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Harry looked at his son, who was crafting a little broom with a twig from the apple tree in their garden and colourful pipe cleaners Hermione had gifted to him.

“I can’t do it,” Harry wheezed to Draco. “I can’t—I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

Scorpius pushed his mop of blond curls back for the umpteenth time so he could look for what he needed next, then reached for a length of baby-blue ribbon to wind around the broom’s bristles.

Draco took Harry’s hand in his and gently opened his cold, clammy fingers to take the scissors from him.

“Darling, sit and watch how a parent is meant to handle this,” Draco told him, giving his shoulder a gentle push. “His teacher said his hair is in the way, not that it needs to be gone.”

He placed a kiss on Harry’s forehead, then went to sit on the ground beside their three-year-old boy.

“My star, may I try something?”

Scorpius merely nodded, fiddling with the angles of the pipe cleaners, his tongue sticking out at the corner of his mouth.

Draco carded his fingers through the blond curls, bunched them together with one hand, and bound the wild hair with the blue ribbon, adding a little magic to keep it secure.

Scorpius looked up and up, as though trying to find where his fringe had gone.

七夕