Harry finally admitted what he could no longer deny. Something was wrong. Broken.
The healer’s office was quiet, the smell of herbs sharp in the air. Harry sat stiff on the examination bed, curls falling into his face, hands twisting in his lap. He had braced himself for terrible news — an illness, a curse, some long-delayed consequence of all the dark magic he had once carried.
But when the healer returned, parchment in hand, her expression wasn’t grim. It was startled. Almost awed.
“Mr. Potter,” she said carefully. “You’re not ill. You’re pregnant.”
The words struck like lightning. Harry blinked, uncomprehending, then shook his head hard enough that curls whipped against his cheeks. “That’s not— that’s not possible.”
And yet the healer’s magic was sure. The tests were undeniable. The faint flicker of a second magical signature pulsed, fragile but present, within him.
Harry’s world tilted. His stomach clenched. He staggered from the room, hardly hearing her gentle reassurances.
Pregnant.
The word echoed like a curse.
By the time he stumbled home, his breath was short, panic clawing at his lungs. He couldn’t stop repeating it under his breath. “I can’t do this. I can’t. I’ll lose them. I’ll fail them. I’ll—”
Xiao caught him before he collapsed. Strong arms steadied him, held him, refused to let him fold in on himself completely. Harry struggled, trying to hide his face, but Xiao tilted his chin up, forcing him to meet his gaze.
“Look at me,” Xiao said, firm but soft. His hands framed Harry’s face, thumbs brushing damp cheeks where tears had already fallen. “Breathe.”
Harry’s chest heaved. “I’ll fail them. I’ll fail Teddy, I’ll fail— I can’t protect anyone. I’ll lose—”
“Harry.” Xiao’s voice cut through the panic, low and grounding. “Then I’ll carry the fear with you. Every bit of it. You don’t have to hold it alone anymore.”
The words broke something open in him. A sob tore free, raw and helpless, but beneath it there was a sliver of relief — because Xiao meant it, every word. He always did.
When they told Teddy, Harry braced for confusion, for fear, for anything that might echo his own turmoil.
But Teddy’s reaction was nothing like that.
The boy’s face lit up, eyes wide with joy, and before Harry could even flinch back Teddy threw his arms around him, careful but fierce. “You mean— I’m going to be a big brother?”
Harry stammered, “Teddy, I don’t—”
“I’ll be the best big brother ever,” Teddy declared, his voice bubbling with certainty. “I’ll help with everything. I promise, Dad.”
Harry’s throat closed. Tears threatened again, but for the first time, they weren’t from fear. Teddy’s joy wrapped around him like sunlight, like hope.
And beside him, Xiao stood steady, hand warm at his back, grounding him still.

Pregnancy was not what Harry had ever imagined for himself. He had not even thought it possible, not in this lifetime, not in this body that still carried scars from wars both visible and invisible. And yet here he was, months stretching before him, carrying a life he could hardly believe was real. Every day seemed to bring a new shift — in his body, in his home, in the rhythm of their lives — and every shift scraped against the old insecurities buried so deep in him.
He adjusted, but it was slow. He battled constantly with the creeping thoughts that whispered he wasn’t built for this, wasn’t worthy of the softness surrounding him. His hand would rest on his stomach in the quiet of the evening, and instead of the peace others might feel, panic gnawed at him. What if he failed this child? What if they came into the world only to find Harry too broken to be a proper parent, too fragile to give them what they needed? He had failed before; the thought of failing again—of failing someone so helpless—was unbearable.
And yet, every time the fear grew too sharp, Teddy or Xiao was there to anchor him.
Teddy, more than anyone, became fiercely protective the moment he learned of the baby. Harry had expected maybe curiosity, or even jealousy, but instead Teddy turned into a little guardian who treated Harry’s pregnancy as sacred ground.
It began with simple things. Harry tried to carry a bag of books home from the market, and Teddy snatched it out of his hands with a scandalized gasp. “Dad, you can’t lift things like this anymore!” he cried, stumbling under the weight but determined not to let Harry hold a single corner of the bag.
Harry laughed weakly. “Teddy, it’s just books—”
“No excuses,” Teddy said with all the authority of someone far older than his years. He herded Harry into a chair as soon as they got home, setting the bag firmly on the table with a triumphant look. “See? That wasn’t so hard. You’re supposed to sit. Xiao says you need to rest.”
And it didn’t stop there. Whenever Harry so much as leaned to pick something up, Teddy swooped in like a hawk, shooing him back into a chair. On more than one occasion, Harry found himself gently but firmly pressed down into the nearest seat, Teddy wagging a finger at him.
“Sit. Don’t argue. The baby needs you sitting.”
Harry would flush and mumble, “You’re bossier than Xiao.”
“Good,” Teddy said with pride. “You need both of us.”
And to anyone who would listen, Teddy bragged. He told neighbors. He told passing vendors. He even told the owl that delivered their mail. “I’m going to be a big brother,” he announced, chest puffed out. “The best big brother. You’ll see.”
Harry often found himself both mortified and moved, hiding his face in his hands while Xiao chuckled softly behind him.
If Teddy was openly protective, Xiao was quietly relentless.
Where Harry’s fear made him restless, Xiao’s presence steadied him. Xiao was there at night when Harry woke sick, rubbing his back with a patience that never faltered. When Harry’s feet swelled, Xiao massaged them with careful hands, murmuring soft reassurances in his ear until Harry melted under the touch. When Harry pushed himself too hard, Xiao would appear without a word, simply lifting him into his arms and carrying him to bed as if Harry weighed nothing at all.
Sometimes Xiao’s dominance was so quiet Harry barely noticed until afterward: the way he arranged pillows before Harry could complain of discomfort, the way he took chores silently from Harry’s hands, the way his gaze softened but brooked no argument when he said, “Rest now.”
And then there was the food.
Pregnancy cravings hit Harry with the subtlety of a storm. One night he woke at two in the morning desperate for kimchi stew, and Xiao, without complaint, went to the kitchen. The smell filled the house within minutes, spicy and rich, and Harry nearly wept when he tasted it. Another evening it was treacle tart, and Xiao baked it from scratch, smiling faintly as Harry devoured three slices in one sitting.
There were stranger cravings too—combinations that made Harry blush even to ask for them. Pickles with chocolate, bread dipped in pumpkin juice, hot chips with honey. And still, Xiao cooked, never once laughing at Harry’s requests. He only kissed Harry’s temple as he set the dish down, murmuring, “Whatever you want.”
It was in those quiet domestic moments, with Teddy bragging in the background and Xiao’s steady hands guiding him, that Harry felt something he hadn’t known in years: home.
But the fear never fully left him.
Sometimes, late at night, when the house was dark and the weight of the day pressed too heavily on him, Harry broke. Curled up against Xiao’s chest, his voice shaking, he whispered the thoughts that never stopped gnawing at him.
“What if I’m not enough?” His hands clutched at Xiao’s shirt as though trying to hold himself together. “What if I lose them? What if I ruin everything?”
Xiao held him tightly, unyielding. His voice was soft, almost reverent, as he answered. “You are enough. You’re everything. This baby knows love because of you.”
The words seeped into Harry like warmth into cold bones. He cried against Xiao’s chest, letting the comfort sink deep, knowing that Xiao meant every word. And when morning came, Harry rose again — still afraid, still uncertain, but tethered to a love that did not waver.
The waiting months were filled with this rhythm: fear and reassurance, insecurity and tenderness, dread and fierce devotion. And though Harry still battled his insecurities every step of the way, he was no longer facing them alone.

The moment it began, Harry thought he might shatter.
It came sudden, sharp, a tearing pain that left him gasping for air as though he’d been hit with a curse. His body betrayed him, the familiar panic rising in his chest like wildfire. He knew what was happening, but that didn’t make it any less terrifying. For months he had dreaded this day, imagined it, feared it, prayed for it to come safely. Now that it was here, his mind refused to believe he could survive it.
Terrified, Harry clutched at Xiao, his voice ragged. The edges of his fear cut deeper than the pain. What if I can’t do this? What if I break? What if I lose the baby? What if I lose myself?
But Xiao was there. Always there. His hand steady in Harry’s, unyielding no matter how hard Harry gripped. His other hand stroked Harry’s hair, thumb brushing sweat from his brow. His voice was the anchor Harry clung to when his world threatened to split apart.
“I’ve got you,” Xiao whispered, calm even as the storm built around them. “I’ll never leave your side.”
Every wave of pain tried to drag Harry under, but Xiao’s presence kept pulling him back. The strength in that clasped hand, the low steady cadence of his voice, the certainty in every word — they wrapped around Harry like a lifeline.
Hours blurred. Harry fought through contractions, his breaths jagged, body wracked. Fear spiked higher with each moment, but so did Xiao’s unwavering steadiness. Each time Harry’s panic clawed up his throat, Xiao grounded him: breathe with me, love, you can do this, I’ve got you.
And outside the door, Teddy paced.
His small footsteps moved back and forth, back and forth, an echo of his own storm of emotions. His hair couldn’t settle, flickering from anxious green to pale blond to fiery red as his heart raced. His fists clenched and unclenched. He wanted to burst through the door, wanted to be at Harry’s side, wanted to protect him the way he always promised — but Xiao had told him firmly to wait.
So Teddy paced. He bit his lip until it hurt. He whispered prayers to himself, promises to the baby he hadn’t yet met. Please be okay. Please let them both be okay. I’ll be the best big brother. I’ll take care of you. Just let Dad be alright.
The walls themselves seemed to hold their breath with him.
Inside, Harry bore down with the last of his strength, sobs breaking free even as he pushed through the agony. His whole world narrowed to the searing pain and Xiao’s voice in his ear. The terror was overwhelming — but then, suddenly, it shifted.
A cry filled the room.
Small, piercing, miraculous.
The sound of life.
Their child.
Harry’s tears spilled over at once. Relief crashed through him so hard his body shook with it. The child was laid in his arms, impossibly small, impossibly warm, with tiny fists curled as though grasping onto this fragile new world. Harry wept openly, unable to contain the flood of emotion that poured out of him. Alive. Safe. Here.
Xiao leaned close, his lips pressing to Harry’s temple with a gentleness that broke him further. His voice, rough with feeling, whispered against Harry’s skin: “You did it. You’re both safe.”
Harry clutched the baby tighter, sobbing, unable to believe it was true. But the steady weight of Xiao’s kiss, the quiet reverence in his words, made it real.
And then the door burst open.
Teddy stood there, breathless, his eyes wide with awe. His hair flickered through a dozen colors before settling into a soft, trembling blue. He took a hesitant step closer, his voice dropping to a whisper as though afraid to disturb the miracle before him.
“Hi, baby,” he breathed. His gaze locked on the tiny bundle in Harry’s arms, wonder lighting every feature of his face. “I’m your big brother.”
The words cracked something open in Harry’s chest all over again.

Chapter Text

The house was no longer silent.

Years had passed, and the walls that once held only fear and watchful wards now carried warmth, laughter, and the patter of bare feet. The home Harry had once been afraid to truly inhabit — afraid it would be taken from him, afraid he didn’t deserve it — had transformed. It was cozy, bright, alive with family. The air smelled of spices, of meals cooked with care. Windows glowed golden in the evening, not with spells of protection but with the simple hum of domesticity. Every corner held signs of life: scattered toys, scuffed floorboards, a chair pulled out from breakfast, a sweater draped over the back of the couch.

It was a home. Their home.

Teddy had grown into himself, taller now, shoulders straight, but the protectiveness that had first wrapped around Harry like armor had never lessened. If anything, it had only deepened. He still moved with that instinctive readiness to guard what mattered most. He hovered near Harry without even realizing it, subtly intercepting heavy bags before Harry could lift them, taking over chores with the stubborn insistence of someone who had been forced to grow up fast and never stopped feeling responsible. And now that there was someone smaller than him — a sibling who looked at him with awe and mischief in equal measure — that protectiveness burned even brighter.

The child, Michael — Mikie, though the name always seemed too small for the abundance of energy he carried — was the center of it all. Born of Harry and Xiao, he was a living union of two worlds, two hearts stitched together. Mikie had Harry’s wild curls, unruly and soft, often tied back only to tumble loose again. His eyes, though, were Xiao’s: dark, steady, and startling in their depth, though softened by a perpetual gleam of mischief. Mischievous, yes, but tender too, with a sensitivity that was all Harry’s. He had a way of touching things gently, of leaning into affection without hesitation, adored by everyone who knew him.

In the kitchen, it was almost routine now: Harry cooking, sleeves rolled up, curls tied back so they wouldn’t fall into the food, his body moving with the easy grace of habit. Yet no matter how focused he tried to be on chopping vegetables or stirring a pot, there was always the tug at his sweater hem. Mikie clung there like a shadow, tiny fingers fisting in the oversized knit fabric, refusing to let go. Sometimes he babbled questions, sometimes he hummed tunelessly, sometimes he just stood there, eyes tilted up to watch Harry with a concentration that made Harry smile helplessly every time.

“Dad,” Mikie would say with solemn importance, tugging insistently until Harry glanced down. “What’s that? Can I stir? Can I taste?”

Harry would sigh — pretend exasperation, never real — and scoop him up, balancing him against his hip while continuing to cook. “You’ll burn your tongue if you’re not careful,” he’d warn, though the warmth in his voice gave him away.

The kitchen had once been quiet. Now it was a place of chatter, of Harry’s laughter joining his children’s, of the occasional crash when Teddy’s long arms knocked something over, followed by sheepish apologies. And Harry loved it. Every spill, every interruption, every moment that reminded him he wasn’t alone anymore.

Teddy, older now, had taken it upon himself to teach Mikie the tricks he had once discovered by accident. Hair shifting — a Metamorphmagus gift inherited from his mother — had once been a source of insecurity for Teddy. But with Mikie, it became a shared game.

“Like this,” Teddy would say, crouched down so Mikie could see, his own hair rippling from dark to vivid green. Mikie’s eyes went wide, then scrunched in determination as he tried to mimic. Sometimes his curls only shimmered faintly, sometimes a single strand would flash crimson before snapping back to black. And sometimes, gloriously, his whole head of curls would brighten into a dazzling rainbow, making him squeal with delight.

Harry would watch from the doorway, a dish towel still in hand, his heart aching with a fierce tenderness. To see Teddy teaching, laughing, sharing his gift without shame — it was everything Harry had ever wanted for him. And to see Mikie shrieking with joy, proud of every small success — it was more than Harry had thought he could bear.

The evenings always brought Xiao home.

The sound of the door opening was enough to send both children racing, Teddy with long strides, Mikie with his unsteady but determined run. Xiao never made it more than two steps into the house before dropping to his knees, arms open wide. Every time, both children collided into him with enough force to nearly knock him backward.

He caught them both, always, strong arms wrapping around them, laughter spilling from his lips as he was tackled with hugs. Mikie’s curls buried against his neck, Teddy’s arms slung protectively around them both — it was a ritual, an unspoken promise renewed each night.

Harry would pause from wherever he was, sometimes leaning against the kitchen doorway, sometimes still seated at the table, and watch. The sight of Xiao on the floor, cradling their children with utter devotion, never stopped stealing his breath. And the way Xiao’s eyes always, always lifted past them to Harry, as if silently including him in the embrace, left Harry undone.

For years, Harry’s shoulders had carried a weight no one could see. They had hunched with the burden of fear, of guilt, of battles fought and scars carried. But now… now those shoulders no longer hunched.

He laughed easily now, the sound unguarded, rolling free in a way that had once been foreign to him. His curls, still as wild as ever, were often tied back loosely, falling down his back as he moved through their home. There was light in his face that had once been dimmed, a radiance born not of survival but of peace.

And Xiao noticed.

Xiao was often caught just watching him. Watching as Harry leaned over the stove, as he bent to kiss Mikie’s head, as he tucked Teddy’s hair back with a gentle hand. Watching him with the same awe he had the first time Harry had allowed himself to be seen — vulnerable, trembling, but open. Years later, the awe had not dimmed.

More than once, Harry caught the whisper, low and reverent, spoken like prayer.

“You’re my miracle.”

The first time, Harry had flinched, almost denied it. But Xiao’s eyes had held no doubt, only truth. And so Harry had let himself believe.

Evenings stretched into nights, and the garden became their sanctuary. Wards glowed softly around its edges, protective but no longer suffocating. Beneath their shimmer, the family thrived. Teddy running from his sibling across the grass, his longer legs deliberately slowing so Mikie could catch him, both of them shrieking with laughter. Fireflies sparked in the dusk, caught briefly in Mikie’s outstretched hands before being released with giggles.

And Harry, leaning into Xiao’s chest, felt whole. Xiao’s arms wrapped around him, grounding him, their hands linked as they watched their children race under the safe glow. The warmth of Xiao’s body at his back, the rhythm of his heartbeat beneath Harry’s ear — it was everything.

Safety. Love. Laughter. Warmth.

A future.

For the first time in his life, Harry had found what he had never thought possible. Not glory, not destiny, not war — but a home filled with joy. A family bound not by survival, but by love. And in every moment — Teddy’s protectiveness, Mikie’s mischief, Xiao’s awe, Harry’s own laughter — he lived the proof of it.