Chapter Text
Overall, Harry is happy with his decision to move to the States. He loves his little house on the Oregon coast. He loves being so close to the ocean that the sound of the waves lulls him to sleep. He loves living among Muggles, where nobody has ever heard of Voldemort or the Boy Who Lived. Just to be on the safe side, he goes by Harry Black, but people here only know him as The (nice English) Boy Who Lives (in the blue cottage at the end of town that used to belong to the Howards until they retired to Florida and who should find another nice boy and settle down.)
The only times he’s ever regretted the move are when he’s had to go back to Britain. There’s no way he’s doing that station-to-station apparition insanity from Portland to London. He’s not fond of apparating to begin with, and some of the stations are in the middle of the ocean disguised as oil rigs. No matter that he knows that it’s safe; he can’t help imagining the consequences of not landing exactly in the right spot.
Instead, he has to drive into Portland, pay to park his truck for Merlin-knows-how-long, and fly from there to London. Even in first class, spending that long in a confined space makes him antsy. It was worth coping with for Ron and Hermione’s wedding; not so much for being summoned to the Ministry of Magic for some mysterious purpose Hermione says she can’t explain until he gets there.
After his flight being delayed due to weather, he’s exhausted; all he wants to do is go to his hotel and have a shower, a meal, and a nap, but there’s no time. Hermione, newly installed as Senior Undersecretary, is waiting for him in the lobby and she hugs him hard. “It’s so good to see you! How was your flight?”
“Long,” he replies. “I feel like yesterday’s socks.”
She squeezes his arm. “I’ll have tea brought up.” They take the lift in companionable silence, and at the door to the Minister’s office, she pauses for a moment. “You’re probably going to be really upset in a few minutes, but I -”
Before she can go any further, the door opens. Kingsley Shacklebolt beams as he reaches out to shake Harry’s hand. “Harry, good to see you again! You’re looking well.” He cocks his head. “But where are your glasses?”
“I’m wearing contact lenses.” At Shacklebolt’s confused look, Harry explains, “Muggle invention. They’re like tiny glasses with no frames that stick directly to your eyeballs.”
“Well, that’s incredibly disturbing.” Harry peeks over Shacklebolt’s shoulder to see Draco Malfoy sprawled in a very un-Malfoylike fashion on the ancient purple sofa that keeps returning to the Minister’s office no matter how many times they try to get rid of it. He waggles his fingers at Harry. “Hello, Potter. Long time no see.”
“Um. Hi?” Confused, Harry allows Hermione to shepherd him into the office. The only place for him to sit is also on the couch, so Harry has to stand for a moment until Malfoy realizes they’re all waiting for him to make room. He shifts over and Harry sits awkwardly, acutely aware of Malfoy’s closeness. He clears his throat. “So, listen, I just spent thirteen hours getting here -”
At “thirteen hours”, Malfoy makes a choked little noise, but Harry ignores him. “I’m hungry and exhausted and jet-lagged and I would really like to get to my hotel and collapse. So if someone could please explain what’s going on, I would very much appreciate it.”
Malfoy nudges Harry with his elbow. “What the hell does ‘jet-lagged’ mean?”
“It’s a Muggle expression,” Harry says without looking over.
“Obviously, but that doesn’t answer my question.” Malfoy pauses. “Actually, I’m also wondering why it took you thirteen hours to get here from wherever it is you fucked off to. Did you walk? Are you living on the moon?”
“Draco, don’t make me get the spray bottle.” Hermione’s tone is sharp but she’s smirking a little, and Draco smirks back; it’s obviously some kind of inside joke. Since when does Hermione call Malfoy “Draco?” And since when do they share inside jokes?
“As I was saying, what’s this all about? And why’s Malfoy here? No offense,” Harry adds, glancing over.
Malfoy waves that off. “None taken. I’m also wondering why I’m here.”
Hermione and Shacklebolt share a cryptic look that Harry can’t help but think bodes no good for him or for Malfoy. Shacklebolt clears his throat. “To get right to the point, there’s been a renewed interest in certain circles in the Death Eater ideology. A rather fervent interest. Draco already knows this because there have been threats made against his life.”
“Apparently, I’m a ‘blood traitor’ - though to be fair, that’s a phrase I used to use myself, so I can’t really be too pissed off about it.”
“Don’t start in on yourself again, Draco,” Hermione says.
Malfoy sticks his tongue out at her. “Don’t start in on the ‘self-forgiveness’ lecture again, Hermes.”
Hermes?
“Anyway, it’s just a bunch of posers playing dress-up and talking tough,” Malfoy continues with a dismissive gesture. “All the real Death Eaters are either in Azkaban or dead.” His voice becomes quieter and his gaze drops to the floor. “Except me and Mum and Dad, I guess.”
Harry finds himself wanting to say something kind to Malfoy, but before he can even process that thought, Hermione says, “Some of the threats have been pretty serious.”
Malfoy rolls his eyes. “I turned on Voldemort and lived. I’m not afraid of some hypothetical threats from wanna-be magical Nazis.”
“No longer hypothetical,” Kingsley contradicts. “They’ve already tried twice.”
When Malfoy scoffs, Hermione says, “The first was last month, when you were almost run over by that lorry.”
Malfoy frowns. “But that was a Muggle.”
“Under Imperius,” Hermione says softly. “When we interviewed him he had no memory of even getting in the driver’s seat.”
“And two weeks ago,” Shacklebolt continues. “Your security detail stopped someone waiting outside Flourish and Blotts to ambush you.”
“I have a security detail?” Malfoy blinks. “I feel special.”
“Yes, you have a security detail,” Shacklebolt says. “Or rather, you had one. The threat has increased and we can no longer be certain of keeping you safe.”
“So that’s why I’m here, then? You want me to...protect Malfoy?” Harry crosses his arms. “I’m not moving back to England.”
Malfoy raises his hand. “Once again, I would like to point out that I turned on Voldemort right in front of his stupid noseless face and in front of my crazy aunt Bellatrix and in front of about two million overly-confident Death Eaters. When I was seventeen. I can take care of myself.”
“If you hadn’t had two Aurors watching your back two weeks ago, there’d be nothing left of you to take care of,” Hermione retorts. “Shut up and listen.”
Malfoy rolls his eyes but settles back. “May I ask why, exactly, I’m just now hearing about this?”
“Fair question,” Harry murmurs without realizing until the words are actually out of his mouth.
“It’s taking longer than we had anticipated to identify those responsible,” Shacklebolt says heavily. “As I said, we’re no longer certain of our ability to protect you while we hunt for them.” He looks at Harry. “So yes, we are asking you to protect Malfoy, after a fashion.”
“What fashion would that be?” Harry asks slowly, glancing over at Hermione though he’s speaking to Shacklebolt.
“I’m not sure we want to know the answer,” Malfoy mumbles. The expression on Hermione’s face indicates that he’s probably right.
“You’re well-hidden from the Wizarding world, Harry,” Shacklebolt says. “Between your physical location and your magical protections, you are probably the safest wizard in the world right now. What we’re asking you to do is to extend those protections to Mr. Malfoy.”
Harry makes a “keep going” gesture. “By…?”
Hermione appears to be struggling for words. “Well, the location part is pretty straightforward…”
“Not when you consider that I only have one bedroom.”
“...but placing Draco under your magical protections requires more of a...a personal connection.”
“How personal?” Malfoy asks warily.
Shacklebolt glances at Hermione, but she sends him a helpless look in return, and he sighs. “Marriage.”
In the shocked silence that follows, Hermione says brightly, “I’ll just have that tea brought up now, shall I?”