Chapter 1: The Djinn Awakens
Notes:
a silly little fic I wrote because I couldn't find any djinn/genie!Harry hpdm fics (if you have any pls rec 😔) I took alot of liberties with the Djinn/Genie lore I could find and made up a lot of my own, too.
Note that contain spoilers:
Harry will reference that he's a thousand years old in the fic but he's really 27. 1 year = 100 years in the realm Harry's trapped in, so his sense of time is warped (and as a result, so is his moral compass.)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Djinns, or Genies, are enigmatic creatures born from fire, they’re capable of shapeshifting into any form, whether wizard or beast. Known for their cunning and unpredictable nature, Djinns often bring chaos by granting wishes, though rarely in the way the wisher intends. Their mischievous tendencies and penchant for twisting desires have made them both feared and revered throughout history.
— Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them: The Missing Beasts Edition
The parlor of Malfoy Manor was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the fire and the occasional rustle of parchments. Rain tapped a steady rhythm against the tall, arched windows, its gray light casting long shadows across the room.
Draco sat at the desk, his fingers tracing the faded ink of an ancient potions tome. The book was one of many he’d collected over the years, its pages filled with recipes and remedies that promised miracles… if only he could find the right ingredients.
“Still searching for your elusive ingredient?”
Draco looked up to see his mother standing in the doorway, her expression calm but tinged with concern. Narcissa Malfoy had aged gracefully, though a weariness lingered in her eyes that never quite faded.
“Dragon's Liver,” Draco corrected, closing the book with a sigh. “And no, I haven’t found it.”
Narcissa’s lips tightened, but she said nothing. She stepped into the room, her gaze sweeping over the cluttered desk; stacks of books, half-finished potions, letters from St. Mungo’s pleading for more supplies.
“You’ve been at this for months,” she said finally. “Perhaps it’s time to consider that some things… cannot be fixed.”
Draco’s jaw clenched. “It’s not about fixing. It’s about proving.”
“Proving what?”
“That I’m not him,” Draco stated, his voice sharper than he intended. He regretted it immediately when he saw the flicker of pain in his mother’s eyes.
Narcissa sighed, moving to sit in the chair across from him. “Your father…made mistakes, but he was not a monster.”
Draco rolled his eyes, turning back to his book. Yet, after five minutes of staring at the same sentence, he sighed.
“Mother,” he began, cutting through the quiet like a blade, “why did you and Father decide to send me to Beauxbatons?”
“It seems it wouldn’t have mattered where I went,” he continued, his tone hardening. “It's been ten years since I've returned to England, and everyone hates me no matter what because of my name.”
For a moment, she said nothing, the silence stretching between them like a thread pulled taut.
“We sent you to Beauxbatons to keep you safe, Draco,” she said at last, her voice calm but edged with something sharper. “Not just from the war… but from choices you were too young to understand.”
“Safe?” he repeated, his eyes straying upwards to the ceiling, “Or ignorant?”
His mother let out a long sigh. “Draco…”
“While I was learning to charm peacocks into tap-dancers, Father was—”
“Your father did what he believed necessary to protect this family,” Narcissa interrupted, her voice sharper now, though it wavered slightly, betraying a crack in her composure. She shifted, her movements tense, as though she were holding herself together by sheer will. “The Dark Lord’s demands…they were not what Lucius envisioned when he pledged support. By the time we understood the cost, it was too late to step back.”
Draco let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and mirthless. “So, you fed me fairy tales,” he said, his voice dripping with scorn. “‘Traditionalist policies.’ ‘A misunderstood cause.’”
Narcissa exhaled sharply. “Draco, please, let’s not do this now.
He looked at his mother, her face pale and drawn, and felt a pang of guilt. She had always tried to protect him, even when he didn’t understand why but now, her efforts felt like a cage, one he couldn’t escape.
“I had to hear it all from strangers, Mother. How the Ministry crumbled, what the Dark Mark really meant...”
Narcissa flinched, her hand rising instinctively to the silver pendant at her throat. It was a gesture Draco remembered from childhood, a tic she had when the lies became too heavy to bear.
She looked away, her gaze falling to the floor, and for the first time, Draco saw the cracks in her armor — the faint lines of exhaustion around her eyes, the way her shoulders sagged under the weight of everything she had carried.
“We thought…” she began, her voice softer now, almost pleading. “We thought we could spare you the violence, the taint of it all.”
Draco stared at her, the anger in his chest giving way to something colder, heavier. His shoulders slumped as he shook his head. The rain streaked the glass like tears, distorting the world outside into something unrecognizable.
“You didn’t spare me,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You made me complicit. Every sneer in Diagon Alley, every door slammed in my face…”
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the rain, steady and unrelenting, as though the sky itself were mourning what they had lost.
“That’s why I opened the apothecary,” Draco said at last, his voice steadier now, though it still carried the weight of his exhaustion. “No hidden agenda, no politics. Just…something clean. Something that’s mine.”
Narcissa didn’t respond immediately. She sat there, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her gaze fixed on him. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely audible. “And what of your family, Draco? What of me?”
He looked away, his fingers drumming restlessly on the desk.
“I just need this one thing,” he said finally. “If I can perfect the potion, it could change everything. St. Mungo’s could use it to heal magical cores damaged by Dark Magic. It could—”
“Save lives,” Narcissa finished quietly, a small smile quirking her lips. “I know.”
There was a long silence as Draco stared at the fire, its flames casting flickering shadows across the room. He could feel his mother’s gaze on him, heavy with unspoken words.
The rain continued to fall, the storm outside mirroring how he felt. In the silence that followed, Draco wondered if the weight of his name would ever truly lift or if it would follow him for the rest of his life.
“Have you checked the vault?” she asked at last.
Draco frowned. “The Malfoy vault? Why would something so rare like dragon's liver be in there?”
“Your father was… meticulous in his acquisitions,” Narcissa said carefully. “During the war, he collected many rare and powerful things. Some of them might be useful to you.”
Draco hesitated, the Malfoy vault was a place he avoided whenever possible. It was a reminder of everything his family had lost and everything they had done to keep their wealth intact. But if there was even a chance the Dragon’s Liver was there…
"It won't hurt you to look, dear."
“Fine,” he said, standing. “I’ll go.”
Narcissa nodded, her expression unreadable. “Be careful, Draco, some things in that vault are best left untouched.”
—
Diagon Alley was never warm, but today the chill felt personal. Draco tugged his cloak tighter, the hood pulled low over his face, though it did little to hide the platinum strands of hair that escaped, glinting like a beacon in the gray morning light.
Should’ve charmed it black. He thought bitterly as a witch did a double take as he passed by.
But changing his hair felt like conceding, he passed the shuttered storefront of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, he caught the flicker of movement in the window. A face appeared, red-haired and sharp-eyed, before the curtain snapped shut. Draco kept walking, his jaw tight as he pushed the hurt aside.
The apothecary came into view, its sign creaking in the wind: Draco’s Elixirs & Essences. The D in Draco was still scorched from the time someone had tried to set the place on fire three years ago. He’d repaired the damage, but the charred wood lingered, a permanent scar.
The apothecary was his pride and joy; a testament to his ambition, his skill, his worth.
Fresh out of Beauxbatons, Draco poured everything into it: blood, sweat, and tears, though he’d never admit the last part aloud.
Building it from scratch had been an uphill battle, but every polished shelf, every meticulously labeled vial, every rare ingredient sourced from the darkest corners of the wizarding world — it was all his; a reflection of his mind, his legacy.
“Why would anyone buy potions from a Death Eater’s son?” the Ministry licensing wizard had sneered during his inspection. “You’d poison the lot of us, wouldn’t you?”
Draco had said nothing. He’d just brewed the man a Calming Draught, perfect and shimmering, and slid it across the counter. The license had appeared the next day.
But the customers didn’t.
He paused outside the shop, staring at the window display, a delicate array of Healing Draughts and Essence of Dittany, but dust coated the vials.
No one trusted a Malfoy to heal.
Not even the constant orders from St. Mungo’s could erase the suspicion in their tight script: “Ensure purity. No trace of Dark ingredients, please.”
A group of witches hurried past, their whispers slicing through the air:
“...Malfoy, isn’t it? Lucius’ boy.”
“—heard he fled to France—”
“...coward.”
Draco’s hand twitched as he frowned. Coward. He’d been called worse.
He turned sharply away from the store and headed towards Gringotts, the marble columns looming like sentinels. The goblins at the entrance watched him enter, their black eyes gleaming with contempt as he stepped towards one of the tellers.
“Vault 609,” Draco said, sliding the key across the counter.
The goblin didn’t touch it. Instead, he waved a gnarled hand toward a needle and parchment. “Identification.”
Draco lowered his hood and pricked his finger on the thin needle. The drop of blood bloomed for a moment before disappearing into the parchment, replaced by the words Draco Malfoy.
The goblin’s lips curled. “Ah, Mr. Malfoy, right away.”
The cart ride was a blur of stone and darkness, the wind whipping his hair into his eyes. Draco gripped the edge of the seat, his mind drifting to the last time he’d seen his father — pale and hollow-cheeked in his bed, the Malfoy crest pinned to his chest as he signed over the family assets to Draco. Lucius had died in his sleep, they said.
Convenient, the papers had hissed. No trial. No justice.
The cart screeched to a halt, jolting him out of his thoughts. The goblin stepped out and hobbled to the large door, inserted the key, and the vault groaned open.
Draco took longer to step out the cart and enter the vault, it was exactly as he remembered: cold, dark, and filled with the glint of gold and the gleam of ancient artifacts. He stepped inside, his boots echoing against the stone floor. The air was thick with the scent of metal and dust, and the faint hum of protective enchantments prickled against his skin.
The Malfoy vault was a tomb of forgotten relics, each item steeped in dark history. Draco sifted through the remnants of his family’s legacy: a silver hand mirror tarnished with blood rust, a set of robes embroidered with the Dark Mark, a ledger filled with names of the dead. He moved methodically, searching for anything even resembling Dragon’s Liver. He overturned chests, dug through cursed trinkets, and even rifled through a crate of dark magic textbooks.
Nothing.
Frustration bubbled up again, and he kicked a stack of coins, sending them clattering across the floor. “Useless,” he muttered. “All of it.”
As he turned to leave, something caught his eye.
A faint glimmer, barely visible in the dim light, drew his attention to the far corner of the vault. Draco hesitated, his curiosity piqued. He stepped closer, brushing aside a cobweb-covered chest and a stack of yellowed scrolls. There, nestled among the debris, was a ring.
It was unlike anything he had ever seen, the band was made of a dark, unidentifiable metal, etched with intricate runes that seemed to shift and writhe under his gaze.
But it was the stone that truly captivated him; a large emerald, deep and luminous, with veins of black running through it like cracks in a frozen lake.
It pulsed faintly, as if alive, and Draco felt an inexplicable pull towards it, as though the ring were calling out to him.
He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly, and picked it up. The moment his skin touched the metal, a jolt of energy shot through him, sharp and electric. The air around him seemed to hum, and the torchlight flickered wildly, casting eerie shadows on the walls.
Draco’s breath hitched, the ring felt warm in his hand, almost comforting, but there was an undercurrent of something darker, ancient and powerful. He turned it over, examining the runes more closely. They were written in a language he didn’t recognize, but the meaning seemed to seep into his mind unbidden: One to Bind, Two to Enthrall, Three to End All.
A shiver ran down his spine, but he couldn’t bring himself to put the ring down. It was beautiful, yes, but it was more than that. It felt —
Draco froze, what was he even doing? He knew better than to mess with obvious dark magic but the pull was irresistible, like a siren’s call.
As the ring pulsed, warm and inviting, Draco’s fingers closed around it before he knew what he was doing.
This is a mistake, a voice in his mind warned.
“I’ll just ask Mother about it,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. The ring seemed to respond, the emerald glowing brighter for a moment before dimming again.
Before he could think better of it, he slipped it onto his finger.
The effect was immediate, a surge of power coursed through him, hot and intoxicating, and the vault seemed to spin around him. The shadows deepened, the air grew thick with the scent of ozone and something metallic, like blood.
He staggered, clutching his hand as the ring tightened around his finger, its magic glowing a faint, ominous green.
Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the sensation stopped. The vault was silent once more, the torchlight steady. Draco looked down at the ring, his chest heaving. It sat snugly on his finger, the emerald gleaming with an almost predatory light.
He felt... different. A presence, faint but unmistakable, lurked at the edges of his mind. It felt like he was being watched, but not in a way that made him uneasy.
His stomach turned as he left the vault, trying not to think too much of the ring that glowed in sync with every breath he took.
—
Draco hurried back to his shop, trying not to think about the ring that felt unnaturally heavy on his index finger. He leaned against the shop’s door, breathing heavily with his eyes shut tight.
Pull yourself together, he thought, staring down at the ring.
He had orders to fulfill before the day’s end, and worrying about a possibly cursed ring wasn’t going to save him from St. Mungo’s wrath if he didn’t deliver on time.
He took in another deep breath, straightened his robes, and turned on his cauldron, gathering the ingredients he needed. Pushing the ring’s presence out of his mind, he began brewing Wiggenweld Potions.
A few minutes later, the bell above the apothecary door chimed, and Draco glanced up from his cauldron, ladle hovering mid-stir.
A man stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the sunlight — tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a tailored black suit that seemed to drink in the light. His hair was a mess, his eyes a vivid, unnatural green that mirrored the emerald ring on Draco’s finger.
For a moment, Draco forgot to breathe.
The man stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind him. He moved with a predator’s grace, his gaze locked on Draco as the air thickened, heavy with the scent of ozone and something wild, like a storm trapped in human skin.
“Can I help you?” Draco said, forcing his voice steady. He set the ladle down, subtly reaching for his wand.
The man smiled, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the question. “I rather think it’s me who can help you,” he said, his voice smooth and low. He slid onto a stool at the counter, his posture relaxed yet unnervingly poised, like a king claiming a throne.
Draco’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t a café, either describe what you need or leave.”
“How fortunate that I don’t require anything, then.” His green eyes flicked to Draco’s hand, to the ring. The emerald pulsed faintly, as if answering him.
“You’re far more attractive than any of the previous wielders of my ring, though.”
Draco clenched his fist, hiding the ring instinctively as his cheeks reddened. “Who are you?”
“Harry,” the man said simply, his gaze sweeping over Draco with an unsettling intensity. “Pleasure to meet you, Draco Malfoy.”
“How do you know my name?” Draco demanded, his wand snapping up to point at the man.
Harry rolled his eyes, lazily pushing the wand aside with a flick of his fingers. “Wands aren’t for making threats if you don’t intend to use them. Your father was one of my…clients.”
Draco’s heart skipped a beat. “My father? If this is about a debt he owed, take it up with my mother. She handles the vaults.”
Harry chuckled, his eyes gleaming. “You’ve already been so generous, Draco. Most people don’t even say hello before they start making demands.”
“Generous?”
“Freeing me,” Harry said, his smile sharpening. “Though, I suspect you didn’t mean to.”
A cold prickle crept up Draco’s spine. He glanced at the ring again, its dark magic now humming against his skin. “Get out,” he said coldly. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’m not interested.”
Harry didn’t move. He tilted his head, studying Draco with a mix of curiosity and amusement. “I can’t.”
“What?”
“I can’t leave,” Harry said simply, he gestured to the ring. “I’m anchored to you. The one who wears my containment… binds me.”
Draco stared at him. “That’s absurd. You walked in here —”
“Because you brought me here,” Harry interrupted. “Where you go, I go. A side effect of your… new accessory.” He nodded at the ring. “Try it. Walk to the door, I’ll stay right here.”
Draco hesitated, then strode across the shop, his robes snapping behind him. But as he reached the threshold, an invisible force yanked him backward —not physically, but in a dizzying, disorienting lurch, like Portkey travel.
He blinked, and suddenly he was standing in front of the counter again, Harry still perched on the stool.
“See?” Harry said, idly examining a jar of dried lamb’s blood. “You’re stuck with me, and I with you.” He finished with a playful boop to Draco’s nose, as if he were a child.
Draco’s heart pounded. "Then, break whatever tying me to you.”
Harry laughed, a rich, dark sound. “If only it were that easy, the bond is sealed.”
“Bond?” Draco’s voice rose in panic. “What even are you?”
“You ever heard of a Djinn?” Harry asked, his smile fading. His gaze turned flinty, the air crackling with static.
Draco stepped back, he couldn’t even keep his voice steady as he asked, “What do you want?”
Harry stood abruptly, closing the distance between them in one fluid stride. “The appropriate question should be: What do you want, Draco Malfoy? Power? Wealth? Revenge?” He pulled back, green eyes glowing. “Or…something else?”
The ring throbbed, and Draco’s vision blurred for a moment, images flashing before his eyes: himself, commanding armies; the Malfoy name feared again; receiving recognition for his potion skills, Harry’s mouth on his, feverish and claiming —
He jerked away, chest heaving. “Get out of my head.”
Harry smiled, raising his hands in mock surrender. “That’s the ring, not me. It shows you what you desire most and what it will cost you…well, that’s the fun part,” He traced a finger over the counter, leaving a faint scorch mark on the wood. “But don’t worry, we’ll have plenty of time to negotiate.”
“Negotiate?”
“Three wishes,” Harry said, his tone slick with false sweetness. “That’s the rule but choose wisely, every wish has a price and I always collect.”
Before Draco could reply, the shop bell chimed again. An elderly witch shuffled in, coughing into her handkerchief. Harry vanished, not Disapparating, but dissolving into the shadows, his form melting into the air like smoke.
Yet, Draco felt him.
A presence, warm and heavy against his back, and a voice in his mind, low and intimate: “Until next time, my Draco.” The words sounded mocking, and Draco felt as though he had just been entrapped in a cage.
The ring burned like fire.
—
The ring wouldn’t budge from his finger.
After Harry had disappeared, Draco lasted ten minutes trying to act normal before he closed the shop early. He climbed the stairs to his room, his heart pounding in his chest.
He stared at the emerald, the gem pulsing faintly, and suddenly clarity crashed over him like icy water.
What have I done?
He grabbed the ring, twisting and yanking at it, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
The metal refused to budge.
It clung to his skin as if fused to the bone, the emerald glowing brighter with every desperate tug.
“What the—” Draco muttered, stumbling backward into his desk. He fumbled for his wand, hands shaking as he hissed, “Finite Incantatem!”
The ring only tightened, the dark metal biting into his flesh. A sharp, burning pain shot through his finger, and Draco cried out, dropping his wand. The emerald flared, casting jagged green shadows across the room’s walls.
“Get off!” he snarled, clawing at his finger now, nails drawing blood but the ring seemed to sink deeper, the runes writhing like serpents. Panic clawed at his throat. He’d heard stories of cursed objects — how they burrowed into their victims, how the only escape was to sever the limb before the corruption spread.
Amputate. I have to amputate it.
Draco seized a potion’s dagger from a nearby shelf, its blade dull but heavy enough to break bone. He whimpered, fear seizing his heart as he pressed the edge to his knucke, his entire body trembling. One swift chop, and he’d be free.
He whimpered, unsure he could do it as he turned his head away and tried to do it quick but the moment the blade touched his skin, the ring moved.
It was as if the metal liquefied, slithering like a living thing up his finger, the emerald dissolving into smoke. Draco watched in horror as the curse spread, tendrils of black crawling under his skin, branching out like roots. The dagger fell from his hand as he staggered against the wall, clutching his arm.
“What the —”
The darkness reached his wrist, then his elbow, the pain now a searing fire in his veins. He could feel it—the magic, ancient and ravenous, coiling around his heart. His vision blurred, the room spinning around him, and he collapsed to his knees.
When the pain finally subsided, the ring was back on his finger, pristine and unyielding. The black veins under his skin had vanished, but Draco could still feel them — a phantom itch, a whisper in his blood.
He slumped against the wall, sweat-drenched and shaking. The ring gleamed mockingly up at him, its emerald darkening to the exact shade of Harry’s eyes.
“Oh,” Draco whispered, pressing his forehead to the cold stone floor. “What have you done to me?”
The ring didn’t answer but somewhere, in the deepest recesses of his mind, he heard a low, familiar laugh.
Draco scrambled to his feet as his voice echoed through the room, sharp and desperate. “Harry! I know you can hear me — get out here, now!”
For a moment, there was only silence. The air grew heavier, the torchlight flickering as if the flames themselves were holding their breath. Then, a whisper, low and intimate, brushed against the back of Draco’s neck:
“Yes, my Draco?”
Draco spun around, his heart slamming against his ribs. Harry stood inches away, his green eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. He was dressed in the same black suit as before, his posture relaxed. His lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile.
“Don’t do that,” Draco snapped, taking a step back. His voice shook, betraying his fear. “Get it off. Now.”
Harry tilted his head, his gaze dropping to the ring. “We already went over this, its not possible.”
“It’s quite literally your job to grant wishes, so can I wish it off?”
Harry’s smile widened, but there was no warmth in it. “Careful, Draco, wishes are…tricky. You might not like the consequences.”
Draco’s chest heaved as he glared at Harry. “What consequences? What are you talking about?”
Harry stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate, each step measured like a predator closing in.
Draco’s breath hitched as he retreated, his back hitting the cold, unyielding stone of the wall. Trapped, he could only watch as Harry leaned in, closing the distance between them.
With deliberate slowness, Harry reached out, his fingers brushing against a strand of Draco’s hair before twisting it gently between his fingertips.
"Soft," Harry murmured, tilting his head as he studied the silken strand, his voice low and almost contemplative.
"Answer me," Draco whispered, his breath shallow, the words barely escaping his lips. The proximity was overwhelming; Harry’s presence, his touch, the way his gaze lingered — it all sent a flush of heat creeping up Draco’s neck, threatening to unravel him.
“Every wish has a price,” he stated, repeating the same phrase from earlier. “And I always collect.”
“What does that even mean?” Draco shoved him away, his hands trembling. “Stop playing games with me, just take it off!”
Harry straightened, his expression darkening. “I can’t,” he said simply. “The ring chose you, it’s part of you now.”
Draco’s stomach churned. He looked down at the ring, its emerald gleaming with an almost predatory light. “What does it want?”
Harry’s gaze softened, but there was something unsettling in the way he looked at Draco. “It wants what you want,” he said. “Power. Freedom. Redemption.”
“I don’t want any of those things!"
Harry didn’t answer. Instead, he reached out, his fingers brushing against Draco’s cheek. Draco flinched, but Harry’s touch was gentle, almost tender.
“You’ll see,” Harry said softly. “Don’t worry, I’ll be here to guide you.”
Draco slapped his hand away. “I don’t need your guidance. I need this thing off me!”
Harry’s smile returned, but it was colder now. “Then make a wish,” he stated, “But choose your words carefully. Once spoken, they cannot be undone.”
Draco opened his mouth, then hesitated. The look in Harry’s eyes — calculating, hungry — made his blood run cold. He couldn’t trust him.
“Is this what you did to my father?” Draco asked, his voice tight. “You said he was one of your clients.”
Harry leaned back, his green eyes glinting with cruel amusement. “Your father was my first. After the war, I was given to him. His wish was so simple. ‘I wish for power again.’ No specifics, no conditions. Just…power.”
Draco frowned, his jaw tightening. “What did you do?”
“I gave him exactly what he asked for: Gold. Influence. Respect. The Malfoy name became feared again. He wielded influence in the Ministry and amassed a fortune at an alarming rate. For a short time after the war, it seemed like he’d succeeded with his wish.”
Draco’s chest tightened, he recalled that time vividly; he’d been at Beauxbatons, nearing graduation, when he started seeing the clippings in the French papers— articles about his father’s resurgence, about the Malfoys regaining their prestige. His Father even wrote to him frequently boasting about restoring the Malfoy's name to glory.
For the first time in years, Draco had felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, he could return to England to a family that wasn’t hated, to a place that didn’t despise him.
But then, at the beginning of June, the letters stopped, the articles dried up, and then came the news: Lucius had fallen ill.
Draco had rushed home, but it was too late. His father was already a shadow of the man he’d once been; frail, gaunt, barely able to lift a quill.
“It was his magic,” Harry continued, his voice low and intimate as if recalling a fond memory. “Every artifact, every favor, every bit of gold — it came from him. I siphoned his magic to create his power, and the more he gained, the weaker he became.”
Draco’s hands clenched into fists, he remembered the resentment that had burned in his chest, anger that Lucius wouldn’t be there for his 18th birthday, for his graduation. Anger that, once again, his father had left him to clean up the mess.
“You killed him,” Draco stated, his voice shaking with a mix of anger and disbelief.
Harry shrugged, his expression unreadable. “His greed killed him, I simply collected what I was owed.”
“Get out,” Draco said, his voice low and trembling. “Just…get out.”
Harry inclined his head as he stepped back, his form dissolving into shadow. The room grew silent once more, but Draco could still feel the weight of Harry’s presence, lingering like a ghost. He looked down at the ring, its emerald pulsing faintly, and felt a surge of despair.
—
That evening, Draco burst into the drawing room of Malfoy Manor, his chest heaving, the ring burning cold against his skin. The door slammed behind him, the sound echoing through the cavernous space.
“Draco!” Narcissa exclaimed, rising from her chair by the fire. Her needlework slipped to the floor, forgotten. “What’s wrong?”
He opened his mouth, the words rushing to tumble out — Mother, ring, it won’t come off, it’s cursed, it killed Father and I don’t know what to do — but before he could speak, a cold breath brushed the back of his neck.
“Shhh,” Harry whispered, his voice low and intimate. A hand pressed against Draco’s mouth, silencing him. Draco froze, his heart pounding as Harry’s other hand settled on his shoulder, the touch light but inescapable.
“What fun is it,” Harry murmured, his lips grazing across Draco’s neck, “if the ring’s mystery is given away without any effort?”
Draco’s breath hitched. He could feel Harry’s presence like a shadow wrapped around him, suffocating and possessive. Narcissa was staring at him, her brow furrowed in concern.
“Draco?” she said, stepping closer. “What is it? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
He forced himself to exhale slowly, his mind racing. Harry’s grip tightened, a silent warning.
“I… didn’t find any Dragon’s Liver in the vault,” Draco said, his voice strained. “Is there any other place you can think of that might have it?”
Narcissa’s expression softened, though her eyes remained wary. “I’m not sure, darling. Your father kept many secrets but I’ll think on it.”
“That’s a good boy,” Harry purred, his teeth grazing Draco’s earlobe. A shiver shot down Draco’s spine, and he clenched his fists to keep from reacting.
“Thank you, Mother,” Draco said, his voice barely steady. “I’ll… I’ll let you know if I find anything.”
Narcissa nodded, but her gaze lingered on him, searching. “Are you sure you’re all right? You seem… unsettled.”
“I’m fine,” Draco lied, forcing a smile. “Just tired.”
Harry chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against Draco’s skin.
“Liar."
He turned and left the room before Narcissa could press further. As soon as the door closed behind him, Harry materialized in front of him, his green eyes glowing with amusement.
“You’ll have to learn to control your reactions,” Harry said, leaning against the wall with casual elegance. “Your mother’s sharper than you think.”
“What do you want from me?” Draco hissed, his voice low.
Harry’s grin widened. “Everything.”
Notes:
Thank you for reading!
Chapter 2: Stuck in a Paradigm
Chapter Text
It's said that being bound to a Djinn is a perilous endeavor as they are notorious for exploiting loopholes. Once summoned, a Djinn may appear amicable, but their true nature is to deceive and manipulate. Many tales warn of foolish wizards who sought wealth or power, only to find their wishes twisted into curses. It is said that the only way to truly negotiate with a Djinn is to outwit it — a feat few have accomplished.
— Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them: The Missing Beasts Edition
Draco took immense pride in his apothecary, the shelves were meticulously lined with neatly labeled jars: powdered bicorn horn, dried mandrake root, shimmering Essence of Dittany, each accompanied by a brief, easy-to-understand description. He spent as much time perfecting his displays as he did brewing his potions, ensuring the shop felt both professional and inviting.
Yet, the atmosphere had shifted. The usual cozy warmth was gone, replaced by a heavy, oppressive stillness. It felt as though the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for something or someone.
Draco sat at the counter, surrounded by a stack of open books, their pages were filled with ancient creatures and faded illustrations of cursed objects, the edges brittle with age. Hours had passed, his eyes straining in the dim light as he searched for answers he wasn’t even sure existed.
Every lead seemed to be a dead end; books he’d sworn were on the shelf yesterday had vanished. Owls he’d sent to rare artifact dealers returned with empty talons. Even the ink in his quill had dried up mid-sentence, as if the universe itself were conspiring against him.
If he didn’t know better, he’d think he was being haunted by a poltergeist but no, he suspected his new guest was behind it all.
“Looking for something?”
Draco’s head snapped up towards where Harry leaned casually against the counter, his green eyes skimming the pages. He hadn’t been there a moment ago, Draco would have noticed, but now he stood as if he’d always been part of the room.
“Get out.”
“Oh, you’re still mad?” Harry’s tone was light, almost playful.
“You killed my father,” Draco snarled, rising to his feet.
Harry ignored him, his gaze lazily drifting around the shop. “So, this is where you live?” he asked, his voice dripping with faux interest. “Charming.”
Draco’s jaw tightened. “I work here.”
“Same thing, isn’t it?” Harry pushed off the counter and began to wander the aisles, his fingers trailing lightly over the jars. “You spend more time here than anywhere else. It’s practically your home.”
“What do you want?” Draco demanded, his voice sharp.
Harry paused, tilting his head as if genuinely considering the question. “Entertainment,” he said at last. “You’re surprisingly good at it, you know. All this desperation," He chuckled, coming to stand in front of Draco again, "It’s hilarious.”
“I’m not your plaything.”
Harry’s hand shot out, gripping Draco’s throat so suddenly he barely had time to react. His thumb brushed over Draco’s pulse point, feeling the rapid flutter beneath his skin.
“Aren’t you?”
Draco swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against Harry’s grip. “You can’t kill me,” he said, his voice trembling despite his confidence. “So, release me.”
Harry’s grip tightened just enough to make Draco gasp out as his other hand slid down to grip Draco’s hip, pulling him closer. “You wear my ring, you carry my curse. What else could you be if not my own personal entertainment?”
The words sent a shiver down Draco’s spine, a rush of heat pooling low in his belly when Harry brushed his thumb across his lips. He hated how his body betrayed him, how his breath hitched and his pulse raced under Harry’s touch.
“Harry...” he whispered, his voice strained.
Harry tilted his head, his gaze raking over Draco’s face as if drinking in every detail. “I know you, Draco. Your ambitions, your desires, your fantasies,” He leaned in, whispering in his ear. “You like this, don’t you?”
Draco’s hands shot up to grip Harry’s wrist, but his touch lacked conviction. His fingers trembled as they wrapped around Harry’s wrist, nails digging into the fabric of his sleeve.
“Let go of me,” he whispered, his resolve nearly crumbling.
Harry released him abruptly, stepping back just enough to watch him stumble. Draco turned away, his chest heaving as his heart raced, his trousers uncomfortably tight. He could feel Harry’s gaze on him, burning through his clothes, through his skin, straight to the core of him.
It didn’t take long for Harry to close the distance between them again. His arm snaked around Draco’s waist, pulling him back against his chest.
Draco didn’t fight it,he couldn’t. Not when Harry’s lips brushed against the nape of his neck, not when his hand slid lower, teasing the edge of his belt. His eyes fluttered shut, leaning his head against the djinn's shoulders as his hands settled on top of Harry’s.
“You like this?” Harry asked, his voice dripping with certainty.
yes yes yes
“I don’t,” Draco began, but his words were cut off by a sharp gasp as Harry’s teeth grazed his neck.
“Don’t lie to me,” His voice a dangerous whisper as he turned Draco to face him. “I don’t lie to you, so don’t you dare lie to me.”
Draco’s hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to maintain some semblance of control. He could feel Harry’s arousal pressed against him, hot and insistent, and it only made the fire in his own veins burn hotter.
“Harry, please,” he whispered, it was a plea, a protest, a surrender, all at once.
Harry’s thumb brushed over Draco’s bottom lip, and instinctively, Draco parted his lips to accept it this time.
A faint smirk tugged at Harry’s mouth as Draco’s tongue caressed the digit, his breath quickening. Harry grabbed Draco’s wrist, pulling his hand away from the chair he’d been clutching. He molded Draco’s hand over the bulge in his pants, letting him feel the size of his cock as he leaned closer, his lips almost touching Draco’s forehead.
“Say it,” Harry said, his hand sliding lower, his fingers teasing the button of Draco’s trousers. “Say you’re mine.”
Draco’s eyes fluttered shut, his resolve gone as he finally, finally gave in. “I’m yours,” he whispered, the words tasting like both a curse and a promise.
Harry’s smile widened, triumphant, his emerald eyes glittering with predatory satisfaction.
“Good.”
Before Draco could respond, before he could even think, Harry vanished. The air crackled faintly, leaving behind the sharp scent of ozone and the ghost of his laughter echoing in the empty space. Draco stood frozen for a moment, his body still thrumming with the aftershocks of Harry’s presence, his skin tingling where Harry’s touch had been.
Then, as if his legs could no longer hold him, he collapsed back into his chair, his hands trembling as he gripped the armrests. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a deafening reminder of the power Harry held over him. He stared down at his hand, where the ring sat heavy on his finger.
“What was that?!” he shouted into the silence, hoping Harry was listening.
Draco sighed, closing his eyes and trying to steady his breathing, but it was no use. The room felt too small, the air too thick, and the weight of Harry’s words clung to him like a second skin.
“Why couldn’t there have been an ugly, unattractive Djinn in this damn ring?” he muttered under his breath, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
The ring pulsed once more, a sharp, insistent throb that made Draco wince. He clenched his fist, as if he could crush the thing, crush the bond, crush the part of himself that had wanted Harry since the moment the magical being had walked into his shop.
But he couldn’t.
Maybe, that was the worst part.
Days passed, and the more Draco learned about Djinns, the more unease coiled in his chest like a serpent. The texts and journals he’d scavenged from the Manor’s library painted a grim picture: every wish came at a cost — a price often paid in blood, sanity, or, most often, the life of the wisher.
The accounts were chilling: a wizard who had wished for wealth was crushed under the weight of his own galleons. A young witch who had sought maturity withered into dust after aging decades in moments.
Draco flipped through the brittle pages, each report more unsettling than the last. One wizard had wished for fame, only to be hunted down by an enraged mob of admirers. Another had wished for love, only to be consumed by obsession and killed by the very witch he adored.
Harry lounged in the corner of the study, watching him with those unnerving green eyes. He looked utterly at ease, one leg draped over the arm of the chair, his fingers drumming idly against the upholstery.
“You’re overthinking it,” Harry stated after Draco sighed the hundreth time, his voice was smooth as silk. “Wishes are only as dangerous as the wisher is foolish.”
Draco slammed the book shut, the sound sharp and final in the quiet room. “Easy for you to say,” he snapped. “You’re not the one who might end up dead because of a poorly worded wish.”
Harry’s lips curved into a faint smile. “You’re far too clever for that.”
“Oh, please,” Draco shot back, rolling his eyes as he rubbed his temple in agitation. “You’re just salivating at the thought of me making a wish.”
For a long moment, Harry said nothing. His gaze lingered on Draco, sharp and unreadable, until the silence itself felt like a weight pressing down on Draco’s shoulders.
Then, without warning, Harry stood and crossed the room, his movements fluid and unhurried. Draco tensed as Harry stopped beside him, his presence looming and inescapable.
“You’re exhausting yourself,” Harry said, his voice softer now, almost gentle. He reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from Draco’s forehead. The touch was startlingly tender, and Draco froze, his breath catching in his throat.
“Don’t...” Draco started, but the protest died on his lips as Harry’s hand lingered, his thumb tracing a faint line along Draco’s temple. The headache that had been forming dissolved under the touch, leaving Draco momentarily disarmed.
Harry sighed and stepped back, the moment of tenderness slipping away as quickly as it had come. “Get some rest, Draco,” he said, his tone light once more. “You’re no use to anyone like this.”
Before Draco could reply, Harry vanished, leaving him alone in the study. Draco sank back into his chair, his heart pounding and his mind a whirlwind of confusion. He stared at the empty space where Harry had been, the air still faintly charged with the energy of his presence.
After a moment, Draco shook himself out of his daze. He pulled a sheet of parchment and a bottle of ink from his desk, the quill trembling slightly in his hand. He hated the idea of dragging anyone into the mess he’d made for himself, but even he had to admit that the knowledge he could glean from books was limited.
Draco uncorked the inkwell, dipped his quill into the dark liquid, and began to write.
The Leaky Cauldron hummed with life, the air rich with the mingling scents of butterbeer and roasted meat. Draco sat in a shadowed corner booth, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm on the worn wooden table. Across from him, Pansy sipped her drink, her sharp eyes scanning his face with a mix of curiosity and concern. Blaise lounged beside her, his usual air of detached calm firmly in place.
"Did we have to come here and not a nicer place?" Blaise broke the silence, his nose scrunching in disgust as a spider scuttled by.
“You look like hell, Draco,” Pansy remarked, her tone light but her gaze piercing. “Are you feeling all right?”
Draco forced a thin smile. “Just busy with the apothecary, you know how it is.”
Pansy arched an eyebrow. “Busy? You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
“I’m fine,” Draco replied, a little too quickly. His eyes darted around the room, half-expecting Harry to materialize out of thin air. So far, the Djinn had stayed away, but Draco wasn’t naive enough to think it would last.
Blaise leaned forward, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “You didn’t invite us here to talk about your shop, did you?”
Draco hesitated. He’d rehearsed this conversation in his head a dozen times, but now that he was here, the words felt heavy on his tongue. “I need your help,” he admitted finally.
Pansy set her cup down with a soft clink. “With what?”
Draco took a deep breath. “Have either of you ever heard of a curse that… binds a creature to someone?”
Pansy blinked. “A creature? What kind of creature?”
“Creature? Now, that’s just hurtful, Draco,” a familiar voice chimed in.
Draco stiffened as Harry appeared in the booth beside him, his green eyes gleaming with amusement. He leaned back casually, his arm draped over the back of the seat as if he belonged there.
“Draco? What kind?” Pansy pressed, her brow furrowing.
Draco refused to look at Harry, though he could feel the Djinn’s gaze burning into him. “It’s…complicated, I came across an object in the Malfoy vault, and now I can’t get rid of it.”
Blaise’s expression shifted, his thoughtful gaze locking onto Draco. “My mother might know something. She’s traveled all over the world, collected all sorts of obscure magical knowledge.”
Draco’s heart leapt. “Do you think she’d be willing to help?”
Blaise shrugged. “I can ask, but it depends on what you’re dealing with.”
“Are you really trying to get rid of me so soon? I thought we were becoming friends,” Harry pouted, reaching out to brush a stray hair from Draco’s forehead.
Pansy frowned. “Draco, are you sure you’re all right? You’re flushed.”
“I’m fine,” Draco said hurriedly when she reached out to touch his forehead. He forced himself to meet her gaze, ignoring the way Harry’s fingers trailed down his arm. “Just… stressed.”
Blaise studied him for a moment, then leaned back. “I’ll write to my mother tonight, but if this is as serious as you’re making it sound, you might want to consider going to the Aurors.”
“No,” Draco said quickly.
“Why not?” Pansy asked, her frown deepening.
“Because...” Draco trailed off, his mind racing for an excuse, “It’s a family matter, I don’t want it getting out.”
Harry chuckled softly, his breath cool against Draco’s ear. “So, you lie to everyone and not just your mother, I see.”
Pansy’s frown deepened, but before she could press further, Blaise spoke. “Fine, I’ll see what I can find out, but you owe me, Draco.”
“Thank you,” Draco said, relief flooding him.
Harry’s hand settled on Draco’s thigh under the table, his grip firm. Draco forced himself to stay still, to keep his expression neutral while Pansy was still watching him, her concern palpable. Blaise merely sipped his drink, his gaze thoughtful.
“You know,” Blaise began after a moment, “if this pertains to a cursed object, you should be careful. Those things have a way of getting under your skin.”
“Too late,” Harry murmured, his fingers tightening on Draco’s thigh.
Draco swallowed hard. “I’ll be careful.”
Pansy reached across the table, her hand covering Draco’s. “If you need anything, anything, let us know. We’re here for you.”
Harry’s grip tightened, his nails digging into Draco’s thigh. “How touching,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Thank you,” Draco said, his voice barely above a whisper.
The rest of the lunch passed in a blur, Pansy and Blaise chatted about mutual friends and Ministry gossip, but Draco barely heard them.
When the bill came, Draco paid quickly, eager to leave. “Thanks for coming and for the help. I’ll… I’ll let you know if I need anything else.”
Pansy hugged him, her grip tight. “Take care of yourself.”
Blaise nodded, his expression unreadable. “I’ll be in touch.”
As they walked away, Harry materialized fully, his arm slinging around Draco’s shoulders. “Well, that was fun,” he said, grinning, his tone light. “But next time, let’s skip the small talk and get straight to the part where you beg me for help.”
Draco shrugged him off, gritting his teeth. “I’m not begging you for anything.”
Harry’s hands went behind his head, his posture relaxed as he looked down at Draco with an unreadable expression. “For now,” he said, his voice low, the words hanging in the air like a promise.
The streets of Diagon Alley were quieter now, the shops closing for the evening and the last stragglers hurrying home. Draco walked briskly, his cloak billowing behind him, while Harry kept pace effortlessly, hands tucked into his pockets and a faint smile playing on his lips.
“You know,” Harry said, breaking the silence, “I don’t like how that girl was all over you.”
Draco stopped abruptly, and Harry followed suit. “Are you jealous of Pansy?” Draco asked, his voice dripping with amusement.
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
Draco scoffed, a grin blooming on his face. “Who knew you had such human emotions,” he said, laughing as he started walking again.
“I am not jealous,” Harry hissed, grabbing the back of Draco’s robes and yanking him into his arms. “You’re already mine, what’s there to be jealous of?”
He rolled his eyes, pushing Harry’s arms away. “Then, why are you even asking about Pansy?”
Harry shrugged, his expression darkening slightly. “She seems shady, always touching you. If you ever tire of her, just say the word and –”
“I’ll just say no to whatever you’re thinking right now,” Draco cut in before releasing a huff. “If you must know, Blaise and Pansy are together anyways, so no need to worry. Now, go away.”
Harry perked up, his green eyes gleaming with mischief. “Was that a wish?”
“No,” Draco snapped, his heart skipping a beat. “I have no intention of wishing for anything and ending up dead.”
“How boring,” Harry whined, draping himself over Draco’s shoulder like a particularly clingy shadow. Draco stiffened but didn’t push him away.
He had noticed how touchy the Djinn was; always brushing against him, leaning into his space, threading their fingers together as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Not that he minded much. If Draco secretly craved those touches, if he couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him so intimately, he wasn’t about to admit it especially not to Harry.
“Then, no, I won’t go.”
Draco let out a groan as they finally reached the apothecary.
“Fine,” he sighed, as he stepped in. “But if you’re going to keep following me around, at least make yourself useful.”
Harry’s smile turned sly, wrapping his arms around Draco's waist, “I can be very useful.”
He fought hard to keep the heat from rising to his cheeks as he turned towards Harry. “Not like that,” he said, his tone firm. “We’re going hunting for a rare ingredient tomorrow.”
The narrow street of Knockturn Alley was cloaked in shadows, the dim glow of flickering lanterns casting eerie patterns on the cobblestones. Shops lined the alley, their windows filled with cursed artifacts and forbidden ingredients that seemed to pulse with a life of their own. A pair of Aurors moved briskly past, their wands drawn and eyes sharp, scanning the alley with practiced precision.
Inspections.
Draco pressed himself into the shadows, of all times for Aurors to audit Knockturn Alley of course it would be when he's down there.
The seconds dragged, each one stretching into an eternity, until the Aurors finally turned the corner and vanished. Only then did he exhale, the tension in his chest easing as he stepped back into the light. He glanced over his shoulder once more before continuing, his footsteps quick and silent against the uneven stones.
The first few shops yielded nothing. The merchants eyed him with suspicion, their prices outrageous and their wares questionable. Draco’s frustration only mounted with each dead end.
Finally, he found himself in a cramped, shadowy shop lit only by the faint flicker of an oil lamp.
The air was thick with the stench of decay and something acrid, like burnt herbs. Jars lined the shelves, their contents grotesque; floating eyes, coiled serpents, and organs suspended in murky liquid.
The dealer behind the counter was a wiry man with a face like a weasel and fingers that twitched as if they were always itching to snatch something. His eyes gleamed with a predatory sharpness as Draco approached.
“Looking for something specific, are we?” the dealer asked, his voice slick and syrupy, like poisoned honey.
“Dragon’s liver,” Draco said, keeping his voice low. The words felt heavy in the air, as if they might summon something unwanted.
The dealer’s grin widened, revealing yellowed teeth. “Ah, a rare request and very expensive.”
Draco’s jaw tightened. He reached into his cloak and pulled out two pouches of galleons, tossing them onto the counter with a clink. “This is all I have.”
The dealer’s eyes flicked to the pouch, then back to Draco. His gaze lingered on Draco’s hand, specifically, on the ring that glinted faintly in the dim light. It was a simple band, but it pulsed with a subtle, otherworldly energy. The dealer’s grin turned sly.
“How about that, eh?” he said, pointing a gnarled finger at the ring. “That looks mighty valuable.”
Draco’s stomach dropped as he clenched his fist, pulling his hand back. “It’s not for sale.”
The dealer’s expression darkened. “Everything’s for sale, especially in a place like this.”
Before Draco could react, the dealer lunged across the counter, his fingers clawing at Draco’s hand. Draco stumbled back with a shout, but the man was faster than he looked. His grip was like iron, and for a moment, Draco felt a surge of panic.
Then, the temperature in the room plummeted, the oil lamp flickered, its flame shrinking to a faint blue ember. The dealer froze, his breath visible in the sudden cold. His eyes darted around the room, wide with confusion and fear.
“What are you —” he started, but his words were cut off as an invisible force clamped around his throat. His hands flew to his neck, clawing at nothing, his feet lifting off the ground as he was hoisted into the air.
Draco’s heart pounded as Harry materialized behind the dealer, his form shimmering into existence like a shadow given life. To Draco, he was as clear as day; but to the dealer, he was invisible. The man’s face turned red, then purple, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
“Shall I break his neck for you, my Draco?” Harry purred, his voice low and dangerous. His hand tightened around the dealer’s throat, and the man let out a choked gurgle, his eyes bulging as he frantically clawed at his neck.
Draco winced at the sound of grinding bones as Harry's grip tightened, "Harry, stop!"
“What? What magic is this?” The dealer choked out.
Draco’s stomach churned as he stepped forward. “Harry, don’t! You can’t just —”
“Can’t I?” Harry tilted his head, his glowing eyes fixed on Draco. “He laid hands on you, he deserves far worse.”
The dealer’s legs kicked uselessly, his face turning an alarming shade of blue. Draco’s eyes darted to the door as shouting erupted outside, followed by heavy pounding.
His stomach dropped, the last thing he needed was Aurors bursting in and finding a half-strangled man and a Malfoy in the middle of Knockturn Alley.
“Please, Harry,” Draco begged, his voice tight with urgency. “Let’s just go.”
Harry ignored him, his grip on the dealer unrelenting.
“I don’t want to explain why there’s a man dangling in mid-air that isn’t somehow connected to me,” Draco hissed, stepping closer to Harry and laying a hand on his arm gently as the dealer’s eyes rolled back. “Unless you want to spend the night in a cell, let him go.”
For a moment, Harry didn’t move, his hand still clenched around the dealer’s throat, watching as the man’s face turned a deep, unnatural purple. Then, with a sound of disgust, Harry finally released him. The dealer crumpled to the floor like a ragdoll, gasping and clutching his throat. His eyes darted around the room, wild with terror.
“What… what have you done to me?!” he croaked, his voice barely audible.
Harry stepped over the prone form. “Filth,” he muttered, he turned to Draco, his expression softening slightly. “You shouldn’t have to deal with scum like this.”
Draco exhaled sharply, his relief short-lived as the pounding on the door grew louder. “We need to go!”
“Is that a wish?”
Before Draco could respond, the sound of raised voices echoed from outside the shop. The door burst open, and two Aurors stormed in, their wands drawn.
“Hands where we can see them!” one of them barked.
Draco’s heart leapt into his throat. He grabbed Harry’s arm, pulling him toward the back of the shop. “Get us out of here. Now!”
Harry’s grin returned as if he wasn't just about to break a man's neck with his bare hands. He reached out to brush a strand of hair from Draco’s face. “As you wish.”
The Aurors shouted something, but Draco didn’t hear it. The world around them blurred as Harry’s magic enveloped them, and in an instant, they were gone.
They reappeared in a narrow alleyway, the sounds of Knockturn Alley muffled but still too close for comfort.
Draco leaned against the wall, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His mind raced, replaying the scene in the shop. He could still see the dealer’s face, purple and gasping, and Harry’s cold, unflinching expression.
“You can’t just —” Draco started, but Harry cut him off.
“I can,” Harry said, his voice calm but firm. “And I will. Anyone who tries to hurt you, anyone who disrespects you, they’ll regret it.”
Draco stared at him, frustration churning in his chest. “You can’t just kill people, Harry.”
Harry’s expression softened. “I’ll do whatever it takes to protect you.”
Draco looked away, his throat tight. He didn’t know what to say to that.
He didn’t know how to reconcile the part of him that was grateful for Harry’s loyalty with the part that was terrified of what Harry might do next. Harry was a wildcard; one moment an ally, the next a potential enemy.
Draco exhaled shakily, his heart still racing. “That… that didn’t count as a wish, did it?”
Harry chuckled. “No, that was merely me protecting what’s mine.”
The sound of footsteps echoed from the end of the alley, pulling Draco from his thoughts. He straightened, his hand instinctively going to his wand. “We need to keep moving.”
Harry nodded, his eyes glinting with mirth. “Lead the way. Or do you want me to carry you?”
“Do you ever take anything seriously?” Draco shot him a look, rolling his eyes, but grabbed Harry’s hand anyway and tugged him forward.
As they slipped through the shadows of Knockturn Alley, Draco couldn’t help but reflect on how far he’d fallen. Once, he’d been the heir to the Malfoy fortune, striding through Beauxbaton with his head held high.
Now, he was skulking through back alleys, bargaining with criminals and running from Aurors.
The moon hung heavy in the sky, its pale light seeping through the thin curtains of Draco’s bedroom. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, his mind racing despite the exhaustion that clung to his limbs like a second skin.
The image of Harry squeezing the life out of that merchant refused to fade, the way the man’s face had turned purple, his eyes bulging as he gasped for air.
Harry’s expression had been chilling, his green eyes alight with a strange, almost fascinated intensity, as if he were marveling at his own display of power.
Draco shivered, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. The memory replayed in his mind like a broken record, each detail sharper than the last. Harry hadn’t hesitated, and that, more than anything, terrified Draco.
Harry lay beside him, propped up on one elbow, his green eyes visible in the low light. He watched Draco with an intensity that was both unnerving and mesmerizing, his expression unreadable.
"You're so tense," Harry murmured, breaking the silence. His hand reached over, fingers kneading the tight muscles of Draco’s shoulder. "Stop thinking and just relax,” His touch trailed lower, deliberate and unhurried, as if mapping every inch of Draco’s body.
Draco remained still, his body tense yet unwilling to move, his eyes fixed on Harry with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. The air between them felt charged, heavy with unspoken tension.
“What are you doing?” Draco whispered, his voice barely audible, though he already had a faint idea of where this was heading.
Harry’s lips brushed against the sensitive skin of Draco’s neck as he spoke, his breath warm and steady. “You’re free to get up at any time,” he murmured, the words soft but deliberate, as if testing the boundaries of what Draco would allow.
Draco swallowed hard, his resolve wavering. “You know I won’t,” he admitted quietly, his voice tinged with both resignation and anticipation. “But we can’t do this.”
“Says who?” Harry countered, his tone light but insistent. His hands moved under the sheets, deliberate and unhurried, as he unzipped Draco's pants. “Just relax,” he whispered, his voice a low, soothing rumble that sent a shiver through Draco’s body.
Draco bit his lip, he should stop him but, instead, he fluttered his eyes closed as Harry's thumb brushed over the head of his cock. He let out a shaky moan, his hips moving unconsciously into Harry’s hand.
He could practically feel Harry’s grin even though his eyes were squeezed shut.
He could feel Harry’s own erection pressing against his backside, straining against the fabric of his trousers, as he grinded his hips against him.
“See? You’re enjoying yourself,” Harry whispered, his voice smug and teasing, watching over Draco's face carefully.
Draco cracked his eyes open and looked over his shoulder just enough to catch Harry’s gaze; dark, intense, and brimming with a hunger that sent a shiver down his spine.
Heat flooded Draco’s cheeks, a familiar warmth that had nothing to do with embarrassment but everything to do with the electric pull between them, a connection more intoxicating than any potion he’d ever brewed.
“Harry!” He choked out, his fingers clenched reflexively, nails digging into sheets as pleasure surged through him, overwhelming him.
A muffled whimper escaped his lips as Harry held him close, his grip firm and grounding as he bit into his neck to muffle his own groan as he came, as well. Draco panted, shaking until the waves of sensation began to ebb.
With a final, possessive squeeze, Harry released him, his hands lingering for a moment before he gently tucked his cock back into his pants. A grin tugged at Harry’s lips, playful, satisfied, and just a little smug, as he settled beside him.
Harry’s fingers brushed against his lips, gently coaxing them apart before slipping inside. Draco’s tongue met the intrusion, the taste of himself lingering faintly on his palate.
“You’re perfect,” Harry murmured, his voice low as if the words were meant for no one else to hear. He smeared the last of his cum onto his lips and cheeks as if branding him until Draco pushed his hands away with a scrunch of his nose.
The warmth of their bodies pressed together was grounding, and Draco felt his breathing gradually slow, though his thoughts continued to race, untamed and electric, the aftershocks of his climax doing little to calm the storm in his mind.
“What if I never make any wishes?” Draco wondered aloud after a few minutes, his voice barely above a whisper.
Harry tilted his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Then, you’ll be stuck with me…forever.”
The word hung in the air, heavy and final as Draco swallowed, his throat dry. He turned his head to look at Harry, really look at him. The Djinn’s features were ethereal, his eyes like shards of glass catching the light. There was something so human still about him, though, something that made Draco’s chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain.
“Who are you, really?” Draco asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Harry chuckled, the sound low and melodic. “Cute and oblivious. Did you live under a rock your whole life?” He reached out, lightly brushing against Draco’s cheek.
Draco swatted his hand away, though there was no real force behind it. “I’m serious. You’re not just some… creature. You have a name, so you must have a history. Tell me.”
Harry’s smile faltered, his gaze drifting to the window as if staring into a void only he could see. “I was human once,” he admitted, his voice soft and distant.
“You’re not… from the Founders’ era, are you?” Draco asked cautiously.
Harry laughed, the sound rich and warm. “No, not quite that old.”
“Then, when?”
Harry tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “Let’s just say I was a famous wizard.”
“What does that mean?” Draco’s frown deepened. “Stop talking in riddles and give me a straight answer.”
“It means I was a symbol, a threat, a weapon, a pawn in someone else’s game. Take your pick.” There was a bitterness in his voice that made Draco’s chest ache.
He wanted to ask more, to press for details, but Harry’s expression had turned guarded, his walls slamming back into place.
“That’s all you get for now,” Harry said, his tone light again as he turned away, “Wouldn’t want to spoil the mystery, would we?”
Draco rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t deny the flicker of curiosity that Harry’s words had sparked.
“How am I supposed to break this curse if you won’t tell me anything?” Draco asked, his fingers digging into the sheets. “Don’t you want to be free?”
Harry turned to him, his expression unreadable, shadows flickering in his eyes. “Freedom? A cage with open doors is still a cage.”
Draco’s glare hardened. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have,” Harry said, leaning in and nuzzling against Draco’s cheek, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
Draco’s jaw tightened, his voice cutting through the tension. “So, what? You’ll haunt me forever?”
Harry’s lips curved into a fond smile. “Would that be so terrible?”
Before Draco could retort, Harry reached out, his fingers brushing against Draco’s temple. “Sleep,” he murmured, his voice a velvet command.
Draco’s eyelids grew heavy, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him. He tried to fight it, to stay awake, but Harry’s touch was like a spell, pulling him under until his eyes shut and his breathing evened.
The next morning, Draco woke to the weight of a stare. He cracked one eye open and found Harry perched on the edge of the bed, chin propped in his hand, watching him with unnerving intensity.
“Merlin’s balls,” Draco groaned, shoving Harry’s shoulder. “Do you ever blink?”
Harry tipped backward, sprawling across the mattress. “Where’s the fun in blinking? You’re much more entertaining asleep, you make these cute little noise when you sleep.”
“I do not,” Draco snapped, sitting up and raking a hand through his disheveled hair.
Draco swung his legs off the bed, Harry following suit as he rolled fluidly to his feet, trailing him across the cramped flat above the apothecary.
“What’s on the agenda today?” Harry asked, leaning against the doorframe as Draco rummaged through a stack of potion orders.
“I have work,” Draco muttered. “You’re staying here. Quietly.”
Harry snorted. “You think even a containment charm could hold me here? Adorable.”
Draco ignored him, heading to the small kitchenette. Under a preservation charm on the rickety table sat two Cornish pasties, leftovers from yesterday's lunch. He hesitated, then glanced at Harry, who was now idly flipping through a potions journal.
“Are you hungry?” Draco asked abruptly.
Harry froze, his fingers stilling on the page. Slowly, he looked up. “Huh. No one’s asked me that in...centuries, probably.”
Draco arched a brow. “What, Djinns don’t eat?”
“Well, I can,” Harry said, shrugging. “But most wielders don’t bother asking.”
“Well, that’s just rude,” Draco sniffed, tossing a pasty at him. Harry caught it midair, staring at the flaky pastry like it was a foreign artifact.
“Go on,” Draco said, biting into his own. “It’s not poisoned, thhough I’m tempted.”
Harry took a tentative bite, then blinked. “It's good.”
“Of course, it’s good. I made it.”
“You cook?”
“When the alternative is starving, you have to,” Draco said drily. “The apothecary isn’t exactly funding gourmet elf service.”
Harry chuckled, settling into the chair opposite him. The morning sun filtered through the grimy windows, softening the sharp edges of his features. For a moment, he looked almost human; no glowing eyes, no shadows coiling around him. Just a man in a rumpled shirt, stealing bites of a pastry.
Draco frowned. “Why are you here?”
Harry tilted his head. “Anchored, remember? Ring on your finger, me in your shadow. Not much choice.”
“No,” Draco said slowly. “Why are you here? Sitting. Eating. Not...I don’t know, lurking in the shadows or whatever vengeful Djinns do.”
Harry’s smile faded, he set the pasty down, his gaze distant. “Being in the shadows is dull, and you’re different.”
“Different how?”
“You didn’t scream when you saw me or beg for gold or demand I murder your enemies,” Harry’s fingers drummed the table. “Plus, you offered me breakfast.”
Draco rolled his eyes, huffing out a laugh. “Don’t get sentimental on me, now, it’s just a pasty.”
He stood, brushing crumbs off his robes. “Stay out of sight today. If you scare off my only customer, I’ll wish you into a teapot.”
Harry’s grin returned, sharp and wicked. “Promises, promises, you’re so hot when you threaten me with a good time.”
Draco’s cheeks flushed. “Shut up,” he muttered, turning away to hide the redness creeping up his neck.
As Draco headed downstairs, he didn’t notice Harry pocket the last bite of pastry or the way the Djinn’s gaze lingered on him, equal parts fascinated and unsettled.
Downstairs, the morning light spilled into the apothecary as Draco unlocked the door, the faint hum of Diagon Alley stirring to life eschoed from outside. The shop buzzed with the low simmer of cauldrons, the air thick with the scent of wormwood and dried nettles.
Harry was oddly compliant all morning, lounging on the counter like a cat, tossing remarks at Draco each time he passed him.
“You write like a drundraphant,” Harry said, squinting at a recipe for Essence of Dittany from one of his journals.
“A what?” Draco snapped, not looking up from his cauldron.
“A drunk Kneazle,” Harry clarified, snickering.
“What are you, five?” Draco muttered, shaking his head. “You just made that up.”
Harry sat up, peeking over Draco’s shoulder, annoyingly interested by his work, or at least pretending to be.
“Why do you stir it counterclockwise?” Harry asked, leaning too close to the cauldron of Sleeping Potion.
“Because clockwise would turn it into goo,” Draco sighed, exasperated, elbowing him aside. “Must you hover?”
Harry grinned, unbothered, and wandered over to a shelf lined with jars of potion ingredients. He picked up a jar of dried billywig stings, turning it over in his hands. “What’s this for? Making people float?”
“Put that down,” Draco said sharply, not looking up from his work. “It’s expensive, and I don’t need you breaking anything.”
“Relax,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “I’m not going to —”
Before he could finish, his elbow knocked into a nearby jar of powdered moonstone. It teetered for a moment, then toppled over, spilling a fine silver dust across the counter.
Draco froze, his stirring rod hovering mid-air. He turned slowly, his expression darkening. “Are you some kind of trickster in disguise sent here to make my life harder?”
“I would hope a Potions Master would have some extras,” Harry retorted, though the smirk tugging at his lips suggested he wasn’t entirely sincere.
Draco groaned, “You just cost me hundreds of galleons; that was three weeks of brewing down the drain!”
Harry sighed dramatically but didn’t argue further. He grabbed a cloth from the counter and began sweeping the powder into a pile, though his movements were slow and deliberate, as if he were savoring the chance to annoy Draco further.
Draco watched him for a moment, then shook his head and returned to his cauldron. “You’re worse than a Kneazle in a china shop,” he muttered under his breath.
Harry chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be the master of their craft, you’re awfully fussy.”
“And you’re awfully irritating for an otherwordly being,” Draco shot back, stirring his potion with more force than necessary. “Now, if you’re done destroying my inventory, maybe, you can make yourself useful and —”
Before he could finish, the shop bell chimed.
“Don’t move,” Draco hissed, but Harry was already retreating into the shadows. His form vanished just as Hermione Granger stepped inside the shop.
Chapter 3: Revelation
Chapter Text
Throughout history, Djinns have been both allies and adversaries to Wizards. Some revere them as protectors or bringers of wisdom, while others view them as malevolent tricksters. There are even accounts of Djinn forming bonds with humans, though such relationships are fraught with danger.
— Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them: The Missing Beasts Edition
Hermione paused in the doorway, her sharp gaze sweeping the shop like a seasoned combatant assessing a battlefield. Her eyes locked onto Draco, and he immediately recognized the flicker of distrust in her expression — Malfoy, that look said. Death Eater spawn.
“Granger,” Draco said coolly, leaning casually against the counter. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Hermione didn’t smile. “St. Mungo’s sent me, your last batch of Blood-Replenishing Potion had inconsistent viscosity. They want it reformulated.” She slid a parchment across the counter, her tone crisp and businesslike.
Draco’s eyes skimmed the note, his jaw tightening. “Inconsistent? My potions are state of the art —”
“They’re considering switching suppliers,” Hermione cut in, her voice firm.
Draco’s fingers clenched around the parchment. “Tell them I’ll fix it,” he said stiffly, his pride bristling beneath the surface.
Hermione gave a curt nod, already turning to leave, but not before her gaze flicked toward the curtained-off back room. Her eyes lingered for a fraction of a second, as if she’d sensed something — or someone. Harry’s shadow had been there moments ago, unnaturally still, but now it was gone.
“One more thing,” she said, turning back to him. “Have you noticed anything… unusual, lately? Magical disturbances? Objects acting strangely?”
Draco’s pulse quickened but his face remained impassive. “Odd how?” he asked, feigning disinterest.
“Residual dark magic,” Hermione replied, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied him. “I've heard the Ministry’s tracking a spike in dark energy from a few weeks ago, they even raided Knockturn Alley and found the same signature. Naturally, old vaults are being investigated.”
Draco let out a derisive snort. “How tragic for the purebloods, then,” he drawled, rolling his eyes. “But no, nothing odd here.”
Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing more. The door chimed softly as she left, leaving Draco alone in the shop.
The moment the door shut, he turned sharply toward the back room. “You can come out now.”
Silence.
He yanked the curtain aside, but the room was empty; no smirking djinn, no shadowy laughter just a cold draft that sent a shiver down his spine.
“Harry?” he called, his voice low.
No answer.
Frowning, Draco returned to his cauldron, though his mind was far from the potion brewing in front of him. The encounter with Granger had unsettled him, but Harry’s sudden disappearance was… was even more peculiar. The djinn hadn’t stopped bothering him for weeks, so why vanish now? Did he know her? Fear her?
Draco’s gaze dropped to the cursed emerald on his finger, its veins of black pulsing faintly, as if alive. He clenched his fist, the ring digging into his skin, and forced himself to focus on the task at hand.
It took hours before the shadows near the window deepened, and Harry reappeared — slouched in a chair, his gaze fixed blankly on his hands as if they held answers he couldn’t quite grasp.
“What was that?” Draco snapped, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Where did you go?”
Harry’s fingers twitched, and the ring on Draco’s hand pulsed with a cold, biting energy.
“Does it matter?” Harry replied, his voice flat and distant.
“Yes,” Draco shot back, his tone sharp. “If the Ministry’s sniffing around for cursed artifacts, and you’re tied to her somehow —”
“I’m not tied to her,” Harry interrupted, finally lifting his head. His green eyes glowed faintly, like embers in the dark.
Draco leaned against the counter, studying him with narrowed eyes. “But you were, weren’t you?”
Harry stood abruptly, his form flickering like a candle on the verge of extinguishing. “Drop it, Malfoy.”
Draco blinked, caught off guard. He realized, with a strange pang, that he didn’t like hearing his surname from the djinn’s lips. He’d grown accustomed to the teasing lilt of “My Draco,” the way Harry said his name with a sweetness that felt possessive. Now, it sounded cold, detached — hostile.
“Or what? You’ll vanish again?” Draco stepped closer, refusing to back down. “Why hide from her? What are you afraid of?”
A bitter laugh escaped Harry as he closed the distance between them, his voice low and sharp. “Afraid? I’m a djinn, I don’t fear anything.”
“Liar,” Draco said softly, reaching out to grasp Harry’s hands. They felt solid, real, but there was a tremor in them that betrayed his words. “You were born human, remember.”
Harry’s expression twisted, his tone mocking. “You think she’d care? That she’d weep for poor, cursed Harry? I’m not her friend, I’m a monster wearing his face.”
“Why don’t you tell her?” Draco pressed, crouching slightly to meet Harry’s gaze. “Maybe she can help us.”
Harry’s smile was jagged, devoid of warmth. “And give her front-row seats to what I’ve become? No. Let the Harry she knew stay dead.”
Before Draco could respond, Harry vanished, leaving behind only the faint scent of ozone and a whisper that lingered in the air: “Some secrets are kinder buried.”
Two days into Harry’s silence, Draco decided to reach out agaib to Blaise, hoping the man had heard back from his mother.
Draco arrived at the Leaky Cauldron first, claiming a dim corner table away from prying eyes. By the time Blaise sauntered in, three empty firewhisky glasses sat in front of Draco like accusatory jurors.
“Merlin, Draco,” Blaise drawled, sliding into the seat opposite him. “You look like you’ve been dueling a Dementor, what’s got your wand in a knot?”
Draco glared, though the heat behind it was half-hearted. “Curses.”
“Ah,” Blaise said, signaling the bartender for a drink. “Finally embracing the family legacy, then?”
“Not like that,” Draco snapped. “Hypothetically. If someone were bound to an object — say a ring — how would you break it?”
Blaise raised an eyebrow, his expression amused. “Hypothetically?”
“Hypothetically,” Draco repeated, his tone clipped.
Blaise leaned back in his chair, swirling his newly arrived glass of wine. “My mother says some curses require a trades — gold, memories, a firstborn child. Others demand blood. Yours, or someone else’s. Give the curse what it wants and usually it'll release.”
Draco’s fingers tightened around his glass, the knuckles whitening. “And if the curse is tied to… wishes?”
“Wishes?” Blaise smirked, his dark eyes glinting with mischief. “You’ve been reading fairy tales, Draco?”
Draco shot him a scathing look, and Blaise sighed, relenting. “Fine. If it pertains to wishes, you’re entering djinn territory; creatures from the middle east, Egyptian Wizards love to use them but wish magic is messy. The older the magic, the crueler the cost. Ask for gold? It could come from the vault of someone you love. Want immortality? Enjoy it as a portrait.”
Draco’s jaw tightened. “What if the creature granting them isn’t trying to twist it?”
Blaise paused, his gaze sharpening. “You mean like the djinn?”
Draco said nothing, his silence answer enough.
“Ah,” Blaise murmured, leaning forward slightly. “Well. Djinns are bound by their curse. They don’t try to twist wishes — it’s just in their nature. Like a snake biting, it’s not malice. It’s survival.”
Draco’s stomach churned, but he kept his expression neutral. “And breaking the curse? Without destroying the djinn?”
Blaise’s smirk faded, replaced by a more serious look. “Why the sudden sympathy for monsters?”
“Just answer the question.”
Blaise studied him for a moment before shrugging. “There's lots of rumors about breaking djinn's curses but usually it pertains to the wielder. For example, some say it can be broken if the djinn’s true name is spoken but good luck getting that. Most wielders die screaming before they learn it.”
Draco’s mind raced. True name. Harry had never offered one, had never even hinted at it.
“Of course,” Blaise added, his smirk returning, “there’s always the classic: true love’s kiss. But I doubt you’re that desperate.”
Draco threw a few galleons on the table and stood, his chair scraping against the floor. “Piss off, Zabini."
"It's a joke, relax."
"Learn how to make better jokes," Draco called out over his shoulder as he walked away.
Blaise laughed, raising his glass in a mock toast. “You’re welcome, hypothetically.”
The apothecary felt empty without Harry’s voice bouncing off the walls. Three days. Three days of silence, of shadows that refused to take shape, of Draco muttering to his cauldrons like a lunatic just to fill the void.
Pathetic, he thought, slamming a jar of powdered bicorn horn onto the shelf. Since when did you need an audience to breathe?
But the truth gnawed at him, Harry’s absence left a hollow ache, like a phantom limb he hadn’t realized he’d grown attached to.
“Harry,” Draco said to the empty air, his voice too loud in the stillness. “Are you just going to spend the rest of our lives hiding from me?”
A beat of silence. Then —
“Was that a proposal?”
Draco spun around, Harry stood inches away, hands clasped behind his back, his black suit immaculate and his eyes gleaming with mischief. The djinn looked infuriatingly well-rested.
“No,” Draco snapped, though his traitorous pulse quickened at the sight of him. He wanted to hug him, to tell him to never leave him alone again. “Where the hell have you been?”
Harry waved a dismissive hand, stepping closer until Draco’s back hit the shelf. “Never mind that. What was that about our lives together? Planning futures already, are we?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
“I loathe you.”
Harry grinned, unbothered. “Loathe me all you want. You still missed me, my precious Draco.”
Draco opened his mouth to retort, but the words caught in his throat when Harry’s gaze dropped to his hands — clenched white-knuckled around the jar of bicorn horn. The djinn’s smile softened, almost imperceptibly.
“You’re insufferable,” Draco muttered, turning away.
“And yet here you are,” Harry said, plucking the jar from Draco’s grip, "Begging me to be here with you."
Draco didn’t pull away when Harry leaned against the counter beside him, their shoulders brushing. The contact was warm. Human.
“Where were you?” Draco asked quietly.
Harry examined the jar, his tone light but edged with something darker. “Thinking.”
“About?”
“How terrible your taste in decor is. Who pairs teal curtains with mahogany shelves? Barbaric.”
Draco rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Says the man who materializes in head-to-toe funeral attire daily.”
“Black is timeless.”
“Black is depressing.”
Harry set the jar down with a soft clink. “You’d prefer me in gold? Red? I could manage it. A bit gauche, but for you—”
“Don’t you dare.”
Harry laughed, low and rich, and Draco felt the sound settle in his chest like sunlight.
The air was thick with the acrid scent of burnt herbs and dragon dung as Draco and Harry trudged back from yet another failed attempt to procure dragon’s liver.
The market stall they’d visited had been a bust; no one was willing to part with such a rare ingredient, not even for the exorbitant sum Draco had offered. Frustration simmered beneath Draco’s skin, and Harry’s uncharacteristic silence wasn’t helping.
“This is pointless,” Draco muttered, kicking a loose stone on the cobblestone path. “We’ve been at this for weeks, and all we’ve managed to collect is a pile of excuses and a headache.”
Harry walked beside him, his hands tucked into the pockets of his black suit, his expression unreadable. For once, the djinn wasn’t smirking or teasing. Instead, he seemed... hesitant. Draco noticed the way Harry’s jaw tightened, as if he were wrestling with something he didn’t want to say.
“What?” Draco snapped, stopping in his tracks. “You’ve been quiet all day. If you’ve got something to say, spit it out.”
Harry hesitated, his green eyes flickering with an emotion Draco couldn’t quite place. “There’s... someone who might be able to help. Someone who works with dragons.”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “And you’re only mentioning this now?”
Harry’s gaze shifted away, his voice quieter than usual. “It’s... complicated.”
“Complicated how?” Draco pressed, crossing his arms. “Who is it?”
Harry sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “Charlie Weasley. He’s a dragon handler in Romania. If anyone can get you dragon’s liver, it’s him.”
Draco blinked, stunned. “A Weasley? Are you joking?”
Harry’s expression was grim. “I’m not.”
Draco let out a bitter laugh. “Of course it’s a Weasley. The whole family hates mine, they’d sooner set a dragon on me than lift a finger to help.”
Harry’s jaw tightened again, and for a moment, Draco thought he saw a flicker of guilt in the djinn’s eyes but it was gone before he could be sure.
“There’s one more thing,” Harry said, his voice low. “Charlie’s brother — Fred — runs a joke shop in Diagon Alley. If you want to get to Charlie, Fred’s your best bet.”
Draco stared at him, incredulous. “You want me to walk into Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes and ask the joke Weasley for help? Are you mad?”
“It's either this or give me a wish,” Harry met his gaze, his tone firm. “You’re the one who’s desperate, Draco. If you want that dragon’s liver, you’ll have to swallow your pride, either way.”
Draco opened his mouth to argue, but the words died on his lips. Harry was right, he was desperate. The potion he was working on was too important to abandon, and every day they wasted was another day lost. Still, the thought of facing a Weasley made his stomach churn.
“Fine,” Draco muttered, his voice tight. “But if this goes sideways, I’m blaming you.”
Harry’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a fond smile returning. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”
The joke shop was as garish as Draco remembered, its windows bursting with brightly colored products that seemed to shout at passersby. He lingered outside, his stomach twisting into knots, while Harry stood beside him, annoyingly calm.
“There he is,” Harry said, nodding toward the shop’s entrance. Fred Weasley stood just outside, his fiery red hair impossible to miss as he chatted with a customer. “Go on, ask him about his brother.”
Draco shot Harry a glare. “I can’t. It’s Weasley*."
Harry raised an eyebrow, his tone dripping with mock patience. “You’ve gotten this far, loitering outside his shop like a lovesick first-year. You’ve faced worse, Draco. Just... be polite.”
“Polite?” Draco hissed, his voice low. “To a Weasley?”
Harry’s smirk widened, his green eyes glinting with amusement. “Stranger things have happened.”
Draco took a deep breath, his pride and desperation locked in a silent battle. Finally, he straightened his shoulders and stepped forward, his footsteps heavy on the cobblestones. Fred noticed him almost immediately, his cheerful expression faltering as Draco approached.
“Malfoy?” Fred said, his tone wary. “What brings you to this part of Diagon Alley? Looking to prank someone, or just here to sneer at the decor?”
Draco forced a tight smile, his hands clenched at his sides. “Neither. I... need your help.”
Fred blinked, clearly taken aback. “My help? You’re joking.”
“I’m not,” Draco said, his voice strained. “I need to get in touch with your dragon brother. It’s... important.”
Fred studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to Draco’s surprise, he let out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be! Draco Malfoy, asking for help from a Weasley. Never thought I’d see the day.”
Draco’s cheeks burned, but he held his ground. “Can you help me or not?”
Fred crossed his arms, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Depends. What’s in it for me?”
Draco gritted his teeth, his jaw tightening. “Name your price.”
Fred’s grin widened, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
Behind him, Harry chuckled softly, and Draco shot him a glare. This was going to be a long day.
Draco clutched the piece of parchment as if it were spun from gold, his fingers trembling slightly as he stared at the hastily scrawled note. Fred’s handwriting was as chaotic as the man himself, but the words were clear enough: Charlie’s contact information.
Harry walked beside him, hands tucked into his pockets, his expression one of quiet amusement. He glanced at Draco, his green eyes soft with something that might have been fondness — if Draco hadn’t known better.
“I can’t believe that worked,” Draco breathed, his voice tinged with disbelief. “I mean, I had to sell my soul and my dignity, but still!”
Harry rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Being the joke shop’s test subject isn’t that bad of a deal.”
Draco shot him a glare, his grip tightening on the parchment. “It’s the worst of fates. Do you have any idea what that man is capable of? I’ll be lucky if I make it through the week without sprouting feathers or turning into a canary.”
Harry chuckled, the sound low and warm. “You’ll survive, you’re resourceful.”
“Resourceful?” Draco repeated, his voice rising. “I’m going to be his personal lab rat! Do you know what they do to lab rats? They experiment on them, Harry!”
Harry’s smirk widened. “You’ll be fine. Besides, it’s not like you had much of a choice.”
Draco groaned, running a hand through his hair. “This is humiliating. Draco Malfoy, reduced to a Weasley’s plaything. My father would disown me, truly.”
“Good thing I killed him, then, right?” Harry said lightly, his tone teasing.
Draco shot him another glare, but there was no real heat behind it. He couldn’t deny the relief that came with having Charlie’s contact information, even if it had cost him his pride.
As they approached the apothecary, Draco’s steps slowed, his gaze dropping to the parchment again. “Do you think Charlie will actually help?” he asked, his voice quieter now.
Harry tilted his head, considering. “He might, he’s not like the others. Charlie’s...different.”
“Different how?”
“Less judgmental,” Harry said with a shrug. “He’s always been more focused on dragons than family feuds.”
Draco frowned, his mind racing. “And if he says no?”
“Then, we’ll figure something else out,” Harry said, his tone firm. “But you’ve come this far, don’t give up now.”
Draco glanced at him, surprised by the sincerity in Harry’s voice. For a moment, he forgot to be annoyed, forgot about the humiliation of his deal with Fred. All he saw was the djinn standing beside him, his expression steady and reassuring.
“You’re oddly optimistic today,” Draco said, his tone wary.
Harry tilted his head to the side. “Don’t get used to it.”
Draco huffed, shaking his head, but he couldn’t suppress the small smile that tugged at his lips. As much as he hated to admit it, Harry’s presence was... comforting. Even if the djinn was infuriating most of the time.
They reached the apothecary, and Draco paused at the door, his hand resting on the handle. “This had better be worth it,” he muttered.
Harry leaned against the wall beside him, his arms crossed. “It will be.”
Draco glanced at him, his brow furrowed. “How do you know?”
Harry’s smile was faint but genuine. “Because you’re Draco Malfoy, you don’t do things halfway.”
Draco snorted, pushing the door open. “Flattery won’t get you out of helping me brew this potion, you know.”
Harry followed him inside, his laughter echoing in the small shop. “I wouldn't dream of it.”
The apothecary was cloaked in shadows when Draco finally gathered the courage to ask the question Blaise had suggested might be the solution.
“What’s your true name?”
Harry didn’t turn from where he was stirring a potion, but his shoulders stiffened visibly. “Wouldn’t you prefer ‘Master’? It has a nice ring to it.”
Draco slammed his ledger shut, the sharp sound cutting through the quiet. “Stop deflecting, tell me.”
Harry sighed, the sound heavy and worn, unlike anything Draco had heard from him before. “Names have power, Draco or did you skip that lesson at Beauxbatons?”
“I’m not asking for fun,” Draco snapped, rounding the counter. “Blaise said if I knew your true name, I could break the curse. Free you.”
Harry went very still, his hand pausing mid-stir. “Free me,” he repeated, his voice hollow. “And why would you want that?”
“Because this isn’t living, it's a cage.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Harry whirled, his green eyes blazing. The air around him seemed to crackle, and the shelves rattled as jars of ingredients trembled. “Centuries of begging, bargaining, burning, wish after wish — and not one of wielder cared to free me. They only wanted more.”
Draco faltered, his resolve wavering for a moment. “I’m not them.”
“Aren’t you?” Harry stepped closer, his anger melting into something colder, more resigned. “You’ll ask for your three wishes, you’ll take what you need and when you’re done, you’ll die like the rest. That’s how this works.”
“Then, change the rules!”
“I can’t!” Harry’s shout echoed through the shop, raw and desperate. He grabbed Draco’s wrist, yanking it up to press the ring between them. The emerald pulsed, its black veins writhing like something alive. “This isn’t a curse, it’s a tomb. My name won’t save me, it’ll just bury you too.”
Draco wrenched his hand free, his voice low and furious. “You don’t get to decide what I risk.”
For a moment, Harry looked almost shattered, his usual composure crumbling. Then he laughed, the sound bitter and broken. “You’re a fool.”
“Maybe,” Draco said, holding his gaze. “But I’m the fool who’s asking, so tell me.”
Harry’s smile was sharp, cutting. “No.”
He vanished, leaving Draco alone with the echo of his defiance and the faint, lingering scent of ozone.
Draco found Harry on the roof of the apothecary long past midnight, the djinn’s silhouette outlined against the faint glow of the stars. Harry’s usually crisp suit was rumpled, his hair disheveled, as if he’d stopped bothering to maintain the illusion of humanity. He stared at the sky with a hollow intensity, his expression unreadable.
“You’re avoiding me again,” Draco said, climbing up to sit beside him. “I thought we were good, you even helped me today but then, you blew up on me."
Harry didn’t look over. “You’re persistent, annoyingly so.”
“And you’re a coward.”
A flicker of a smile crossed Harry’s lips. “What an ironic thing to say.”
The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words. Draco followed Harry’s gaze to the constellation Orion, its belt faintly visible through the haze of London smog.
“Why won’t you tell me your name?” Draco asked, his voice soft but insistent.
Harry’s jaw tightened. “Names fade. After a few centuries, you stop missing them.”
“Centuries?” Draco frowned. “You keep saying that but I thought you said years. You knew Granger, didn’t you?”
Harry laughed, the sound sharp and brittle. “Ten years in this realm.”
Draco stilled. “What do you mean?”
Harry finally turned to him, his green eyes glowing faintly in the dark. “Time doesn’t work the same in the djinn realm. A year here… is a century there.”
The words hit Draco like a Stunning Spell. “You’ve been trapped for… a thousand years?”
“Give or take,” Harry said lightly, as if discussing the weather. “The first hundred were the worst, after that, you stop counting.”
Draco’s chest ached. He thought of Harry’s smirk, his endless quips, the way he’d memorized every inch of Draco’s apothecary just to annoy him — all masks for this. A millennia of solitude.
“All those wielders,” Draco said slowly. “The ones who died making wishes… how many?”
Harry’s gaze returned to the stars. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Twenty,” Harry whispered. “Some lasted decades. Others… hours.”
The number hung between them, suffocating. Draco’s throat tightened. “And you remember all of them.”
“Every. Single. One.” Harry’s voice cracked. “Their faces. Their voices. What they wished for. What it cost them.”
Draco hesitated, then reached out, his fingers brushing Harry’s. The djinn flinched but didn’t pull away, so Draco intertwined their hands.
“Why stay with me?” Draco asked. “Why not vanish until I call for you?”
Harry’s laugh was barely a breath. “I like you.”
Before Draco could respond, Harry vanished again, leaving behind only the echo of his confession and the cold sting of the ring on Draco’s finger.
“Stop leaving me behind,” Draco whispered into the air, pulling his knees to his chest.
Draco woke to the smell of smoke and iron.
He stood in a desert of black sand, the sky choked with ash. Figures flickered around him — shadowy, screaming, their faces melting like wax. The ring on his finger burned, its emerald pulsing in time with the howling wind.
“Djinn.”
Draco turned at the sound of a woman’s voice. A witch knelt in the sand, her robes tattered, her round cheeks streaked with dirt, and her wild curls matted with sweat.
“Please,” she begged, clutching a ring identical to Draco’s. “I wish for peace. Make the war stop.”
The air rippled as Harry materialized, his eyes cold and his shoulders slumped as if weighed by centuries.
“As you wish,” he whispered.
The witch collapsed, her skin hardening to stone, her scream trapped in her throat. Harry crouched beside her, his hand hovering over her chest for a moment before pulling away with a glowing sphere that vanished into the air.
The scene shattered.
Draco lurched forward into another nightmare:
A child wished for her mother back, only to recoil as the woman rose as an Inferius, her rotting hand outstretched as it grabbed the child.
A man exploded into smoke, his body unable to contain the unlimited magic he’d wished for.
Each death etched itself into Harry’s eyes—a thousand years of failure, a thousand years of collecting deaths.
Finally, Draco stumbled into a void, Harry stood at its center.
Draco reached for him —
He jolted awake in his bed, drenched in sweat, Harry’s hands gripping his shoulders.
“Breathe,” Harry ordered, his eyes glowing faintly in the dark. “Breathe, Draco.”
Draco shoved him away. “Why? Why did you show me that?”
“You wanted to know, didn’t you?”
“It wasn’t a dream, was it?” Draco asked, sitting up.
Harry traced a finger down Draco’s cheek, his touch chilling. “No. Some deserved it. Some didn’t.”
Draco caught his wrist. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I’ve lived a thousand years, Draco,” Harry laughed, the sound brittle and raw. “Blaming myself is all I have left.”
“Those glowing spheres…" Drack trailed off, biting his bottom lip. It looked eerily like the kiss from the Dementors, "You take their souls, don’t you?”
Harry stilled. For a heartbeat, his mask slipped—eyes wide, vulnerable, human.
Then, he turned away. “Go back to sleep.”
“Not without you,” Draco sank onto the bed, tugging Harry’s sleeve. “Stay.”
Harry hesitated, his defiance crumbling. Slowly, he sat beside Draco, pulling him into his chest. Draco’s head rested over his heart, anchoring him.
“Go to sleep,” Harry murmured, stroking Draco’s hair as his eyes fluttered closed. “I’ll be here.”
The owl arrived at dawn, its talons clicking against the apothecary’s windowsill. Draco, bleary-eyed and clutching a mug of over-steeped tea, nearly dropped the cup when he saw the envelope clutched in the bird’s beak. The wax seal bore the emblem of the England Potioneers' Guild: a cauldron wreathed in laurels.
His heart leapt into his throat.
“Mister Draco Malfoy,” the letter began, the script elegant and precise, “you are cordially invited to the prestigious European Potioneers' Guild Conference, to be held this December…”
Draco’s hands trembled as he read the words aloud, his voice barely above a whisper. He clutched the letter to his chest m, disbelief warring with a fragile, desperate hope. This isn’t a joke. This can’t be a joke.
For years, he’d tried to secure an invitation, sending inquiries, samples of his potions, even a painfully formal letter to the Guild’s committee. Each attempt had been met with silence or worse, polite rejections citing “limited space” and “established attendees.”
But now, after one of the Healers at St. Mungo’s who regularly used his potions had sent a glowing recommendation, the doors had finally opened for him.
“What’s this?” Harry’s voice whispered in his ear, the djinn materializing behind him. He leaned over Draco’s shoulder, reading silently.
Draco stiffened, clutching the letter tighter to his chest. “An invitation.”
Harry plucked the invitation from his hands with a flick of his wrist, holding it up to the light. “European Potioneers' Guild Conference,” he read aloud, his tone dripping with mock grandeur. “How posh, when are we going?”
“We aren’t going anywhere,” Draco snapped, snatching the letter back. “I don’t need you messing this up for me.”
Harry smirked, his green eyes glinting with mischief. “I beg to differ, my dear Draco. See, where you go, I go or did you already forget?”
Draco cursed under his breath. He had forgotten, lulled into a false sense of normalcy by Harry’s recent habit of vanishing for hours at a time. The djinn had been more shadow than companion lately, his presence fleeting and unpredictable.
“You’ll be hidden, won’t you?” Draco asked, his gray eyes almost pleading.
Harry laughed, a low, velvety sound that sent a shiver down Draco’s spine. He hooked his chin over Draco’s shoulder, his form solid enough to feel but not enough to touch. “Now, where’s the fun in that?”
Draco groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is important, Harry. I can’t have you… distracting me.”
“Distracting?” Harry echoed, feigning offense. “I’m the soul of discretion, ask anyone.”
“I can’t ask anyone because no one can see you, idiot,” Draco muttered, though a small, traitorous part of him was relieved Harry would be there.
The thought of facing the Guild alone, of standing in a room full of people who still saw him as a Death Eater’s son, was daunting. “This could bring in so many new customers and give my reputation a boost, so I need you to behave.”
Harry’s smirk softened into something almost genuine. “Relax, I’ll behave. Mostly.”
“Mostly,” Draco repeated, his tone flat.
“Cross my heart,” Harry said, placing a hand over his chest. His grin widened. “Now, when do we leave?”
Draco sighed, folding the letter carefully and tucking it into his pocket. “Next week, and we aren’t doing anything. You’re staying out of sight.”
Harry’s laughter followed him as he turned back to his cauldrons, but Draco couldn’t find it in himself to worry too much, still high off the fact that he’d finally been given a chance to prove himself.
Then, his eyes widened. “I need to owl the dragon Weasley!”
Draco stirred the Blood Rejuvenating potion with deliberate slowness, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, the rhythmic clink of the silver ladle against copper the only sound besides the occasional creak of Harry’s stool.
The shop was bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, its flickering flames casting long, dancing shadows across shelves cluttered with jars of dried herbs and vials of iridescent liquids. The air hung heavy with the earthy scent of valerian root, its calming aroma mingling with the sharper scent of dried lavender.
Harry lounged nearby, one leg dangling over the edge of the worktable, looking impossibly pristine against the dusty apothecary backdrop. He twirled a sprig of rosemary between his fingers, the herb’s pine-like scent cutting through the haze.
Draco watched him from the corner of his eye, noting the way the candlelight gilded the djinn’s cheekbones, softening his otherworldliness.
He looks almost human like this, Draco thought, then immediately chastised himself. As if anything about him could ever be ordinary.
“Did I ever tell you,” Harry began, his voice breaking the quiet, “that I once fought a mountain troll when I was eleven?”
Draco paused his stirring, fixing Harry with a skeptical glare. “You’re telling me you fought a mountain troll at eleven?”
“In a girl’s bathroom, no less,” Harry added, his grin widening, crinkling the corners of his glowing green eyes. “To be fair, it was already unconscious. Mostly.”
Draco’s mouth dropped open, unsure if he entirely believed him. He looked down at the potion, his thoughts drifting.
Would I have been like him if I went to Hogwarts? he wondered, stealing a glance at Harry. He could barely remember anything exciting happening to him at Beauxbaton, let alone a troll. Or would I still be this—a ghost in my own life, brewing potions for a world that hates me?
“Mostly,” Draco repeated, snorting. He resumed stirring, the potion swirling into a hypnotic silver vortex. “So, you’re either mad or a liar.”
“Bit of both, probably,” Harry said, leaning forward. The stool groaned under his weight as he propped his chin in his hand. The rosemary now dangled from his lips like a smuggled cigarette. “Go on, then. Wish for proof, Ill conjure the troll’s toenail as a souvenir.”
Draco’s grip tightened on the ladle. There it was again; the bait, dangling just close enough to taste.
Ever since Harry showed him his past wielders wishes, the djinn had taken to needling him with increasing creativity to try to get him to make one, weaving wishes into casual conversation like a spider spinning silk.
Trivial requests morphed into grander temptations: a lifetime supply of powdered moonstone to Unicorn's hair, a substance as rare as Dragon's liver.
The latter had nearly unraveled him.
He’d lain awake that night, staring at the ceiling, imagining the cure he could brew, the lives he could save… until Harry’s voice slithered into his mind: "All it takes is a single wish.”
He had bitten his tongue until it bled.
He didn’t want to find out how Djinn magic would twist and transform a simple request for Unicorn Hair into something grotesque and deadly.
Now, Draco arched a brow, feigning nonchalance. “I’d rather swallow a Cornish Pixie.”
Harry’s laughter filled the room, warm and rich, and Draco hated how the sound seeped into his chest, loosening something tightly wound.
The djinn’s mirth faded into a sly smile. “Suit yourself, but that toenail could’ve funded this crumbling hovel for a decade.”
Draco’s gaze swept the shop; the chipped mortar and pestle, the faded sign outside, the cracks in the ceiling he’d charmed to look like intentional star maps. “It’s not a hovel, it’s… atmospheric.”
“Atmospheric,” Harry echoed, deadpan. “Right. How’s that working out for customer turnout?”
A muscle twitched in Draco’s jaw. Cheeky bastard.
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken tension, until Harry finally sighed and flopped back onto the stool. “You’re no fun, you know that?”
“Fun gets people killed,” Draco muttered, more to the potion than to Harry.
“Oh, please,” Harry said, waving a hand. The candles flared brighter, painting the walls in gold. “You’ve got the survival instincts of a flobberworm in a thunderstorm. I mean, you want me to bend you over and have my way with you, what kind of survival instinct is that?"
Draco’s stomach lurched as his cheeks reddened. The ring on his finger pulsed, cold and insistent, as if offended. He didn’t need reminding.
“Maybe so,” he said lightly, ladling the finished potion into a phial. "Though, I do wonder how long you’ll keep playing the charming rogue before the monster peeks out.”
Harry stilled. For a heartbeat, his façade cracked, revealing something raw beneath — a flicker of pain, or maybe regret. Then, he smiled, all sharp edges again. “Careful, Draco, you’ll hurt my feelings.”
“Do djinns even have feelings?”
“Do Malfoys?”
Draco’s retort lodged in his throat. He turned away, busying himself with labeling the phial. I suppose I deserved that.
“Alright, enough talk,” Draco said after a moment. “If I don’t get these potions right for the Conference in three days, I’ll have your head.”
“I can’t even talk a little?”
“No.”
Chapter 4: Unravel
Chapter Text
The most perilous aspect of djinn magic is the erosion of self. This phenomenon suggests that prolonged binding may eventually dissolve a djinn’s original identity entirely.
— Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them: The Missing Beasts Edition
The Romanian Dragon Sanctuary stretched further than their eyes could see, a primordial landscape where fire and earth collided.
Sulfurous fumes coiled from fissures in the rock, stinging Draco's eyes with every gust of wind. Somewhere beyond the jagged peaks, massive wings beat the thin mountain air, each downstroke vibrating through his boots.
This had better work.
Months of dead ends flashed through his mind; smuggler's dens in Knockturn Alley, backroom deals with goblins who'd laughed at his desperation. All for this fist-sized lump of organ meat that could incinerate a man if mishandled.
Harry coalesced from the swirling ash, his edges indistinct like smoke caught in sunlight. The djinn radiated restless energy, making Draco's skin prickle with static.
"Never took you for the brooding type," Draco said, adjusting his satchel strap.
Harry's attention remained fixed on the distant silhouette circling the peaks, a Hungarian Horntail riding thermal currents. His fingers spasmed at his sides, the motion too deliberate for nerves.
"You know this place," Draco didn't frame it as a question.
"No," The djinn's jaw tightened. "Just someone."
Before Draco could respond, crunching footsteps approached from behind.
"Malfoy."
Charlie Weasley looked like he'd been carved from the mountain itself, his once-red hair bleached copper by the sun, new scars weaving through old ones across his forearms. He moved with the easy confidence of a man who'd wrestled dragons before breakfast.
"Fred owes me ten galleons," Charlie grinned, clapping Draco's shoulder with enough force to make his teeth rattle. "Never thought I'd see the day."
Draco shrugged off the contact. "Desperate times."
Charlie's smile didn't reach his eyes as his gaze slid past Draco's shoulder. For half a heartbeat, something like recognition flickered across his face before he schooled his features.
"Dragon liver, eh?" Charlie said, crossing his arms. The tattoos along his biceps shifted with the movement. " You're in luck, we just mourned one of our elder just last month so tell me, what's a posh boy like you need with that?"
The truth, that his reputation hung by a thread, clogged Draco's throat.
"Tell him it's for burns," Harry murmured, his breath unnaturally cool against Draco's ear. "He'll like that."
"Experimental burn treatment," Draco lied smoothly.
Charlie's eyes dropped to Draco's left forearm. "Right," He scratched his beard. "Alright, follow me.",
The storage shed exhaled a wave of frigid air when Charlie wrenched open the iron door. Rows of enchanted ice glittered under preservation charms, showcasing vials of blood and jars of scales that shimmered like oil on water. At the center rested their prize—a dark, veined mass wrapped in silvercloth, its surface glistening with latent heat.
Charlie hefted it carefully. "This'll dissolve your bones if the packaging fails."
Draco nodded, shrinking it to fit in his satchel. He pulled out the small fortune he had solely to purchase this elusive ingredient.
"Good man," Charlie chuckled, taking the bag. Draco released a relieved breath as he turned around, relief crashing over him in waves. He felt as if he could cry, finally, finally!
Not even the port key home could ruin his mood.
Blue light pulsed from the stasis charm as Draco sealed the dragon liver inside, illuminating the fine tremors in his hands that had nothing to do with fatigue. The organ glistened under the magical barrier, its veined surface still shimmering with latent heat despite the preservation spells.
After all the bribes, the threats, the nights waking in a cold sweat—it's actually here.
The hair on Draco's neck rose before he saw the movement, a shadow detaching itself from the shelves. Harry leaned against the workbench, closer than he'd dared in weeks. Moonlight through the high windows turned half his face silver, the other half swallowed by darkness.
"Are you going to tell me why you're acting so weird?" Draco kept his eyes on the liver, watching condensation form on the stasis field. "Or am I supposed to guess?"
Harry's restless fingers froze. A jar of dried nettles shattered somewhere in the shop. Neither of them flinched.
"I knew him," Harry said at last. The words came slowly, as if dragged from some deep place.
The admission hung between them. Draco's thumbnail picked at a groove in the workbench where a cauldron had scorched the wood last winter. He could ask. Should ask. But the way Harry's shoulders curved inward beneath his coat told him more than words ever could.
Harry exhaled through his nose, that sharp, humorless sound Draco had learned meant pain. Then his hand moved, hovering over Draco's where it rested beside the stasis charm. "You could have wished for this weeks ago."
"I know," Draco turned his palm up without thinking, their fingers barely touching.
The corner of Harry's mouth twitched. Not the usual razor-edged smirk, but something quieter. "Stubborn bastard."
Draco yanked his hand back, sending a vial of powder crashing to the floor. Silver dust bloomed across the floorboards like tiny stars. "Merlin's—! Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?" Harry crouched to gather the shards, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
"Like you've never seen someone avoid your damn loopholes before," Draco's ears burned, he snatched up a dustpan, their fingers brushing again in the process.
Harry's laugh burst out then, real and unguarded, the sound bouncing off the glass jars. For a heartbeat, the shop felt warmer than it had in months. The stasis light caught in Harry's eyes as he looked up, shifting their color from whiskey-gold to summer-leaf green.
"Go away," Draco groaned, "We have to wake up early tomorrow and I need to get these potions finished."
The Grand Hall of the Potioneers' Guild shimmered under a constellation of enchanted lights, their reflections dancing across Draco's meticulously arranged display. He adjusted his cuffs for the twelfth time in as many minutes, the emerald signet ring on his finger catching the light with each nervous movement.
"Stop fidgeting," Harry's voice whispered in his ear, accompanied by the phantom sensation of teeth grazing his earlobe. "You look like you're about to duel a Hungarian Horntail."
Draco swatted at the empty air. "I'd take the Horntail over this circus," he muttered under his breath.
His display table held only three items, each resting on velvet-lined stands; A vial of Dreamless Sleep that emitted faint, soothing chimes. Blood-Replenishers that swirled like liquid garnets and the star attraction: Luminaris Essence, its opalescent surface shifting between colors like oil on water.
Madame Leclerc's arrival sent a hush through the nearby crowd. The renowned Beauxbatons Potion Master studied Draco's display through gold-rimmed spectacles. "This purification elixir," she said in her crisp accent, tapping the Luminaris decanter, "it truly removes all traces of Dark Magic?"
Draco opened his mouth to respond when a familiar drawl cut through the space between booths. "I'd be skeptical of any claims from a Malfoy."
Thaddeus Clearott leaned against his gaudy gold-trimmed display, swirling a goblet of something that bubbled suspiciously. "Especially regarding Dark Magic removal."
The air behind Clearott darkened slightly as Harry materialized just over his shoulder. The djinn's fingers hovered near Clearott's temples.
"One tiny thought," Harry's voice slithered into Draco's mind, "and he'll forget his own name."
Draco exhaled sharply through his nose and reached for his demonstration kit. "Perhaps, a practical demonstration would settle this?"
With practiced movements, he uncorked the Luminaris and poured a single drop onto a cursed dagger provided by the Guild's testing station. The blackened steel sizzled for half a second before the dark patina dissolved, leaving polished metal gleaming beneath the lights.
A murmur rippled through the gathered crowd, Madame Leclerc's eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. Even stoic Madam Pomfrey, who'd been quietly observing from the sidelines, gave an approving nod.
Clearott's face twisted. "That's—"
"Completely legitimate?" Draco finished sweetly. "Yes, I know."
As the crowd descended on his booth with orders, Harry's invisible presence remained a warm pressure against Draco's back. When the last customer finally left, Draco collapsed onto his stool, his carefully maintained posture crumbling.
Harry appeared beside him, solid and real for the first time all day. "You were magnificent," he said, brushing a stray lock of hair from Draco's forehead.
"You didn't... enhance anything, did you?" Draco asked, eyeing the djinn suspiciously.
Harry's laughter rang through the emptying hall. "Your potions need no help from me."
Draco's lips twitched despite himself. "You're insufferable."
"And yet," Harry said, pressing a kiss to Draco's knuckles, "you keep me around."
The apothecary bell hadn't stopped ringing all week. Draco counted fourteen chimes in the past hour alone as he measured ingredients behind the counter. Each metallic jingle sent another customer shuffling through the door - harried healers with singed robes, curious apprentices clutching coin purses, even a trio of Durmstrang midwives who'd Apparated directly onto his welcome mat.
"See this?" The lead midwife - a broad-shouldered witch with battle-scarred hands - tapped her cursed dagger against his display case. The blackened steel shivered when she poured a drop of Luminaris Essence across its surface. As the dark magic dissolved into golden mist, she grunted and tossed a clinking pouch onto the counter. "We'll take three cases."
Draco's quill hovered over his order ledger, three cases meant thirty-six vials.
Harry's chuckle ghosted across his neck as the djinn materialized behind the shelves. "Careful, your ego's showing."
"Shut it," Draco muttered, but his fingers trembled slightly as he recorded the sale. The shop smelled different now - less dusty solitude, more crushed dittany and the sharp tang of floo powder clinging to customers' robes. Even the light had changed; no longer thin winter sun through high windows, but the warm glow of floating orbs reflected in dozens of curious eyes.
A young healer's assistant lingered by one of his originals which removed stains from clothings, her fingers tracing the price tag. "They say you invented this formula at eighteen," she breathed.
Draco opened his mouth to downplay it when Harry's voice said,"Tell her about the explosion, the one that took out your mother's favorite parlour."
"It wasn't... exactly intentional," Draco admitted, cheeks warming. The memory of the house elves' horrified shrieks as the chandelier crashed down seemed almost funny now.
By closing time, Draco's fingers were stained blue from essence of murtlap, his lower back protesting from hours of standing. He slumped against the counter, staring at the ledger's cramped columns. Orders from St. Mungo's. Requests from Hogwarts. Even a handwritten note from Pomfrey herself pinned beneath a bottle of her favorite headache tonic.
Harry leaned against the cash register, solid and real for the first time all day. "Admit it," he said, plucking a Galleon from the till and making it dance across his knuckles. "You're enjoying this."
Draco watched the coin catch the light, not Malfoy gold extracted through centuries of privilege, but honest payment for work done well. The weight of it in his palm felt foreign. Wonderful.
"Maybe," he allowed, swiping the Galleon back.
Harry's smug face followed him into the storeroom, warmer than the fading sunlight through the windows.
The apothecary bell chimed as Draco looked up from his mortar, powdered asphodel dusting his fingers like frost. A witch stood in the doorway—auburn hair gleaming in the candlelight, emerald-green robes tailored to showcase every curve. Her gaze locked onto him with the intensity of a cat eyeing a canary.
Another Malfoy Chaser. Pansy's term for these women fit perfectly.
"Wow," the witch breathed, leaning across the counter until her plunging neckline threatened a jar of pickled newt eyes. "You make all these yourself?"
The air behind Draco thickened with the scent of ozone. An invisible hand gripped his shoulder—Harry's fingers pressing just hard enough to leave bruises tomorrow.
"Custom brews only," Draco said, stepping back from her invasive perfume. "Looking for anything specific?"
She twirled a strand of hair around her finger. "I was hoping for some... personal instruction. There's a particular potion I need help with." Her smile suggested it wasn't medicinal.
The candles flared violently before extinguishing, glass shattered as a jar of moonstone powder exploded against the far wall, coating the floor in glittering dust.
"Merlin's beard!" The witch jumped back, nearly toppling a display. "This place is haunted!"
"Drafty old building," Draco glared at the empty space where Harry's presence vibrated with barely-contained energy. "About that potion..."
"I'll send an owl!" She was already backing toward the exit, earlier confidence evaporated.
The moment the door closed, Harry materialized against the counter, arms crossed. "Drafty?" His smirk didn't reach his eyes. "That's the best you could do?"
Draco threw a handful of dried nettles at him. "That jar cost twelve galleons!"
"You're blushing." Harry caught the herbs mid-air. "Admit you liked me scaring her off."
"I like paying my rent," Draco turned back to his mortar, grinding harder than necessary. "And not explaining to the Ministry why customers keep fleeing my shop."
Harry's form flickered as he moved closer, his voice dropping. "She wasn't your type anyway."
Draco snorted. "And what exactly is my type?"
"Me," Harry's grin showed too many teeth. "Obviously."
The bell rang again before Draco could respond. A wizard in travel-stained robes entered, beaming. "Heard you're the best potioneer in London!"
Harry groaned dramatically. "Do you tempt them here with those indecently tight trousers?"
"They're professionally tailored," Draco hissed, then forced a customer-service smile. "How can I help?"
As the man launched into a story about a failed Felix Felicis attempt, Draco felt Harry's eyes linger on him.
The stairwell’s familiar groans accompanied Draco’s ascent, each creak louder than usual in the midnight quiet. He shouldered open his bedroom door and stopped dead.
Harry perched on the bed in a simple black shirt stretched across his shoulders, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms marked with faint scars Draco didn’t recognize.
"You’re late," Harry said, flexing his bare hands, the absence of his usual jewelry made him look strangely vulnerable.
Draco leaned against the doorjamb, pulse jumping. "Were you worried?"
"Devastated," Harry’s lips quirked, but his gaze dropped to Draco’s breast pocket where the enchanted blossoms still emitted a faint glow. "You kept them."
"Evidence," Draco’s throat tightened. "For when I turn you in to the floral police."
The joke fell flat. Harry’s expression softened in a way that made Draco’s ribs ache. "What do you need from me, Draco?" The question hovered between them, fragile as the dittany petals in his pocket.
Draco busied himself at the wardrobe, fingers clutching a sleep shirt like a lifeline. "Right now? Silence. And maybe that firewhisky you stole last—"
"From me," Harry stood suddenly, his shadow stretching across the floorboards to touch Draco’s boots. "What do you actually want?"
The air left Draco’s lungs. Up close, he could see the new lines around Harry’s eyes—the ones that hadn’t been there when they’d first bound themselves together. His hand rose of its own accord, pressing Harry’s palm against his chest where the flowers lay.
"Just this," Draco breathed. The blossoms warmed between them, their glow pulsing in time with his heartbeat. "No magic. No deals."
Harry’s fingers spread wide, his other hand coming up to cradle Draco’s jaw. The touch burned, not with djinn magic, but something far more dangerous. "No wishes?"
Draco leaned in until their foreheads touched. "Just stay."
For once, Harry had no clever retort. When his lips found Draco’s, they tasted of promises, not power.
The streets of Diagon Alley bustled with life, the air thick with the scent of roasted chestnuts and the chatter of witches and wizards preparing for the upcoming Yule season.
Draco walked briskly, his cloak billowing behind him, a list of rare ingredients clutched in his hand. Harry trailed beside him, invisible to the world but a constant, grounding presence for Draco.
“You know,” Harry said, his voice low and amused, “if you’d just let me conjure these ingredients, we could be back at the apothecary by now. Warm. Cozy. Alone.”
Draco shot him a glare, though his lips twitched. “And risk you turning powdered moonstone into powdered pixie wings? No, thank you.”
Harry smirked, his form flickering faintly in the sunlight. “Your loss, I’d make it worth your while.”
Before Draco could retort, a familiar voice cut through the crowd.
“Malfoy?”
Draco froze.
Hermione Granger stood a few feet away, her arms laden with books, her expression caught between surprise and wariness. Beside her, Ron Weasley looked like he’d swallowed a lemon, and Luna Lovegood floated serenely, her radish earrings swaying as she tilted her head.
“Granger,” Draco said stiffly, nodding. “Weasley. Lovegood? If I'm not mistaken." It was the first time he seen the girl but the daze look on her face gave away that she was related to Xenophilius Lovegood somehow.
Ron crossed his arms. “Didn’t think we’d see you out and about, figured you’d be holed up in that shop of yours.”
“Yes, well,” Draco drawled, “even recluses need fresh air occasionally.”
Hermione’s gaze flicked over him, sharp and assessing. “Did you get those potions done, yet?”
Draco’s jaw tightened. “I handled it,” he said, his tone clipped. He could feel Harry’s presence shift, the air growing colder as the djinn tensed beside him.
Luna, however, wasn’t looking at Draco. Her dreamy gaze was fixed on the empty space beside him. “Oh, hello, Harry!” she said brightly, as if greeting an old friend.
Draco’s heart stopped.
Hermione and Ron whipped their heads around, scanning the crowd. “Harry?” Ron said, his voice cracking. “Where?”
Harry straightened abruptly. His eyes widened, and for the first time since Draco had known him, the djinn looked genuinely rattled.
“Luna,” Harry said, his voice barely audible, “you can’t—”
But Luna was already frowning, her head tilting the other way. “Oh, he’s gone now.”
“Gone?” Hermione’s voice was sharp, her eyes narrowing. “Luna, what are you talking about?”
“Harry was just here,” Luna said matter-of-factly, gesturing to the empty space beside Draco. “But he slipped away, he’s very good at that.”
Draco’s mind raced. How does she know? How can she see him? He forced a laugh, though it came out strained. “Lovegood, you’ve lost it, there’s no one there.”
Luna blinked at him, her expression serene. “Of course there is. You see him too, don’t you?”
Hermione and Ron turned to Draco, their expressions a mix of suspicion and disbelief. Draco’s palms were sweating, his grip tightening on the list of ingredients.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his voice colder than he intended.
Harry’s presence was gone now, the air warmer, but Draco could still feel the lingering chill of his panic.
“Right,” Ron said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Luna maybe a bit off but she wouldn't lie about Harry!"
Hermione stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. “Malfoy, if you know something—”
“I don’t,” Draco snapped, cutting her off. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have errands to run.”
He brushed past them, his heart pounding. Luna’s voice followed him, soft but clear.
“He’ll come back, you know, Harry always does.”
By the time Draco hurried back to his apothecary, his heart still raced from the encounter with Hermione, Ron, and Luna.
He stopped abruptly when he spotted the two Aurors standing silhouetted against his shop's frosted windows; a woman with a silver Order of Merlin pinned to her crimson robes, and a hulking wizard whose knuckles whitened around his wand at Draco's approach.
Draco gritted his teeth, cursing under his breath. Of course, just what I needed.
“Mr. Malfoy,” one of the Aurors said, stepping forward. Her voice was polite but firm. “If you’d, please, come with us, we’d like you to answer some questions.”
Draco jutted his chin out, his pride flaring. “What’s the meaning of this?”
The air beside him rippled, and Harry materialized, his form flickering faintly. Draco stiffened, shocked that the djinn had shown himself so openly and so soon after his usual habit of vanishing for days.
“Don't run," Harry's voice slithered through his mind. "That's what prey does.”
“We were tipped off by Auror Weasley,” the Auror continued, her eyes narrowing slightly, “that you might have some information on the disappearance of Harry Potter.”
Draco’s stomach dropped. Harry Potter. The name echoed in his mind, and he jolted as the pieces clicked into place. His gaze flicked to Harry, who stood beside him, his expression unreadable but his green eyes blazing with intensity.
Harry Potter, of course, He felt like slapping himself in frustration, I am shackled to the boy who lived.
Draco straightened, forcing his face into a mask of indifference. “I don’t even know who that is,” he said coolly, addressing the Aurors. “You’ve got the wrong person.”
"Cut the crap, what were you just looking at, huh?" The male Auror's wand tip flared orange. "A witness stated he was seen with you."
Luna. Draco's fingers clenched around cold iron, the key bit into his palm.
He tried to step past them, but the second Auror—a burly man with a scar across his cheek—blocked his path, his wand drawn. Draco froze, his heart pounding.
“Let me handle this," Harry murmured, fingers brushing Draco's wrist. "One little—"
"No," Draco jerked his hand away, the female Auror's eyes narrowed.
"Problem, Malfoy?”
"Nothing," The shop's wards vibrated under Draco's touch as he unlocked the door. "Just debating whether to serve you tea or firewhisky for this interrogation."
"We don’t have time for this," The male Auror shoved past him, boots tracking snow across the polished oak floor. "We know you're hiding something. Lovegood said—"
"Oh, please, Lovegood? Her father thinks dirigible plums cure melancholy," Draco snapped. Behind the Aurors, Harry's form darkened, his outline splitting into fractal shadows. "If you're arresting me over a conspiracy theorist's—”
“Not arresting," The woman flicked her wand.
A wanted poster unfurled midair, wizard with wild black hair glaring from the parchment. Harry James Potter. Missing: Ten Years. "Just... curious why his name came up.”
Draco's mouth went dry, the resemblance was undeniable yet impossible, like seeing a ghost wearing Harry's face. His fingers twitched toward his ring finger where the emerald pulsed hot as a live coal.
Truly he felt like an idiot, seeing a picture of Harry made it so blatantly obvious that he was the Savior of Wizarding Britain.
In my defense, I've been in France most of my life. He thought as he released a slow breath.
The moving photograph glared up at him but as Draco stared, the image shifted.
For one single moment, he saw:
A different boy, smaller, drowning in oversized clothes
That same scar bleeding on a stone floor
A flash of green light
"Merlin's—" Draco gasped, the vision vanished, leaving the official Ministry photo restored. The aurors exchanged a look of confusion as he mentally reeled.
Harry went very still. "Don't," he warned, as Draco opened his mouth.
"I never even met him before," Draco tossed his keys onto the counter. They skidded past a vial of Luminaris Essence, its glow pulsing in time with his racing heart. “Honestly, if I had Harry Potter hidden away, do you think I'd waste time selling Pepper-Ups?”
The male Auror slammed a fist on the counter, the glass rattling. “Search the premises.” The woman nodded, going deeper into the shop.
"You," The male Auror barked at Draco, "Don't move."
"If you break something, you're paying for it." Draco snapped back.
"Wish," Harry demanded, his voice fraying at the edges. "Now."
For one reckless second, the words burned Draco's tongue, I wish you'd vanish these Aurors. One sentence and he'd be free but the ring seared his finger at the thought, showing the price: Harry's humanity slipping further and he swallowed the wish like broken glass.
"No," He stepped between them, chin raised.
"Search. Brew. Whatever lets you sleep at night." He stated with a glare “Just hurry up.”
“You sure do talk alot, is that a nervous tick?” The female Auror studied him a beat too long before nodding to her partner.
As they began rifling through shelves, Harry crowded Draco against the counter, his form vibrating with barely-leashed power.
"You stubborn fool.”
Draco doesn't reply, just watching silently as the Aurors overturned his shop.
The female Auror let out a sound of impatience, “Nothing,” She glances at her partner, “You want to bring him in for questioning.”
“We have no choice.”
The woman's eyes narrowed on Draco's left hand, where the ring now glowed . "You're coming with us."
Draco offered his wrists with a bitter smile, his heart thudding in his ears, "I do enjoy wasting Ministry resources.”
The Aurors exchanged a glance before nodding, one of them stepping forward to guide him. Draco shot a look at Harry, who was already fading back into the shadows, his expression unreadable.
Chapter 5: The Price of a Soul
Chapter Text
One of the most infamous accounts of a Djinn–Wizard bond is the story of Zahara and the Scholar, a tale from ancient Persia. Zahara, a Djinn of great renown, was said to have been saved from a cursed binding by a humble scholar who sought only to learn from her. In gratitude, Zahara chose to remain by his side, not as a servant, but as an equal. Together, they explored the mysteries of magic, and their partnership lasted until the scholar’s death. It is said that Zahara’s grief was so profound that the desert sands wept for a hundred years.
— Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them: The Missing Beasts Edition
The Ministry interrogation room was silent as Draco sat stiff-backed at the steel table, the fluorescent lights bleaching his already pale skin. His fingers lay flat against the cold surface, willing themselves not to shake.
Across from him, Ron Weasley leaned forward, his freckled face flushed an angry pink.
"Should've known a Malfoy couldn't stay clean," Ron slammed a file down hard enough to make the table vibrate. "Ten years of nothing, then Harry's name surfaces and, shocker, here's a Malfoy tangled up in it."
Draco kept his face blank even as his pulse jumped. The air prickled against his skin where Harry lingered unseen, that familiar electric chill skating down his spine.
"One finger laid on you," Harry's voice whispered into his ear, thick with violence, "And I'll paint these walls with their insides."
Draco's gut twisted. The threat should've chilled him, but the ache behind his ribs hurt worse, watching Harry's hard-won humanity unravel into something dark and feral weighed heavy on him.
Stop, he begged silently, nails biting into his palms. Not for me. Never for me.
"Harry Potter's been dead longer than I've had my shop," Draco drawled, voice steady as a sniper's breath.
Ron's knuckles whitened around his quill. "Drop the act. Luna saw something with you today. Called it 'Harry.' Explain that."
“Once again, Lovegood's are known for their eccentric nature,” Draco shot back, eyes narrowing. “Is her word truly to be trusted?”
“I trust Luna more than I ever trust a word you say,” Ron shouted, “Even if she's odd, she wouldn't say something about Harry unless she meant it.”
Behind the two-way mirror, Hermione's pacing footsteps faltered. Luna sat cross-legged on the floor, her radish earrings swaying as she hummed.
"He's in the walls," Luna murmured, tilting her head as if listening to secrets in the concrete. "In the air between the molecules. Can't you feel him breathing?"
Hermione went very still. "What?"
Luna's pale eyes focused on nothing and everything. "He never truly left, did he?1"
Back in the interrogation room, Ron leaned closer, his voice a low growl. “Where were you the night Harry disappeared?”
Draco arched a brow, his mask of indifference firmly in place. “France. I attended Beauxbatons and graduated there in 1997.”
Ron’s eyes narrowed, his suspicion palpable. “Convenient and now you’re back, peddling potions like some saint? Please. You’re up to something.”
Harry’s form flickered into view behind Ron, visible only to Draco. His eyes glowed molten green, his fingers curled like claws. “One word, Draco. One wish. I’ll make him beg.”
Draco shook his head minutely, his heart pounding.
Ron followed his gaze, turning to look over his shoulder. “What? What’re you staring at?”
“Nothing,” Draco said quickly, forcing his voice to remain calm. “I answered your questions now I am just wondering what are my charges for keeping me here or am I free to leave?”
Ron slammed his hands on the table, the sound reverberating through the room. Draco flinched, his composure cracking for the briefest moment.
“Harry was my best friend,” Ron snarled, his voice trembling with emotion. “If you’ve hurt him—”
“Enough.” Harry’s voice cracked like a whip, and the lights buzzed violently, flickering as the temperature in the room plummeted. Ron froze, his breath visible in the sudden chill.
Draco seized the moment, his voice sharp. “You’ve got nothing to hold me on. Either charge me or let me go.”
Ron glared, his hands clenched into fists, but the door creaked open. Hermione stood there, her expression unreadable. “Let him go, Ron.”
“What?”
“He's right, we either charge him or let him go,” Hermione said firmly, though her eyes lingered on Draco with unsettling intensity. “We have nothing but Luna's word, it's not enough.”
Ron cursed under his breath, running a hand through his hair.
Draco stood, straightening his robes with deliberate slowness. Harry materialized beside him, a shadowy hand resting on the small of his back.
“Well done,” he murmured, though his gaze stayed locked on Ron. “But this isn’t over.”
As Draco strode out of the room, Luna’s voice trailed after him, soft but clear: “Goodbye, Harry!”
The Ministry's Atrium was filled with chaos around them; a tempest of rushing robes, fluttering memos, and the sharp cracks of Apparition.
Draco moved through the chaos like a ghost, his silver-threaded cloak swirling about his legs. The weight of what he carried, what he knew, sat like a stone in his throat.
They deserve the truth. His friends deserve—
"Malfoy, wait!"
Hermione's voice cut through the din like a knife. Draco froze mid-step. Harry's hand clamped on his shoulder, ice through fabric, fingers digging in with bruising force.
"Don't you dare." The djinn's voice was a winter wind in his ear. "Walk. Away."
But Draco turned.
Hermione stood five paces back, her robes rumpled, curls escaping their pins. Her brown eyes shone wet in the flickering torchlight.
"What now, Granger?" Draco forced steel into his voice. "Come to hex me in public?"
She stepped closer, close enough that he saw the tremor in her hands. "Off the record." Her whisper carried over the crowd's noise. "Just tell me... is he alive?"
Draco's gaze flicked to Harry. The djinn's form wavered at the edges, shadows bleeding into the air like ink in water. His eyes - those impossible green eyes - held something raw. Something terrified.
"Harry's had... a difficult decade," Draco said carefully. The admission burned his tongue. "I didn't know who he was when we met."
Hermione made a small, wounded sound. "Where is he?" Her hand twitched toward her wand, not in threat, but desperation. "Let me see him. Please."
The temperature plummeted. Frost crackled across the nearest fountain. Harry's fingers slid from Draco's shoulder to his wrist a silent plea, a warning.
Draco looked at Hermione, really looked. Saw the grief etched into her frown lines, the hope that hurt more than any curse.
"The Harry you remember," Draco said gently, "isn't who he is now.”
Hermione's breath hitched. She took another step—
Draco turned sharply, Harry's cold hand still clasped in his. "Goodbye, Granger."
Her shout followed them through the crowd, Harry's grip turned crushing.
Draco didn't look back.
The apothecary door slammed shut behind them, the bell jangling violently. Draco locked it with a shaky hand before leaning back against the wood, his chest heaving. The air was thick with the scent of dried herbs and simmering potions, the candles flickering low, casting the shop in amber shadows.
“I’m sorry, Harry,” Draco whispered to the empty air, his voice breaking. “If I’d known, if I’d understood, I wouldn’t have even went out. I wouldn’t have —”
Harry materialized in front of him, cutting off the words. His hands cradled Draco’s face, cold and steady, his thumbs brushing away the traitorous wetness streaking Draco’s cheeks.
“Shut up,” Harry murmured, his voice rough. “Just… shut up.”
And then he kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle. It was hunger, longing poured into a single, searing moment.
Harry’s lips were cold at first, then burning, his fingers tangling in Draco’s hair as he pressed him harder against the door. Draco gasped, his hands fisting in Harry’s shirt, pulling him closer, closer, as if he could fuse their fractured souls back together.
Harry’s tongue swept into his mouth, claiming, possessive, and Draco melted into it, every thought dissolving into static. The world narrowed to the scrape of teeth against his bottom lip, the bite of Harry’s fingers gripping his waist, the way Harry shook against him — not with fear, but with a desperation that mirrored Draco’s own.
When Harry finally pulled back, they were both breathless. Draco’s lips were swollen, his cheeks flushed, and Harry’s eyes glowed like emerald fire in the dark.
“They can try taking me,” Harry whispered, his forehead pressed to Draco’s, voice raw and venomous. “But I’ll crawl through hell itself to get back to you. You’re mine, Draco.”
Draco shuddered, his fingers tightening in Harry’s hair. “Yours,” he echoed, the word a vow.
“You will crave me as I long for you,” Harry said, his voice a low, commanding growl.
He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, as if the very air bent to his will. Draco’s breath hitched as Harry’s hand shot out, gripping his face with a possessiveness that left no room for escape. His fingers tangled in Draco’s platinum-blond hair, anchoring him in place.
Draco’s eyes widened, Harry closed the distance between them. Harry’s magic, wild and untamed, surged around them, binding Draco in an invisible grip. For a moment, Draco struggled, but then he yielded, the tension between them igniting into something far more dangerous.
Harry pulled back before kissing him again, softer this time, but no less consuming. His hands slid under Draco’s shirt, icy palms branding his skin, and Draco arched into him, mindless, weightless, until the shop and the Ministry and the world beyond ceased to exist.
There was only this: the taste of smoke and ozone, the press of a thousand unsaid words, and the silent promise that no curse, no Auror, no force in heaven or hell would tear them apart.
The shop felt too quiet.
Draco stood behind the counter, his fingers absently tracing the grain of the worn oak as sunlight filtered weakly through dust-streaked windows. The air smelled of dried dittany and ash, scorch marks spiderwebbed the ceiling, and the shelves still trembled faintly.
Harry hadn’t fully materialized since the kiss. He lingered at the edges of Draco’s vision, a shadow flickering behind jars of dragon’s blood, a cold breath against the back of his neck. His silence was worse than the taunts.
He’s punishing me, Draco thought, staring at the ring on his finger. The emerald glinted mockingly, its black veins pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Or himself.
The bell above the door chimed.
Draco didn’t look up. “We’re closed.”
“No, you’re not.”
Hermione Granger stood in the doorway, her posture rigid, her curls haloed by the gray morning light. She looked older, Draco realized. It had only been three days since the interrogation.
He straightened, his pulse quickening. “Come to harass me again?”
“Cut the crap, Malfoy,” She stepped inside, her eyes scanning the shop, the shattered vial of moonstone he’d forgotten to sweep, the claw marks raking the wall near the stairs. Her gaze settled on the ring. “Luna was right, wasn't she?”
Draco’s throat tightened.
Harry’s presence surged like a storm, his form coalesced beside the till. He was only half-visible, translucent and wavering, but his voice crackled through the air, sharp enough to cut. “Send. Her. Away.”
Hermione froze. “Harry…?”
Draco realized, breathless, that for the first time Harry had revealed himself to someone that wasn't him.
The temperature plummeted. Frost crept across the windows, and Draco’s breath fogged as he stepped between them. “You need to leave, Granger."
She ignored him, her eyes locked on the shimmering outline of Harry’s face. “We’ve been looking for you. All these years, Ron, Ginny, everyone, we never stopped—”
“Looking?” Harry’s laugh was a hollow rasp. He materialized fully, his green eyes glowing like cursed fire, his tan skin unnaturally pale. “You think I wanted to be found? That I wanted this?” He gestured to his body; the jagged runes etched into his arms now visible, the shadows pooling at his feet like ink.
Hermione flinched but held her ground. “We can help you. There are rituals, archives —”
“You can’t help me,” Harry’s snarl rattled the shelves. A jar of powdered unicorn horn toppled, spilling iridescent dust across the floor. “You think your books can fix this? I’m not your lost cause, Hermione.”
Draco’s chest ached. He’d seen Harry furious, seen him cruel, but this, this was despair, raw and bottomless. The djinn’s form flickered, his edges blurring as if he might dissolve into the darkness he commanded.
Hermione’s voice softened. “Harry, please. Let us try.”
For a heartbeat, the shop stilled. Harry’s glow dimmed, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Why?” The word was barely a whisper. “So you can mourn the hero you lost? So you can pretend I’m still the boy who befriended you?”
He stepped closer, his boots leaving charred footprints on the floorboards. “That boy is gone. He burned alive in the ring, screaming, while you moved on. While you lived.”
Hermione’s composure shattered. Tears streaked her cheeks as she reached for him. “You’re still in there. I know you are —”
“Don’t," Harry recoiled, his hand flashing out, a surge of magic hurled Hermione backward, her body slamming into a shelf of Essence of Murtlap. Vials rained down, shattering at her feet.
Draco moved before he could think. He threw himself in front of her, his hands raised. “Stop!”
Harry froze, his arm still outstretched, tendrils of black smoke curling from his fingertips. His eyes locked on Draco’s, wide and wild. “You’re defending her?”
“This isn't you, Harry,” Draco said quietly.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Hermione’s breaths came in shallow gasps behind him, but Draco didn’t turn. He held Harry’s gaze, the djinn’s face twisting; rage, pain, something terrifyingly fragile.
“You don’t know what I am,” Harry whispered.
“I do,” Draco stepped forward, ignoring the way the shadows writhed around his ankles. “You’re the bastard who burns my tea when you’re bored. The idiot who memorized my Wolfsbane recipe just to mock it. Who kissed me like —”
His voice broke, Harry’s expression crumpled.
“Like you meant it,” Draco finished.
For a moment, the runes on Harry’s arms faded. The shadows stilled and the djinn sank to the ground, exhausted.
Draco rushed towards him, throwing his arms around him and buried his face in his chest. “Don't turn into something you can't recognize, Harry, I just started liking you.”
Draco held on tighter as Harry huffed out a laugh.
The apothecary was eerily silent, the air thick with the weight of unspoken truths. Hermione stood slowly, trembling slightly as she regained her bearings, her eyes darted between Draco and the flickering shadow that was Harry.
Harry slowly stood, his form solid but wavering at the edges, like a flame caught in a draft. His green eyes glowed faintly, but the usual sharpness in them was dulled, replaced by something heavier, something that made Draco’s chest ache.
Draco pulled away from him, his fingers gripping his hands until his knuckles turned white. He could feel Harry’s gaze on him, cold and searching, but he didn’t look up.
Hermione broke the silence first. “Harry,” she said, her voice trembling but firm. “What happened to you?”
Harry’s jaw tightened. For a moment, it seemed like he might vanish again, retreat into the shadows where no one could reach him but then he exhaled, a sound like wind through dead leaves, and stepped forward.
"After Voldemort died," Harry began, his voice scraping like gravel, "I was stupid enough to think the fighting was over," A bitter chuckle escaped him. "Left the Resurrection Stone in the Forbidden Forest like some sentimental fool. 'No one will find it,' I thought."
His green eyes darkened. "Turns out, Death Eaters make excellent scavengers when they're desperate for revenge."
Hermione's fingers tightened around her wand. "What happened?"
"They ambushed me near Hogsmeade," Harry's form flickered like a dying candle. "Apparently, they had a contingency plan in place."
"Woke up chained in some rotting basement, wandless, with that damn stone glowing in front of my face." Harry's translucent hand gestured to Draco's ring. "Rowle and Yaxley had a captured a djinn and dragged it from some Mesopotamian tomb. Meant to fuse us together, turn me into their personal weapon."
Draco's gut twisted as the emerald's black veins pulsed like a living thing.
"The ritual backfired spectacularly," A jagged smile cut across Harry's face. "Turns out surviving the Killing Curse left me... incompatible with possession. Instead of the djinn taking me over..." Shadows stretched from his arms like wings. "We melted together."
Hermione made a wounded noise. "But the stone —"
"Isn't a stone anymore," Harry's laughter frosted the air. "Just a hungry little prison that makes me collect its due."
Draco's fingers found the ring instinctively, what he'd thought was just another cursed object was something far worse; a prison crafted from the remnants of Harry's own past.
Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth. “Harry…”
“No one’s ever questioned it or wondered,” Harry said, his tone bitter. “Not until Draco.”
Draco’s chest tightened, he could feel Harry’s eyes on him, but he kept his gaze fixed on the floor.
Resisted? he thought. Is that what I’ve done? Or have I just delayed the inevitable?
Hermione stepped closer, her voice soft but insistent. “There has to be a way to break the curse. If we can reverse the ritual—”
“It’s not that simple,” Harry snapped, his form flickering. “The ring is bound to me. To my soul. Breaking the curse would mean destroying me.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and final. Draco’s nails dug into his palms. Destroy him? The thought was a knife to his chest, sharp and unrelenting.
Hermione shook her head, tears glistening in her eyes. “There has to be another way. We’ll find it. We’ll—”
“You don’t understand,” Harry interrupted, his voice rising. “I’m not the Harry you knew. That boy died long ago, what’s left is… this.” He gestured to himself, his form shimmering with unnatural light. “A monster. A curse.”
“You’re not a monster,” Draco said quietly, his voice cutting through the tension.
Harry turned to him, his expression unreadable. “You know what I’ve done. The lives I’ve taken. The souls I’ve collected.”
“I don’t care,” Draco said, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. “You’re still you. Cursed, definitely but you’re not a monster.”
Harry’s eyes softened, just for a moment, before he looked away. “You’re a fool, Draco.”
“Maybe,” Draco admitted.
Hermione watched them, her expression a mix of grief and determination. “We’ll find a way,” she said again, her voice firmer this time. “There’s always a way.”
Harry’s laugh was bitter. “You always were the clever one, Hermione but some things can’t be fixed.”
“We’ll see,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. She turned to Draco, her eyes sharp. “Keep him safe and don’t let him push you away.”
Draco nodded, though his chest ached with the weight of her words. Safe? he thought. How do I keep him safe from himself?
As Hermione vanished into the London fog, Draco stared at the ring, its emerald glinting like a serpent’s eye. Somewhere in the shadows, Harry watched—poised between salvation and annihilation, and wondering which would hurt less.
He returned back inside, exhausted.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Harry said quietly.
“Done what?”
“Defended me. Told her the truth.”
Draco stepped closer, his hand brushing Harry’s arm. The djinn’s skin was cold, but the contact sent a shiver through him. “You don’t get to decide who cares about you, Harry.”
Harry’s eyes glowed faintly, his form solidifying under Draco’s touch. “You’re going to regret this.”
“Maybe,” Draco said again. “But I’ll regret it later.”
For a moment, the shop was silent, the weight of Harry’s confession hanging between them. Then, with a sigh, Harry leaned into Draco’s touch, his form steadying.
A week later, things had fallen back to normalcy, well, as normal as it could be.
The soft scratch of Draco’s quill filled the air as he penned another letter to Viktor Krum. The Bulgarian had become an unexpected and a surprisingly enthusiastic pen pal.
Their correspondence had started innocently enough, with Krum asking detailed questions about Luminaris Essence and Draco’s brewing techniques but lately, the letters had taken a more personal turn.
Krum’s latest missive lay open on the counter, his bold, slanted handwriting filling the parchment.
Your wit is as sharp as your potions, Krum had written. I find myself looking forward to your letters more than I care to admit.
Draco had chuckled at that, a soft, genuine sound that made Harry’s form flicker dangerously in the corner.
“What’s so funny?” Harry demanded, his voice sharp.
“Nothing,” Draco said, though his lips twitched. “Just Krum. He’s… surprisingly witty.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed, the air growing colder. “Witty? The man writes like a troll with a quill.”
Draco rolled his eyes, dipping his quill into the inkwell. “Not everyone can be as eloquent as you, oh great and mighty djinn.”
Harry materialized fully, his form solid and imposing as he leaned over the counter. “What are you writing now? Another love letter?”
“It’s not a love letter,” Draco snapped, though his cheeks flushed. “He asked about the properties of powdered moonstone in high-altitude brewing. It’s professional.”
“Professional,” Harry repeated, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Right, because nothing says professional like giggling over parchment.”
Draco ignored him, focusing on his reply.
“The moonstone’s efficacy does diminish at higher altitudes,” he wrote, “but I’ve found that adding a pinch of crushed phoenix feather stabilizes the reaction. You’ll have to let me know if it works in Bulgaria’s mountains.”
He paused, then added, “Though I suspect your mountains are as stubborn as you are.”
As he laid the quild down, Harry’s hand shot out, snatching it from the air.
“Give that back!” Draco lunged for it, but Harry held it behind his back, his eyes glowing with barely contained fury.
“Stubborn, are we?” Harry hissed, scanning the letter. “And what’s this? Crushed phoenix feather? Since when do you share trade secrets with strangers?”
“He’s not a stranger!” Draco snapped, his patience fraying. “He’s a colleague. A friend.”
The word hung in the air, Harry’s form flickered, his expression darkening. “A friend,” he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. “Is that what you call him? Or do you call him more?”
"Oh, come off it," Draco’s jaw tightened, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Why do you care? You kissed me and have avoided speaking about it ever since!”
The room went still, Harry’s glowing eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked almost… vulnerable but the expression was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual smirk.
“Avoided it?” Harry asked, his tone light but his eyes still sharp. “I didn’t realize you were waiting for an explanation, my Draco.”
“Don’t call me that,” Draco muttered, though the flush on his cheeks betrayed him. “And don’t act like it didn’t happen. You can’t just, just kiss someone and then pretend it meant nothing.”
Harry floated closer, his form shimmering faintly. “Who said it meant nothing?”
Draco’s breath hitched, but he refused to back down. “You did, by not saying anything.”
Harry’s smile softened, and he reached out, his translucent hand hovering just above Draco’s cheek. “Maybe I was waiting for you to say something,” he murmured. “You’re not exactly easy to read, you know.”
"Liar, you said I'm an open book," Draco stared at him, his silver eyes searching Harry’s face. “And what if I had?” he asked quietly. “What would you have said?”
Harry’s hand dropped, and he let out a low chuckle. “I would’ve said… you’re an idiot, infuriating and I wouldn’t trade being tied to you for anything.”
Draco’s lips twitched, though he tried to suppress the smile. “You’re such a liar.”
“Maybe,” Harry said, his grin widening. “But you love me anyway.”
Draco huffed, turning back to his counter. “Go away.”
But as Harry’s laughter filled the room, Draco couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. Insufferable, indeed. And yet, somehow, impossible to live without.
"If you wanted another kiss, you could've just asked," Harry said softly, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss on his lips that left him breathless.
The letter to Krum lay forgotten on the counter. For now, at least, Draco had other things on his mind.
They jolted away from each other as the apothecary door slammed open with a force that rattled the jars on their shelves.
Hermione stood in the doorway, her arms overflowing with crumbling grimoires and scrolls so ancient their edges flaked like burnt parchment. Her eyes were bloodshot, her curls a chaotic storm around her face—she looked as if she hadn’t slept in days.
“I know how to break the ring,” she announced, voice rasping with exhaustion.
Draco froze. “Unless you’ve brought a vial of liquid miracle, Granger, I’m not interested.”
Hermione dumped the books onto the counter, sending a cloud of dust into the air.
"Better." Hermione flipped open the tome bound in what looked like human skin, her finger stabbing at a passage. "The ring isn't just a vessel, it's a conduit. It feeds on magical energy to sustain the bond. We don't need to destroy it..." Her eyes gleamed in the light. "We need to suffocate it."
Behind them, shadows coalesced into Harry's form. "Impossible." His voice was a blade wrapped in silk.
"Not according to this," She pulled a smaller journal from the stack: Magicks of the Mesopotamian Djinn, Draco read upside down.
"The ancient sorcerers created Void Spheres to contain rogue djinn. Not to destroy them, but to..." Her fingers traced an illustration of a glass orb swirling with black smoke. "Starve them."
Draco's pulse jumped. "How does that help us?"
"It creates a magicless void," Hermione explained. "The curse can't survive without energy to feed on thus breaking it and releasing Harry from its hold but..." Her nail tapped the parchment. "There's a catch."
Harry's laugh could have frosted hell. "Of course there is."
"The sphere needs three things to form," Hermione counted them off. "Blood of the bound, that's Harry's. Tears of a phoenix —"
"Which we can get," Harry interrupted. "Fawkes is still around at Hogwarts."
"And a sacrifice," Hermione finished, his voice hollow. "Equal to the soul being freed."
The silence that followed was thicker than dragon's blood.
Hermione wet her lips. "The texts aren't specific, it could be knowledge —"
"Like obliviation," Draco supplied.
"A memory," she continued.
"Or?" Draco pressed.
Hermione's fingers trembled against the page. "A life for a life."
The air left Draco’s lungs in a rush. A life.
Harry's form flickered violently. "Of course, no wielder would even risk that."
"That's why it's never worked before," Hermione whispered. "No one's ever wanted to free a djinn badly enough to even try."
“When can we perform the ritual?” he asked quietly.
"The next full moon, so two weeks." She looked up at him, grim.
The air left Draco’s lungs in a rush. A life. His mind flashed to the way Harry had kissed him—desperate, possessive, like Draco was the only solid thing in a world that kept trying to dissolve beneath him.
Harry’s hand clamped onto Draco’s shoulder, icy even through his shirt. “No.” The word was final, absolute. “We’re not doing this.”
Draco turned to face him. “It’s not your choice.”
“The hell it isn’t!” Harry trembled, "I won't watch throw your life away for nothing."
His hand found Harry's instinctively. "It wouldn't be nothing," His thumb traced his knuckles, feeling the warmth beneath his palm. "It would be for you."
The admission hung between them, fragile as the last flame before extinction. Harry's glowing eyes widened.
Outside, thunder cracked. The first heavy drops of rain hit the windows like thrown pebbles.
"Harry, I've been searching for a way to prove myself for months," He pulled away, his heart thudding in his chest. "I thought I could with my potions skills, with my creations but," He shook his head, "Breaking this curse for you, no matter what it takes, is what I've been looking for."
"Piss off," Harry shouted, "I'm done letting people sacrifice themselves for me, I'm not worth all this!"
"We're done talking about this, it's not your choice," Draco cut in smoothly, turning toward the stairs. “I'm doing this.”
Chapter 6: What Death Could Not Hold
Notes:
Thank you to everyone who read, subscribed, kudos, bookmarked, and commented on this fic!
edited 5/1: rewrote some aspects of this chapter
Chapter Text
Draco’s footsteps thudded up the stairs, each one a hammer strike against Harry’s fraying control. The candles flickered wildly, their flames stretching tall before shrinking to trembling embers as if the air itself recoiled from the storm of magic building inside him.
Harry turned sharply, his edges flickering, shadows writhing beneath his skin like something alive. The floorboards beneath him darkened, tendrils of smoke curling from fresh scorch marks.
Hermione hunched over the worktable, fingers ink-stained, surrounded by piles of books and half-unrolled scrolls. The lamplight carved deep shadows under her eyes, her mouth pressed into a tight line as she scribbled notes in the margins of Magicks of the Mesopotamian Djinn. She didn’t look up when Harry appeared beside her, but her shoulders tensed.
"Fine," Harry bit out, his voice rough with barely leashed fury. The words scraped like broken glass. "What if someone else was sacrificed?"
Hermione’s quill hesitated, a drop of ink bleeding across the parchment.
"A Death Eater," Harry pressed, leaning over the table. His fingers dug into the wood, nails gouging grooves into the surface. "One of the bastards at the Ministry. Would that work?"
Hermione finally lifted her gaze, the exhaustion in her face looked sharper in the dim light.
For a moment, she just studied him, the unnatural brightness of his eyes, the way his form wavered at the edges, the stillness when he forgot to breathe. Then, slowly, she shook her head.
"There’s nothing in any of these texts suggesting a substitute." Her voice was quiet but firm. She turned the book toward him, tapping an illustration of a skeletal hand driving a dagger into its own chest. "Every account, every single one, says it has to be the wielder. The magic is tied to the ring, and the ring is tied to you."
"Keep looking."
"I have looked!" Hermione snapped, shoving another tome toward him. The pages fell open to a spread of yellowed parchment, the ink faded but still legible, a list of names, each ending in the same stark notation: Deceased. Ritual incomplete.
Her finger jabbed at the text. "I've searched everywhere, Harry. There isn’t a single case where someone else took the wielder’s place. The magic doesn’t work that way. Unless..."
She hesitated, then exhaled sharply. "Unless being Master of Death changes things in a way these texts don’t account for..."
Harry went very still.
Rain lashed against the window, a loose shutter banged in the wind.
Hermione watched him, the way his gaze dropped to the book, the twitch of his fingers. She reached out instinctively, but her hand passed through his wrist, meeting only cold air.
She flinched.
Harry didn’t seem to notice. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low, detached.
"There’s always a way."
Hermione’s breath caught. "Harry..."
But he was already dissolving, his form unraveling into smoke and shadow.
"No one dies for me again," he murmured, his voice echoing as if from everywhere and nowhere at once. "Not him, especially, not him."
The shop door blew open with a crash, wind howling through the room. Parchment scattered, pages fluttering like panicked birds. A vial of dragon’s blood tipped over, shattering in a burst of crimson.
By the time Hermione wrestled the door shut, Harry was gone.
Only the scorch marks remained and the faint, lingering scent of ozone like the air after a lightning strike.
The apothecary was too quiet.
Draco stood by the worktable, fingers pressed into the wood hard enough to leave half-moon indents in the grain. His pulse thudded unevenly in his throat, a relentless, angry rhythm.
Across the room, Harry sat on the floor, his back against the wall, flipping through a book like it was some light evening reading.
Two weeks.
Two weeks, and then Draco would drive a dagger into his own heart, and Harry...
Harry turned another page.
Draco’s vision blurred at the edges.
"You were screaming at me a week ago," Draco stated, voice low and brittle. "Called me a suicidal bastard, said you’d — what was it? — ‘peel the skin from my bones’ if I went through with this and now you’re just, " He gestured sharply at Harry’s infuriatingly calm. "Fine?"
Harry didn’t look up. "I thought it was your decision."
Draco wanted to set something on fire. "Oh, suddenly, you respect my choices?"
Harry turned another page. "Mm."
Draco kicked his boot.
Harry finally glanced up, and Draco nearly recoiled.
There was something wrong in his gaze. Not the usual molten fury, not the possessive hunger 1jojust a quiet, unsettling certainty. Like he’d already seen the end of this story and found it amusing.
Draco’s stomach twisted.
"You’re planning something," he accused.
Harry smiled.
Draco snapped. "There’s no plan you can concoct, no escape There’s just, just a corpse at the end of it."
Harry closed the book with a soft snap.
"You’re not the only one who’s made deals, Draco." He said.
Draco froze.
Harry stood, shadows clinging to him like loyal hounds. Harry’s hand cupped his jaw, his skin was cold. He kissed his forehead, slow and deliberate, and then stepped back.
"I have a plan," Harry said, and walked out.
The door clicked shut.
Draco stood there, shaking, the taste of something metallic on his tongue.
On the floor, the book lay open.
The illustration of the grinning reaper stared up at him.
The air in the apothecary hung thick with the scent of dried valerian and something darker, something metallic that clung to the back of Draco's throat. He stood in the doorway of the stockroom, watching Harry's silhouette move through the light like a shadow given form.
One week left.
Harry knelt beside an open crate, his hands moving with methodical precision as he unpacked its contents.
The lamplight caught the curve of his spine through his thin shirt, the sharp angles of his wrists as he arranged three objects in a neat row on the floorboards: a silver knife, a spool of black thread, and a child's wooden top, its painted stripes worn smooth with age.
Draco's fingers tightened around the doorframe. "What are you doing?"
Harry didn't look up, his thumb brushed the edge of the knife blade, testing its sharpness. "Preparing."
"For what?" The words came out sharper than Draco intended.
The top wobbled as Harry set it spinning with a flick of his fingers. It whirled across the uneven floorboards, its movement unnaturally steady. "For after."
A chill crawled up Draco's spine, the top showed no signs of slowing, no wobble in its perfect rotation. He wanted to kick it over, to break whatever strange spell held it upright. Instead, he stepped closer, his shadow falling across Harry's hands.
"You're not making any sense," Draco nudged the spool of thread with his boot. It rolled slightly, revealing a length of thread already cut and waiting. "This isn't—"
"Look at me."
Harry's voice was quiet, but it cut through the air like the knife in his hand. When Draco met his eyes, he found none of the desperation from weeks before, none of the wild grief. Just a terrible, endless calm.
"I told you," Harry said, catching the top mid-spin without looking at it. "I have a plan."
The top sat motionless in Harry's palm, its painted eyes staring up at Draco like tiny, unblinking witnesses.
Draco swallowed around the sudden tightness in his throat. "You're scaring me."
Harry's smile was a slow, private thing. He tucked the top into his pocket and stood, brushing past Draco so close their shoulders nearly touched. "Good," he murmured, his breath warm against Draco's ear. "You should be frightened."
The words lingered in the air long after Harry's footsteps faded down the stairs. The knife and thread remained on the floor, arranged with deliberate care. Waiting.
Draco couldn't bring himself to touch them.
Draco grabbed Harry's wrist as he turned to leave. "I have one week left to live," he hissed, fingers digging into pulse points. "Or did you forget?"
Harry didn't pull away, his lips quirked up, slow as a blade being drawn. "Yeah?" He leaned in until their noses almost touched. "I didn't even notice."
The breath left Draco's lungs in a rush. He shoved Harry back against the shelves, glass vials rattling dangerously overhead. "You insufferable—"
A vial shattered at their feet. The smell of iron flooded the small room, thick as the silence between them. Harry's grin widened, crimson light from the broken glass painting his teeth like blood.
Draco's grip tightened. "You're enjoying this."
Harry's free hand came up to cradle Draco's jaw, thumb brushing the pounding vein in his throat.
"I'm enjoying you," he corrected, voice dropping to a whisper. "Alive. Breathing. Mine." His fingers slid down to press against Draco's racing pulse. "For seven more days."
The words should have been cruel. Should have cut. Instead, Draco felt something dangerously close to hope bloom behind his ribs. He exhaled sharply through his nose. "We should enjoy each other in the bedroom "
"Merlin, that was horrible," Harry murmured, catching Draco's chin when he tried to look away, "You don't flirt often, do you?"
“Shut up,” His hissed words of embarrassment were muffled as Harry pressed his mouth to his.
The kiss tasted like seven days and seven lifetimes.
"Trust me," he said again, and this time, Draco nodded, leaning his forehead on his shoulder.
“I want you to do something for me,” He whispered.
“What is it?”
“I don't have much time to live so… have sex with me, Harry,” he clenched Harry’s shirt tightly, “Please.”
“Draco,” Harry blinked at him, “Do you really...?”
"I don't have much time left," He whispered, "I want to die knowing how you feel inside me."
"Draco," Harry groaned, catching his mouth into a kiss as he pulled him closer. "Are you sure?"
"Yes…" he said, mouthing at his neck as he rocked against him again.
"Not here, Merlin,” Harry growled, his calm facade dropping entirely as his grip on his hips tightened. Harry scooped him into his arms and carried him back upstairs.
Harry kicked the door open and laid him down on his bed as he knelt in front of him.
“Harry,” he choked out as Harry’s hand rested on top of his waistband.
“Shh, let me take care of you,” Harry mumbled, playing with his waistband for a while before slipping past them swiftly. “I've been waiting for this,”
“Harry,” Draco moaned as Harry unzipped his own trousers, “Hurry up,”
“Not yet." The moment he buried his face near his opening, he shouted out. Harry nuzzled and inhaled deeply as he inserted a finger slowly, Draco gasping out at the cold intrusion.
“Bloody —” He gripped Harry tight as he inserted another. Harry held his hip tightly to keep him from moving as he watched his face with dark eyes, searching for that sweet spot.
"Just lay there and look pretty," Harry murmured as he inserted another, "There it is." He grinned as he crooked his finger against a bundle of nerves.
Draco’ back arched off the bed, a cry escaping him as his nails clawed down Harry's back and shoulders, his whole body twitching as if being electrified. His heart beat rapidly like thunder in his ear as his eyes rolls back, the feeling exhilarating yet foreign and he wanted more.
“Fuck, do that again,” He pleaded, spreading his legs wider.
“Look at you, how desperate you are for my touch.” Harry grinned. His whisper in his ear made him shudder as Harry’s fingers pinched his nipple, electricity running through him in rhythm with his thrusts.
Draco swallowed, throwing his head back on the pillow, “Hurry,” he pleaded.
“So bossy in bed, arent you?” Harry murmured, the tip of his cock prodded at his entrance.
“Just do it!” He shouted.
Harry maneuvered Draco into a kneeling position with his legs spread wide, showing him just how much of a mess Harry made of him. He gazed at him with that smug smile; Draco shook practically dead weight against Harry.
Harry kissed at his neck as he entered him, nipping and sucking as if intoxicated while Draco was reduced to broken whimpers and moans, a litany of more and please being punched out of his kiss-bruised lips.
“Fuck,” Harry pressed himself as close to Draco as physically possible, grinding against his ass while his hands found themselves along his chest, directly over his heart. "You're so tight,"
"Faster!" Draco demanded, bowing his head, strands of hair brushing against the sheet. He met every thrust, eager to capture that feeling of being filled.
That's it, fuck," Harry grunted, his voice strained with pleasure as he thrust up into Draco's tight, grasping heat. "Take my cock, fucking take it. You feels so fucking good, so perfect, like it was made just for me.”
“More, more,” Draco chanted as Harry picked up the pace, pounding him into the matress.
“You're mine, Draco," Harry growled, his voice a low, possessive rumble, "You've always been mine, even before I knew it.”
Draco panted, his eyes wide as pleasure washed over him, he fell forward as his vision went out as an orgasm crashed over him. “Holy fuck, Harry!”
Harry threw his head back as he came, holding Draco's hip tightly. Draco moaned, his face squished to the mattress as Harry came.
When Harry’s cock finally softened and slipped out, Harry pulled him to his chest. He slid his hands up and down his body, warming him up as he shivered.
“You belong right here.” It is more of an order than a statement, more claiming than wondering. Harry’s grip was grounding and unrelenting, where he held Draco tight and Draco had no complaints.
“I think I'm in love with you.” Draco mumbled, his eyes closing.
Harry brushes his lips against his heated skin and watched him sleep.
The next time Draco's eyes opened, he was in his bed, tightly tucked.
For a moment, he thought Harry had disappeared again until his sharp grey eyes narrowed as they landed on Harry. The djinn was lounging in an armchair, a self-satisfied smirk plastered across his face, a piece of parchment in one hand and a quill in the other.
Draco didn’t need to ask what he was doing, he could see the glint of mischief in those glowing green eyes.
“What are you writing?” Draco mumbled, pain shot up through his back as he shifted.
Harry glanced up, his smirk widening. “Just a little correspondence,” he said, his tone far too casual for Draco’s liking. “Thought I’d update Viktor on how things are going.”
Draco’s stomach dropped. “You’re what?” he snapped, ignoring the way his body protested aa he scrambled to get up and snatched the parchment from Harry’s hand.
His eyes scanned the words, his face flushing a deep, furious red. “I sat him on my cock and fucked him until his body shook, he came all over my lap — what the hell, Harry?!”
Harry leaned back in his chair, completely unbothered, his smirk turning into a full-blown grin. “What? It’s true, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not!” Draco hissed, crumpling the parchment in his fist. “And even if it were, you can’t just, just write that to him! Merlin, have you no shame?”
Harry raised an eyebrow, his gaze darkening with amusement. “Shame? Why would I feel shame?”
Draco’s jaw tightened, his grip on the parchment tightening as well. “You’re insane,” he muttered, yet, he couldn’t deny the way his pulse quickened at Harry’s possessive tone, the way his body seemed to respond to the djinn’s presence no matter how much he tried to resist.
Harry stood then, closing the distance between them in one fluid motion. He plucked the crumpled parchment from Draco’s hand, his fingers brushing against Draco’s in a way that sent a shiver down his aching spine.
“Fine,” Harry said, his voice low and teasing. “I’ll rewrite it but only because you asked so nicely.”
Draco rolled his eyes, but he didn’t pull away as Harry leaned in, his lips brushing against Draco’s ear. “Though,” Harry added, his breath warm against Draco’s skin, “you can’t deny it was a good night.”
“Don't write to him,” Draco said, poking Harry in his chest. “You can't even be seen, he'll think I am pulling some prank on him!”
“Then, maybe, we should show him.”
Draco’s cheeks burned, but he refused to give Harry the satisfaction of a response. Instead, he turned on his heel and limped toward the door, muttering under his breath about insufferable, possessive djinns who had no sense of decorum.
Behind him, Harry called out to him but he ignored him.
Damn him.
Damn them both.
The next day, Draco was at the Department of Public Health at the Ministry. He knocked on the door of the head and opened it when he was called in.
Hermione stood there, still in her work robes, sleeves rolled up to her elbows with ink stained on her fingers. Dark circles bruised the space beneath her eyes.
For a long moment, she just looked at him, scanning his face like she’s searching for hex-traces.
Then: “You got my letters,” Draco said, it wasn't a question.
Hermione exhaled through her nose. “Come in.”
The office was a warzone of parchment, reports on rogue Djinns, Mesopotamian soul-binding rituals, and a dog-eared copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard splayed open on her desk.
She shut the door with a click that sounded too much like a lock engaging. “I did and I agree, his behavior does sound suspicious.”
Draco’s pulse kicked. “You noticed it, too.”
“The sudden calm?” Hermione rubbed her temple as she nodded, “It’s not denial, it’s preparations.”
A chill slithered down Draco’s spine.
Hermione moved to her desk, flipping open a file. Inside were Draco’s own letters, annotated in her cramped script. “You said he’s been muttering to himself, reading, and collecting objects?"
Draco nodded slowly, “He didn't even come out today when I left the shop. He's been distracted.”
She flipped to a page in her notes. “You mentioned that Harry collected the souls of those wishmakers who died after he granted their desires. Twenty exactly, right?”
Draco’s voice was too tight. “Granger, if you know something...”
“I do,” She lifted the Beedle the Bard book. The page is open to The Tale of the Three Brothers. “But you’re not going to like it.”
Hermione turned to a nearby shelf, pulling down a weathered tome. "Do you know the story of the Deathly Hallows?"
"Fairy tales," Draco said dismissively.
"Not just fairy tales," she corrected, flipping the book open to a well-worn page. An illustration of three figures; one with a wand, one with a stone, one with a cloak stared up at them. "They're real and I know it because Harry held all three."
Draco's eyes widened before he frowned. "What happened to them?"
"Well," Hermione said. "The wand was broken after the war, the stone is in that ring of yours but the Cloak…" She traced the edge of the illustration. "That’s been in his family for generations, passed down from father to son. The only thing he has left of his father."
Draco’s chest tightened.
"I think Harry’s been researching The Tale of the Three Brothers like it holds the answer," Hermione continued, sliding a file toward him. Inside were pages of notes, diagrams of the Hallows, its edges labeled in Hermione’s neat script. "He’s not stopping your death, Draco, he’s looking for a way to buy you back.
The words settled like lead in his stomach.
"The twenty souls he's collected," Draco said quietly. "He told me he collected the souls of the wielder once the wishes killed them. Was he collecting for Death this whole time or was it advance leverage? He’s been collecting them for years, building up favor with Death itself." He looked up at her, "For what?"
"Perhaps to bargain his own freedom before he met you," Hermione met his gaze. "I think he’s going to trade it all, the souls, the Cloak, everything…for you."
The air left Draco’s lungs in a rush.
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. The lamp flickered, casting shadows that danced like specters across the walls.
Draco’s voice was barely audible. "Will Death even accept?"
Hermione’s expression was grim. "I don’t know but if it does…" She didn’t need to finish.
Draco stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. “I have to go.”
Hermione didn’t argue. She just nodded.
Draco marched into the apothecary, Hermione's notes crumpled in his fist, the parchment edges digging into his palm.
The silence was thick enough to choke on, across from him, Harry leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with that same infuriating calm that had been driving Draco mad for days.
"You arrogant bastard," Draco said, his voice low and rough with sleepless nights. He threw the notes at Harry.
They hit his chest with a soft rustle before fluttering to the floor. "You're really going to bargain with Death?"
Harry didn't move, didn't flinch. Just tilted his head slightly, considering Draco like he was a particularly interesting potion ingredient. The lamplight caught the sharp angles of his face, the shadows under his eyes that never quite faded.
"You'd rather die?" Harry asked, his voice deceptively light.
Draco's hands clenched into fists. "I'd rather you live."
The words hung between them, raw and unflinching. For the first time in weeks, Harry's mask slipped. His jaw tightened, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach for Draco but didn't trust himself to stop if he did.
"I don't want to live without you," Harry said, quiet.
Something in Draco's chest cracked open at that. He crossed the distance in two strides, grabbing Harry by the front of his shirt. The fabric was warm from Harry's skin, the rapid beat of his heart thudding against Draco's knuckles.
"Then don't," Draco muttered against his mouth before kissing him.
It wasn't gentle. It was teeth and desperation, Harry's hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise, Draco's fingers tangled in his hair like he could keep him there by force. The counter dug into Draco's back as Harry pressed him against it, the wood unyielding.
Draco could taste the bitterness of Harry's fear beneath the anger, the way his breath hitched when Draco bit down on his lower lip. He pulled back just enough to speak, their foreheads pressed together.
"You can't give up the Cloak," Draco said, voice rough.
Harry's grip tightened. "Watch me."
"It's the last thing you have of your father —"
"And you're the last thing I have, period," Harry snapped, his voice breaking on the words.
Draco kissed him again, swallowing the rest of whatever stupid, self-sacrificing thing Harry was about to say. He could feel Harry's resolve crumbling under his hands, the way his body shuddered when Draco dragged his nails down his back.
Harry pulled back just enough to speak, his breath warm against Draco's lips. "You're a fucking nightmare."
Draco huffed a laugh, breathless. "You started it."
Harry kissed him again, slower this time, deliberate. Like he was memorizing the shape of Draco's mouth. Like he already knew he was going to lose it.
And Draco let him.
The scent of oversteeped tea hung bitter in the air between them. Draco leaned against the worktable, fingers curled around his untouched cup, watching Harry across the room. The bastard was smirking, like this was all some grand joke.
"We could figure this out," Draco said, voice carefully even. "Together."
Harry's grin widened. "How cliché."
Draco's grip tightened on the cup. "I'm serious."
"So am I," Harry pushed off the counter, prowling closer. "You really think Hermione hasn't scoured every text? That I haven't tried?"
"I think you're too busyplaying the martyr to think," The words came out sharper than intended.
Harry stilled.
Draco set the cup down with a deliberate click. "I don't want to die," he admitted, the confession scraping his throat raw. "Merlin, help me, I don't want to sacrifice myself. If it were anyone else..." He broke off, jaw working. "I'd be halfway to France by now."
A beat of silence, Harry's eyes darkened.
"Why don't you?" he asked softly.
Draco exhaled through his nose. "You know why."
"Say it."
"Because of you," Draco made a frustrated noise, gesturing between them. "You crawled into my chest and latched on, you absolute menace."
Harry's laugh was low, pleased. "I like the sound of that."
"Of course you do," Draco rubbed his temples. "But this isn't some noble tragedy. I'm not going to let you trade your father's cloak like it's spare change."
"You don't get a say."
"I do, actually, considering it's my life you're bargaining with!"
Harry stepped into his space, close enough that Draco could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes. "Then, what's your brilliant solution?"
Draco held his gaze. "We run."
Harry blinked.
"Not forever," Draco amended. "Just long enough to find another way. There are archives in Istanbul older than the Ministry. Private collections in Shanghai that—"
"You'd really flee?" Harry's voice was oddly intent.
"In a heartbeat," Draco said without hesitation. "If it meant keeping us both alive."
The admission hung between them. Harry's expression did something complicated before settling into that familiar, infuriating smirk.
"Never took you for a coward, Malfoy."
Draco bared his teeth. "Call it self-preservation."
Harry's laugh this time was real, bright as broken glass. He caught Draco's wrist, thumb pressing against the frantic pulse there. "Liar. You just like me too much."
Draco didn't deny it.
The silence between them had gone brittle, like thin ice over dark water.
Draco stood by the worktable, fingers pressed hard into the wood grain, his breathing too controlled to be natural.
Harry watched him from the shadowed corner near the stairs, his face half-lit by the weak morning light filtering through dusty windows. His eyes caught the glow in a way that wasn't quite human.
Draco swallowed against the tightness in his throat. "We could still..."
"We're doing the ritual." Harry's voice was quiet, but it cut through the room like a blade.
The words landed like a blow. Draco's fingers twitched against the table edge. "You can't just—"
Harry moved then, crossing the space between them in three quick strides. His hand came up, fingers pressing against Draco's lips before he could finish.
His skin was cool, the touch feather-light but absolute. Draco could feel the faint tremor in those fingers so slight he might have imagined it.
"Exactly as Hermione planned," Harry murmured. His thumb brushed the corner of Draco's mouth, a fleeting touch. "Trust me."
Draco's breath hitched. He could see it now, the tightness around Harry's eyes, the way his pulse jumped at the base of his throat. He wasn't calm. He was terrified.
“Twenty souls," Harry murmured, thumb brushing the hinge of Draco’s mouth. “Remember what I told you where that ring comes from?”
Draco’s knees nearly buckled, he looked down at the ring. “Yeah, what about it?”
“It's what remains of the Resurrection Stone, innit? Death surrounds it and every wearer's inevitable fate is their own demise.”
He pulled back to look him in his eyes, “You get it?”
"You're mad," Draco whispered his thumb found the cursed ring on Harry's finger. "Death keeps what it takes.”
Harry leaned in, breath ghosting over Draco’s lips.
"Does it?”
Harry’s shadow stretched behind him, vast and impossible, a crown of darkness curling around his brow.
He held Draco's head, his eyes boring into his as images flash in front of him: a younger Harry closing his eyes as green engulfs him, standing in a train station, Harry talking to a wizened old man, Harry waking up again. Alive.
“That's impossible, Harry!”
“I did it.” Harry said simply.
He pulled back to look him in his eyes, “You also were a human that turned into a djinn! Just because you can do the impossible doesn't mean I can!”
“You can,” Harry held his shoulders tightly, “I'm the Master of Death, I have the bargaining tools, I can do this.”
Draco shook his head, “And what if Death doesn't want to bargain.”
Harry doesn't reply.
Draco caught Harry's wrist. His own fingers shook “This is too risky," he said, the words scraping raw from his throat.
Harry's expression fractured. For a heartbeat, the mask slipped completely, revealing something wild and desperate beneath. He leaned in, his forehead resting against Draco's, their breaths mingling.
"I know,” Harry's hand slid to the nape of Draco's neck, his grip just shy of painful. Draco closed his eyes, feeling Harry's pulse rabbit-fast beneath his fingers.
The clearing was too quiet.
No wind stirred the leaves. No owls called from the skeletal branches overhead. Even the usual hum of insects had gone silent, as though the forest itself was holding its breath.
The only sound was the crackle of the cauldron's blue flames and the too-loud rhythm of Draco's own pulse in his ears.
He knelt at the center of the rune circle, the silver dagger cold against his palm. The carved symbols in the earth pulsed with a faint, sickly light that matched the eerie glow of the ring on his finger.
Each breath came sharper than the last, the air thick with the scent of crushed herbs and something metallic like blood on the tongue.
Across from him, Harry crouched at the edge of the circle, his face half-lit by the flickering firelight. No smirk. No teasing glint in those too-green eyes. It was the most unsettling thing Draco had ever seen.
Hermione moved between them, her steps measured. She added the phoenix feather first, it dissolved into the brew with a hiss, golden tendrils curling like living smoke. Then, the vial of Harry's blood, dark as ink as it spiraled into the mixture.
The ring on Draco's finger burned suddenly, viciously. He hissed through his teeth as the emerald flared, its black veins pulsing like something alive. The pain shot up his arm, sharp enough to blur his vision.
"Draco?" Harry's voice, tight with alarm.
"It's..." He clenched his jaw. "Fine."
Hermione's gaze flicked between them, her mouth pressed into a thin line. The cauldron's contents had turned mirror-black, its surface perfectly still despite the flames beneath it.
"Your turn," she said softly.
The dagger felt heavier in Draco's grip. His fingers flexed around the hilt, the intricate carvings biting into his palm. The blade caught the moonlight, edge gleaming like a promise.
This is madness.
His breath came faster now. He could feel the weight of Harry's stare, the tension coiling in the air like a storm about to break. The runes beneath him glowed brighter, their light crawling up his legs like grasping hands.
"Don't you dare fuck this up," Draco ground out, voice shaking.
A beat of silence.
Harry's hand closed over his on the hilt, fingers interlacing. His skin was fever-warm, his grip unyielding. "Trust me," he murmured, breath ghosting over Draco's knuckles.
The blade flashed downward.
Pain.
White-hot and all-consuming, radiating from his chest in searing waves. Draco gasped, the taste of copper flooding his mouth. His vision swam—the trees, the firelight, Harry's face swimming above him, all of it blurring into streaks of color and shadow.
He sagged forward, caught against Harry's chest. Warmth spread across his tunic, sticky and insistent. Distantly, he realized it was his own blood.
"Trust me" Harry whispered, lips brushing his temple.
Darkness crept in at the edges of his vision, soft and inexorable. The last thing he felt was Harry's arms tightening around him, holding him close even as the world faded away.
The moment stretched into eternity as Hermione watched the dagger sink into Draco's chest.
Time fractured.
She saw it all in terrible, crystalline detail; the way Draco's silver eyes widened in shock, his lips parting around a wet gasp. The way Harry's arms immediately locked around him, pulling him close as if he could physically prevent the life from leaving Draco's body. Blood bloomed across Draco's chest like a grotesque flower, soaking through the fine fabric of his robes, dripping onto the ancient runes below.
Hermione's breath caught in her throat, her hand flying to her mouth. The metallic tang of blood filled the air, mixing with the sharp scent of crushed herbs and ozone. She could hear the wet, ragged sounds of Draco struggling to breathe, could see the way his fingers twitched against Harry's sleeve before going frighteningly still.
When the last shuddering breath left Draco's body, Hermione found herself moving without conscious thought.
Her knees hit the damp earth hard enough to bruise as she knelt before them. Her hands hovered uselessly in the air, part of her wanting to check for a pulse she knew wouldn't be there, another part wanting to pull Harry away from the terrible scene.
Hermione’s grip on the vial was white-knuckled. She didn’t look at Draco’s body—didn’t look at Harry’s tears. "It was the only way," she said, too calm, too final. As if saying it louder would make it true.
Harry’s breath hitched. "You sound like Dumbledore," He glared up at her, "What will you say next, this was for the 'greater good?'"
A flinch. Just a tiny one. Then, she turned away. "I'm sorry."
Harry didn't respond, didn't even seem to hear her. His face was a mask of devastation, tears carving silent tracks through the dirt and blood smeared across his cheeks. His grip on Draco's body was so tight Hermione could see his knuckles straining white beneath the bloodstains.
When she tentatively reached out, Harry flinched violently.
"Enough," he snarled, his voice raw with grief. His green eyes — still glowing faintly with that unnatural light — finally met hers, and what she saw there made her stomach clench. "Just get it over with."
Hermione recoiled slightly, this wasn't the Harry she remembered, this sharp-edged, grief-ravaged creature barely resembled the boy she'd known.
Over these past weeks, she'd clung to the hope that breaking the curse would bring back her friend. Now, faced with the hollowed-out shell before her, she wasn't sure what would remain when the ritual was complete.
Her hands trembled as she uncorked the vial and filled it with Draco's blood, still warm. She rose to her feet and went over to the cauldron. The liquid caught the moonlight as she poured it into the cauldron, each drop hitting the surface with a hiss that sounded almost like a sigh.
The reaction was immediate.
The brew erupted into violent motion, swirling and churning like a living thing.
Hermione barely had time to start the incantation before the air itself seemed to vibrate with gathering power. Her voice grew stronger with each word, the ancient syllables rolling off her tongue as the magic built to a crescendo around them.
A blinding white flare exploded from the cauldron, so intense Hermione instinctively threw up an arm to shield her eyes.
The force of it knocked her backward onto the grass. Somewhere in that terrible brilliance, she heard Harry cry out, not in pain, but in something raw that raised the hair on her arms.
"Harry!" she screamed, but her voice was lost in the roar of magic.
For one endless, suffocating moment, the clearing was consumed by light. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut against the glare, feeling the heat of it sear her skin, the power of it vibrating in her bones.
Then, as suddenly as it came, the light vanished.
Hermione blinked rapidly, her vision swimming with afterimages. As the spots cleared, she saw Harry collapsed on his knees, his chest heaving.
The shadows that had clung to him like a second skin for years were gone. His fine dark clothes had disintegrated in the magical backlash, leaving him bare under the moonlight.
But more startling than his nakedness were the changes to his very being. The sickly pallor of the djinn had faded, replaced by warm, human tones.
The unnatural glow in his eyes had dimmed to something almost normal. Even his posture seemed different, the weight of centuries of curses lifted from his shoulders.
With a shaky wave of her wand, Hermione conjured simple robes for him. The fabric settled over his shoulders as she whispered, "I think it worked." Her voice cracked with unshed tears.
Harry didn't respond, didn't even seem to register her presence.
His entire focus remained fixed on the lifeless body in his arms, his fingers gently brushing a strand of pale hair from Draco's bloodless face.
The world had gone silent.
Not the quiet of nightfall, nor the hush of snowfall over the Forbidden Forest.
This was the silence of the void, the absence of sound, of movement, of life itself. The ritual flames had burned down to embers, their glow smothered beneath an unseen weight. The air hung thick, heavy, pressing against Harry’s skin like the palm of a god.
He knelt in the ruins, Draco’s body cradled against his chest.
His fingers were numb where they clutched Draco’s robes, the fabric stiff with drying blood. The scent of it, copper and salt and scorched earth, clung to the back of Harry’s throat. Draco’s head lolled against his shoulder, his skin too pale, his lips parted as if caught mid-breath.
No. No, no, no.
Harry pressed his forehead to Draco’s, his own breath coming in ragged bursts. He could still feel the echo of the ritual’s magic, the way it had torn through him, stripping away the djinn’s fire in his veins and leaving behind something fragile. Human.
Mortal.
A sound tore from Harry’s throat, raw and broken.
"Death, I know you're lurking, come out."
A whisper. A shift in the air, like the space between heartbeats.
Harry didn’t look up.
"Two would-be martyrs."
The voice was dry as bone dust, echoing from everywhere and nowhere. "How… predictable."
Harry’s fingers twitched. Slowly, he lifted his head.
Death stood before him.
Not as a cloaked specter, not as a grinning skeleton, but as a man — or something shaped like one. Tall, pale, draped in shadows that clung to his form like smoke. His face was sharp, angular, his eyes two pits of endless black. He looked at Harry with something like amusement, his lips curled in a faint, knowing smile.
Harry’s grip tightened on Draco.
"I gave you twenty premature souls," he said, his voice scraped raw. "Now, I give you the Cloak and the Stone," He lifted his hand, the cursed ring glinting in his hand, finally off Draco's hand.
Death was silent, watching.
"That’s what you always wanted, isn’t it? To reclaim the Hallows, to have no Master."
Death tilted his head, considering. The shadows around him shifted, stretching unnaturally long, swallowing the dim light of the clearing.
"Take them," Harry snarled. "But bring him back."
Silence.
Then, Death laughed, a sound like dry leaves skittering over stone.
"You always were an interesting one, Master," He stepped closer, his movements liquid, effortless, as if the earth itself bent to accommodate him. "But you misunderstand, I don’t want the Hallows."
Harry’s breath caught.
Death crouched in front of him, close enough that Harry could see the void in his eyes, the way the light fractured around him, refusing to touch his skin.
"I want the game," Death murmured. "The chase. The stories." His gaze flicked to Draco’s lifeless form. "And you’ve just given me a very good one."
Harry’s pulse roared in his ears. "What does that mean?"
Death smiled. It didn’t reach his void eyes.
"It means," he said, "I’ll take your bargain."
“Then, do it.”
"Such a demanding Master," Death mused, fingertip hovering over Draco’s still chest. "I’ll take your Hallows but remember, all debts come due.”
Harry tensed. "Wait —"
Death’s fingertip pressed down —
White.
Endless, blinding white.
Draco blinked, disoriented, his body weightless. The last thing he remembered was the searing pain—the ritual blade sinking into his chest, Harry’s whisper ringing in his ears, the world dissolving into darkness.
And now… this.
A train station stretched before him, pristine and empty, the air humming with an eerie, expectant silence. The same place Harry had once described, though Draco had never quite believed him.
Am I dead?
A soft exhale behind him.
Draco turned.
Lucius Malfoy stood there, not as Draco had last seen him, haggard and broken, but as he had been in Draco’s earliest memories: tall, proud, his silver-blond hair spilling over his shoulders, his robes immaculate. His expression was unreadable.
Draco’s breath caught.
"Father."
Lucius studied him for a long moment before his lips quirked, just slightly. "You look terrible."
Draco let out a startled laugh, rough and disbelieving. "I just died."
"Yes," Lucius said, his voice quieter now. "I felt it."
Silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken words. Draco swallowed.
"Did you—" He hesitated. "Did you see what happened? What I did?"
Lucius’s gaze flickered, something like regret passing through his eyes. "I saw."
Draco braced himself.
But then Lucius did something unexpected. He stepped forward and clasped Draco’s shoulder, his grip firm. "I’m happy," he said, "that you’ve grown to be a better, I'm proud of you."
Draco’s chest tightened.
Before he could respond, Lucius’s form began to fade, his edges dissolving into the white light.
"Tell your Mother that I'm sorry."
"Wait!" Draco reached for him, but his fingers passed through empty air.
And then he was alone again.
"Draco Malfoy, you've arrived quite early."
The voice came from behind him, smooth, amused.
Draco spun.
A man stood there, tall and pale, draped in shadows that seemed to writhe around him like living things. His eyes were voids, endless and depthless, and his smile was sharp enough to cut.
"Who are you?"
"Death," the man said.
Draco went very still.
"So," he managed, his voice steadier than he felt, "You’ve come to collect my soul?"
Death tilted his head. A beat. Two. Then, "Not quite."
He stepped closer, his presence pressing against Draco’s skin like static. "I am doing a favor. One that shall be paid… later."
Draco frowned. "A favor for who?"
Death’s smile widened. He leaned in, his voice a whisper against Draco’s ear.
“How lucky you are," Death said, leaning in, "To be loved by Death’s Master.”
Before Draco could react — before he could even process the words, a sudden, violent yank seized him, pulling at his navel like a Portkey gone rogue.
His vision blurred. The white of King’s Cross fractured into streaks of light and shadow.
What the hell...?
Draco closed his eyes, bracing himself, wondering where he would land next.
The first thing Draco felt was pain.
A sharp, stinging ache radiated from his chest, pulling a ragged gasp from his lips. His body arched instinctively, fingers scrabbling against rough fabric, no, not fabric. Arms. Someone’s arms.
Harry’s arms.
Draco blinked up, vision swimming. Above him, Harry’s face hovered, pale and streaked with dirt and dried blood, his wild hair haloed by the dim light of the clearing. But his eyes...
His eyes were different.
No longer glowing with that eerie, otherworldly fire. Just green. Bright, human green, crinkled at the edges with relief.
"You," Draco croaked, his throat raw. "Absolute idiot."
Harry’s grin was sudden, brilliant. "Takes one to know one."
Draco groaned, shifting gingerly. The wound in his chest pulsed, but the bleeding had stopped, the skin knit together beneath torn fabric. He frowned.
"Long story." Harry’s voice was rough, but warm. So warm. His hands — no longer burning with djinn magic, just ordinary, calloused hands — cradled Draco’s shoulders gently. "You were dead."
Draco swallowed. The memory of King’s Cross, of his father’s words, of Death’s smirk, flickered at the edges of his mind. "I noticed."
Draco’s fingers brushed Harry’s pulse. The beat was steady, no longer the slow, measured rhythm of a djinn, but a living, human tempo.
Harry huffed a laugh, but there was something fragile in it. His thumbs brushed Draco’s collarbones, as if reassuring himself this was real. "Don’t do that again."
Draco arched a brow. "What, die heroically? Bit rich coming from you, Potter."
Harry didn’t laugh this time. His grip tightened, just slightly. "I mean it."
Something in his tone made Draco pause. He studied Harry properly—the new lines around his mouth, the way his shoulders sat differently, the unfamiliar black robes with their red trim. No more sleek suits. No more fire under his skin.
"You’re…" Draco reached up, fingers hovering near Harry’s cheek. "You’re really human."
Harry turned his face into the touch. "Yeah. Now you’re stuck with the mortal version."
Draco exhaled. "Good, now you’ll finally feel cold when I steal the blankets."
Harry had poked his uninjured side. "Shut up, Malfoy."
Draco glared, but there was no heat in it. "I just came back from the dead, and this is the thanks I get?"
Harry’s smile softened, he leaned down, forehead resting against Draco’s. "Welcome back," he murmured.
Draco closed his eyes. The pain in his chest was nothing compared to the warmth spreading through him.
"Prat," he muttered.
A shadow fell over them.
Hermione stood there, her hands pressed to her mouth, her eyes red-rimmed. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days.
“It worked,” she breathed. Then, louder, disbelieving: “It worked.”
Harry didn’t let go of Draco, but he turned his head slightly to look at her. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely.
Hermione shook her head, her gaze flickering between them. She hesitated, then added softly, “You both are idiots.”
Draco exhaled, wincing as the movement tugged at the freshly healed wound in his chest. “I blame Harry.”
Harry’s grip on him tightened.
Hermione wiped at her eyes, then straightened, her voice shifting into something brisk, though the tremor in it betrayed her.
“We should, we should get you both inside. Draco needs rest, and you...” She eyed Harry critically. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
Harry didn’t argue. He just nodded, his movements slow with exhaustion as he helped Draco sit up.
Draco hissed as pain lanced through him, but before he could protest, Harry’s arm slid around his waist, steadying him.
“I love you,” Harry muttered.
Draco wanted to snap something sarcastic, but the words died in his throat. Instead, he leaned into Harry’s hold, letting himself be pulled upright.
"I love you, too," He whispered back.
Hermione hovered nearby, her hands twitching like she wanted to help but wasn’t sure where to step in.
“Granger,” Draco said, voice rough.
She met his gaze.
“Thank you,” he said simply.
Something in her expression softened. She nodded, “I'm sorry I ever doubted you,” then turned to lead the way, her shoulders a little less tense than before.
Harry’s arm around Draco didn’t loosen the entire walk back.
They would deal with the Aurors, the Prophet, the celebrations in the morning. Now, they just savored each other's presence.
One Year Later
Snow piled against the apothecary’s windows, turning the glass into a frosted canvas. Inside, the air smelled of dittany and woodsmoke, thanks to the highly illegal fire-spirit Harry had coaxed into the hearth. (Some habits died harder than others.)
Draco stirred a potion with one hand and massaged his temple with the other. “Potter, stop extorting the customers.”
Across the shop, Harry leaned against the counter, grinning at a Healer like a wolf who’d cornered a sheep. “Fifty Galleons is generous for this brew. St. Mungo’s paid sixty.”
“St. Mungo’s is run by fools!”
“Sixty-five, then.”
Draco’s spoon clattered against the cauldron. He stormed over, yanked Harry back by his collar, and fixed the woman with his best smile. “Thirty Galleons and we’ll throw in a vial of Dreamless Sleep.”
The Healer looked ready to kiss his feet. “Bless you, Mr. Malfoy.”
Harry pouted. “You’re ruining my fun.”
“Fun?” Draco hissed. “You were a djinn, not a street haggler —”
A flutter of wings cut him off. A speckled owl tapped at the window, a scroll clutched in its talons. Their names were written in a looping, familiar script, dotted with what looked like… glitter?
Harry snatched the letter midair. “Luna wrote.”
Draco groaned. “What does she want?”
Harry skimmed the note, his grin widening. “Dinner at the Granger-Weasley tonight. Seven sharp. Ron’s cooking.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Luna’s bringing plum wine.”
“That swill tastes like fermented socks.”
“You drank half the bottle last time.”
“Because Weasley spent the whole night glaring at me like I’d Imperiused you!”
"I don't think he hates you,"
Draco scoffed. “He literally —”
“But if he touches you,” Harry said, too casually, “I’ll peel the skin from his bones.”
There it was, that flicker of something old in his eyes.
Draco poked Harry’s chest. “Your former occupation is showing.”
Harry caught his finger, kissed it, and grinned. “Not my fault he’s a prick.”
The owl hooted impatiently. Draco sighed and scrawled Fine on the back of Luna’s note before shooing it away.
“We’re only going because Luna asked,” he muttered. “Not because of Granger.”
Harry hummed, noncommittal. But his grip on Draco’s waist tightened—just a fraction.
Outside, the snow fell thicker, muffling the world beyond their shop. Somewhere out there, Hermione was probably lecturing Ron into civility, Luna was singing to her plum wine, and Death…
Well.
Death could wait.
A crow perched on the lamppost outside, its beady eyes fixed on the apothecary’s glowing windows. It tilted its head—once, twice—before taking flight, vanishing into the storm.
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