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When Draco thinks of Obliviation—when he thinks of it at all—he thinks of it as irritating but necessary for use on Muggles and entirely unsuitable for use on wix like himself. It’s far too blunt and unsubtle, which—in the parlance of his upbringing—renders it distasteful.
He thinks this up until the moment he takes his father’s chin in his hand in one of their little-used upstairs sitting rooms and aims his wand at grey eyes that could be his very own.
Draco’s father’s shoulders jerk. He’s swallowing his sobs, though not very effectively. Draco, for his part, is only crying—the tears are reflexive, unstoppable, shameful. There are more important tasks at hand.
Literally.
Severus’s hand closes over Draco’s left, over his wand. He’s not touching Draco otherwise. A comforting pat on his shoulder might shatter the last of Draco’s resolve.
“Intention goes hand-in-hand with incantation,” Severus intones, not for the first time in Draco’s life and probably not the last. “Keep your focus fixed on the proper sequence. You are pulling threads, not cutting the cloth. Modification, not erasure. Do not leave empty spaces.”
“Empty spaces are vulnerabilities,” says Draco.
“Correct. Suggest a replacement for each thread you alter. You will not create vulnerabilities. ”
Draco feels like one large human vulnerability. He’s sixteen, and the entire weight of his family rests on his shoulders. The entire weight of the Manor. The entire weight of the world.
Severus adjusts the angle of Draco’s wand with a warm, steady grip.
“Locate the memory,” he says, softer.
It isn’t difficult. Lucius’s mind has cracked open like an egg. The memories that did this to him are like yolk fragments suspended in his magic.
There’s the Dark Lord in the drawing room, telling Lucius in no uncertain terms what he plans to do to Draco.
“Only the details you must change,” says Severus. “Incant. Intend.”
Draco takes a long breath.
He lets it out.
One of his tears tickles hotly down his cheek, then drips off his chin.
“Now.”
“Obliviate.”
He tugs the sound of his own name from the memory of the Dark Lord in the drawing room, leaving the rest intact. It’s a single thread, but the whole recollection wobbles—it was a structural element. Central.
And—
A suggestion.
The name Draco pushes into the memory isn’t real, but it has the cadence of any number of names his father would recognise. Theodore Nott. Gregory Goyle. Vincent Crabbe. It’s none of them. It’s all of them. It’s not Draco.
“Move to the next.”
A filament guides Draco to the nearest memory. His mother’s face, drained of colour in his parents’ bedroom, both her hands in his father’s.
The process is slow and painstaking.
As his father’s face relaxes and his tears dry up, Draco understands something else about Obliviation.
It is a mercy.
Needless to say, Draco’s skill with Occlumency and Obliviation are met with significant suspicion after the war.
By the time he’s acquitted by the Wizengamot, they have what feels like a lifetime’s worth of his most horrendous memories on record. Those should be proof he’s not a madman and isn’t harbouring plans to stage and execute a coup.
They’re proof enough, he supposes, because in July he receives a letter from Headmistress McGonagall inviting him—nay, welcoming him—to return to Hogwarts for eighth-year.
Draco has never had a fever dream, but he thinks this must be what they’re like. A constant shimmer hovers in the air, marking the tension between what should have been and what is. There’s no pretending the war didn’t happen, but there’s no direct, cathartic discussion, either, only everyone trying their hardest to overcome lingering prejudices and brute-force their way to normality.
Oh—and there’s Potter. Everywhere Draco looks, there’s Potter. Fit and happy and alive. And present. At Hogwarts.
As a result of all this, Draco finds himself participating in countless absurd conversations with Gregory Goyle, who goes grey and sweaty at the sight of any flame and has to be distracted with innocuous, un-fire-related topics.
One cloudy afternoon in mid-winter, Draco thinks Greg might not make it through Potions. They’ve had to keep their cauldrons at a simmer for the better part of an hour. Greg looks like he might heave into his at any second. He wipes sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his robe.
“Dunno,” he says shakily, then swallows hard. “Dunno about snakes.”
“That’s rather disloyal of you,” Draco answers lightly.
“Just.” Greg makes a slithering motion with one huge, trembling hand. “The—scales. And such.”
“What I prefer to focus on—” Is not bloody snakes. Draco spent long enough living with a murderous, hungry snake who was as likely to eat him as look at him and would rather not reminisce. “—is the—” His cauldron burbles ominously, and Draco is forced to consult his textbook simultaneously with finishing his sentence. “—the handling. The handling, not the characteristics themselves. Handling makes all the difference.”
“Right,” Greg agrees, then sicks up into his cauldron.
The problem of being an alleged war criminal—acquitted or not—with disparate skill in Occlumency and Obliviation remains following eighth-year. Draco doesn’t have the option to disappear to Merlin-knows-where like Potter or sequester himself in the halls of academia like Granger if he wants to maintain his connections to society
And he must maintain his connections to society, given the state of his father. One of them has to be…seen. One of them has to be recognised as something other than the embodiment of evil.
He could sign up to be a Healer, like Weasley—
Ha, ha. That was a joke.
Silliness aside—if the Ministry hires him, Draco won’t be a prime suspect vis-à-vis activities such as coup-staging, etc.
Draco’s training lasts six months and involves far too many people rifling through his memories. He goes back to Hogwarts to beg—on one knee before Headmistress McGonagall—for a letter attesting to his academic performance. Draco knows better than to ask for recommendation.
After another six months of intensive training, he receives an offer of employment from the Ministry of Magic.
“Oh,” Draco says, the Ministry seal on the parchment glinting in the light of his Chelsea flat’s kitchen. “Well. All right. Fuck.”
Draco had understood, obviously, that his training at the Academy—near Aurors, but not with them—was intended to winnow down candidates for positions in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. He had even applied for such a position under his own power.
But it’s not until his first day on the job, his navy robes perfectly charmed and his badge pinned proudly to his chest, that reality sinks in.
Or, rather, reality crushes his hand.
Draco does not react to Head Obliviator Percy Weasley’s bone-grinding grip, no matter how strange the situation. For all Draco was a teenage Death Eater, Percy Weasley had held the door open for the Dark Lord at the Ministry. The wix in Draco’s parents’ circle had not known what to make of this. While it was satisfying to see one of the Weasleys—Gryffindors all the way down—smooth the way for a neat coup d’état, Percy had also committed the highest of pure-blood crimes: cutting off his family. In public.
Weasley stares into Draco’s eyes and increases the pressure on his hand, silently daring Draco to ask how he scraped together enough goodwill to become Head Obliviator given his past.
Draco does not.
Weasley drops his hand, disappointment flickering across his face. “Welcome to the department, Obliviator Malfoy.”
“Thank you, Head Obliviator Weasley,” Draco answers, flexing his fingers as subtly as possible. The feeling hasn’t returned when his first assignment flies into Weasley’s office and pecks at Draco’s temple like an irritated owl.
The hours at the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes are long, though not unrewarding. Draco’s primary responsibility is to enforce the Statute of Secrecy, so most of the people whose memories he modifies are Muggles. However, Obliviators are technically members of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, which means they also do memory work for wix. In some cases, it’s best to take the more frightening elements from memories involving magical accidents. In yet rarer cases, a member of Draco’s department might even be dispatched to St Mungo’s.
What comes as the biggest surprise is the trust.
Draco had expected more people to care who he was. He’d expected them to react to him with fear or disgust or even disdain. But most of the people he encounters—wix and Muggle—are in some level of distress. They want someone to look into their eyes and tell them everything will be all right.
So that’s what Draco does.
He is calm.
He is pleasant.
Above all, he is careful. What Severus said is never far from his mind. You are pulling threads, not cutting the cloth. Modification, not erasure.
If this takes a bit more time on each of his assignments, then that’s a trade Draco’s glad to make.
His first two weeks on the job revise his opinion on Obliviation yet again.
It remains a mercy, to be sure. But in order for that to hold true, it has to be done with the utmost care, and care was not the priority in their training. The Statute was.
Once upon a time, that might have made sense to Draco.
He had, after all, sat at the table in the Manor and listened to the Dark Lord talk about protecting the sanctity of magical blood. Never mind that the Dark Lord had not been pure-blood, had not understood their traditions, had not wanted any of their traditions. He’d only wanted them under his control.
The focus on maintaining secrecy at all costs during training was uncomfortably close to the views of the Dark Lord.
Care might not be the first priority of the Obliviators at large, but it is Draco’s first priority.
Each time he looks into a person’s eyes, holds their mind in his, and raises his wand, he thinks of his father. Terrified. Helpless. At Draco’s mercy.
Whether his father deserved it is quite beside the point. What mattered then—and what matters now—is Draco’s own capability to grant such mercies with care.
It matters so much because Draco’s father has relapsed into the sort of panic Draco’s mother can’t bring him out of, and they’ve had to go to France to meet with the only Healers Lucius can tolerate seeing.
Holding a position at the Ministry won’t be enough. Not if any further…eventualities happen when Draco’s parents return to the Manor.
Draco has to be much more than an Obliviator in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.
He has to be the best.
June is waning when Weasley calls Draco into his office. He paces behind his desk, his navy robes disconcertingly flattering, his eyes narrowed.
Draco stops mid-office and folds his hands in front of him as if his heart hasn’t ticked up. “Head Obliviator Weasley.”
“Obliviator Malfoy.” Weasley crosses his arms over his chest, still pacing. Suspicion glints in his blue eyes. What, exactly, is he suspicious of? Of the two of them, Weasley has more experience with aiding and abetting government takeovers. There are parallels between Draco and Weasley—Draco would be the first to admit it. But Weasley kept choosing the coup day after day, whereas Draco had only repaired one Vanishing Cabinet under direct threat of his parents’ murder.
Silence reigns for several beats.
“You’ve done well.” The compliment seems to have been pulled out off Weasley’s tongue with pliers. He’s most certainly glaring now. Draco waits to see if he’ll say more.
Weasley doesn’t.
“Is that a problem, Head Obliviator Weasley?”
“No,” Weasley scoffs. He comes around the desk, invading Draco’s space. Draco remains as still as he can, only drawing his chin back a fraction of an inch. “But you need to do better.”
“Has the department received complaints about my work?”
Draco knows they haven’t. He’s meticulous. He’s the most meticulous of anyone in the department.
“No. Not a single one.” An edge of bitterness sharpens Weasley’s voice.
“Then how am I to improve, Head Obliviator Weasley?”
Weasley stalks back around to the other side of the desk. “There’s no reason to treat people like they’re made of glass.”
This is odd, coming from Weasley, who had been a Gryffindor rule-worshipper at Hogwarts.
“Are you suggesting I should stop following protocol?”
“You’re not following protocol. You’re out there taking your sweet bloody time.”
“Well, of course I am. It’s people’s minds we’re dealing with.” Now isn’t the time to lose his temper. “Head Obliviator Weasley.”
“Our first priority is to deal with our minds. As in—working at an appropriate pace.”
Beneath his robes, Draco’s skin has gone hot and prickly, the way it does when he’s furious. “You want me to work faster.”
“That’s just it.” Weasley waves him out. “Don’t linger, Malfoy. We don’t have that kind of time.”
It isn’t Draco’s fault the Dark Lord wiped out most of the Obliviator corps when he was in power. It certainly isn’t his fault that the hiring standards are so stringent that they don’t work in partner pairs. They can’t. There’s too much work to do.
But Draco isn’t going to chop and hack at people’s minds no matter what the Head Obliviator wants.
He’ll just concentrate harder.
Only a thin sliver of June is left when a Ministry memo does a loop-de-loop into Draco’s office and slithers across his desk. He catches it before it falls off, finishing his sip of tea in the process, and shakes out the parchment.
Merlin with bells on, his feet hurt. Draco lifts up his toes in an effort to quell their complaining. He spent the better part of the morning in Plumpton Green near Brighton, gently coaxing a little wix to forget the cursed circlet she’d found in a trunk of her grandmother’s effects. He’s rather enjoying the peace and quiet of the department now. Being short-staffed means there are rarely more than two of them in the office at the same time.
Draco reads the memo.
He reads it again.
He reads it a third time.
Then he Vanishes the dregs of his tea, tidies away his tea things, and heads off down the warren of hallways leading from his office to the Head Obliviator’s.
Draco raps professionally, if not cheerily, on the doorframe.
“Yes?” Weasley sounds distracted. He doesn’t look up from his parchment as Draco enters.
“I think we’ve gotten an assignment by mistake.” He lays the memo before Weasley, who glances at it with a critical eye.
“Not a mistake,” he says.
Draco picks up the parchment and reads it again. Who knows? It could have changed while he walked. Far stranger things have happened.
No. It hasn’t changed.
“It says SNAKE SWARM.” Draco dangles it in front of Weasley’s face. “That’s the Department of Magical Creatures.”
Weasley leans out from behind the parchment to meet Draco’s eyes. “I’m sure they’ll have someone there too, but they’re stretched thin as it is with the werewolf negotiations.”
“But what is a SNAKE SWARM?”
Percy leans back in his seat, his glance flicking skywards. “I would assume a swarm of snakes.”
Draco swallows a hot trickle of irritation twisted around cold dread. “Head Obliviator Weasley—”
“I also assume you’ll be able to give me a full report as soon as you’re back.”
“Yes.” Draco has no interest—none whatsoever—in learning what a SNAKE SWARM is. But refusing an assignment won’t win him any accolades with Weasley or the department. “Of course.”
“Hurry back,” Weasley sings, and goes back to his parchments.
Hurry back. Draco leaves Weasley’s office, biting back his objections to approaching his work with undue haste.
It’s only once he’s in the hall that he thinks to check the assignment’s location.
There it is, in bold print: GODRIC’S HOLLOW.
Draco’s stomach is in knots when he lands at the Godric’s Hollow Apparition Point.
Knots. Knots! He wishes to Merlin he could think of any other way to describe the feeling in his gut without resorting to snake metaphors. He’s sweating under his collar. It’s almost as if he’s being constricted—
He drops his hands into his face and breathes.
He’d been cavalier with Greg during that conversation in Potions. Dismissive, even. But it was easier when they were standing next to cauldrons without a snake in sight except for their fellow Slytherins. It was so much easier!
Now Draco is forced to confront all too many memories of the Dark Lord and his monstrous snake, which had terrorised Draco’s formative years.
He uncovers his face and tips it towards the sun.
Whatever miseries the SNAKE SWARM has brought to Godric’s Hollow, Draco can erase them. He will erase them. He is here to help.
With mercy in mind, Draco squares his shoulders and marches into the town square.
At first, nothing seems amiss. A few people are out doing their shopping in the little town square. A child skips down the pavement, a balloon bobbing above her head. A woman laughs in a flower shop.
Draco leaves the square, following the main thoroughfare, and passes a tidy church. Ah—there’s the monument to Potter’s parents. It flickers in and out of view as the Concealment Charms adjust to Draco’s presence.
Still nothing amiss. A pleasant breeze wafts down the cobblestoned street. White, fluffy clouds trundle across the sky.
Merlin, please. Let the SNAKE SWARM be in jest. Let it be gone, swept away by a kind wind.
Draco’s beginning to hope that his wish will come true when he sees her.
A woman in Muggle clothes stands at the end of the lane, trembling hands over her mouth.
Habit kicks in. Draco takes off his cloak, Shrinks it, and tucks it in his pocket. The uniform he wears underneath is meant to convey a sort of universal authority. Quality pieces, not so wizarding that they would seem out of place in a Muggle neighbourhood, and not so Muggle that they would seem out of place on Diagon Alley.
Draco’s heart slithers up into his throat, coiling tighter with every step. Everyone knows about Potter Cottage. There had been a few vague asides about Potter Cottage while Draco was in training, but Draco had been busy. He had been busy not thinking about Harry Potter. He had been busy building a life!
Now he’s walking towards certain death.
Or at least what one Muggle woman thinks is certain death, and Muggles are not wrong nearly as often as Draco’s childhood led him to believe.
He strolls up next to her and stops dead on the pavement.
The rumours were true. Harry Potter did repair his family home. It is no longer a mouldering ruin.
No, it’s much worse.
Potter Cottage is covered in snakes. There must be a thousand. More.
Draco’s eyes take several dizzy heartbeats to adjust to the sight before him.
It’s not the cottage buried under a layer of seething snakes. It’s only the entire front garden, and only Harry Potter, who is a writhing mass of serpents, along with every inch of the earth inside the stone fence.
Draco clears his throat and turns to face the woman.
“Good afternoon,” he says in his most reassuring tone. “Lovely day, don’t you think?”
She turns her head, the whites of her eyes enormous, and lets out a tiny ah?
Draco reaches for her mind with deliberate calm and lifts his wand. “Obliviate. It was only a shadow. It reminded you of a snake you saw when you were a child. Quite small. Quite harmless. A memory, that’s all, and now would be the perfect time for tea.”
Her face relaxes as he speaks, the terror fleeing her eyes, her hands falling easily to her sides.
“I do fancy a cuppa,” she admits, sheepish. “I’ll be on my way, now.”
“Goodbye.”
Draco waits until she’s disappeared from view to round on Potter.
Well—to round on the fence. There are far too many snakes. Far too many. Draco is staying on this side.
“Potter,” he snaps. “What the fuck?”
“Er,” Potter calls back. A snake curls around his neck. Or perhaps several snakes. Draco can’t see much more than his eyes and his mouth beneath all the scales. “Hi. I’ve got some snakes here.”
“I see that. You’re scaring your Muggle neighbours half to death. Has anyone from the Department of Magical Creatures been by?”
“Don’t think so. Dunno if they’re—” One of the snakes hisses a tiny plume of fire. “Guess they are. At least some of them. Wow! Well, now I know.”
“Now you know what?”
“That some of these snakes are magical.”
“Did you…” Oh, Merlin, no. “Did you call them here? Purposefully?”
“I, er…I might have. I was only trying to let them know I had food. And, like, safety.”
“They’re snakes! They can fend for themselves.”
“I wanted to make sure.”
“You wanted to make sure every snake in Britain knows you have food and safety? That’s a lie, Potter. You can’t possibly have enough rodents for thousands upon thousands of snakes.”
Potter laughs. “There are a lot, yeah.”
“Yes.”
“So…” He’s just standing there, covered head to toe with snakes, not reacting with any sort of urgency. Draco would have dug his own grave and buried himself in it should that many snakes touch him simultaneously. “They’re not in any hurry to leave.”
“Potter, for the love—are you not a Parselmouth?”
“Oh, yeah!” Potter’s eyes widen through the snakes. “Right! Okay. Yeah!” One deep breath, and Potter starts hissing.
A violent attraction wars with Draco’s urge to sick up. He hadn’t thought he could be attracted to Parseltongue, not after—
Merlin’s sweet magic, he is attracted to it. He wants Potter to hiss against his throat.
The snakes pour off Potter, landing softly on other snakes with little pats, and soon they’re individual streams undulating into the back garden and out of sight. Potter’s left with only one baby snake coiled around his wrist. He runs his hands through his hair, surveys his relatively snakeless front garden, and flashes Draco a smile.
Is that a—
Is he flirting?
Does Potter think that smile is winning?
Does Draco?
“So,” Potter says, as if Draco had dropped by for a friendly visit. “How’s your day?”
“Traumatising.” Both because of Draco’s erection, which strains in his trousers, and because of the SNAKE SWARM. He should Obliviate himself. Better yet, he should have Weasley do it. He throws a glare at Potter, whose bronze skin glows in the midafternoon sun. “Horrible.”
Potter’s lips turn down into a sad little pout. His snake companion twirls around his knuckles, and Potter brightens as if the snake is actually attempting to comfort him. “Oh, hey, Malfoy—want to see my snake up close?”
“I—” The innuendo is too much. It’s all too much. Potter’s eyes. His fit body. His ridiculous hair. “No. No! Absolutely not. And next time your bleeding Gryffindor heart leads you to heroism, try something a bit more domesticated, for Merlin’s fucking sake.”
Draco Apparates away before Potter can say another word.
It’s not enough. It’s never enough to simply leave Potter standing in his garden or any other garden as if somehow the garden will contain the memory of him, leaving Draco in peace.
There is no such thing. Not in Draco’s life.
He’d got by during training because Potter wasn’t there and because Draco had been focused. Committed. Successful!
Now the slightest glimpse of green reminds him of that wretched SNAKE SWARM and, in the middle of all the awful snake convulsions, Potter’s eyes—such a singular green that they stood out in a bloody pile of serpents. Draco can’t even think of Slytherin House without remembering the swarm.
And, worst of all—
Want to see my snake up close?
Of course Draco wanted it! Of course he wanted to stride into the garden and look at Potter’s bloody perfect gorgeous snake. He also wanted to drag Potter inside, get Potter naked, and look at his cock.
Which Draco knows in his bones will be perfect, just as every other part of Potter is.
Draco lets his head fall onto his desk. “Ouch.”
His parchments offer no comment.
A stirring in the air catches his attention, and he lifts his Potter-obsessed head from the parchments. The memo bounds through the air and hops down onto Draco’s desk.
Draco unfolds the memo and reads with professional detachment.
Thirty seconds later, he’s on his way to Head Obliviator Weasley’s office. He knocks, then sweeps in without waiting for Weasley to answer.
“Why, of course you’re not interrupting, Obliviator Malfoy,” Weasley says from where he stands near a potted plant, fingers working at his badge. “My time is your time. My attention is your attention.”
“Do you need help with your badge, Head Obliviator Weasley?” Draco asks, bland, innocent. “The pin can be awfully tricky.”
Weasley glares at him. “What is it, Malfoy?”
“Godric’s Hollow again. I suppose you don’t think I should check with Magical Creatures before I go?”
“What does the memo say?”
“CRUP CATASTROPHE.”
Belatedly, Draco wonders if this is a bit of lighthearted hazing. He keeps his expression open, nearly blank, and hopes, hopes, that Weasley will break down and admit this is only a joke, haven’t we all laughed, and Draco can go home early.
He doesn’t.
It’s not lighthearted, anyway. This is serious.
Instead, Weasley looks back down at the badge. It really does seem to be giving him a spot of trouble. “Check with Magical Creatures if you must, Obliviator Malfoy, but you’ll have to make up the time.”
The choice is obvious. Draco will confront whatever is in Godric’s Hollow on his own. Time is too precious to waste.
It’s earlier in the morning, but the heat is thicker, settling onto Draco’s cloak the moment he touches down at the Apparition Point. He takes it off and Shrinks it. If there is a CRUP CATASTROPHE, he will no doubt need to be appropriately clothed. Un-cloaked, as it were.
This has nothing to do with snakes. If Draco is lucky, it might not even involve fit Potter with his winning smile. There will be no need for Potter to ask Draco if he wants to see his snake.
Draco marches through the main square and onto the main thoroughfare.
His hopes are instantly dashed.
From the other end of Godric’s Hollow, he can plainly see that there is not one Muggle outside Potter Cottage, but three. Two more appear from a side street and jog in the direction of Potter Cottage, pointing and shouting to one another.
The silver lining is that they don’t seem to be terror-stricken.
They’re…excited?
Is it Potter in the front garden again?
Is he shirtless?
Draco has no right to speculate. Gritting his teeth against a jealousy he’s certainly mistaking for another emotion—annoyance, perhaps—he heads off down the street.
As he goes, the air fills with yips and barks and a few howls that manage to sound like joyous celebration. Draco fixes his face into a scowl. How many Crups has Potter collected? A thousand?
He reaches the little stone fence and a crowd of patently delighted Muggles.
“Aww,” one woman says, her hands over her heart. “Awww, look. Look, Stephen. Look at that one!”
Draco cannot fathom how Stephen knows which Crup the woman is pointing at, because there are hundreds in Potter’s front garden.
And there he is.
Not shirtless, to Draco’s simultaneous disappointment and relief, but clad in Muggle shorts with numerous pockets and a white vest that sets off Potter’s sun-warmed skin. He has a sack slung over one shoulder and a heart-stopping grin on his face. As Draco and the gathered Muggles look on, Potter takes a neon-green ball from the sack and tosses it towards the leaping Crups.
“That’s it!” Potter calls encouragingly. “You’ve got it! Fetch it and bring it back here! That’s a good dog! I’m so proud of—”
His praise is cut off when a surge of Crup puppies dives onto Potter’s back en masse, tackling him to the ground.
It’s unbearable, watching him roll about with the puppies, scratching them behind the ears and stroking their backs and tossing more balls for them to chase.
Draco wants to watch all day.
But these are Crups, not Muggle puppies, and little bits of magic crackle off Potter’s fingertips with each toss, and Draco does not want any harm to come to these Muggles. He refuses to rush, and he can’t afford to spend any more time than absolutely necessary.
And…
Though it won’t show up on any official report, Draco does not want anyone from the Ministry disturbing Potter’s joy.
So he backs up into the street, unnoticed by the Muggles, and spends a minute locating all their minds at once, preparing as much as he can for the most complex Obliviation of his career, though not his life.
“Hello,” he calls loudly, voice warm and friendly. “Hello. Look here, please.”
One by one, the Muggles turn, their eyebrows going up.
“Yes, good morning!” Draco smiles. “Come this way, please. Yes, thank you. This way. Can everyone hear me?”
“Cheers!” calls a bloke in the back. Stephen?
“Wonderful! Obliviate.”
Each thread is unique, but they’re all centred around the same memory. That it’s a recent one is a great help to Draco.
“These puppies are on their way to an adoption event at Burnham-on-Sea.” Draco accepts the twinge of guilt that comes along with outright falsehood. “They had to be let out for exercise. Puppies, you know.”
Several of the Muggles offer sounds of agreement.
“A lovely sight on a lovely morning,” Draco finishes, slipping the suggestion neatly alongside the modified thread. “It’s a lovely time to go home, too, isn’t it?”
“Right-o,” Stephen answers. He’s the first to break off from the group, one of the women hurrying off at his side. The street is clear in moments, though no quieter on account of the Crup circus still playing out in Potter’s front garden.
Draco flings open the gate with a flick of his wand and wades into the fray. When he reaches Potter, Potter’s flat on his back on the grass. A puppy runs in miniscule circles on his chest, stopping every so often to nose the hollow of his throat.
It’s the glasses, sitting crookedly on Potter’s face, that nearly do Draco in. He nearly falls to his knees amid the Crups, pushes the puppy out of the way, and kisses Potter until he sees sense.
Potter squinches his face and guides the puppy gently away from his neck. “Merlin’s bollocks, that tickles. Oh, hi, Malfoy!”
“Hello, Potter. Have you lost your mind? Shall I report you to the Ministry?”
He tilts his head, the glasses even more askew, and another rush of affection—affection!—threatens to subsume Draco.
“For what?” The puppy resumes licking Potter’s throat.
“For breaking the Statute of Secrecy. You attracted a crowd of Muggles.”
Potter sighs, tipping his head against the grass. “I s’pose if you have to, then take me in. I’ll suffer the consequences.”
“I’m not an Auror. I’d have to call the Aurors. How do you think that would look?”
“Sexy,” Potter mumbles.
Draco can’t have heard that correctly. “What?”
“Sex—so bad! It would look so bad.”
“Yes, for me. Do you know how that would make me look at the Ministry? It would make me look as if I had a personal grudge against the Saviour. Who saved us all.”
Potter’s eyes get wide and innocent. “Don’t you, though?”
“No! Unless, of course, you mean the grudge I’m going to hold against you if you attract any more Muggles to this—” A clutch of Crups whizzes around them, barking at the top of their Crup lungs. “Whatever this is!”
“Crup-sitting,” Potter says proudly.
“You’re Crup-sitting. You. The Saviour. You are Crup-sitting for, what, a hundred Crups?”
“It’s, like, forty.”
“Why?”
“Dunno.” Potter shrugs, which looks ridiculous, as he is flat on the ground with puppies all over him. “Just to see what people thought.”
Draco is going to lose his mind.
To maintain professionalism, he gazes at the sky instead.
Potter is still sprawled in the grass when Draco tips his head down. He’s doing one of his winning smiles again. With his crooked glasses. With the puppy on his chest.
“What d’you think, Malfoy?”
“I think if you need a pet this badly, you’d be better off with something more sedate. For all our sakes.”
He strides away before he does anything foolish.
“Sedate?” Potter calls after him.
“No more Crup-sitting,” Draco shouts over his shoulder. “Try a bloody house cat.”
Percy Weasley should have Sorted Slytherin.
This is not the first time Draco’s thought as much, but it is the most salient occasion. Weasley sits across from Draco at Draco’s desk, in Draco’s office because—as Weasley had informed him during their first such meeting—he had read in the Ministry Managerial Missives that conducting sit-downs in employees’ offices was a good way to increase morale and strengthen the employee-supervisor bond.
So far, this strategy is having no such effect. Had Weasley Sorted Slytherin, he would know that prowling into a wix’s office wearing a pointedly calculated expression verging on a glare was not likely to increase morale. If he wanted to appear as if he was interested in increasing morale, he would do better to arrange his features into something more pleasant, if not welcoming.
However, Weasley Sorted Gryffindor, which means he approaches the meetings with the attitude that since he, Percy Weasley, had decided to follow the handbook, however he went about it was inherently righteous.
Weasley flips a roll of parchment on the pile in front of him and scans it. “Plumpton Green. You were there two hours.”
Draco pulls out a roll of parchment and hands it across the desk. “The little wix was in a state.”
“Over what?” Weasley frowns at the report. “This should’ve taken half an hour at most.”
“Over the Curse-burns on her hands. I wasn’t going to perform memory work while she was in acute distress.”
“You could have. Then her distress would’ve been over faster.”
Draco grits his teeth. Breathes. Relaxes his jaw. “Perhaps. Or perhaps the Obliviation would have been more difficult with worse results.”
Weasley drops the parchment on his own stack with a hmph. “Moving on, then—”
Before Weasley can move on, a memo breezes into Draco’s office at a stately speed and takes a place on his desk.
Heat rushes to his face. Blood rushes to his cock. This is the worst possible response to receiving an assignment that Draco could have.
Ignoring his physical reactions with all his might, Draco shakes out the memo.
KNEAZLE NIGHTMARE.
GODRIC’S HOLLOW.
KNEAZLE NIGHTMARE is written entirely in capital letters and underlined twice.
Draco looks across the desk at Weasley.
Weasley looks back at him, his blue eyes revealing nothing.
Perhaps he has more Slytherin in him than Draco realised.
After a brief silence weighted with some sort of challenge—though what the challenge could be, Draco has no idea—Weasley holds out his hand for the memo.
Draco wants to clutch it to his chest.
He does not.
He hands it over, as if it’s not a summons to the scene of his worst nightmare—a clothed, fit, grinning Harry Potter.
“Godric’s Hollow again?” Weasley arches an eyebrow.
“It seems so.”
Weasley offers the memo so slowly it seems like a trap. Draco accepts it just as slowly. What is this twat’s game? Is his intent to drive Draco mad?
Oh, probably.
“Well, I won’t keep you,” Weasley says, and begins to gather his parchments. “Limit yourself to half an hour, Malfoy.”
Half an hour makes Draco want to rage for days, but his fury is quickly eclipsed by his urgent need to know what the bloody hell is happening at Potter Cottage now.
In Godric’s Hollow. This KNEAZLE NIGHTMARE may have nothing to do with—
Draco lands at the Apparition Point and shrugs off both his cloak and his flimsy denial. It’s Potter. It’s always Potter. The only question that remains is what a nightmare means when it comes to Kneazles.
It’s late in the summer afternoon, tending toward evening, and the town square is lit with slants of gold. Draco crosses. No barking this time—he wouldn’t have expected any. Not with Kneazles.
He has taken one step out of the town square when he sees it.
Up until this moment, he would not have been able to imagine a situation involving Kneazles that he would have described as nightmarish.
Now it’s happening right in front of him.
The CRUP CATASTROPHE had been rather joyful, all things considered. Enthusiastic puppies having the time of their lives.
The Kneazles have formed two columns. They march two-by-two down Godric Hollow’s main thoroughfare like they’re going off to war.
The hair on the back of Draco’s neck stands. Merlin, that’s unsettling. Why do they look so grim? What are they doing, launching an invasion on Potter’s garden? Were they even invited?
Draco counts four pairs, then six. When he reaches twelve, he stops counting. People are poking their heads out of doors and windows all the way down the street. Draco needs to speak with all of them before they lose interest in the Kneazles.
He moves from house to house with maximum efficiency. Good evening. It did seem like quite a lot of cats, but then, cats do strange things every so often. It’s certainly not memorable. Just another perfect evening in Godric’s Hollow.
Forty-seven minutes later, Draco follows the tail-end of the Kneazle procession through the front gate at Potter Cottage, his heart pounding from the exertion of performing sequential Obliviations on half of Godric’s Hollow, his head aching from the intense concentration on the task, and his mouth watering at the sight of Potter in his vest and his shorts and the bloody light.
He stands in the centre of the garden, a sack of Kneazle treats on the ground at his feet. The Man Who Defeated Voldemort and Lived to Ruin Draco’s Life dispenses treats to each of the Kneazles as they go by in their battalion.
“One for you, too,” he says to one of the Kneazles passing him. “You too! Yeah!” Potter notices Draco and startles. Or does he wriggle with excitement? It’s too subtle to be certain. “Malfoy! Hi!”
The very last pair of Kneazles reaches Potter, who bends to stroke their backs and give them a treat, too. They continue around the side of Potter Cottage and are gone from view.
“I didn’t know you’d be over this way,” Potter continues, bright and chipper. “I was just feeding the Kneazles.”
“You were feeding the Kneazles,” Draco echoes faintly.
“Yeah. There are the ones people keep as pets, and then there are wild ones.” He steals a glance at Draco, then claps his hands together, obviously performing a wandless Cleaning Charm. “I thought they could use a treat.”
Draco stares at him.
“Er…” Potter peeks behind him, as if one of the departing Kneazles might’ve offered him a clue. “What?”
“Kneazles are highly intelligent magical creatures. They do not need to be hand-fed treats.”
“Everybody needs to be hand-fed treats sometimes.”
The images that fly through Draco’s mind briefly cut off his air supply. “That—that may be true, Potter, but not Kneazles. They are capable of organisation. And now the entire village has seen your Kneazle parade.”
Potter’s brow furrows. “I didn’t throw a parade.”
“How do you think they got here?” Draco wants to stomp his foot. “They came down the main street two by two. In lines!”
“But I cast some Notice-Me-Nots. And a strong Disillusionment Charm all across the fence. Any Muggles who passed by wouldn’t have been able to see the garden.” Potter’s so earnest. He’s so beautiful. Draco is so fucked.
“What they saw,” says Draco, barely maintaining his composure, “was an absurd number of Kneazles in two organised lines coming to your home and then disappearing when they came through the gate.”
Potter scrunches up his face. It’s utterly bloody adorable. “Bollocks.”
“Oh, no, Potter, don’t you fret! I’ve taken care of everything.”
Potter blushes from the vee-neck of his vest all the way to his forehead. “Well, you didn’t have to—”
“I did!” Draco cries. “I did have to. It’s most of my bloody job to maintain the separation between our world and the Muggle world. And you are determined to make that difficult, aren’t you? I should chain you to my desk and supervise you.”
Draco meant this as a threat, obviously.
Potter’s pupils blow.
“I…” Potter swallows. “I’m sorry, Malfoy. I didn’t think they’d notice.”
“Well. They did.”
“I’m, er…” Potter glances at Draco, then blows out a breath. “Would you like some tea? It’s the least I can do. Yeah. You need it. Come on.” Potter picks up the sack of Kneazle treats, swings it over his shoulder, and beckons for Draco to follow him.
“I don’t have time.”
“It’s just tea. It’s, like, two minutes.” Potter reaches the door and holds it open for Draco.
He doesn’t have time.
He doesn’t.
But he’s wanted Potter to invite him—oh, anywhere since he was eleven years old, and his head hurts, and—
Draco goes. He crosses the garden and steps over the threshold of Potter Cottage into an entryway that smells like fresh-baked biscuits and the ozone-sweet scent of Potter’s magic. Draco does not allow himself to become delirious. He simply—professionally—waits while Potter closes the front door.
“Sorry,” Potter says, and steps into Draco’s space.
Draco realises far too late that Potter is probably trying to put the Kneazle snacks away, and that Draco’s probably blocking the storage cupboard. His mind is filled with magic and biscuits and Potter’s face getting closer and closer until Potter trips, honest-to-Merlin trips, and when he catches himself on Draco—when Draco catches him?—it’s in the form of a kiss.
Oh.
Oh bloody Merlin’s bollocks fuck.
Oh, the kiss is sweet, and Potter’s lips are soft, and it doesn’t even matter that he’s still got the sack of treats because he’s all leaned into Draco like Draco is solid ground. Draco’s hands go to Potter’s waist.
Potter exhales a soft oh into the kiss.
Draco snaps to his senses.
He bolts upright, steadying Potter with both hands on Potter’s shoulders, then jabs a finger into his face.
“Statute,” he says, with all the gravitas he can muster. “Arrested. Buy an owl, Potter. Keep it inside.”
Draco strides out of Potter Cottage, blood rushing so loudly in his ears that he doesn’t hear if Potter says anything at all.
Draco cannot go on like this.
Firstly, he can never go back to Godric’s Hollow. Not ever.
Secondly, he can never face Potter again.
Why? Why? Why had he kissed Potter? And while Draco was on the job, no less!
Well, obviously, he’d done it because Potter is irresistible. And Potter had fallen into him. And Potter hadn’t stopped kissing him, and he’d made that little sound, and—
“Merlin strike me down,” Draco says to the kettle in the break room on his floor. “Kill me,” he adds, in case he hadn’t been clear.
“Is it a Cursed Kettle?” Weasley’s voice comes from directly behind Draco. He freezes, adrenaline coursing through him. Weasley pokes him in the shoulder blade. “Obliviator Malfoy. Should the Aurors come have a look?”
“No, of course not.” Draco wills his body into action. The kettle whistles. “I’ll be out of your way in just a moment, Head Obliviator Weasley.”
Draco had, at least, remembered to place a tea bag in his cup before he lost himself to fantasies of Potter’s mouth and being struck down by Merlin. He’s more prone to such thoughts at night. All the Obliviators have overnight shifts twice a month. Draco should have known he’d spend the whole thing fixated on the Boy Who Crup-Sat.
He steeps his tea, not wasting a moment, and charms the milk and sugar into the cup.
Weasley huffs behind him.
It is Draco’s break. Weasley can have all the opinions he wants about Draco’s work in the field, but this is his ten minutes to make his bloody tea.
Draco turns fully around. “Head Obliviator Weasley! How rude of me. Of course I’ll get you a cup as well.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Stay where you are,” Draco orders, and turns back to the tea things. If Weasley wants to breathe down his neck, he can stand here and watch Draco make an exacting cup of tea.
When he turns around, Weasley is still there.
Draco holds out the tea.
Weasley takes it, his eyes locked on Draco’s.
It’s yet another standoff.
Slowly, without looking away, Weasley raises the mug to his lips.
“You’re welcome, Head Obliviator Weasley,” Draco prompts, making a snotty little circle with his fingers.
Weasley rolls his eyes. “Thank you.” He sips the tea, and his face twists. “It’s delicious.”
Draco beams at him. “I know.”
“You were in Godric’s Hollow for an hour.”
He’s already standing at his full height, or Draco would draw himself up taller. “I was in Godric’s Hollow for fifty minutes.”
“For what?”
“For the KNEAZLE NIGHTMARE. This was all in my report, Head Obliviator Weasley.”
“Yes, but—”
“It wasn’t a single Obliviation. It was eighteen, all told.”
Weasley blinks. “You did that in fifty minutes?”
“Yes, I did. Should I have done it faster?” Could Weasley have done it faster? Is this about Weasley at all, or did he hear something about Draco’s last trip to Godric’s Hollow? Everyone who comes within earshot of Head Obliviator Weasley knows Potter regularly attends Sunday brunches at the Burrow.
Did he mention the bloody kiss?
“No,” Weasley says, finally regaining the power of speech. “No, I—”
A memo soars into the tea room, circles above their heads, and plummets directly into Draco’s hand.
“Ah! Duty calls. I’d better hurry.”
Draco sidesteps Weasley at speed, leaving him to his tea.
He Apparates to Godric’s Hollow before he reads the memo.
An oversight. A simple oversight. He’s not longing to see Potter.
Draco shakes out the parchment.
HIPPOGRIFF HORROR.
GODRIC’S HOLLOW.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake.” Draco pockets the memo, then removes his cloak, Shrinks it, and pockets that, too.
Godric’s Hollow is asleep. The faint scent of sea salt wafts through the air. Draco breathes deep as he crosses the town square. Light pools under street lamps at the edge of the pavement, and Draco’s heart thumps.
Is it Godric’s Hollow he likes so much?
No.
It isn’t.
He leaves the town square with a peculiar lightness in his chest.
Surely he can’t be happy that Potter has, once again, done something requiring the presence of an Obliviator.
Can he?
“Perhaps this time he’ll be shirtless,” Draco says, regretting it immediately. Not because it’s untrue, but because it’s unprofessional. “Only a joke. Ha, ha.”
The summer breeze ruffles his hair. An owl hoots overhead and whooshes away in a flutter of wings.
And then...
More wings.
Larger wings.
Beating wings.
Draco stops and peers into the sky.
A hippogriff arcs over the street.
A hippogriff with Potter astride it.
Draco fights off a flashback to the horrid beast that had visited an attack upon his person in third-year. That is not his concern. His concern is the HIPPOGRIFF HORROR, which in this instance can only be visited upon Muggles who are frightened of grotesque and dangerous magical creatures.
The only person he can see—other than Harry bloody Potter on his hippogriff steed—is a bloke sitting on the stone fence surrounding the graveyard next to the church.
Draco could Obliviate him from this distance, without the man ever knowing.
No, actually.
He can’t.
Draco approaches the man on the fence, who nods to him as he gets closer. That’s a positive sign. Then the man gestures at the sky. “Bloody enormous eagle up there.”
That had been the suggestion Draco planned to offer. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” The man keeps looking up. For the moment, Harry Potter and his HIPPOGRIFF HORROR are nowhere to be seen. “Bollocks. I’m drunk.”
“Are you?”
“Oh, yeah.” The man hops off the fence, then opens his arms wide and bows. “Drunk, but not disorderly. Night, mate.”
“Good night,” Draco calls to his retreating back.
Being the best Obliviator in the department would mean chasing the man down. Obliviating him regardless of his own drunken conclusion.
It wouldn’t be right.
There shouldn’t be such tension between department policy and doing the right bloody thing.
Draco does not go after the Muggle.
He reaches Potter Cottage just as the hippogriff loops above the roof, then alights in the middle of the front garden.
Potter dismounts the hippogriff with a grin so bright it could make the sun rise. “Malfoy! What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to have you arrested.”
“Really?”
“No, you twat. I’m here to save Godric’s Hollow from the lingering memory of a madman flying about on a hippogriff.”
Potter makes a show of looking around. “I haven’t seen any madmen.”
“Perhaps a mirror would help.”
Potter snorts, then breaks down laughing, and Draco has never been more pleased with himself. He’s crossing the garden before he can consider the virtues of professionalism. The hippogriff flaps its wings and soars away just before Draco reaches Potter.
This time, he’s not waiting for him to trip on a sack of treats. Draco drags Potter to him with the force of all his lust.
“I want to kiss you again,” says Draco. Inelegant, but accurate.
“Yeah,” Potter breathes, and then—
Their embrace is not appropriate for a front garden, but Draco doesn’t care. He wants his hands on Potter. Potter, apparently, wants his hands on Draco. His hands are warm on Draco’s clothes, then desperate, tugging at cloth until he’s touching bare skin. Draco tastes him and tastes him, the utter fool, the perfect man, and his attention splits. Potter’s mouth. Potter’s hands.
He’s shameless, going for Draco’s trousers with a pleasepleaseplease that Draco could live on for decades.
And then Potter’s on his knees in his own front garden, kissing the tip of Draco’s cock with relish, then taking him down in one slick swallow.
Draco sees stars.
He sees actual stars, and he sees bursts of pleasure like magic in the corners of his eyes. Harry keeps one hand on his hip and another on Draco’s thigh, and his tongue—
He’s so deep in Potter’s throat that Potter’s moans hum around Draco’s base. The sound hitches, and Draco realises he’s coming, Potter’s getting off from sucking Draco off, and what’s Draco to do but come hard and let Potter lap it all up?
In the dizzy aftermath, Potter looks up at Draco, still on his knees, and wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
“D’you think—” There’s a rasp in Potter’s voice. From Draco’s cock being down his throat. “D’you think we should go to dinner?”
“It’s the middle of the night. I’m at work.”
“Naughty.”
“You—” Draco tries to jab a finger into Potter’s face and ends up stroking his cheek instead. “You need—employment.”
“Okay.” Potter leans into Draco’s touch.
“Get a job.” Draco bends down and kisses Potter’s temple. “Work.”
“Okay,” Potter says again.
Draco turns around at the gate. Potter’s still on his knees, wearing the silliest grin Draco has ever witnessed on another person. “No more hippogriffs.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” Well, that had not come out mocking in the least. It had come out...affectionate. And teasing. The next words out of Draco’s mouth absolutely must be good night. “I want you,” he blurts, then Apparates away in a fit of panic.
Draco has absolutely no idea what the proper etiquette is following a midnight blow job in the front garden while he was on the clock.
There’s simply no way he can write Potter an owl. What would he say? Compliments on your excellent fellatio technique. Thank you for the lovely time. What is your first availability for dinner?
No.
No, that won’t do.
Potter doesn’t owl Draco, either. A week goes by at a breakneck pace. When the weather is warm, the number of magical accidents and catastrophes increases, so Draco barely has time to breathe. In what little spare time he has, he aggressively fantasises about the front garden blow job.
His parents return from France. Draco joins them for tea at the Manor and feels as if his head will burst open, his skull cracked by the pressure of his worry. His father seems well, but that could change, and if Weasley’s going to skulk about in the tea room, waiting for Draco to slip up—
Well! He’ll have to keep waiting! Because Draco isn’t going to slip up.
His next overnight begins with an assignment in Ashwell and escalates to a field in Scotland, where a music festival is being held and where, as far as Draco can determine, a group of Muggle musicians stumbled across a cache of magical artefacts, including a preserved bundle of Gillyweed, which they took it upon themselves to smoke. Various other Muggles keep wandering onto the scene, and it’s almost two when Draco arrives back at the Ministry.
Weasley’s waiting for him at the door to his office. “Obliviator Malfoy.”
“No. No. I simply refuse. Wait for daylight, Head Obliviator Weasley. I’ve been in a field herding Muggle musicians who were absolutely pissed, and if you stood here with a Tempus—”
“I’m promoting you,” Weasley shouts over him. “You’re getting a raise, too.”
Draco stops so quickly he almost trips over his boots. “What?”
Weasley narrows his eyes, looking as if he’s being forced to give this news at wandpoint. “You’re the best Obliviator we’ve got. I’ve been advised to make sure you receive appropriate compensation. Congratulations, Senior Obliviator Malfoy.”
“I didn’t think there were Senior Obliviators.”
“There weren’t,” Weasley says, his exasperation not at all contained. “I created the position just for you.”
“Oh.” Draco’s ears still ring from the din of the music festival. “You should know—I’m not going to start doing shoddy work just because you pin a new badge to my robes.”
“There’s no new badge. You’ll keep the same one.”
“Yes, well, the point still—”
“I get it.” Weasley flutters his hands at Draco irritatedly. “Just—don’t quit.”
“Why would I do that?”
Weasley rolls his eyes and stomps off without giving Draco a reply.
Draco doesn’t see the memo coming until it lands on his shoulder.
DRAGON DISASTER.
GODRIC’S HOLLOW.
The streets in Godric’s Hollow are empty. Not a person to be seen. Suspicion grows in Draco’s gut as he makes his way toward Potter Cottage.
He’s nearly there when a jet of fire shoots over the fence and into the street.
“No!” Potter’s voice carries. “No, don’t do that. I think it’s funny, but he’s not going to think it’s funny, so—”
Draco comes level with the fence.
There is a dragon in Potter’s front garden. From the size of it—huge, but not towering—Draco assumes it’s a young dragon, and of course it’s beautiful. In the light of Potter’s Lumos, its scales flash a glittering green. It snuffles and drops its head so Potter can pet it.
“You’re not in trouble,” says Potter. “Not at all. We just have to be…like, composed.”
Something speeds overhead, the wind gusting through Draco’s hair, and Charlie Weasley—it can only be Charlie Weasley, as he’s the only Weasley who looks like that—jumps from his broom to the ground next to Potter and the dragon.
“There you are,” Weasley says loudly, and reaches up to pat the dragon’s head. “I’ve been worried sick. Thanks for keeping her for me, Harry. I owe you for this one.”
“Maybe I could do some freelance work for you,” Potter says, just as loudly.
“Sure you could. Anytime you want. I owe you my life. Gwen here owes you her life, too.”
“Okay. We can—”
“Let me take you to the pub,” Charlie shouts. “The whole village should know what you did. Maybe even London. Maybe even the world. Everyone should hear of the selfless work you—”
“Oh, stop it.” Draco goes through the gate. “It’s obvious what’s happening here. You’re free to wrap up your performance, Weasley.”
Charlie whirls around, his eyes enormous. “Malfoy? Is that you?”
“He’s figured us out,” Potter says in a low voice. “You’ve probably got to get back.”
“Yes!” Charlie claps Potter on the shoulder. “We’ll race the sunrise. Thanks again, mate. You’ve been—”
“You’re welcome,” Potter interrupts. “See you later, Charlie.”
Charlie hops onto the dragon, and the two of them fly away into the night.
Draco crosses the garden until he’s all of two inches from Potter, who looks up at him, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth.
“Potter,” Draco begins. “Did you stage a dragon recovery in your front garden to lure me to Godric’s Hollow?”
Potter’s eyebrows shoot up. “Not lure you. Just, er…just call you. So you could see how good I was with dragons. Did you hear? I might be able to do some work with—”
“What on earth has gotten into you? Why would you do this? You have stomped all over the Statute, Potter. You’ve staged a dragon rescue, and I’m beginning to think—no, I know you made all those reports. I bet you thought of all those titles yourself.”
Potter takes a deep breath, then seems to realise there’s no bluffing his way through. “Yeah, I did.”
“And you staged the other incidents, too.”
“Yeah,” Potter admits.
“Why? Please, for the love of Merlin, tell me why.”
“To impress you.”
Draco stares at him.
Potter stares back.
“To impress me? You didn’t need to Summon a thousand snakes to impress me, Potter! All you had to do was—” Draco waves his hands at him. “Exist!”
“Well, I haven’t—it’s not like I’ve done anything impressive since—”
“Since you saved the world? I don’t care about that! I’ve wanted you for years! Why would you think you needed a thousand snakes? A hundred Crups? Two hundred Kneazles? A—”
“Because you said!”
This is impossible. “What could I possibly have said to—”
“You said you liked when people handled snakes. You said the handling was what counted.”
Potter means it. There’s no sign of subterfuge in his face. But they’ve hardly talked since—
“When did I say this?”
“Eighth-year. In Potions.” Potter bites his lip. “You said it to Greg.”
“I said that to distract him from the fire.”
Potter’s face falls. “So you don’t care about how people handle snakes?”
“I certainly care if there are a thousand of them!” Is this happening? Has Draco slipped into a dream? “But that’s not—why all the rest?”
“Because you said.” Potter leans towards him, his eyes dropping to Draco’s lips. “You said to try something more domestic. And then you wanted something calm. Or—sedate. And then you said to get an owl, only I’m just not—I wasn’t ready for an owl, but at least a Hippogriff is part eagle. And then you said I should get a job. So I picked up some freelance dragon work.”
“Why,” Draco breathes.
“Because I fancy you. I thought the kissing and the blow job would’ve made that obvious.”
Draco grabs Potter by the shirt. “Potter, I swear upon all my—”
“Harry. You should call me Harry. Please. I think we’re about to kiss again, and I really want you to call me Harry.”
“Harry,” Draco says, a surge of pure desire rushing to his cock…and everywhere else. “I don’t need snakes. I don’t need any animal processions.”
“So you…don’t want to see my snake up close?”
The sound that comes out of Draco is half-outrage, half-demand. “Are you talking about your dick?”
“Yeah. If you’re into that.”
“I’ll show you what I’m into,” Draco says darkly. “Now show me inside.”
Draco is into Harry Potter.
He’s into Harry Potter so much that he owls Head Obliviator Weasley and takes half a night of unscheduled personal time.
He spends the first hour taking Harry apart in the shower, touching every inch of him he can reach with the sort of meticulous focus he’d normally use on Obliviation. He makes a circle of his fingers around the base of Harry’s cock and lets him pant into Draco’s shoulder until he’s sure he can make it to the bed without coming.
He doesn’t know how much time he spends with Harry bent over a pillow, licking him for all Draco’s worth. It’s enough time that when it’s finished, Harry’s down to two words: Draco and please.
Then Draco fucks Harry into the mattress, wild and deep.
It takes all of fifteen minutes for Harry to recover.
He props himself on an elbow and looks down at Draco. “Can we do that again?”
Draco still hasn’t caught his breath. “What, now?”
Harry dips his head to Draco’s chest and licks him.
“Yes, now.” Draco finds Harry’s sex-mussed hair and holds on. “I don’t want to wait.”
He wakes the next morning to a naked Harry Potter standing in the sun. Light streams through his open window, and he’s hissing.
To the tiny snake curled around his wrist.
“I said no more snakes,” Draco grumbles.
“It’s just the one.” Harry turns around, his face pink from sleep. “And you think it’s hot when I say snake stuff.”
“Ugh.” He is, unfortunately, correct. “What are you telling her?”
“She wanted to know who you were, so I told her you’re my date.”
“Five trips to Godric’s Hollow, and I don’t count as your boyfriend?”
Harry beams. “No, you do. You count. You count so much.”
“Come here.” Draco reaches for Harry. He’s not far at all. A matter of seconds. “I want to see your snake up close.”