Chapter Text
The juice hits him first.
Sticky. Cold. Sharp citrus. A bitter punch of grapefruit with an unfortunate mango aftertaste—exactly the flavor profile of bad decisions and wasted evenings.
Harry blinks, shirt clinging to his chest, eyes locked on the woman standing over him, her face twisted in righteous fury. She’s holding the near-empty glass like a weapon of war, the last defiant drops of her overpriced artisanal fruit blend dripping from the rim onto the café table.
"You’re a sodding jerk, Potter! An insensitive piece of shit!"
The glass slams down hard. The sharp ring echoes across the cozy interior of Néktre, the trendy little café that had popped up two blocks from the Ministry and had already secured its reputation as the place to be spotted.
Perfect. Exactly where Harry wanted to be—sitting like a mango-drenched idiot in the middle of a goddamn paparazzi hotspot.
He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t move. Just… sits there.
Blank.
The girl storms off in her high heels and inflated ego, leaving a trail of whispered “Oh my gods” and enchanted clicks behind her. Someone’s magical camera flashes to life, accompanied by a muffled, “Shit, I forgot to turn off the flash!” A few others are already whispering his name. Harry Potter. Harry Bloody Potter.
Who was she? What did he do? Is he finally dating again? Was it a breakup?
He hears it all but doesn’t register it. Not really.
This? This isn’t even the worst date he’s ever had.
It’s not even in the top five.
No, the real mistake was agreeing to let Hermione set him up with another bright-eyed Ministry recruit from International Magical Cooperation. She had the smile, the credentials, the respectable wand lineage. On parchment, she was perfect.
In person? Absolutely allergic to Harry’s sense of humor, had strong opinions about elf-labor “discourse” that made his skin crawl, and seemed offended that he wasn’t the same teen war-hero from Witch Weekly’s 1999 Bachelor’s Edition.
Now he’s wet, sticky, furious, and internally swearing at himself for being a people-pleasing idiot who still says yes to Hermione when he knows better.
He stares down at the table. A small puddle of juice pools next to his wand holster.
The silence around him is punctuated by the click of heels, murmured speculations, and at least two magical recording devices being sneaked out of someone’s bag. Maybe three.
“Excuse me, sir?”
A hesitant voice finally breaks the haze.
He looks up. A young barista stands next to him, awkwardly gripping a mop. She’s probably fresh out of Hogwarts, her apron slightly crooked, eyes wide in that familiar mixture of awe and terror. She’s trying so hard to act normal.
She knows who he is. Of course she does.
Everyone always does.
“You alright?” she asks, voice soft like she thinks he might explode or cry. Or both.
Harry just blinks at her. He can feel the stares now. The weight of expectation, speculation, curiosity. The headlines are already writing themselves:
"The Chosen One—Not So Chosen After All?"
"Potter’s Love Life Goes Sour—Literally."
He sighs, long and slow.
The barista startles.
He immediately regrets it. She’s not the enemy. Just a kid doing her job in a world obsessed with a name he never wanted.
He forces a smile. “Loo?”
She points toward the corner, where a couple of old wooden doors with vintage brass signs sit under a hanging fern. He stands, fishing a few sickles from his damp wallet and dropping them in the tip jar. “Sorry for the mess,” he mutters.
Then he heads for the door, sticky and heavy with the scent of betrayal and overripe mango.
The bathroom is blessedly quiet.
He casts a few cleaning charms. They work well enough, though the mango lingers like an insult he can’t shake. The air smells like cheap incense and desperation. He leans against the sink, splashes cold water on his face, and exhales through clenched teeth.
Then he looks up.
The mirror’s not kind.
His hair is a mess. It always is. His undershirt clings uncomfortably to his skin, still damp and vaguely citrus-scented. His brown skin is drawn tight across his cheekbones, his jaw sharper than usual, eyes sunken—tired in a way that sleep hasn't fixed in months.
He looks more like a ghost of himself than the so-called "Savior of the Wizarding World."
He stares into the mirror and thinks: You’re thirty-three. Your last actual date ended in public humiliation. You haven’t slept properly in weeks. And you still let Hermione set you up.
“Brilliant,” he mutters.
Then he pulls out his wand, the silver stag erupting silently from its tip. The Patronus doesn’t speak—it doesn’t need to. Its purpose is clear.
Ginny. Pub. Now.
He shrugs his jacket on. It sticks a little at the back. Of course it does. Mango’s a menace.
He takes one last look in the mirror.
And then he walks out the door, already bracing himself for the next headline. Or worse—another setup.
He just really needs a drink.
And maybe, just maybe… something to feel real again.
By the time Harry pushes open the worn wooden door of the Rusty Broomstick, he’s already exhaling half the tension out of his shoulders.
The bar greets him like a slap to the senses—whiskey, sweat, burnt peanuts, and someone’s worn-out cologne—exactly the chaotic comfort he expects from his favorite questionable dive. It’s small, dimly lit, the kind of place that’s immune to trend and full of regulars who wouldn’t blink twice at a troll walking in unless it blocked their darts game.
Harry stepped through the door and welcomed the scent like an old, half-friendly ghost. The place wasn’t fancy—just a cramped little pub tucked into a shadowed side street not far from Grimmauld Place. It didn’t draw attention, didn’t host live music, didn’t even have a name painted out front.
He likes it here. Not because the drinks are particularly good—they’re not—but because it’s close to home. And more importantly, Old Man Riggs, the bartender, couldn’t give less of a shit that his name is Harry Potter.
The bastard barely grunts when Harry walks in on a good day, only bothering to say something when it’s to insult “young people and their bloody fruity drinks” or “those useless floo-sucking knobs at the Ministry.”
Riggs treats everyone like dirt—and it’s the most normal Harry ever feels.
Tonight the pub’s buzzing louder than usual. The hum of conversations, the scrape of chairs, the occasional bark of laughter—Friday energy in full swing. He dodges a flying dart and someone’s half-sung rendition of “Jaeger!” as he weaves through the crowd.
He doesn’t care to look.
He just wove through the crowd, shoulders tense until he reached his usual booth—one tucked in the back, half-hidden by a peeling poster advertising some forgotten band tour.
His eyes are already locked on her—Ginny.
Red hair tied in a casual knot, face fresh and glowing like she hadn’t spent the last two weeks flying halfway across Europe. She was leaning back, one arm thrown over the seat, sipping something dangerously pink through a little straw. Her outfit was unapologetically cool—cropped blouse under a worn jean jacket, ripped jeans that screamed I’m hot and I know it.
She looked up and smiled as he slid into the seat across from her.
“Rough day?” she asked, one eyebrow raised in amusement.
Harry didn’t even answer. He just flagged the bartender, nodded for his usual, and gave her a tight-lipped smile in return.
“You smell like mango,” she teased, nose scrunching in mock disgust.
He hated mango. She knew that.
“Thank you,” he muttered, placing a hand over his heart with dramatic flair. “Finally. Someone acknowledges the war crime that is mango juice.”
She laughed—a real one, short and bright and echoing in his chest. “What happened this time?”
He sighed just as the bartender set a glass of scotch down in front of him. He nodded his thanks and took a sip, letting the burn remind him that at least some things still worked.
“Bad date?” Ginny pressed.
“Worse,” he muttered, voice like gravel. “Set-up. Hermione’s new co-worker. Department of International Magical Cooperation. Perfect on parchment. Absolute nightmare in person. She chucked her drink at me and stormed out.”
Ginny snorted, shaking her head. “Let me guess—she said you were emotionally unavailable?”
“She said I was a ‘soulless Ministry puppet incapable of expressing anything except latent trauma and hero complex.’”
“Oof.” She winced. “That’s... more creative than usual.”
Harry rolled his eyes.
Ginny chuckled, sipping her pink radioactive drink. “Didn’t you go out with a bloke who thought sushi was a personality trait last time before I went to Germany?”
“Don’t mention sushi,” Harry said, dead serious. “I still flinch when I pass a fish market.”
Ginny chuckled again, this time swirling her drink lazily. “I don’t get why you don’t just tell everyone to piss off with the matchmaking.”
“I have,” Harry said, rubbing his temple. “Hermione, Ron, Seamus, Dean, Luna, Neville—hell, even Andromeda tried to introduce me to someone. But no. They’re all hell-bent on finding me a perfect stranger who’s only interested because I died once.”
She gave him a knowing look, then drained half her cocktail. “Sounds like hell.”
“It is.”
“Maybe we’re just not built for relationships,” she said, smirking around the rim of her glass.
Harry smiled behind his own. “Maybe.”
Truth was, he’d once thought about marrying her. Back in those confusing, burning days after the war, when everyone told him she was his future and he was too lost to think otherwise. There had been comfort there. Familiarity. Touches that felt safe.
But life? Life dragged them in opposite directions.
She had matches, glory, Europe.
He had cases, blood, corpses.
The breakup wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. Like two people setting down something heavy they could no longer carry together.
And yeah, the aftermath was messy. The casual sex. The yelling. The ghosting.
But they’d grown out of it. Somehow.
Now, here they were—adults. Ex-lovers. Real friends.
“You know,” he said, sipping again, “I read you were spotted with the Irish team’s Beater.”
Ginny groaned and threw a chip at him. He caught it in his mouth like a smug bastard.
“You son of a bitch! You read that trash?”
“Ron reads it. I just… skim for survival purposes.”
“Ron needs to get over his sister complex and realize I’m a grown woman who can shag whoever I bloody please.”
Harry lifted his glass. “To grown women and their Beaters.”
She clinked her glass against his with a wink. “To emotionally unavailable Aurors and their ever-growing trauma pile.”
They drank.
And for a moment, in the chaos of the pub and the buzz of Friday night, it felt good. It felt like home.
But of course, peace never lasted long with Harry Potter. Not when darkness had already begun slithering back into his orbit—smiling, sleek, and so very familiar.
A few drinks in, and the world had started to soften at the edges.
The amber glow of the pub felt warmer now, the noise dulled into something distant and unimportant. Harry sank a little deeper into his booth seat, eyelids growing heavier with every passing minute. He hadn’t slept well—hadn’t really slept well since the war, if he was honest with himself.
Hermione said he was going to die early if he didn’t sort out his sleep schedule. To which he always replied, “Already had an early death, didn’t I? Still here.”
She hated that answer. Probably hated his wits more.
"You're hopeless," she'd muttered the last time.
He hadn’t disagreed.
Across from him, Ginny raised a brow as she twirled her drink, eyes glinting with curiosity. "So," she began lightly, "how’s work, Mister Top Candidate for Head Auror?"
Harry let out something between a grunt and a death rattle, and immediately dropped his forehead onto the table with a dramatic thud.
"Oh no," Ginny chuckled. "Is that the sound of pride or despair?"
"Despair," Harry muttered, lifting his head just enough to glare at her. "Robards is chewing me up and spitting me out like he’s got something to prove. Thinks turning me into minced meat is what leadership training looks like. No special treatment for being Harry Bloody Potter."
She snorted. “Hilarious, actually. The one time your name could work in your favor, and it backfires.”
Harry reached for his wand under the table. "So help me, Weasley, I will hex your eyebrows clean off."
"You’d have to catch me first, old man."
They both laughed, the kind of laugh that came from deep familiarity and exhaustion. The kind that said, I’m glad we’re still here.
But when Harry mentioned the new case, the one eating him from the inside out, Ginny's posture shifted. Just enough to tell him she was listening.
“The serial killer?” she asked, tone dipping into something more serious.
Harry groaned. "Yeah. That one."
He kept it vague. What was public knowledge: a string of bodies, magic drained, expressions of horror etched into their faces. No pattern. No real leads.
The press was foaming at the mouth. The Ministry was scrambling. Robards wanted results yesterday.
“I just picked up the case and already he's pacing behind my desk like I’m going to shit out a breakthrough if he hovers hard enough,” Harry muttered into his drink.
Ginny raised a brow. “Sounds fun.”
“I’d rather go on another sushi date.”
“Yikes.”
“Exactly.”
He didn’t mention the notes. The signature left behind in magical essence. Catch me if you can.
He couldn’t. Ginny was still a civilian. And technically, he wasn’t supposed to talk about anything classified.
Not that that stopped him from sighing like a dying man and swearing through a storm of profanity so comprehensive it made the table next to them pause mid-drink.
Ginny was grinning by the end of it, sipping her cocktail. “Could be worse, you know.”
Harry side-eyed her, unimpressed.
“The killer could be one of your failed dates. Maybe you dodged a bullet.”
He groaned, tipping the rest of his scotch into his mouth. “Don’t put that thought in my head. Knowing my luck, you’ll jinx it.”
He leaned back, skull thudding against the wooden booth. A headache was creeping in, slow and pulsing beneath the alcohol’s warm haze. He could feel it behind his eyes—another reminder that he was pushing too hard, too fast, too long.
Ginny noticed.
“That’s our cue,” she said, sliding out of the booth and stretching like a cat. “You need sleep. And not at your desk, for once.”
Harry didn’t argue. Couldn’t, really.
“And I need to be at the Burrow by morning. Haven’t told them I’m back in London yet, and Mum’ll murder me if she finds out the first thing I did was get drunk with my ex.”
Harry smirked, lazy and a little smug. “Molly loves me. She probably still thinks we’ll get married and give her five more red-haired grandchildren.”
Ginny rolled her eyes. “Ugh. She probably still has the wedding binder.”
She waved him off with a grin and sauntered toward the exit, the crowd parting for her on instinct. Harry watched her go, the lingering warmth of their laughter settling into something gentler in his chest.
He tossed a few sickles onto the table and headed to the bar.
“Stink like fuckin’ mango,” the old bartender muttered without looking up.
Harry blinked. Then smiled.
“You’re a saint, Riggs.”
“Yeah, yeah. Bugger off, Potter.”
He left the pub feeling a little lighter, even as exhaustion clung to him like a second skin.
The night air was cool, crisp, and utterly indifferent to his existence. Grimmauld Place wasn’t far. Neither was the case file waiting for him.
But for tonight, just for tonight, he’d go home.
Sleep. Maybe.
Dream. Definitely not.
And tomorrow, the hunt would begin again.
Harry had expected many things when he crawled into bed at three a.m.—a splitting headache, a couple hours of sleep, maybe even a lazy morning with strong coffee and radio static in the background.
What he didn't expect was a bloody silver patronus barging into his house at six o'clock on a Saturday morning.
"For fuck’s sake," he groaned into his pillow.
So much for Hermione’s holier-than-thou crusade about him resting more. The world clearly had other plans.
The patronus—Robards’ usual, a bull with about as much warmth as the man himself—stood in his bedroom like a judgmental ghost. Its voice echoed around the room, gruff and to the point:
“Another victim. Same profile. Address follows. Get your arse here fast.”
And then it was gone.
No please, no sorry to ruin your day off, no maybe have a scone first, Potter. Just doom served on cold steel.
Harry flipped the bull off out of sheer principle, then rolled out of bed like gravity owed him something for all his sacrifices.
Over a decade in this job, and he’d developed some talents—not the kind you bragged about at parties, but the kind that got you moving when your body begged for mercy. He showered, dressed, and brushed his teeth in under twenty minutes. His Auror robes hung off his shoulders like a long coat, unbuttoned, uncaring.
The coffee was scalding and bitter and perfect.
A few moments later, he apparated to the cordoned-off edge of an alley just off Knockturn’s shadowed fringe. Yellow magical tape shimmered in the air, warding off curious eyes and idiot thrill-seekers.
Harry ducked under it without a word.
The stationed Aurors nodded grimly as he passed, and he returned the gesture—eyes already scanning, muscles tense in the way they always were now. There were bodies, and then there were these bodies. The kind that changed you just by looking.
“Morning,” he said lowly as he approached a familiar mop of red hair crouched near the scene.
“Barely,” Ron muttered. He stood, brushing his hands on his robes. “You look like hell.”
“I’ve been worse.” Harry took a sip of his coffee. “Run me through it.”
Ron exhaled, gaze hardening as he gestured toward the victim. “Name’s Thomas Avery. Worked in finance. Low-profile, no Ministry connections we know of. Muggle-born wife. Two kids.”
“Any war history?”
“Father was a Death Eater,” Ron said. “This one? Too young. Probably not involved. But that might be exactly why he’s dead.”
Harry said nothing. His eyes were already on the body.
The victim lay on his back, arms twisted at odd angles, face frozen in an expression of pure, soul-deep terror. Skin greyed, lips drawn back, eyes wide and lifeless. The body was sunken, hollow—drained. Magical core obliterated.
The same.
Always the same.
Forensic analysts hovered nearby, taking final photos. One of them nodded to Harry as he stepped forward. He pulled on gloves and knelt beside the corpse, the stench of scorched magical residue thick in the air.
He moved slowly, methodically. This was the part he hated—and the part he couldn’t not do. His hands brushed the victim’s chest, fingers pausing on a slip of paper peeking out from a shirt pocket.
He tugged it free.
A folded note.
He opened it.
Words shimmered, etched in faint magic that pulsed faintly under his gaze.
“Catch me if you can.”
His jaw tightened.
Behind him, Ron peered over his shoulder. “That makes three.”
“Three,” Harry echoed grimly, voice flat.
“Funny how that’s exactly the number of victims since you took over,” Ron added, tone dry.
Harry grunted. “Yeah. Hilarious.”
Ron gave him a look, then patted his back. “Guess you’ve got another fan.”
Harry didn’t answer. He stared at the note for a moment longer before folding it carefully and slipping it into a protective evidence sleeve.
The buzzing in his skull had returned. Not the kind from lack of sleep or cheap scotch, but something colder. Sharper.
Obsession.
He followed Ron away from the body, back through the fluttering tape, into the waking world.
“You think Robards is gonna want to see me?” Harry asked as they reached the outer ward line.
“Oh, definitely,” Ron muttered. “The look he had when he sent me to call you? Like he was about to burst a blood vessel.”
“Lovely,” Harry muttered.
He downed the rest of his coffee and braced himself for the interrogation. For the pressure. For Robards barking down his throat and demanding results when there were none to be found.
But in his gut—deep, twisting—he already knew.
This wasn’t just another kill. This wasn’t random.
The game was turning personal.
And someone, somewhere, was watching Harry very closely.
Another thing Harry had grown tragically used to over the years was being screamed at before he'd even finished his first cup of coffee.
Robards stood at the head of the conference room, spit flying with every consonant like he thought volume could make up for the Ministry's lack of leads. Harry stood dead center among the assembled Aurors—expression neutral, posture perfect. Years of training had carved discipline into his spine, but it did little to disguise the dark half-moons under his eyes or the faintly amused downturn of his lips.
That bored, mildly irritated look.
Robards hated that look.
Thought it was the arrogance of fame, the Potter Complex. Never mind the fact that Harry’s record was the cleanest, sharpest, and most earned on the entire damn roster. No, it had to be ego.
Which made it all the more delightful that Robards had his eye on Harry as his successor. Ironic, really—how the man who screamed the loudest was also quietly grooming him for the throne.
Maybe that’s why he screamed harder.
“You think this is a game, Potter?” Robards barked, eyes bloodshot, voice cracking with fury. “You think the killer’s sending you valentines? Catch me if you can—what’s next, chocolates and a fucking poem?!”
Harry blinked once. “Might be nice.”
The room tensed. Ron actually wheezed through his nose.
Robards turned a new shade of crimson and stalked right up to him. For a second, Harry wondered if the man was going to rupture a lung. He didn’t flinch. Just stood there, perfectly still as spittle sprayed across his face like baptism by rage.
“You want to be Head Auror one day?” Robards growled. “Then act like it. You get me a lead. Fast. Or else—”
Or else what, Robards never said.
Harry didn’t care. He’d long since stopped being afraid of half-threats and puffed-up egos in too-tight robes.
He just counted himself lucky when the meeting ended and he escaped the war zone of a conference room with only half his face baptized in oral artillery.
Could’ve been worse.
He wiped his cheek with the edge of his sleeve as he wandered back to his desk. Ron trailed behind him, grumbling.
“Every damn time,” Ron muttered, dabbing at a wet spot on his shoulder. “You know how hard it is explaining to Hermione that my robes aren't wet from weather but from Robards’ mouth?”
Harry huffed a low, exhausted chuckle as he sank into his chair. “Pretty sure that counts as workplace harassment.”
“Pretty sure that man needs a goddamn bib.”
Harry was still half-chuckling, half-dying when Ron narrowed his eyes and added, “Also, don’t think I forgot. Ginny’s back in town.”
Harry didn’t even blink. Just gave a little nod and sipped from his now-cold coffee.
Ron’s face twisted in suspicion. “Wait… you knew already, didn’t you?”
“She may have mentioned it last night.”
Ron leaned back with an offended scoff. “You went out with her? Mate, that’s so weird. She gets back in London, and the first thing she does is drink with her ex?”
Harry smirked into his cup. “Maybe she missed me.”
“Maybe she’s mental.”
“She is your sister.”
Ron groaned. “Ugh, don’t say it like that. You know what? Ginny’s right—I do have a sister complex. Because you are not relationship material.”
Harry laughed—a rough, worn thing—and just as Ron was about to start a rant on romantic boundaries, a young Auror rushed over, clutching a thin folder like it might explode if he held it too tight.
“Potter, Weasley—result just came in,” the Auror said, breathless. “We ran a trace spell on one of the victim’s belongings. A watch—metal casing embedded with a faint magical residue.”
Both men straightened.
“What kind of residue?” Harry asked, already taking the file.
“Unusual blend,” the Auror said. “It’s magical, but laced with something synthetic. Possibly… Muggle-adjacent.”
That made Harry pause.
Muggle-adjacent? As in… someone who understood both worlds well enough to blend them?
Harry opened the folder, scanning the preliminary analysis. The residue glowed faintly in the image. Not spellwork he recognized—but not exactly foreign either. It was clean, efficient, layered in ways that reminded him of technical schematics more than magical casting circles.
“Looks almost like…” Ron frowned. “Circuitry?”
Harry didn’t say anything.
Because that little itch in his brain? The one that started at the third note?
It just dug deeper.
This wasn’t just a killer.
This was someone smart. Someone who knew Muggle systems and magical architecture alike. Someone with access, control, and no moral leash to speak of.
Harry closed the file slowly, his expression unreadable.
“Where was the victim’s watch manufactured?” he asked quietly.
The young Auror blinked. “Uh… one of those new hybrid companies. LUXOR Corp. Big name in the Muggle-Magical tech integration scene.”
Harry’s fingers tapped the folder. “Find me everything on them. And the board of directors.”
Ron raised an eyebrow, but didn’t question it—yet.
Harry just stared at the glowing image of the residue.
And smiled. Just a little.
It begins.
When Harry first opened the file, he didn’t expect to understand much—if anything at all. He’d been disconnected from the Muggle world for far too long. The Ministry trained him to track dark wizards, not decipher Wi-Fi routers and digital encryption. He still confused remote controls for Portkeys. Had a landline phone at Grimmauld Place that mocked him every time it rang. Technology wasn’t his battlefield.
But he knew how to read people. He knew how to sniff out patterns, inconsistencies. And that’s exactly what he was doing now, buried beneath a mountain of documents, the LUXOR file thick as sin, ink-smudged fingers tracing every timestamp, every connection, every potential lead like a hunter studying his prey.
The victim, Thomas Avery, didn’t work for LUXOR. That was the odd bit.
So why did his magical watch contain residue matching a company that specialized in Muggle-Magical hybrid tech?
Hours passed. The file was heavy with corporate jargon and contractual promises. Pages about boardroom politics, business expansion plans, collaboration proposals. Most of it read like bureaucratic noise.
Until it didn’t.
Ron wandered back from lunch with a grin on his face, Hermione in tow. Their little smiles—like they were fresh off a shared kiss—would’ve made Harry gag if he wasn’t so focused.
“Well, someone’s married and annoying,” he muttered without looking up.
Ron rolled his eyes. “We had lunch. Like normal people.”
“Meanwhile you’ve been glued to that file since morning,” Hermione added, crossing her arms. “Have you even eaten?”
Harry grunted—his signature “no but I’m alive” sound.
Hermione gave him that look, the one that made grown men shrink into their chairs.
But before she could launch into a full monologue, Harry held up a hand, fingers stained with ink, eyes still glued to the report.
“Wait. Shut up. Get closer.”
Ron frowned but leaned in. Hermione followed, gaze sharp as always.
Harry turned a page, index finger tracing the heading of a meeting summary. “This,” he said. “This is the thread.”
The documents described a recent meeting between Avery’s company and LUXOR—a lunch meeting, casual but strategic. Talks of future collaboration. Avery had been sent as a representative, nothing particularly flashy. Just a cog in the corporate machine.
LUXOR had only recently begun venturing into wizarding markets. Until a few years ago, they were strictly Muggle-facing—tech innovations, financial algorithms, AI something-or-other Harry barely understood. Then came the shift: magical integration. Devices that could read spellwork, track ambient magical residue, bridge the gap between two worlds. Subtle. Revolutionary. Dangerous, if in the wrong hands.
“Look,” Harry said, flipping the page, eyes narrowing.
Under the meeting summary, buried in the fine print, was a name.
LUXOR Representative: Draco Malfoy.
He froze.
His breath left him in one slow, quiet exhale. A deep silence settled over the trio.
“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered.
Hermione's brows furrowed as she leaned closer. “Are you sure it’s that Draco Malfoy?”
Harry didn’t respond at first. He just stared at the name like it had risen from the grave.
The pen in his hand tapped twice against the file, rhythmic, sharp.
Same signature. Same flair for manipulation. Same drip of arrogance behind every calculated move. And if LUXOR had expanded into magical territory, it would explain the hybrid residue. The melding of Muggle circuitry with spellwork precision.
Draco would know exactly how to do that.
He had always been clever. Too clever. The kind of clever that curdled into cruelty when left unchecked.
And now, here he was—resurfacing like a ghost with a business card.
Harry sat back slowly in his chair, arms crossed, and for the first time in hours, smiled. But it wasn’t kind. It wasn’t nostalgic.
It was sharp. Tight. A hunter’s grin.
“Well,” he said darkly, “looks like I finally have a lead.”
Notes:
Thought I'd add this ps. Keep in mind this is a fanfic and one that almost completely diverges the canon epilogue and the portrayals of some characters are gonna be widely different from what we know. Especially Draco's since his change is the biggest from the time of the battle of Hogwarts. So if some characters act or look "out of character" it was done on purpose to fit the image I have of them that fits what was going in my mind while writing this story.
I am planning on writing more stories with more canon complaint characteristics but for this one it just fully changes some characters for the prologue. As I said, it's been fifteen years and a shit ton can happen during that time
Hope it doesn't bother some people that may already have a predetermined image or preference for some characters. I wrote them according to how I imagined they would look for this fic specifically and my headcanons for this fic are widely different for the ones in ywwc or even the cast for the movies or how they're described in the books
If it does bother you then you can check out ywwe (tho I do play a lot with appearances in that one too ^-^') or other fics from other authors that follow canon. Thank you for reading!
Chapter Text
Draco Malfoy had disappeared the moment he walked out of the courtroom fifteen years ago.
The last image Harry had of him was framed by the towering doors of the Wizengamot—Malfoy in a sharp black suit, head held high, shoulders stiff with that same pride Harry had spent years resenting. He hadn’t looked back. Just walked out, swallowed whole by the silence of a world that no longer knew what to do with him.
Everyone had assumed he’d gone into hiding.
Shame, exile, guilt—whatever poison people chose to flavor the story with. Draco Malfoy, the last heir of a rotting name, had vanished into nothingness.
Harry had done his best not to think about it.
Really, he had.
He told himself it didn’t matter anymore. That some things were better left unresolved. That the tightening in his chest when he thought about Draco was just nostalgia and not a gaping, aching hollow shaped like regret.
But then his name reappeared—not whispered over firewhiskey in dingy wizarding pubs, but printed in black ink inside a case file stamped with the Ministry’s official seal.
Harry hadn’t moved for hours.
He sat in his studio at Grimmauld Place, teacup long gone cold beside him, the photograph in front of him burning holes into his soul.
It wasn’t even a good photo. Taken from a distance, angled slightly downward like whoever captured it was ducking behind a bin or a parked car. The kind of voyeuristic shot Harry was all too familiar with—the kind he usually hated.
And yet, he couldn’t stop staring.
Draco Malfoy. Hair still a soft platinum but styled now—clean, modern, powerful. The lines of his tan suit clung to him like wealth was part of his anatomy. Broad shoulders, long legs, posture confident. He looked taller now, sharper, more composed than Harry ever remembered. He was stepping out of a sleek black Muggle car, phone in hand, a smirk tugging faintly at the corners of his mouth like the whole world was a game and he already knew how it ended.
He looked like a bloody CEO from a Muggle drama. The kind women swooned over. The kind who ruined lives with signatures and slept like babies afterward.
From all the possible scenarios Harry had ever conjured about what had happened to Draco Malfoy, this wasn’t even on the list.
Not hiding in Albania.
Not dead in a ditch.
But here—wearing a thousand-pound suit and working for a Muggle tech company like he belonged to that world.
The picture felt like a violation, like something he had no right to be looking at. It reeked of the same tactics the press used to strip him down over and over, and yet... his fingers had held that photo all night. Trembling once. Only once.
“Fuck,” Harry muttered into the quiet.
He dropped the photo back onto the pile of reports and leaned back in his chair, exhaustion settling into his bones like old smoke. He closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose as ghosts came slinking through the cracks.
Hallways. Sneers. Spellfire.
Sectumsempra.
Blood in the bathroom.
Trembling hands, cold tile, and terror blooming across Draco’s pale chest.
The trial. The way his voice shook when he defended him.
The way Draco never once said goodbye.
Fifteen years.
And now this. This.
Harry opened his eyes, suddenly furious at the memories for being so goddamned vivid. He hadn’t thought about Draco in years—not really. Not more than the occasional passing thought late at night when he drank too much or wandered through the older sections of his mind.
He wasn’t supposed to matter anymore.
But apparently fate had other ideas.
“Why now?” he asked aloud to no one, voice low and hoarse. “Why like this?”
No answer came.
He sighed heavily, pushing himself up from the chair, joints aching from too many nights spent at desks instead of in bed. Pajamas were already on—he hadn’t even changed into them, just thrown a shirt over his undershirt and hoped no one would knock.
The lights dimmed with a flick of his wand, and he forced himself out of the room. The photo stayed behind, facedown on the pile, like it might sink into the pages and take the past with it.
He paused at the threshold.
Tomorrow would be a long day.
He just didn’t know yet how long the fall would be.
Harry may have grown up in the Muggle world, but the war had ripped him clean out of it. Dragged him, bleeding and breathless, into the heart of a society that refused to let him go. Between Auror training, fast-tracked promotions, and the insufferable weight of legacy, he’d become something entirely wizarding. Rooted in robes and wandwork, far removed from the world of buses and mobile phones and morning traffic.
Which is why stepping into central London the next morning felt like slipping into someone else’s dream. The buildings were massive, all steel teeth and shimmering glass. Cars roared by with a chaos he couldn’t quite track, and everyone seemed surgically attached to glowing rectangles in their hands—phones, he realized, though since when had they become so... tiny?
The city buzzed around him, pulsing with movement. Harry stood still, momentarily adrift.
When he finally found LUXOR, he stopped in his tracks.
It loomed over him like some godless temple—floor after floor of glass and power, catching the light and flinging it back into the sky. He squinted up at it and muttered under his breath, “How is that not a safety hazard?”
The people streaming in and out wore suits like armor. Precision-wrapped bodies, faces unreadable, postures stiff with importance. It was a world Harry had no business in, and the jeans and leather jacket he wore only made the fact more obvious.
At least, he told himself, he hadn’t shown up in his Auror robes. The bright red would’ve had every head snapping his way before he even reached the lobby.
Still, eyes turned.
Of course they did.
He was used to the attention by now. The whispers. The Potter? under someone’s breath. The half-glances that slid into full stares once they caught the scar.
He ignored them.
Crossing the gleaming marble floor, he stepped up to the reception desk. The woman behind it looked up, and froze.
Not the startled, fight-or-flight kind of freeze. No, this was the kind Harry recognized all too well—eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks already staining pink.
He’d startled her—but not because she was scared. No, she saw him.
Harry offered a lopsided smile. One he’d practiced over the years. A little sheepish, a little charming, a little resigned.
“Morning,” he said, leaning an elbow on the desk. “I’m here to see Draco Malfoy.”
The receptionist blinked rapidly. “Dr—Draco Malfoy?”
“Yeah. Old friend.” He smiled wider. “Just visiting.”
She fumbled with her headset, clearly struggling to remember what breathing was. Her eyes dropped to his chest, lingered, and Harry suppressed the urge to roll his own.
Technically, Aurors had a way around these situations. Their badges could magically shift to look like whatever local enforcement was needed for cover—Scotland Yard, MI5, whatever suited the moment. But in his rush to leave Grimmauld Place that morning, Harry had left his badge in a different jacket.
Brilliant.
Luckily, this woman wasn’t questioning him.
Unluckily, she was blushing so hard he half-feared she might combust.
She reached for the phone, fingers trembling.
But before she could lift it, a voice spoke from behind Harry. Cool, smooth—sharp as ice and twice as cutting.
“Well. That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one.”
Harry froze.
His breath caught, chest pulling tight. For a second, everything else—the glass walls, the suits, the murmurs, the receptionist—blurred into background static.
He hadn’t heard that voice in fifteen years.
But it still knew exactly where to hit him.
Slowly, he turned.
And there he was.
Draco Malfoy.
Looking like the universe had decided to play a very personal joke.
Draco was wearing a navy three-piece suit that looked like it had been sewn onto him by sin itself. Every button, every stitch, every damn line was flawless—tailored with the kind of precision that made Harry want to hex someone just for the audacity. It clung to him like an accusation: You’ll never look this put together. You’ll never be this composed.
His hair was longer than Harry remembered, swept back like something out of a glossy magazine, the kind that sat in posh salons Harry had never stepped foot in. And those eyes—cold silver, cutting—met his with the same ferocity Harry remembered from sixth year duels, from shadowed corridors and locked doors and breathless, whispered names.
But now Draco was taller, broader, impossibly poised. And so fucking Muggle.
It should’ve felt wrong.
It didn’t.
What did feel wrong, viscerally wrong, was that smile. That familiar curve of the lips—just shy of a smirk, just steeped enough in condescension to make Harry’s fists clench. It was the same smug, infuriating expression Draco wore every time he beat Harry at chess, or verbally cornered him into admitting he was wrong, or had him pressed up against the stone walls of a forgotten classroom, breathing heavy with want.
Harry hated that smile.
No, he despised it.
Then the receptionist broke the spell.
“Mr. Malfoy,” she said, voice syrupy sweet, cheeks still flushed. “This gentleman was asking for you.”
Gentleman.
The word made Harry twitch. He hated that stupid, stiff-necked vocabulary. It always sounded like someone trying too hard to be polite to a rabid hippogriff. He’d heard it enough at Ministry galas and bloody fundraising banquets—where everyone wore masks of civility and sharp smiles and he felt more like a display piece than a person.
But right now, his attention snapped back to Draco.
Because what he did next wasn’t just surprising—it was offensive.
Draco smiled.
Sweetly.
Soft, polite, damn near warm. “Thank you, Angela,” he said, using her first name like it rolled naturally off his tongue, like they were best mates who went out for drinks after work. She looked like she might pass out on the spot, positively swooning under the weight of it.
And Harry—Harry wanted to rip that smile off his face.
Not because it was fake.
But because it was real.
Too real.
And Harry remembered a time when he was the one Draco looked at like that. Before everything burned.
“Potter,” Draco said, the name landing like a knife on polished marble. He was already turning on his heel, walking away like he hadn’t just upended Harry’s equilibrium.
Harry blinked. “What—?”
“Walk,” Draco called without looking back, a single word sharp enough to slice through any thought Harry had left.
And Harry followed.
Because of course he did.
He hated how in control Draco was—how smooth, how calculated. How the air bent around him like it had missed him, too. The bastard walked like the hallways were built for his steps and Harry was just some idiot who stumbled in.
He trailed behind, jaw tight, hands shoved in his jacket pockets as they slipped past glass walls and nosy glances. Employees whispered as they passed, and Harry caught a few murmuring Is that—? but Draco didn’t acknowledge a soul. He moved with purpose, magnetic, not slowing until they reached an office far too big for someone in finance.
Draco pushed open the door and stepped aside, holding it like a gentleman. Mocking him.
Harry stepped in first.
The door clicked shut behind them like a gun cocking.
Silence.
Then Draco’s voice—cool, deliberate.
“So. Is this a professional inquiry... or just a desperate attempt to rekindle something you still think about at night?”
Harry turned around, glare sharp.
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
Draco smirked.
“Too late.”
In an effort to regain control—some thin sliver of it, at least—Harry dropped himself onto one of the leather sofas with the kind of casual defiance only a Gryffindor could muster. The damn thing sank beneath him like it cost more than his entire annual salary. The room was... obscene. Expensive in a quiet, smug sort of way. All cool-toned palette, polished dark wood, brushed steel, and furniture that whispered money and power with every immaculate line.
One wall was a seamless window of glass overlooking the gray sprawl of London below. Thirteenth floor—he remembered counting the buttons on the lift, trying not to look impressed. Not the highest point, but high enough to feel untouchable.
There was a bookshelf that stretched from floor to ceiling, stacked with tomes Harry couldn’t name, file binders in color-coded perfection, the occasional shiny gadget that looked suspiciously enchanted, and sleekly framed certificates—too many to read from across the room, but all with Draco L. Malfoy stamped in bold letters.
And front and center? A wide, handcrafted desk in rich mahogany, an unnaturally thin monitor sitting on top, wires hidden so well Harry doubted the thing even needed a CPU. It looked like something out of a sci-fi film Dudley used to force him to watch. Neatly arranged pens, a tasteful stack of files, a marble coaster that was probably real, and a nameplate in carved wood:
Finance Director
Draco Malfoy
Of course.
The bastard hadn’t sat down yet. No, Draco moved with the same irritating grace he always had—striding toward the desk, slipping a few folders into a drawer, then rounding it to lean back against the polished edge. Arms crossed. Legs casual. The picture of ease. Except his gaze was sharp, assessing.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Potter?” he asked, voice smooth as whiskey and twice as smug.
The sarcasm was unmistakable, and Harry barely held back a sigh. He rolled his eyes, pulling a photo from inside his jacket and holding it up between two fingers.
“Do you recognize him?”
Draco took his time walking over. Hands in his pockets, that damn model strut of his so natural it made Harry irrationally angry. He leaned down just enough to glance at the photo. A flicker of recognition—too brief to pin down—passed over his face.
He shrugged. “Employee from a potential partner company. We had lunch last week to go over some collaboration formalities. Why?”
Harry stared at him, voice flat. “He’s dead.”
Nothing.
Not a twitch. Not a blink.
Draco straightened. “That’s... unfortunate.” His tone was perfectly neutral. “I suppose the collaboration will be postponed. Have you found the cause?”
Harry watched him closely. It was uncanny—the blankness. His expression didn’t flinch, not even a ripple of discomfort or surprise. That should’ve been the red flag. But this was Draco. Malfoys were trained from the womb to be unreadable.
“We’re investigating,” Harry said slowly. “At the time of his death, we found this on him.” He handed over another photo—a magical still of a sleek watch, magic pulsing faintly in the grainy image.
Draco took the photo and studied it. “LUXOR manufacture,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Prototype design. Not on shelves yet.”
“And yet,” Harry said, voice a little harder now, “he had it. And it was imbued with magic.”
Draco hummed, noncommittal. “Many of our recent models are designed for dual markets. Wizard and Muggle hybrid tech. We’ve been hiring magical artisans to help develop compatible enchantments.”
“Convenient,” Harry muttered.
Draco looked up, eyes meeting his. “Is that an accusation?”
Harry smiled, sharp. “Should it be?”
For a breathless moment, the air in the room stilled. Draco’s gaze didn’t waver. And neither did Harry’s.
It felt like old times. The tension. The unspoken history stretched taut between them like a drawn bow. Except this time, the stakes were higher than house points or pride.
Draco held the gaze, face unreadable. “Potter. If this is an interrogation, I’d like to remind you I haven’t been arrested... yet.”
Harry leaned forward, elbows on his knees, tone low and calm but laced with warning. “Don’t tempt me.”
A beat.
Then that godforsaken smirk curled again on Draco’s lips. “Still so aggressive. I missed that.”
Harry blinked. Once. Slowly.
“You’ll be hearing from us again,” he said, standing. “Don’t leave town.”
Draco tilted his head, amused. “You think I’m stupid enough to run?”
“I think you’re smart enough to make me chase.”
Draco’s smile widened just a touch, teeth showing now. “And you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Harry didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
He turned on his heel and walked out, every step heavy with something unspoken.
Behind him, Draco’s laugh echoed softly—low, amused, and maddening.
When Harry stormed back into the Ministry, there was fire rolling off him in waves. Carl, the ancient guard at the front who made it his personal mission to chat up every single soul that walked through those doors—including delivery owls—took one look at Harry and didn’t even twitch. That’s how bad it was. Carl, who once tried to pitch him a half-baked business idea involving charmed rubber ducks, just gave him a nod and looked away like Harry was a bloody Dementor on payroll.
Harry didn’t stop. Didn’t even try to fake pleasantries. He marched through the corridors, past the portraits that leaned away from him as he passed, and right into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. By the time he reached his desk, his jacket was slung over one shoulder, his shirt half-untucked, and his mood one insult away from cursing someone into next Tuesday.
He dropped into his chair like gravity had a personal grudge against him and let out a long, soul-deep sigh that sounded like it crawled out of his spine. Across from him, Ron raised an eyebrow from behind a stack of parchment and paperwork.
“So I take it your little Malfoy reunion didn’t go well.”
Harry made a sound. Not quite human. Somewhere between a groan and a murder confession. He threw his arm over his eyes like he was shielding himself from the sheer audacity of existing.
“Don’t even say his name,” he mumbled.
Ron chuckled, because of course he did. “Right, sorry. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Smug.”
Harry gave him a look that could’ve stripped paint. But truth be told, he didn’t even have the energy to argue. What had he expected, honestly? That Draco would break down and confess over tea? That seeing him again wouldn’t dig into old wounds like rusted nails?
The watch wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even circumstantial. The only reason it meant anything was because it came from a hybrid company—and those were practically unicorns in the wizarding world. Most people still pissed themselves at the idea of magical and Muggle tech mingling. “Secrecy of the magical world,” they’d cry. As if a wand couldn’t blow up a whole city faster than a smartphone could.
But Harry knew. He knew what had really sent him running across the city with nothing but a paper-thin lead and a bad instinct.
Draco bloody Malfoy.
He wasn’t chasing a clue. He was chasing a ghost. A ghost with cologne, a tailored navy suit, and a smile that made Harry want to hex his own face off.
Pathetic.
“Hey,” Ron said, gentler this time. “We knew this killer was clever. Slippery. Doesn’t mean you’re not on the right track.”
Harry grunted. Again. That was his thing today. No real words, just angry caveman noises and bad posture.
That’s when they heard the familiar click-click-click of determined heels and the warm, oh-so-logical voice of Hermione Granger echoing down the corridor.
“Godric’s beard,” Ron breathed, standing like he was about to salute royalty. “What brings you down here, love?”
Hermione smiled as she swept in like she owned the floor—which, let’s be honest, she might as well have. Her hair was pinned up, her robes crisp and stylish as ever, and in her hands she carried a paper bag and a drink cup like she was bringing divine salvation.
“I thought I’d stop by,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Heard from a coworker that there was a development in the case. Thought I’d see how things were going.”
She tilted her head toward Harry, who was still slouched like he’d been crucified by bureaucracy.
Ron made a show of gesturing at Harry. “As you can see, he’s in peak form.”
Hermione chuckled, then held out the bag in front of Harry’s face like a peace offering to a grumpy dragon. “Also heard you skipped lunch again.”
Harry opened one eye. Then both. His eyes flicked to the bag and widened with childlike reverence.
“You goddess,” he whispered. “You divine, beautiful, perfect woman. I could kiss you.”
Ron dramatically draped himself around her like an oversized barnacle. “Absolutely not. Off-limits. I’ll hex your lips shut.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, patting her husband’s arm with long-suffering affection. “Relax, Ron. He’d faint if I even got close.”
But Harry didn’t answer. He was already halfway into the bag, sighing at the familiar smell of warm tortillas, savory meats, and that glorious sauce from his favorite enchilada place just three blocks from the Ministry. His soda was already sweating in his hand, ice clinking as he took a long sip.
“Merlin’s tits,” he mumbled with his mouth full. “This is heaven. You’re heaven. I’d marry you if I hadn’t already sworn off all attempts at love and human connection.”
Hermione beamed. “That’s sweet. And depressing. Eat.”
Ron snorted. “Just wait ‘til she hears you went all the way to a muggle skyscraper for your ex-nemesis. In jeans, no less.”
Harry flipped him off with the hand not holding his enchilada.
“Language,” Hermione muttered absently.
And for a few blissful moments, the department felt less like a warzone and more like a reunion. One where enchiladas, married friends, and brief flickers of normalcy reminded Harry Potter that he wasn’t completely alone.
Only mostly.
A week.
Seven goddamn days.
No new clues. No bodies. No panicked owl from the Minister’s office. No taunting notes made of residual magical essence smeared across parchment like some twisted valentine.
Just... silence.
And it was driving Harry Potter insane.
He spent every waking moment—of which he had too many—locked inside the conference room they’d repurposed into the war room for this case. The whiteboard in front of him was covered in scrawled handwriting, magical photographs of corpses mid-scream, and color-coded timelines that no longer made sense. He’d stared at it for so long his brain began to fill in nonexistent connections just to feel something.
His own desk was a disaster zone. Piles of parchment competing for space with old coffee mugs and one suspicious takeaway container Ron had dared him not to open. A half-eaten sandwich from three days ago had fossilized beside a stack of ancient magical theory books. One of them was titled “The Essence Within: A Treatise on Magical Cores”, and Harry had read it cover to cover—twice.
He used to think Hogwarts had taught him all the essentials about magic. But no, Hogwarts taught him how to duel, how to brew potions without blowing his eyebrows off, how to tell a boggart from a banshee. It never taught him this.
It never taught him how a magical core could be drained.
Harry had spent the first few nights after taking over the case locked in the old library at Grimmauld Place, surrounded by tomes soaked in dust and dark magic. He’d pulled volume after volume from Black family shelves that should’ve been banned. Ancient manuscripts detailing the architecture of magical essence. Theories on core rupture. Forbidden rituals. Half-burned margins annotated by warlocks who’d died centuries ago, all whispering secrets no Hogwarts professor dared mention.
And from all that madness, Harry had pieced together something.
Magical cores weren’t visible, but they existed. They were the beating heart of a wizard’s power—the metaphysical distinction between a Muggle and a magical being. And someone—something—was tearing them out.
No wand. No spell trace. Just drained, shriveled husks left behind.
And then the body would implode in on itself, the core starving for more, latching onto the victim’s life force until there was nothing left. Not even a soul trace. It was the magical equivalent of being devoured alive.
The Ministry medics said it was the worst way to go. That the expression on every victim’s face—pure, unfiltered terror—was proof of that.
Harry had seen those faces in his dreams.
Every single night.
And now? Nothing. A quiet so heavy, it felt staged.
Because the only thing that had changed—the only shift—was him.
Harry fucking Potter.
The second he stepped into the case, the killer had started leaving notes. Written in the essence of the dead, like a sick signature.
Before that? Not a single whisper. No breadcrumbs. Just bodies.
And now… notes. And silence. A breath held too long before something snaps.
He knew what Ron would say.
"Coincidence."
Hermione? She’d say “Correlation, not causation.”
But Harry felt it in his bones. A predator’s eyes watching the back of his neck.
Someone was waiting. Watching.
And Harry was the show.
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing at the circles under his eyes. The headache behind them throbbed like it knew something he didn’t. Maybe he was being paranoid. Maybe he’d finally gone mad. Or maybe—just maybe—someone out there was toying with him.
Someone who knew him better than he wanted to admit.
Someone like—
No.
Don’t go there, Potter.
But the name tugged at him anyway. Blond hair. Cold smirk. That calm, practiced charm like he’d never been forced to kneel and beg for his life at wandpoint.
Draco bloody Malfoy.
It wasn’t enough to accuse. It wasn’t even enough to suspect. But something about him didn’t add up.
Too perfect. Too clean. Too… curated.
Harry stared back at the whiteboard, eyes zeroing in on the note left at the last crime scene—the one written in shimmering, fading strands of core residue that still glowed faintly under magical light.
“Catch me if you can.”
He stared at it, teeth clenched, the pulse in his neck loud enough to deafen him.
He didn’t know whether to hex something or go for a drink.
Maybe both.
Something had shifted however.
It wasn’t drastic. Not loud. Not obvious. But it was there, crawling just beneath Harry’s skin like a low-grade fever.
Seven days.
Seven long days since the trail went cold, and yet every evening after his shift, Harry found himself walking out of the Ministry building and heading not toward the apparition point, but toward the city. He didn’t think about it—that would require admitting he was doing it. No, it was easier to pretend it was just a detour. A whim. A walk to clear his head.
He took the bus.
The bloody bus.
It was such a small, ridiculous thing, and yet it grounded him more than apparition ever could. The rattle of the tires on potholes, the grind of gears, the jostle of strangers pressing in on either side—it made him feel like a person again. Like someone normal, if only for twenty minutes.
He always took the window seat.
And every time, he watched muggle London pass him by in a blur of neon signs and concrete. People were glued to tiny glowing rectangles in their hands—miniature phones that did more than any of Dudley’s old clunky electronics ever dreamed of. It was absurd. It was fascinating. It was... distracting. Which was exactly what he needed.
Because when he got off the bus and walked the extra two blocks, all roads still led him to the same place.
LUXOR.
It stood like a monument to modernism, glass and steel rising into the night sky, gleaming under streetlamps like it had something to prove. The lights on the thirteenth floor were always the last to go out.
Harry would stand across the street, under the shadow of a closed bookstore, pretending not to care as he watched the same silhouette move behind the glass—long limbs, sharp lines, and a presence that bled arrogance even from a distance.
Draco Malfoy.
Every single night, without fail, he'd step out of that building dressed to kill. Tailored navy, grey, or black suits, all crisp enough to cut. A phone pressed to his ear, one hand always tugging at his cufflink, eyes sharp and distant. He moved like a man who owned the pavement he walked on.
Harry still wasn’t used to seeing him like this.
It was laughable, really. The first night, he’d nearly choked on his coffee when he saw Malfoy slide into a sleek silver sports car like he’d walked straight out of a Bond film. It was so wrong, it was perfect. He’d blended into the muggle world so well it was almost terrifying. And Harry couldn’t stop watching.
Not even tonight.
But as Malfoy stepped out of the building, bathed in amber streetlight, Harry turned to leave. Same routine. Lights out. Show’s over.
Until—
“Leaving so soon, Potter?”
The voice sliced through the air like a spell. Smooth. Low. Laced with amusement.
Harry froze.
Fuck.
He turned slowly, like someone caught in a dream—or a trap.
Draco Malfoy stood a few feet away, hand in his pocket, jacket unbuttoned just enough to look careless in the way only a man meticulously curated could pull off. His lips curled into that infuriating, knowing smirk.
“You know,” Draco continued, cocking his head slightly, “if you’re going to stalk me, at least bring snacks. Or binoculars. Something to show a little effort.”
Harry opened his mouth—only to realize he had nothing. No lie. No excuse. Not one bloody rational thing to say that didn’t sound completely insane.
Draco stepped closer, voice dropping just enough to make Harry’s stomach twist.
“Unless you want to be caught. In which case, Potter... congratulations.”
The smirk sharpened.
Harry swallowed.
This game had just changed.
Notes:
I have no words just wanted to say, Draco in three piece suits? We'll see him in those a lot
And yes, enchiladas can save the day. Argue with the wall
Chapter Text
Harry could’ve walked away.
Merlin knows he should’ve. Any self-respecting Auror—any sane human being—would have turned on their heel, thrown up a shield charm just out of spite, and vanished into the night.
But no. He just stood there like a statue, jaw tight, pride flaring in one breath and crumbling in the next.
Malfoy wasn’t even gloating properly, which somehow made it worse. He wasn’t twisting the knife—he was just holding it up, polished and gleaming, waiting for Harry to either take it or back away.
And then he said it.
“In the week you’ve been stalking me, Potter, I don’t think I’ve seen you eat a single thing.”
Harry’s stomach dropped.
His face burned, hot and violent. His brain screamed at him to lie—say he wasn’t, deny it all, pin it on surveillance, on duty, on bloody traffic congestion. Anything.
But Draco was already watching him with that infuriating, unshaken calm. He could see right through him.
“Do you like shawarma?”
Harry blinked. What the—
“What?” It came out breathless. Not sharp. Not authoritative. Just... confused.
Draco shrugged with the elegance of someone who had absolutely nothing to lose and knew it. One hand still lazily tucked in his pocket, the other casually gripping a briefcase like he didn’t just wreck Harry’s composure in five words or less.
“There’s this little place just around the corner,” he said smoothly, like this was normal. Like they were old mates bumping into each other after a long day. “I haven’t had dinner yet. Thought I’d ask.”
Harry scoffed, instinctively retreating behind sarcasm like a battered shield.
“Why the hell would I have dinner with you? You do remember you’re still tied to a murder investigation, right?”
Draco’s lips twitched. Not quite a smirk. Something... subtler. More dangerous.
“I thought I was cleared,” he said mildly, head tilted in that mock-innocent way that always made Harry want to hex something. “But apparently not, seeing as my favorite Auror has been watching me eat, walk, breathe, and blink for the past seven nights.”
Harry clenched his fists. He hated how his stomach turned—not from rage, not quite. From mortification. Because Malfoy knew. He’d known the entire time. And he’d just let Harry do it. Hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t called security. Hadn’t told him to fuck off.
No. He’d let it happen.
What kind of twisted bastard lets himself be stalked like it’s foreplay?
Before Harry could scrape together a single comeback, Draco turned, his long coat flaring behind him like something out of a designer fever dream. He started walking down the pavement, perfectly at ease, not even glancing back.
“You coming, or what?”
Just like that.
Harry stood frozen. Torn between rage, shame... and something else. Something cold and magnetic in his chest that he didn’t want to name.
He swore under his breath.
And then—because of course he fucking did—he followed.
The plastic chair creaked under Harry as he leaned back, arms crossed, trying way too hard to seem casual. It didn’t help that Malfoy—legs crossed, sleeves rolled just enough to flash that obscenely expensive watch—was the picture of ease. As if this was just another Wednesday.
Maybe it is for him, Harry thought bitterly. Maybe Malfoy does this. Maybe he lures in poor, sleep-deprived Aurors with smug smiles and good food and then pretends he hasn’t been playing chess while the rest of them are stuck with tic-tac-toe.
The laminated menu stuck to Harry’s fingers slightly in the humidity. He set it down like it personally offended him.
Then Draco opened his mouth.
“If you keep staring at me like that, Potter, I’m going to start thinking you missed me.”
Harry choked on his own breath, looked away fast—too fast—and muttered, “Wasn’t staring.”
The smugness in Draco’s smile should’ve been illegal.
The woman who came to take their order didn’t recognize Harry. That alone made this entire trip worth it. She greeted Draco like an old friend, soft familiarity in her voice, calling him by name—Dray—and telling him she already knew what he wanted. She didn’t even write it down.
Harry blinked. He barely recognized the Malfoy in front of him. Hell, he barely recognized himself.
When she turned to him, both pairs of eyes were suddenly on him again. He flinched. “I’ll have the same,” he muttered, unsure if he was blending in or surrendering.
The woman smiled like he’d made the right choice. He watched her walk off, then turned back—only to find Draco still looking at him, that maddeningly amused tilt to his mouth.
“Didn’t expect this to be your taste,” Harry said finally, breaking the silence like it owed him money.
Draco blinked once, slow and deliberate. “Did say it was small.”
Harry rolled his eyes and gestured vaguely. “I meant this.” He motioned around—at the chairs, the street, the faint smell of diesel and spice hanging in the air. “Expected something with five forks per plate and a wine list written in Latin.”
Draco smirked, resting his chin on a loose fist, eyes bright with the kind of sarcasm that cut clean. “Do I look that much of a bougie arsehole to you?”
Harry didn’t even blink. “Yes.”
Draco laughed, low and amused, like he wasn’t even mad. “Fair enough. I was an insufferable git, wasn’t I?”
Harry wanted to say no. Or maybe he didn’t. The mention of fifteen years ago hit like a subtle jab under the ribs. He hesitated, teeth pressing into the inside of his cheek, before he looked away.
Then the food came.
Colorful plates, slightly chipped, piled high with grilled meat, tangy sauce, crispy vegetables, soft flatbread. Harry leaned forward immediately—half because the smell hit him like a freight train, half because he needed something, anything, to do with his hands.
Draco nodded toward the food. “Go on. Might help you forget how much you hate being here.”
Harry glared half-heartedly but didn’t argue. One bite in, and he let out a sound that could’ve been obscene if they hadn’t both been exhausted.
Draco quirked a brow. “Told you. Best shawarma in London.”
Harry grunted something that might’ve been agreement, chewing like he hadn’t had a real meal in days—which, to be fair, he hadn’t.
Draco didn’t say anything else at first, just watched him eat like he was studying the layout of a battlefield.
Then, as Harry wiped his mouth with a napkin and reached for the soda:
“So,” Draco said, voice calm and sharp as a scalpel, “are you here to arrest me, Potter… or just stalking me for fun these days?”
Boom.
Like a spell cast right under Harry’s ribs.
He nearly dropped his cup.
Harry tried hiding behind his food—stuffing a mouthful of shawarma like it could shield him from the tension prickling at the edge of his skin. But he wasn’t fooling anyone. Least of all Draco. This might’ve looked like dinner, but it was war in disguise. A test of wills disguised as small talk and roasted lamb.
He knew this was probably his one shot at getting anything useful out of Malfoy. It wasn’t an official interrogation—far from it. No pensieve recordings, no stenographer scribbling down his every word. Just two ghosts from a war long past pretending this was anything less than an interrogation under the hum of streetlights.
Harry leaned back in his cheap plastic chair, the legs creaking in protest, and spoke—low, steady. “There’s something that’s been bugging me.”
Draco barely looked up from his food, but Harry saw the shift—saw the little raise of an eyebrow like he was already amused. That smug bastard.
“That day in your office,” Harry continued, “you said the watch we found on Avery was a prototype. Not on the market. So how come our victim, who works a regular nine-to-five, had it on him? It’s not exactly a Tesco impulse buy, Malfoy.”
Draco’s lips twitched. He leaned back too, mimicking Harry’s posture—only more elegant, more calculated.
“Yes, how did he get his hands on it?” he asked, all mock pondering, like they were solving a crossword together instead of dissecting a murder. His voice was smooth, and that calm expression on his face—it made Harry’s jaw clench.
“Cut the theatrics,” Harry snapped, voice low but sharp. “Do you know or not?”
Draco chuckled, the sound dry and unbothered. “Of course I do. It was a gift.”
Harry blinked. “A gift?”
Draco nodded, ever casual. “LUXOR’s expanding into the magical market. We’ve recently restructured into a hybrid company, so naturally, we’re recruiting investors and strategic partners from within the magical community. Avery’s company just happened to be one of them.”
Harry watched him closely, reading every twitch of muscle, every flick of his eyes.
“I’m in charge of most of the collaboration deals,” Draco went on. “Comes with the title. And the charm.” He gave Harry a smirk that made him want to flip the damn table. “Gifting a prototype—something sleek, appealing, but non-functional beyond its face value—is standard fare. Business etiquette. Helps lock in the deal. Just a gesture.”
Harry exhaled through his nose. Dammit. It made sense. Too much sense.
He leaned forward, muttered, “Brilliant,” and stabbed a piece of meat like it owed him answers. Another dead end. Another fancy box with a shiny bow and absolutely no evidence inside.
But then Draco did that thing again—the thing that made Harry twitch—casually dropping a line just as Harry was resigning himself to another night of fruitless reports.
“I heard your killer’s got a thing for magical cores,” he said, like he was talking about the weather.
Harry froze mid-bite.
Draco was watching him now—head tilted slightly, eyes gleaming with something unreadable, dangerous.
“What did you say?” Harry asked, voice low.
“I said,” Draco repeated, “draining magical cores isn’t exactly a textbook method. Unique. Brutal. Rare.”
“How do you know that?” Harry asked, already bracing for another infuriating shrug.
Draco didn’t shrug. He leaned in, elbows on the tiny table, food forgotten. His voice dropped, silky and just the right amount of unsettling.
“Because I grew up reading magic theory, Potter. Real theory. Not the sanitized fluff Hogwarts teaches to keep you from blowing yourself up in Charms class. My family library had books most of your professors would scream at the sight of.”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “That still doesn’t explain how you knew what we’ve barely scratched the surface of.”
Draco’s lips curled, that same maddening calm smile playing on them. “Because,” he said, tapping one finger lightly against the plastic table, “unfortunately, I’ve been cursed with an ability I’d rather not have.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, brilliant. You gonna tell me you’ve been having visions too?”
Draco leaned even closer, and this time his voice was a whisper—too quiet for the street noise to touch.
“No. But I can feel magic. Yours, mine, theirs. Broken, twisted, raw. I feel it when it’s gone. When something’s… wrong.” He paused. “You ever heard of magic sensory?”
Harry froze mid-chew.
His fork hovered in the air, sauce dripping off the edge, but his eyes were sharp—cutting through Draco like a curse half-cast. Magic sensory. The words didn’t mean much to most people, but Harry had done his reading. He’d practically swallowed every book on obscure magical theory ever since this damn case started breaking all his known laws of magic. Still, he played dumb. He needed to know how much Draco knew—how far he’d go unprompted.
He wiped his mouth, set his fork down slowly, and leveled a look at Draco that said he was done with the small talk. “I’ve heard of it,” he said carefully, voice low. “Rare ability. Some people born with heightened magical perception. They can… sense cores. Intent. Some even claim they can track magic through time or space, if they’re powerful enough. Most of it's theoretical bullshit. Supposedly.”
Draco didn’t flinch. He simply reached for his soda, took a slow sip, and set it down again like this conversation wasn’t shifting into dark, dangerous territory.
“Supposedly,” Draco echoed with a tilt of his head. “Except it’s not.”
Harry leaned forward, voice rough now. “You’re telling me you have it?”
Draco’s explanation wasn’t some mystical prophecy-laced monologue—it was frustratingly rational, delivered with a tone that made Harry want to hex the smirk off his face.
“Magic sensory isn’t rare,” Draco said simply, as he finished the last bite of his food and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Every magical being has it, to some degree. Ever wondered why you can feel another wizard in a room full of Muggles, even if they haven’t said a word or drawn their wand? That’s it. That’s basic sensory.”
Harry frowned. He had felt that before. Many times. Especially during missions—those odd tugs in his gut when someone near him was crackling with power. He’d never given it a name. Never been taught to.
“But over time,” Draco continued, his voice low, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his cup, “most people stop listening to it. It fades into background noise, dismissed as instinct. It becomes a passive thing. But like any other sense—smell, hearing, balance—it can be honed. Trained. Or, in very rare cases… you're born hypersensitive.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. You’re one of those rare cases.”
Draco didn’t even dignify it with a response. He just gave Harry a slow blink, that infuriating smug expression sharpening like the edge of a wand tip. “I have what’s been referred to as the Sight. Not the seer kind, don’t worry. I’m not going to start prophesying your death over tea leaves.”
Harry scoffed. “The Sight. Merlin, you sound like a knock-off Trelawney.”
But Draco only smiled wider, ignoring the jab entirely. “It means my core is hyper-attuned. When I’m around magic—raw or residual—my brain interprets it visually. Like… mist. Colors. Auras, if you want to go poetic with it. But no, before you ask, I don’t see people’s magical cores. I’m not a bloody chakra reader.”
That made Harry blink. “So… not like seeing through people’s souls?”
Draco barked a laugh, louder than Harry expected, startling the group at the next table. He ran a hand through his hair as he calmed, eyes bright in a way Harry hadn’t seen since they were teenagers. “Merlin, no. You sound like a bad fantasy novel. Look—I can’t see your life force, I can’t read your inner trauma. I see… footprints. Residue. Spells leave traces, magic leaves echoes. I can see those. Strong ones. Old ones, too, if the magic used was powerful or twisted enough.”
Harry’s blood ran cold. That wasn’t mythical. That was useful.
“So,” he said carefully, straightening in his chair, his food forgotten, “if I took you to one of the crime scenes… you could see what happened?”
Draco’s gaze sharpened. He tilted his head, slow and assessing. “That what you’re getting at, Potter?”
Harry didn’t answer immediately. He knew what this meant. The brass would have a meltdown. Robards would scream until his throat gave out. Hell, even Hermione might raise an eyebrow. Bringing in a civilian—this civilian—was enough to get him suspended if word got out.
But if Draco was telling the truth… he might be the only lead they had.
“I’m saying,” Harry said quietly, eyes meeting Draco’s across the tiny plastic table, “if what you’re saying is real… you might be able to see what we can’t. And that might be what breaks this case.”
Draco sat back, and for once, his expression lost some of its mockery.
“You sure you’re ready to let me back into your world, Potter?”
Harry looked at him—really looked at him. Tailored suit, charming lies, sharp tongue, and underneath it all, the same calculating eyes from fifteen years ago. Only now, they weren’t filled with spite.
They were filled with interest.
“Not sure,” Harry admitted. “But I’m running out of options.”
Draco’s lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile.
“Well then,” he said, tapping the table once, “shall we go hunt a killer?”
Notes:
Didn't realize how short this chapter was until I looked over it
And yeah draco also has the ability to see magic in this fic cuz I say so. Though keep in mind it's slightly different in theory. In my other fix (you with the watercolor eyes) he's bith born hypersensitive but also practiced, alluding that anyone can see magic if they practice. Here, he was born with the sight already making it an ability that only ppl who are born that way can see.
This fic does contain a little magic theory but not too much and not until further down the story. Near the end almost because I swore to myself I'd make this story shorter (20-25 chapters long) and not go too overboard. But since it's a murder mystery though not much mystery given that we already know who the killer is, future chapters may be longer so I can add all the details and characters to move the plot without making it feel too rushed
Chapter Text
The next day, Harry walked into the Ministry like it was any other morning, his expression unreadable and his stride steady. Only today, the eyes trailing him were more than usual. Carl, the security guard who always greeted him at the door, opened his mouth to say good morning—but stopped dead halfway through, his gaze shifting over Harry’s shoulder and widening.
Harry didn’t even slow down. “Morning,” he said casually, ignoring the reaction, and kept walking toward the front desk.
The old receptionist, Agatha, perched behind her stack of paperwork and half-mended tea cozies, had her signature tightly wound grey bun and that violent red lipstick that somehow never smudged. She was notoriously unpleasant to everyone—except Harry, who, for reasons he never understood, she adored like a favorite grandson.
As soon as she looked up, her face transformed. The frown vanished, the corners of her lips curled up, and the tone shifted. “Mr. Potter! What a lovely surprise this early in the morning. What can I do for y—”
She paused mid-sentence. Her eyes locked on the tall figure standing behind Harry, and her smile dropped like a coin through a slot. For the first time since Harry had known her, Agatha was speechless.
Harry turned slightly, just enough to catch the sight of Draco Malfoy standing as though he’d walked out of a luxury brand ad—black tailored suit, pristine posture, hands calmly folded in front of him. He smiled at Agatha, all warm politeness, the very image of manners and civility.
Harry wanted to gag.
He turned back to Agatha and said, far too brightly, “Need a visitor’s pass.”
She blinked as if rebooting, narrowing her eyes at Draco. “And… who’s your guest?”
Before Draco could even part his lips, Harry grabbed the pass she’d begun to fill and muttered, “We’re already late,” practically shoving Draco toward the lifts.
Inside, it didn’t get better. The lift was packed, of course, because Merlin forbid Harry have one uneventful morning. Draco, tall and crisp in his suit, stood out like a sore thumb among tired Aurors and paper-pushers in rumpled robes. He offered a polite nod to someone who was blatantly staring. The poor man turned red as a tomato.
Harry folded his arms and fixed his gaze on the blinking floor numbers above the door, counting them like they were seconds until freedom. He could feel the gazes—confused, intrigued, whispering already.
The moment the lift dinged at their floor, Harry grabbed Draco by the wrist and all but dragged him out. Draco followed without complaint, as if being manhandled was part of his daily routine.
“You have charming coworkers,” Draco said airily, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve like this was a social visit to some high-society brunch.
Harry shot him a look over his shoulder. “Shut up and keep walking.”
Harry led Draco straight through the maze of corridors, not stopping until they reached the conference room. The tension inside the room was already thick with expectation—his team was gathered, coffee cups in hand, files sprawled across the long table, and the whiteboard behind them filled with dead-end leads and magical core theory scribbles. Robards stood at the head like a war general already two battles behind.
“Potter,” Robards barked the moment he stepped in, “this lead you mentioned last night better be—” He stopped mid-sentence.
Because behind Harry walked in Draco Malfoy, calm as you please, dressed like he owned the floor and possibly the building. If the Ministry’s walls had mouths, they would’ve gasped.
Ron’s reaction was instant.
“What the fuck is Draco Malfoy doing here?” he blurted, half-rising from his chair like this was some kind of ambush.
Draco’s smile didn’t so much as flicker. “Weasley,” he greeted, tone dripping with that signature aristocratic bite. “It’s been… delightfully long.”
Harry nearly pinched the bridge of his nose. Merlin give me patience, he thought, or smite one of us before we get started.
“Alright, everyone breathe,” Harry said, stepping forward and putting himself between Draco and the growing storm cloud that was Ron’s face. “I spoke to Malfoy yesterday. I believe he might actually be able to help us with the case.”
“You believe,” Robards repeated slowly, like he’d misheard. “Help us how, exactly? Is he a witness? A suspect? A bad idea?”
Draco didn’t so much as blink at the jab.
Ron wasn’t having it. “Harry, no offense, but the bloke’s been off the grid for fifteen years and now he waltzes in wearing Muggle couture and smugness—how exactly is that useful to our investigation?”
“I didn’t disappear,” Draco cut in smoothly, voice like velvet-wrapped barbed wire. “I simply relocated to… broader horizons. Personal reinvention, if you will. You should try it, Weasley. Might improve your conversational range.”
Harry shot him a shut the fuck up glare, then raised his hands to keep things from exploding.
“Listen, I didn’t bring him here to swap insults with my partner,” Harry said, voice harder now. “Malfoy has a rare magical ability—something called magical sensory. He can see traces of magic. Literally. Like magical residue.”
That got them. The room stilled.
Even Robards leaned forward. “That’s a myth.”
“So’s surviving the Killing Curse,” Harry said dryly. “But here we are.”
Draco stepped up then, posture relaxed but presence sharp. “The Sight, technically speaking. And while it might sound like a bedtime story to most, it’s real. I was born with it.”
Robards still looked skeptical, but Harry could tell his curiosity was piqued. He was too pragmatic not to entertain the possibility if it meant a breakthrough. He gestured toward a seat. “Fine. Explain.”
And just like that, Harry sat down beside his former enemy, his team staring like he’d dragged a dragon into the war room and asked it to help with strategy. All he could do now was hope Draco didn’t set the room on fire with his mouth—though, knowing him, that was exactly what he’d do.
Harry had braced himself for full-scale professional warfare—Ron storming out, Robards slamming the table, maybe a few hexes tossed under the guise of “reflexes.” But oddly enough, none of that happened.
In fact, not a single spell had been cast. No shouting, no chaos. The Auror department, usually quick to distrust anything outside protocol, had gone uncharacteristically quiet… and were listening.
To Draco Malfoy.
Draco stood at the front of the room like it was his department—composed, spine straight, voice smooth and unhurried. He explained his magic sensory with a clarity and efficiency that caught even Harry off guard. There was no arrogance in the way he spoke—not like the teenager they’d all known—but something far more dangerous: competence. Confidence with teeth. Like a man who ran boardrooms and didn’t bother with debates unless he’d already won.
Some faces remained skeptical—Harry caught Ron still frowning with his arms crossed—but most of the team showed open curiosity. Even Robards, who was notoriously hard to impress, leaned forward slightly when Draco mentioned the nature of magical traces and the precision required to detect them.
When Draco finished his explanation, Robards took a moment before speaking.
“If what you’re saying is true,” he said slowly, “then your skill could be a valuable tool in our investigation. But as you well know, Mr. Malfoy… we don’t just hand over access to a sensitive case to civilians. Let alone civilians with your... background.”
Harry opened his mouth to speak, ready to throw his entire career on the line, but Draco didn’t even glance at him.
He didn’t need saving.
He leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, arms folding across his chest. The seams of his custom suit jacket pulled ever so slightly across his biceps, tailored to perfection. He shrugged casually, as if this were a routine meeting and not a room filled with people who would gladly stun him first and ask questions later.
“Then test me,” he said. “Interrogate, question, throw whatever protocol you need at me. I’ve got nothing to hide. I didn’t come here to beg for a job. If you want my help, you’ll have it. If not…” he looked Robards dead in the eye, smile sharp, “I’ve got a company to run.”
Harry stared. That smile… that maddening, infuriating smile.
You bastard, he thought, you’re enjoying this.
And then Draco’s eyes flicked over to him, just for a second, as if he knew exactly what Harry was thinking. A spark of amusement danced in his gaze—and Harry’s stomach flipped in a way that had nothing to do with nerves.
Brilliant or catastrophic. That was always the line they walked, wasn’t it?
And this time, he had a sinking suspicion it was going to be both.
The sterile chill of the evidence room hit them as soon as the enchanted doors unsealed with a low hiss. Rows of locked cabinets and magically-reinforced glass cases lined the walls, humming faintly with protective enchantments. The floor was polished stone, the air scrubbed clean of every trace of magic, emotion, or comfort. It was a vault of the past, a tomb for the truths people didn't want to face.
Robards walked ahead, posture stiff, like even he didn’t quite know how to categorize what was happening. Harry and Draco followed in stride, the tension crackling between them like static clinging to wool.
“Look,” Harry muttered under his breath, glancing sideways at Draco. “You really don’t have to do this. It’s not your job to prove anything—you’re the one offering help.”
Draco didn’t stop walking. His shoes made no sound on the floor, like he was a shadow dressed in bespoke tailoring. He glanced down at Harry, lips tugging into that aggravating, knowing smirk.
“Are you worried about me, Potter?” he asked, voice low and smug.
Harry scoffed. “I’m worried about protocol. And public perception. This isn’t exactly a tea party.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Draco said breezily, “as long as we make this quick, I’ll still be able to get back in time for my five o’clock existential crisis. I just hate handing over my phone.”
“Because of work emergencies?”
“Because I need my Spotify playlist to deal with the circus you call coworkers.”
From behind them, Ron grunted. Loudly. “The world’s really gone to hell. Malfoy in a muggle office? What’s next, Voldemort on a TED Talk?”
Draco looked over his shoulder, slow and deliberate, with all the grace of a predator humoring prey. “People grow, Weasley,” he said smoothly. “I decided to evolve. You should try it. Very liberating.”
Ron muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “poncy git”, but Harry was too busy hiding the smile pulling at his lips to care.
They reached the designated evidence case. Robards tapped his wand to a brass plaque, murmuring an incantation. The protections fell away one by one with a faint shimmer. Inside was the last recovered object from the scene—the victim’s ring, still pulsing faintly with corrupted magical residue.
“This one,” Robards said, voice clipped. “The most recent. If you can see anything on it… now’s your time to show it.”
Draco stepped forward, unbothered by the way both Robards and Ron watched him like he might explode. He didn’t even hesitate. Just folded his sleeves back with practiced efficiency and leaned in to study the ring like it was a piece of art.
Then he blinked.
And for the first time that day—he stilled.
No witty comment. No sarcastic drawl. No smug glint.
Just silence.
Harry’s stomach twisted.
“What is it?” he asked quietly.
Draco slowly straightened, gaze still fixed on the ring.
“That’s not just residue,” he said finally, his voice quieter than before. “It’s layered. Intentionally warped. Whoever did this didn’t just drain magic—they restructured it. Folded the imprint over itself. Like a... like a signature.” He paused, lips parting like he might say more, then thought better of it.
Robards raised a brow. “Can you trace it?”
Draco hesitated for a breath. “No,” he said. “Not yet.”
Not yet. Not no. That alone was enough to put the whole room on edge.
Harry looked at him, brow furrowed. “But you recognized something.”
Draco didn’t respond. Not immediately. Then he turned, slowly, eyes unreadable.
“I need to see the rest,” he said. “Everything you’ve got.”
Ron had been awkwardly hovering behind Draco, standing on tiptoe and craning his neck like he thought sheer squinting could unlock magical secrets. The moment both Draco and Harry turned to look at him, he straightened with all the grace of a caught teenager and crossed his arms over his chest like it could hide his obvious curiosity.
“Well,” Ron said, trying for indifference and failing spectacularly, “how do we even know he’s telling the truth? He could be talking out of his arse, and we’d just be eating it up.”
Harry bit back a sigh, his jaw tight. He got it—Ron’s skepticism wasn’t unwarranted. After everything Draco had been in the middle of during the war, letting him anywhere near a top-priority case with magical corpses stacking up like cursed dominos? Yeah. He’d be suspicious too.
But before he could open his mouth and mediate the inevitable argument, Robards beat him to it.
Without a word, the department head moved past them, robes swishing behind him like some irritated matron with zero time for teenage dramatics. Harry blinked. Was… Robards okay? Had he finally snapped? Was this it? The long-foretold midlife crisis hitting like a rogue Bludger to the face?
But then Robards returned, arms full of dusty, enchanted evidence containers. With the flair of a magician unveiling his final act, he dumped three unmarked objects onto the examination table in front of Draco.
A scratched wand, a broken amulet, and what looked like a shard of crystal from a cursed mirror. All dull. All drained. All dead.
“That,” Robards said, voice like gravel and steel, “is evidence from three separate cases. They containers have a matching signature for cataloging. You match them correctly, Malfoy, and I’ll believe you. You get it wrong?” His eyes narrowed. “You’re out.”
Harry turned to Draco, the instinctive need to prove something still humming under his skin. “You don’t have to do this,” he said, voice low. “You’re helping us. That should be enough.”
But Draco just rolled his sleeves up a little more, calm as ever, like he was about to critique a wine tasting instead of stare down cursed objects tied to murder investigations. He offered Harry a casual shrug.
“I’m already here,” he murmured, eyes flicking toward the evidence. “Might as well show off.”
Harry stepped back, and so did Ron, arms still crossed but now just a little tighter.
Draco leaned over, eyes moving from item to item. And then—he didn’t hesitate. Just picked up the wand, the amulet, and the shard one at a time, examining the faint trails of invisible magic that only he could see. His eyes narrowed occasionally, lips pursed slightly in concentration.
It took him under five minutes.
When he finally stepped back, each object had been neatly paired. His hands went back into his pockets. His expression was unreadable. Bored, even.
“Well?” Draco asked, glancing at Robards. “Am I in, or shall I go back to corrupting muggle capitalism?”
Harry turned to Robards, heart thudding. Even Ron looked like he’d swallowed his own tongue.
Robards didn’t say a word at first. Just stared at the evidence… and then at Draco. Finally, with a sharp nod, he looked at Harry.
“Register him,” he said simply. “Consultant. Full access. Show him the files.”
Harry blinked. “You’re serious?”
Robards raised a brow. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
Harry didn’t dare respond to that.
Ron let out a groan behind him, muttering something about the end of the bloody world, but Harry ignored him. He looked at Draco—who now looked smug enough to be arrested for it—and sighed.
Brilliant idea or terrible mistake… they were in it now.
Back in the department, everything felt a little too normal for Harry’s liking—as if the entire morning hadn’t just been derailed by bringing Draco bloody Malfoy into the Ministry like some smooth-talking, designer-suited peacock with mystery powers and a smile sharp enough to gut fish.
Harry made his way to his desk, the buzz of murmuring coworkers still lingering like static in the air. He grabbed the case file—the one with the most recent details on the murders and magical residue—and handed it over.
Draco took it without ceremony, flipping through the pages with the same ease he’d handled Ministry evidence. His gaze moved quickly, scanning, absorbing. Then he snapped the binder shut with a soft thunk and tucked it under his arm like it was nothing more than an office memo.
Harry leaned on the edge of his desk, arms crossed. “You think you can actually help?”
Draco gave him a small shrug, expression unreadable. “I’ll see what I can do. But let’s not get confused, Potter—catching the killer is still your job.”
Ron made a noise behind his own desk, something between a grunt and a scoff. Harry ignored it.
Then Draco’s tone changed. “Now, can I have my phone back?”
Harry blinked, momentarily caught off guard, mostly because he had been staring. He moved around his desk, unlocked the cabinet, and handed over the sleek black smartphone. It lit up instantly in Draco’s hand—and so did the screen, notifications spilling in faster than Harry could read them. Dozens, maybe more.
Draco’s face went still.
For the briefest second, just a blink, something flickered across his features. Not smugness. Not charm. Something else. Tension. Cold calculation. Like a predator catching scent of something unexpected.
Harry opened his mouth, brows already furrowing to ask what was wrong—
—but Draco was already smiling again, all ease and velvet arrogance. “Looks like my company’s falling apart without me. I take one morning off and they start panicking.” He slipped the phone into his coat pocket and straightened his posture.
“I should get back. Deadlines don’t meet themselves.”
Harry offered half a step forward. “I can walk you out—”
“No need.” Draco waved him off with a gentle smile that somehow felt more final than polite. “I know the way. You get back to... saving the world, or whatever it is you’re doing these days.”
Then he turned and disappeared behind the lift doors, the only trace of his presence left being the subtle scent of whatever cologne he was wearing and the general disruption of Harry’s already thin sanity.
Harry let out a slow breath and sank into his chair just as Ron piped up from across the way.
“I don’t like it.”
Harry glanced over. “I know.”
Ron didn’t stop. “I mean, really, Harry. From all people, how come he gets some mystical special ability no one’s ever even heard of? ‘The Sight’—what even is that? And the way he walked in here like he’s run the place before. He knew all the protocols. Knew how to talk to Robards, knew what evidence you’d pulled. He even knew where the bloody vending machine was.”
Harry rubbed his temples.
“And what’s with the smiling?” Ron continued, clearly on a roll. “He smiled at everyone. He’s got all the lady Aurors wrapped around his finger already. Giggling like he’s Gilderoy fucking Lockhart.”
Harry finally cut in with a low sigh. “I don’t trust him either, Ron.”
That shut Ron up for a second.
Harry leaned back, staring up at the ceiling like it had answers. “I just… hope I’m not making the biggest mistake of my life.”
Because if he was, if Draco Malfoy turned out to be more than just a smug ex-Slytherin with a rare magical skill, if he was something else entirely…
He wasn’t sure if he'd be able to forgive himself.
And worse—he wasn’t sure if he wanted to.
Notes:
Yeah... Draco's hot okay
Draco: smiles*
Harry: Bastard
Draco: explains how he has a unique magical ability*
Ron/Robards: You're lying!
Harry: hey! Only I get to insult him!
Chapter Text
It had been two weeks. Two weeks of unanswered mail, quiet leads, and nights Harry spent buried neck-deep in paperwork with nothing to show for it except aching eyes and a growing unease in his gut. So when the call came in that morning about a new body—same circumstances, same method of death—Harry didn’t hesitate. The location was in central London, and like a moth to a flame, he found himself walking once again into the pristine lobby of LUXOR.
And no, he wasn’t exactly thrilled about it.
The moment he stepped through the sleek glass doors, every head turned. Again. Muggles in pressed suits and shiny shoes flicked their eyes up from laptops and clipboards, clearly puzzled by the man in worn jeans, scuffed boots, and a leather jacket like he’d just walked off the set of a very confused action film. He didn't blame them. The Ministry didn’t exactly issue a dress code for "visiting your maybe-suspect-maybe-consultant ex-nemesis in his Muggle tech empire."
Harry ignored the stares and walked toward the front desk out of habit, but paused mid-step.
There was a small group moving through the lobby like a school of fish, clipboards in hand, every single one of them hanging onto every word of the tall blond man in the center. Malfoy. He looked every inch the executive—navy suit, silver cufflinks, crisp posture, and that maddening confidence that made Harry’s jaw clench on instinct. Of course he was surrounded by people. Of course he was holding court. It was like watching a corporate version of a Malfoy family dinner: him, at the head of the table, commanding attention like he was born for it.
When Draco caught sight of him, he offered a polite smile to his entourage and dismissed them with a few soft-spoken words. They scattered like obedient ducklings, and Draco made a beeline for Harry—who immediately regretted not hexing himself unconscious instead.
He stopped just a few paces away, hands tucked casually in his pockets, the kind of man who knew he looked good and thrived in the knowledge.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” Draco said smoothly, that infuriatingly refined voice dripping with ease. “Apologies for not staying in touch. I’ve been dreadfully swamped—launching a new product, budget’s an absolute nightmare, the accounting team’s hopeless with decimal points…”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “Right. Well, I’m not here to micromanage your job. You’re free to do it however you please.”
Draco’s smile turned feline. He knew Harry didn’t understand half of what he was saying. But instead of twisting the knife, he tilted his head and said with mock curiosity, “So what brings you to the heart of Muggle London at noon on a Tuesday? Something tells me you’re not here to admire the architecture.”
The levity in his tone made Harry snap back into focus.
“There’s been another body,” he said plainly, watching Draco closely.
Just like before, no flicker of shock. No tension in his jaw. Nothing in his eyes except a blink—and then a nod, so smooth it could’ve been rehearsed.
“Then you caught me at a perfect time. I’m due for lunch anyway,” Draco said, already turning toward the exit. “Lead the way, Auror Potter.”
Harry didn’t move at first. He stared at Draco’s back, that perfectly pressed suit jacket and impossibly composed posture. He still didn’t know what unsettled him more: Draco’s indifference to death or how damn normal he seemed doing it.
But he did know one thing.
He needed answers—and whatever Draco Malfoy was hiding, Harry would rip it out of him even if he had to chase him through every glass tower in London.
The crime scene was chaos in muted colors—flashing cameras, murmuring Aurors, whispers of “He’s here” that followed Harry like a second skin. Not because of the murder. Not because of the body. Because of the car.
The car.
A sleek, obsidian thing with curves like sin and a purr so smooth it made even the enchanted carriages at Hogwarts seem outdated. Of course Malfoy insisted on taking his luxury monstrosity instead of letting Harry just side-along apparate them like a normal person. Now, every Muggle in a ten-block radius was staring, and every Auror at the scene was side-eyeing Harry like he was filming a Ministry-funded ad campaign.
Harry climbed out first, muttering curses under his breath. Malfoy followed, utterly unbothered. His navy suit somehow looked even more expensive under the alleyway’s grimy lighting. The tailored coat barely stirred as he moved, not even when he stepped around a puddle of something Harry really hoped wasn’t blood.
The yellow tape was standard. The Aurors flanking it were not.
“Malfoy’s with me,” Harry said, flashing his badge with a practiced flick.
They didn’t question it—though their expressions said they wanted to.
Ron was already on site, hunched over near the body. His head snapped up when he caught sight of Draco beside Harry. His scowl could’ve curdled pumpkin juice.
“You brought him?” he hissed under his breath.
Harry didn’t even glance at him. “Give me the profile.”
Ron grumbled, but obliged. “Male. Mid-forties. Magical. Works at a wand shop two streets over. No signs of a struggle. Drained core. Dumped here, same as the rest.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Doesn’t make sense. These aren’t random locations. They’re near shops, but never in the shops. Always dumped. Always clean. No witnesses. And the wards on the storefronts? Still perfectly intact.”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “Which means whoever’s doing this either knows how to bypass high-grade enchantments... or they’re getting help.”
Ron muttered something about how “none of this adds up” when a sharp voice cut through their conversation.
“Is that normal?” Draco asked, calm as ever.
They followed his gaze. The brick wall beside the body was shifting. Letters bled out of the surface like ink rising from beneath the stone. A glowing message in faint violet:
Miss me, Auror Potter?
Ron stiffened. “That... that wasn’t there before.”
“Forensics!” Harry barked. The team surged forward, snapping photos and casting preservation charms.
Harry crossed his arms, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Our killer’s getting bolder. First magical residue notes. Now enchanted graffiti? They’re trying to taunt me.”
He didn’t like how familiar it felt. Like the killer knew him. Like the killer wanted him.
Then he turned to Draco, jaw tight. “Alright. Your turn. Let’s see what the Sight’s good for.”
Draco smirked, of course. The bastard.
With a shrug, he stepped forward, the crowd instinctively parting for him as he walked up to the edge of the scene. He crouched beside the body with a grace that made Harry sick—like he wasn’t in a crime scene but an art gallery. Like death didn’t bother him at all.
Draco closed his eyes.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, his expression changed—subtle, but sharp. His brow furrowed slightly, like he was watching something only he could see. His fingers ghosted above the body, then swept toward the wall, tracing invisible patterns in the air. His breath hitched.
When he opened his eyes again, they were unreadable.
“Well?” Harry asked, already bracing for a smug retort.
Draco didn’t give him one.
Instead, in a low voice, he said, “There’s residue. Recent. Fresh. Layered.” He glanced up, almost to himself. “Whoever did this... they didn’t just drain him. They played with the magic. Bent it. Stretched it. Left traces on purpose.”
Harry frowned. “So they knew you’d be here?”
Draco stood, brushing off his coat. “No. But they knew someone would look. And they wanted to make sure they’d find something.”
He met Harry’s eyes.
“This isn’t just a murder, Potter. It’s a message. And it’s not just meant for you.”
Harry’s blood ran cold.
He didn’t say it—but something in his gut already agreed.
Whoever this killer was... they weren’t just hunting. They were performing.
Back at the Ministry, the air inside the conference room was thick with tension, the kind that wrapped around your chest and made breathing feel like a deliberate effort.
Harry walked in first, Draco trailing behind him with the ease of a man who didn’t belong yet owned every space he stepped into. Robards stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Ron and another Auror were already mid-brief, going over the latest findings on the new victim. The conversation didn’t stop as Draco entered, but Harry could feel the subtle shift in the room—the quiet undercurrent of curiosity, judgment, suspicion.
Draco didn’t flinch. He just strolled to a seat and sat down like this was any other boardroom meeting. The moment his coat hit the back of the chair, he turned to Harry and, with the smug serenity of someone asking for tea, requested a pen and paper.
Harry blinked. Then scowled. Seriously?
Still, he passed the materials over and took his seat, doing his best to focus on the update. But Draco wasn’t listening. Not at all. He was already leaning over the table, long fingers gliding across the page as he sketched something with the kind of focus that made Harry twitch. He nudged him. Nothing. He kicked his shin—lightly at first, then a bit harder.
Draco didn’t even glance up. His pen scratched on.
Harry leaned closer, muttering under his breath, “Could you maybe not get yourself hexed before we even hit lunch?”
Still nothing. Draco's head tilted slightly, and the pen danced faster.
By the time Ron finished his debrief, Harry was practically vibrating with secondhand anxiety. Robards looked like he was gearing up for one of his infamous rants, and Harry braced himself—until Draco, without a word, straightened in his chair with all the self-satisfaction of someone about to ruin everyone's day in the most productive way possible.
He slid the paper across the table.
The room stilled.
Everyone leaned in.
It wasn’t a doodle. It wasn’t some half-assed distraction.
It was a symbol.
Black ink curled into lines and edges that seemed nonsensical at first—chaotic spirals, jagged angles—but the longer they stared, the clearer it became. Coiled. Purposeful. Ron squinted and mumbled something about it looking like a snake twisted into a rune. Maybe a dragon. Maybe both.
Harry wasn’t sure what unsettled him more: the eerie familiarity of it… or how calm Draco looked.
Robards’ voice cut the silence. “What is that supposed to be?”
Draco didn’t even blink. “What the killer left behind,” he said smoothly. “That’s what I saw—both on the ring from Avery and in the magical residue on the wall today. The spellwork’s been heavily tampered with, but the signature’s still there. Embedded. Like a watermark.”
Silence rippled across the room like a held breath.
“If I’m right,” Draco continued, tapping the sketch with one finger, “you’ll find the same imprint on the belongings of the other victims. Just beneath the top layer of magic. Hidden, but not invisible.”
Robards didn’t hesitate. He barked out an order to a junior Auror to bring out the old evidence files—everything they’d recovered from the other scenes.
Harry could feel the shift in momentum. The energy in the room was electric now. Every Auror had their eyes on the sketch. On Draco. No one doubted he believed what he said. And that certainty... that was rare.
As the team scrambled into motion, Harry glanced at Draco.
He hadn’t moved. He just sat there, hands folded in his lap, calm and composed, like a man playing a game ten steps ahead of everyone else.
And Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow, without even trying, Draco Malfoy had just taken control of the entire investigation.
As the meeting wrapped and the noise died down in the conference room, Harry found himself walking Draco out through the Ministry’s polished corridors, even though Draco had already insisted—twice—that he didn’t need an escort.
But Harry had brushed that off.
"You’re the one who missed lunch because of me," he’d said gruffly, not quite meeting Draco’s eyes. "I’m not just going to toss you back onto the street."
Really, it wasn’t just about common courtesy. There was a gnawing feeling in his gut—like he owed Draco something. And that didn’t sit well with him at all.
Draco, ever the smug bastard, seemed delighted by the whole thing. He scrolled through his phone as they made their way through the Ministry lobby, notifications lighting up the screen like fireworks.
Harry had just started to relax—big mistake.
Out of nowhere, a man bumped hard into Draco. The guy wore a beat-up baseball cap, face mostly shadowed, his body twitchy and anxious like a cornered Kneazle. Draco instinctively stepped back, murmuring a quick “watch it,” but the moment he glanced down at the man, his whole demeanor shifted.
Harry noticed. “What is it—?”
Then the man jolted forward.
“Harry—oh Merlin, Harry—it’s really you—I—!”
The words were frantic, mumbled between gasps and broken reverence as he lunged, hands outstretched toward Harry. Before Harry could reach for his wand or even shove the man back, something happened.
The guy stopped mid-motion—body frozen, like he’d hit an invisible wall.
No.
Like he’d been caught.
Lifted.
By the scruff of his collar.
Harry stared in stunned disbelief.
Draco stood beside him, wand raised, his grip unwavering. His face—sweet, sly, smug Draco—was gone. What stared down at the man was something cold. Uncompromising. Dangerous.
It was like someone had flipped a switch.
There was nothing gentle in the way Draco held the man. He looked… lethal. Prepared. As though he wasn’t just reacting—he was anticipating.
Harry’s stomach twisted. He’d never seen Draco like that.
Not even during the war.
But before he could say anything, the Ministry guards descended in a blur of red robes and rigid protocol, quickly relieving Draco of his catch and dragging the man away.
Then, just as quickly, Draco turned to Harry and extended a hand like nothing had happened.
Harry blinked at it for half a second before taking it, letting Draco pull him upright with effortless strength.
He brushed himself off, scowling as he looked toward the struggling figure being manhandled across the lobby.
“Oh, not again,” he muttered.
Draco quirked a brow. “Friend of yours?”
Harry sighed. “More like my number one self-proclaimed fan. Shows up from time to time. Last I heard, he was barred from Ministry grounds.”
He turned to the guards. “How the hell did he get in?”
They scrambled to respond, tripping over excuses about security lapses and forged clearance. Harry just waved them off, exasperated. “Just get him out. And make sure he doesn’t come back. Again.”
Draco hummed as they resumed walking. “Does this happen often?”
“Unfortunately,” Harry muttered. “People seem to have a hard time letting go of their childhood war hero.”
Draco glanced sideways at him, lips twitching. “Oh, don’t be modest. You were so poster-worthy.”
Harry groaned, rubbing his eyes. “Please stop.”
“No, no, I remember now,” Draco went on with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “That heroic pose they used on the Chocolate Frog cards? Did you ever learn how to not broodingly stare into the distance?”
“I swear to Merlin—”
“But it’s okay, Potter,” Draco teased, glancing down at him with mock sympathy. “I still have mine.”
Harry choked. “You what?”
But Draco just feigned innocence, clasping his hands behind his back. “You’re very collectible, you know.”
Harry’s ears betrayed him—turning pink despite every effort to stay composed. He gritted his teeth. “Don’t you have a company to get back to?”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “My, my. So eager to get rid of me already?”
“I’m questioning all my life choices right now.”
Draco laughed—low, rich, infuriating.
“Good,” he said, turning on his heel as the lift dinged in the distance. “That means I’m doing my job.”
And just like that, he was gone, swallowed by the crowd of the Ministry, leaving Harry half-amused, half-annoyed, and entirely off balance.
As always.
When the weekend finally rolled around, Harry was clinging to consciousness by the frayed hem of his sanity.
His desk at the Ministry was an absolute disaster—layers upon layers of case files, half-drunk coffee cups, scattered memos, and a half-eaten sandwich that had been abandoned at some indeterminate hour two nights ago. His desk at home looked worse. The only difference was that the mess there was illuminated by the glow of the cursed corkboard he’d turned into a makeshift murder map. Photos of victims, strands of red string, circled addresses and scribbled notes formed a chaotic tapestry of obsession.
It was Hermione who finally cracked first.
She and Ron walked into his Grimmauld Place on Saturday afternoon—no knocking, of course—and found him frozen in place, staring at the board like if he stared hard enough it might start whispering secrets to him. Hermione stopped in the doorway, eyes wide, and muttered, “Oh no… he’s officially turned into that guy.”
Ron, bless him, looked mildly horrified. “He hasn’t put a tin hat on, so I think he’s still salvageable.”
Harry didn’t even respond. Just muttered something incomprehensible, his fingers twitching toward a folder on the desk like it held the key to all of life’s problems.
That was when Ron made the executive decision.
With the kind of physical strength only a best mate with years of experience dealing with Harry’s bullshit could muster, he physically dragged him out of the house. “Mate, I’m serious. If I left you in there one more night I swear I was going to find mushrooms growing on your back. The place smells like mildew and insanity.”
Harry grumbled, protesting like a grumpy old man. “If you’re not going to let me work, at least let me go home and sleep.”
“You mean lie in bed with your eyes open while mentally dissecting blood splatter patterns?” Hermione shot back, arms crossed. “Yeah, no thanks.”
Touché.
She still held the undefeated championship in “arguments Harry James Potter will never win,” a title she earned sometime around second year and had never relinquished.
So that’s how he found himself—war hero, top Head Auror candidate, serial killer obsessive, and barely-functioning human—standing grumpily in front of a bar like a hostage of friendship.
Ron clapped him on the back. “You’ll thank us later.”
“I’ll hex you now and thank you never,” Harry muttered.
But before he could make a break for it, Hermione had already opened the door and practically frog-marched him inside. And there, seated around a large table under soft warm lighting, were familiar faces.
Seamus. Dean. Ginny. Luna. Neville.
They all looked up with bright smiles and chorused, “Hey, Harry!”
Seamus grinned. “Bloody miracle they got you out of the Ministry. What was it this time, bribes or blackmail?”
Ron slumped into the seat next to Dean and grunted. “Rock-paper-scissors. I lost. Again. Next time, one of you lot can drag him out of his man-cave.”
Dean laughed. “Hey, I told you not to pick paper twice in a row. That’s on you.”
Harry blinked. “Wait, hold on—you all bet on who’d have to come fetch me? You turned my burnout into a game?”
Ginny, calm and cool as ever, didn’t even blink. “Of course we did. We’ve known you long enough to start laying odds.”
Harry opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off, flagging down the waiter. “Let’s order. The full gang’s here now.”
Harry sighed in defeat, rubbing a hand down his face, but when he looked around at the grinning, chaotic, slightly mad group of people who’d somehow stuck around for decades—through war, trauma, distance, and ridiculous schedules—he felt a warmth he hadn’t realized he missed.
Fine. One night. No case files. No corkboards. No serial killers.
Just friends.
The kind you can’t outrun, ouwit, or out-stubborn.
He could give them that much.
Maybe.
Luna, sweet mysterious Luna, was the first to ask, in that dreamy lilt of hers, “So, Harry… how are things going?”
Harry let out a groan that probably echoed straight into the afterlife, dragging his fingers down his face before taking a long sip of his beer. “I’m going to die,” he said flatly. “Like, any day now. Robards stuck me with a case that’s chewing my sanity alive, and I swear, I’m losing brain cells every time he yells at me. The man spits so much when he’s mad. It’s not yelling—it’s tactical drowning.”
Ron snorted. “And it’s not just the one case either. They’ve been stacking files on our desks like they think we’ve got four hands and zero need for sleep.”
Neville gave a sympathetic smile. “Sounds like the war didn’t exactly buy you a peaceful retirement.”
Ron huffed. “Retirement? The only thing that’s retired is my will to live.”
Then, with all the subtlety of a drama queen on stage, he said, “And as if that wasn’t enough, we ran into someone we all thought was long gone.”
The whole table leaned in. Chairs creaked. Drinks paused mid-air. Even Luna blinked out of her usual faraway haze. All except Hermione and Harry, who just kept sipping their drinks, already knowing where this was headed.
Ron, ever the dramatic sibling, let the suspense build, deliberately taking a sip from his butterbeer as if the room wasn’t vibrating with anticipation.
“Ron,” Ginny snapped, “cut the bullshit and spit it out. You’re not narrating a bloody murder mystery.”
“Bit more respect to your older brother wouldn’t kill you,” Ron muttered.
Ginny flipped him off with a sweet smile. “Love you too, Ronald.”
“Anyway,” he grumbled, “we followed a lead… and it brought us to Draco Malfoy.”
The collective gasp could’ve cracked the bar windows.
Dean blinked. “Malfoy?! Are you serious?”
Seamus leaned forward. “I thought that bloke was dead! It’s been fifteen bloody years!”
“Right?” Dean nodded. “I completely forgot he existed.”
Ron glanced sidelong at Harry, that smug older-brother-knows-you're-lying look. “And guess what Golden Boy here did.”
Harry threw his hands up, already exasperated. “What now?!”
“You hired him.”
The table exploded again.
“You what?” Dean choked.
“Excuse me?” Ginny squawked.
Even Luna’s eyebrows climbed to her hairline. “How curious.”
Hermione rolled her eyes but said nothing. She’d clearly seen this chaos coming from miles away.
Ron kept going, because of course he did. “Yeah. After we cleared him as a suspect, Harry—Potter, who’s supposed to be sane—decided to bring Malfoy on board. As a consultant.”
“Oh, it gets better,” he added, enjoying every second. “Malfoy’s been living in the Muggle world this whole time. Works in a bloody company. Wears these obnoxiously fitted suits and uses a… a… mo-bil-y.”
Hermione sighed. “It’s pronounced mobile, Ron.”
“Whatever!” Ron barked. “He’s still a git.”
Luna, radiant and unbothered, just smiled. “That’s actually wonderful news. I’m glad he’s doing well. Muggles are fascinating people. I imagine he fits in nicely.”
Someone scoffed.
All heads turned toward Harry.
He stared down at his drink, then up at everyone watching him, suspicious and smug.
“What?” he demanded.
Neville smiled a little awkwardly. “Well… I mean, last time we saw you near Malfoy, you were kind of—”
“—obsessed,” Ginny finished, sipping her wine with all the satisfaction of a sibling with dirt to spill. “Honestly, Harry, there were times I wasn’t sure if you fancied me or him more.”
The table erupted with cackles.
“Dean, back me up,” Ginny said.
Dean held up both hands like a surrender. “I mean, I thought it was a love-hate thing, but it got weird sometimes, mate.”
Seamus nodded vigorously. “Remember sixth year? That time Malfoy walked into the Great Hall and you stared at him for, like, a full minute? You looked like you were trying to kill him with your brain—or snog him into a wall.”
Luna nodded. “I always thought the tension between you two was very spiritually charged.”
“What tension?!” Harry sputtered, beet-red and scandalized.
“Oh, Harry,” Ginny laughed, patting his hand mock-sweetly. “You’ll come around eventually.”
Harry groaned, slumping further into his seat and muttering into his beer, “I am never bringing up Malfoy around any of you ever again.”
But the flush in his ears betrayed him, and everyone knew it.
Yeah. They definitely weren’t letting this one go.
A few drinks in—right when the noise had settled into that warm buzz of laughter and clinking glasses—Hermione tilted her head, eyes sharp and cutting through the fog of alcohol like a blade.
“Harry,” she said, voice casual but laced with intent, “what exactly happened in the Ministry lobby this week? I overheard a few coworkers talking. Something about a commotion? An attacker?”
And just like that, all eyes were on him again. The whole table snapped to attention like a synchronized spell.
Harry groaned internally. Outwardly, he just waved a hand like it was nothing. “It was nothing. Just some fan.”
The silence that followed was immediate and heavy. You could practically hear the frown lines forming on everyone’s foreheads.
“Are you still being stalked?” Seamus asked, dead serious for once.
Dean leaned forward. “Was it the same guy from last time?”
Ron looked downright offended. “And you didn’t think to mention it?!”
Harry raised both hands. “Because it was handled! Guards took the guy away. Situation resolved. No one was hurt, no need to panic—”
“I mean, Malfoy grabbed him before—” he cut himself off. Too late.
Ginny’s smirk was the stuff of nightmares. “Malfoy saved you?” she purred, voice low and way too pleased. “From a deranged stalker? Huh. Interesting…”
Harry groaned, facepalming. “Don’t. Don’t start. It wasn’t like that. He just happened to be walking with me when it happened—reflex, probably. He didn't save me. Stop making it weird.”
“Oh, mate, it’s already weird,” Seamus muttered, grinning into his pint.
“I still don’t trust him one bit,” Harry snapped, clearly flustered, “but… he might be helpful for the case, and that’s the only reason—”
“Uh huh,” Hermione said, nodding slowly, effectively cutting him off. Her expression was unreadable. Dangerous. Like a judge at a sentencing.
Ron, bless his oblivious soul, looked around in confusion. “Wait—what’s everyone implying? That Harry and Malfoy—?”
“Oh my God, Ronald,” Ginny groaned, exasperated. “Do we need to draw you a diagram?”
Thankfully—mercifully—Neville, the hero they didn’t deserve, cleared his throat. “Regardless of whatever that was,” he said kindly, “you need to be more careful, Harry. That’s what… the fourth incident this year?”
Dean nodded. “Yeah, it’s not funny anymore, mate. These people know where you work. That’s not just creepy—it’s dangerous.”
“I’m fine,” Harry said. “Really.”
They all gave him the look. That universal no-you’re-not look shared by friends who’ve seen you at your worst and lived to tell the tale.
He sighed. Drained his glass. Knew the conversation wasn’t over—only delayed.
Because whether or not he wanted to admit it… they were right. The attacks were getting worse. The killer was getting bolder.
And Malfoy—bloody Malfoy—might be the only one who could keep up.
Harry wasn’t planning on hiding—but it sure as hell felt like it.
He didn’t mean to bolt, not really. It was just… too much. All the worried eyes, the concern he didn’t know how to take, the way his name came up too easily when danger was involved. Leave it to him and his trauma to dodge vulnerability like it was the actual killer they were hunting. So he excused himself. Loo break. Classic cop-out.
The alcohol buzz made the walk a little more complicated than it should’ve been. Not drunk. Just… pleasantly unfocused. He had to concentrate on not tripping over his own feet—though he doubted anyone would notice even if he did. Everyone was too busy making jokes and connecting imaginary dots between him and bloody Malfoy.
He stumbled into the stall, the bathroom about as clean as you could expect from a bar—functional, vaguely damp, with the faint scent of cheap soap. When he was done and headed to the sink, the cool water helped sharpen his edges a bit. Good. He needed a breather.
Then the door creaked open behind him.
And the second he glanced at the mirror, he forgot how to breathe.
Because there, reflected over his shoulder with all the smugness of a man who absolutely knew what he was doing, stood Draco sodding Malfoy.
Harry’s brain straight up glitched. Completely froze.
Gone were the stiff suits and tie clips and spotless collars he’d grown used to seeing. Tonight, Malfoy looked like sin dressed in monochrome. The dark grey vest hugged his torso indecently well, black shirt sleeves rolled just past his forearms, held in place by sleeve garters—sleeve garters, for Merlin’s sake. No jacket. The top few buttons undone. Tie loosened. Hair slightly tousled, like someone had run their fingers through it.
It should’ve been illegal.
He looked too good. Way too good. And he was smirking like he knew it.
Harry wanted to punch him. Or maybe himself. Or the mirror. Anything to break the tension suddenly thickening in the air like magic before a storm.
“What are the odds, hmm?” Malfoy asked, voice low and amused as he leaned against the door, arms crossed. He looked like he belonged in a bloody cologne ad.
Harry rolled his eyes hard enough to sprain something. He turned back to the sink, finishing his hand washing just to have something to do. “I could ask you the same,” he muttered, feigning casual. “What are you doing here?”
Malfoy tilted his head, indulgent. “I asked first. But if you must know,” he sighed dramatically, “my department had a dinner. And as the director—unfortunately—I had to attend. We’re bar-hopping now.” He gestured vaguely with one hand. “Team bonding. Disgusting, isn’t it?”
Harry snorted. “I came out with some friends.”
“Mmh.” Draco stepped closer.
Too close.
Harry immediately backed up, instincts kicking in, but space was not on his side. The sink pressed into his lower back. Nowhere to go. And Malfoy was still coming.
His muscles tensed. He was seconds away from raising his wand or his knee—whichever struck first—when Draco stopped just close enough to hover.
And then.
He leaned in—not enough to touch, but enough to breathe him in. And he did. Actually sniffed.
Harry’s whole body went still. That was it. The final straw. He was about to go full Auror—
But then Draco pulled back with a mock-thoughtful hum and said, “Ugh. You’ve been drinking Cromley’s Gold Lager. You have terrible taste in beer, Potter.”
The audacity.
Harry blinked. Flushed. Then narrowed his eyes so fast the shift was almost audible. “Are you serious right now?”
Malfoy’s smile was infuriatingly innocent. “Deadly.”
“You sniffed me.”
“I analyzed you,” Draco corrected, preening slightly. “Very different.”
“Merlin, you are so—”
“—perceptive? Dashing? Irresistible?”
Harry groaned. “I was going to say insufferable.”
Malfoy gave him a long, slow look. Then, with that damn knowing smirk, he reached past Harry to the hand dryer and said, way too close to his ear, “You’ll come around, Potter. You always do.”
Harry’s heart stuttered in spite of himself.
Because that, that tone, that smirk, the way Malfoy carried himself like he was both predator and prize? That was dangerous.
And Harry wasn’t sure if he was more annoyed… or intrigued.
The moment Draco stepped into the stall, Harry bolted—like an idiot. He didn’t think. Didn’t plan. Just fled.
He practically sprinted back to the booth like a fugitive, heart still pounding like he’d seen a Boggart, and not a smug, unfairly hot ex-nemesis sniffing him like he was a vintage wine. He dropped into his seat with the grace of a collapsing bookshelf and immediately started scanning the room, eyes darting from table to table like he was searching for Death Eaters in disguise.
“Why were you gone so long?” Hermione asked, arching an eyebrow over her drink. “And why are you looking around like Voldemort’s resurrected and you’re the only one who knows?”
Harry gave the most unconvincing laugh in the history of lies. “It’s nothing. Just… bathroom line.” Then, without even trying to be subtle, “Hey, maybe we should head to a different bar. This one’s kind of crowded, don’t you think?”
Dean gave him a suspicious look. “Crowded? Mate, half the tables are empty.”
Ginny leaned forward, scrutinizing him. “You look kind of red. Are you okay? Maybe you’ve had one too many.”
“Or,” Luna said dreamily, “he might’ve attracted a curious Glimmerstalk. They only show up when you’re hiding something emotionally charged.”
Harry gave her a tight smile. “Great. Thanks. Maybe I just need to get some air.”
But he didn’t move—because right then, the universe kicked him in the arse again.
Draco Malfoy stepped out of the bathroom.
Harry’s eyes locked onto him instantly. The smug bastard was back to business mode, clothes straightened up, that same angelic, polite smile back in place like the bathroom incident had never happened. He made his way to a booth a few tables down, sliding effortlessly into a seat among what had to be his coworkers—young, polished-looking professionals who hung on his every word like he was Merlin reincarnated.
Malfoy glanced around once.
Then, of course, his eyes found Harry.
Like he’d known exactly where he was the whole time.
Harry realized he’d been staring too long when Seamus blurted, “Bloody hell, it is Malfoy! And he’s alive!”
Dean leaned forward, jaw slack. “And working with Muggles? What the hell—he looks like someone cut him out of a bloody magazine.”
Ginny didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, well, muggle life’s done him good. I’d totally go for that.”
Harry nearly choked on his drink. “Excuse me?!”
She shrugged, utterly unapologetic. “What? I’m just saying the truth. He’s hot. Like, corporate villain with a tragic past hot.”
Ron looked scandalized. “You can’t just say that!”
Ginny rolled her eyes. “I’m a grown woman, Ronald. I’ll oogle whoever I want.”
Luna, as serene as ever, murmured, “He seems happy now.”
Neville nodded. “Yeah. Good for him.”
Harry wanted to die. The entire table was talking about how hot Draco Malfoy was, as if that wasn’t going to give him a complex for the next decade.
Hermione, who had stayed quiet up until then, took a gentle sip of her wine and smirked. “Oh, let Harry be,” she said lightly. “He’s just flustered probably because he stumbled upon Malfoy in the loo.”
Harry turned to her in horror. “Hermione.”
The table exploded with laughter.
Ginny cackled. “Oh, really? So he saved you from a stalker and he’s getting handsy in public restrooms now? I like this new Malfoy. If you’re not going to tap that arse, Harry, I absolutely will.”
“GINNY—!”
Harry groaned, burying his face in his hands as the teasing reached critical levels. From the corner of his eye, he could feel Malfoy’s gaze again. He dared a glance.
And of course, Malfoy was smiling wider now. That too-perfect, know-it-all smile that said, yes, I heard every word. The smug twat.
Mercifully, Draco stood, grabbed his suit jacket, and addressed his coworkers with a charming little “See you Monday,” like he hadn’t just lit Harry’s entire evening on fire. They all looked devastated at his departure, watching him go like schoolgirls watching a boyband walk off stage.
Harry tried so hard not to watch him leave.
He failed.
When he turned back to the table, all eyes—except Ron’s—were locked on him with knowing expressions. Ginny looked one second away from making another “tap that” comment.
He wanted to sink into the floor. He wanted to Obliviate everyone. He wanted to hex himself. Or maybe Malfoy. Or both.
Coming tonight?
Definitely not a good idea.
Notes:
Ginny knows her game. Argue with he wall
Chapter Text
The air in Knockturn Alley always seemed to cling to the skin—thick, greasy, and sour. Harry had long since stopped trying to scrub the stench of decay and damp from his robes after assignments here. It was just part of the territory. A month had passed since the disaster of that bar night, and though he hadn’t seen Draco since, the image of sleeve garters and a devil-may-care smirk still haunted his brain like an inconvenient ghost. So of course, burying himself in cases was the only sensible thing to do.
At least this one was simpler. On the surface, anyway.
Harry stood beside Ron inside the cramped, poorly lit apothecary tucked between two collapsing buildings, the sign above their heads barely legible and the glass display smudged with Merlin-knew-what. They were waiting for the owner, following a report about illegal potion sales circulating through Hogwarts’ student body. Students collapsing after quidditch afterparties had triggered Minerva’s alarm bells. She’d written them personally, and that was all it took. You didn’t say no to McGonagall. Not then, not now.
Harry shifted his weight and adjusted the strap around his neck, letting his Auror badge swing against his chest. It felt too shiny in this place, too clean. Too obvious.
“How many times have we asked the ministry to redesign these bloody robes?” he muttered to Ron.
“They think red makes us look brave,” Ron replied. “I think it makes us look like hexable targets.”
Harry gave a dry grunt of agreement just as the apothecary’s back curtain shifted and a man emerged. Wiry, twitchy fingers, thinning hair, eyes like twitching needles. The moment he spotted their badges, his forced smile faltered.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?”
Ron, used to Harry’s knack for scaring suspects into silence, took the lead. “Routine questioning. We’ve had reports of potion-based substances doing the rounds with underage wizards. Know anything about that?”
The man sputtered. “O-of course not. Strictly licensed—legit potions only here. I’ve got the papers—”
Harry ignored the chatter. Instead, he let his eyes wander. Knockturn Alley shops were all about the things they didn’t put out in plain sight, but sometimes, the most damning evidence was hiding in plain packaging.
His eyes landed on a dusty shelf tucked in the corner, bizarrely out of place with its bright, cheerful display of sweets. Chocolate frogs, rainbow drops, fizzing whizbees—all stock that belonged more in a Honeydukes window than here. His brows furrowed.
“You sell candy now?” he asked, taking a slow step toward it.
The man stiffened. “Y-you’d be surprised, Auror Potter. Adults love their sugar. Helps with business.”
“In Knockturn?” Harry’s tone was skeptical. “Where kids aren’t allowed and half your clientele look like they have teeth cursed out of their skulls?”
The man laughed nervously. “It, uh… it helps.”
Ron was wrapping things up with the usual warning spiel, but Harry wasn’t done. Something itched at the back of his mind—something about the candy shelf.
Then he saw it.
A familiar candy wrapper—silver with a twisting red stripe along the edge. Harmless-looking, unless you’d already seen one poking from the bag of a fifteen-year-old Hufflepuff girl nearly comatose in the hospital wing. Pomfrey hadn’t known what she’d taken. Harry hadn’t either.
Until now.
He turned slowly, eyes locking on the shopkeeper—and immediately knew.
The man’s smile had vanished. He was already watching Harry. His body taut. Feet shifting. Eyes flicking to the door.
Harry took a single step forward.
The man bolted.
“Shit—Ron!” Harry barked, and they were off.
The chase erupted into the alley like a spell gone wrong. The suspect shoved a barrel of soot over as he ran, forcing Harry to leap over it. Ron swore behind him, dodging crates and scowling patrons as they careened down narrow streets. Passersby cursed and leapt out of the way. Harry’s boots thundered against the stones, wand drawn.
Knockturn Alley was not made for chasing people.
The cobbled paths were uneven, the buildings hunched and too close together, and the smell—Merlin, the smell—was enough to make your eyes water if you weren’t careful. But Harry didn’t care. His boots slammed against the stone as he dashed past cloaked figures, carts stacked with suspicious powders, and dark corners that whispered curses. All that mattered right now was catching the bastard who thought selling poison disguised as sweets to teenagers was profitable.
They twisted around corners, past boarded windows and sagging doorframes. The shopkeeper was fast—but Harry was faster.
The man skidded down a stairway into a darkened side alley, nearly tumbling. He aimed his wand and fired a Stupefy blindly over his shoulder—Harry ducked, the spell cracking the brick wall beside his head.
“You’re only making this worse!” Harry shouted.
“Ron, he’s heading toward the back alleys!” Harry shouted over his shoulder, wand in hand. A burst of red light flew past him from Ron’s direction, just barely missing the fleeing man’s feet. “Try not to kill him, yeah?!”
Ron huffed behind him. “Not making promises if he makes me run for more than five minutes!”
They darted past a street vendor who screamed bloody murder when Harry overturned his cart in pursuit. A blur of movement—then the man made a sharp turn into a narrow passage between two leaning buildings.
Harry followed.
And regretted it instantly.
The passage was barely shoulder-width. The walls scraped at his robes and cloak, and he nearly tripped over a loose brick.
The man didn’t stop.
But he made a mistake.
He turned into a dead-end.
The wall reared up, tall and unyielding. He tried to climb it—foolish. By the time he scrambled halfway up, Harry was already there.
“Expelliarmus!”
The wand flew. The man dropped. Harry shoved him to the ground and pressed his own wand to the man’s temple.
“Going somewhere?” he panted.
The man was wheezing, panicked eyes darting between Harry and the fence. Then Ron came barreling over, red in the face and gasping like a winded hippogriff. “You… are not… paid enough for this…”
Harry ignored him. “You’re under arrest for the distribution of unregistered potion substances, intent to harm underage witches and wizards, obstruction of justice—shall I go on?”
The man whimpered. “I—it was just sugar—”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “Try again. I’ve got six students in St. Mungo’s and a school full of terrified parents who’d love to hear more about your sweets.”
The man went pale.
Ron approached them, red-faced, breathless, and wheezing. “If you’re… done playing savior… we have paperwork to file.”
Harry didn’t answer. He was staring at the candy wrapper still clutched in his hand.
Ron bound his hands with a flick of his wand. “You know, if you hadn’t run, this would’ve been a lot easier.”
“But much less satisfying,” Harry muttered.
Once the suspect was secured and they were heading back to the apothecary for evidence collection, Ron nudged Harry with his elbow.
“You alright?”
Harry nodded but didn’t speak.
Ron didn’t press. He knew that look—tight shoulders, sharp focus, eyes flickering with something too intense. The first time Harry looked like that, they were hunting Death Eaters in Albania.
Fifteen years post-war, and the darkness had simply changed masks.
But Harry?
He was still chasing it.
Back in the ministry, the sterile hum of enchanted ceiling lights and shuffling parchment did little to help Harry’s headache. Ron had already handed off their suspect to another Auror for processing—thank Merlin for that—and Harry had dragged himself back to his desk, fingers already twitching at the thought of the report he’d have to write.
Paperwork.
The bane of his entire existence.
For all the chaos, duels, and undercover stings, it was the dull ache of administrative duty that truly aged him. He’d take surveillance over documentation any day. Even patrolling Knockturn at midnight during a storm sounded preferable to this. But no, solve a case, and suddenly you're rewarded with three forms, two witness statements, and an incident summary, all in triplicate.
He groaned quietly, scribbling down the basics. Time of arrest. Suspect behavior. Statement. He wasn’t even allowed to handle the interrogation unless the bloke turned out to be stubborn enough to require Harry’s reputation. Robards had made sure of that.
Unofficially, of course.
Something about Harry being “a little too enthusiastic” in the past. Which was just a fancy way of saying "You scared the suspect so bad he cried, and now we’re being watched." Again—not his fault. If people didn’t want to be hexed into confessing, they shouldn’t poison school kids. He blamed his childhood trauma. And maybe a bit of inherited rage.
He was halfway through grumbling over phrasing when a sharp knock on the edge of his desk made him look up.
It was Amy Lim.
Tall, broad-shouldered, practically carved from stone—the kind of witch who looked like she could bench press a dragon and wouldn’t flinch while doing it. Harry had never seen her smile. He wasn't even sure she could. But she was one of the best Aurors he’d worked with, and the moment Robards gave him the freedom to build a team, she’d been at the top of his list.
So when Amy looked rattled, he knew something was up.
“What is it?” he asked, already straightening.
“We’ve got something on the serial killer case,” she said briskly. “We finally came up with a name.”
Harry blinked. “A name? For the killer?”
“For the case,” she clarified. “You know. Press wants something. It’s cheesy, but it works.”
He grunted. “Let me guess—‘The Alleyway Butcher’? ‘The Muggle Mask’?”
Amy rolled her eyes. “The Serpent’s Shadow.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Melodramatic. But… fitting.”
She didn’t smile. Of course she didn’t.
“What’s the lead?” he asked, standing.
Amy handed him a file. “Thomas Avery.”
Harry flipped it open, brow furrowing. “Avery? Again? I thought we went over this—his father was a Death Eater, sure, but the kid barely had a record. No signs of activity. No confirmed links. The guy was practically a ghost.”
Her voice dropped just slightly. “We thought so. But it seems he was hiding more than we knew. One of the new recruits cross-referenced some older documents—unsealed logs from before the Ministry’s purge back in '06. Turns out Thomas Avery might’ve been a courier.”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “Courier for who?”
She met his gaze. “Not who. What. He was moving objects. Cursed items. Dark artifacts.”
He swore under his breath, flipping the file again, eyes racing across the text. “And no one caught this before?”
“It was hidden. Erased, actually. Someone scrubbed his records clean. We only found it because the new guy was tracing the last known location of one of the artifacts.”
“And?”
“And it showed up in his flat.”
Harry’s pulse kicked. This wasn’t just coincidence. This was deliberate. Someone had helped Avery disappear, clean his trail, cover him in enough innocence to keep him out of suspicion—and now he was dead with a cursed ring on his finger and a magic residue that matched five other victims.
Which meant...
Harry looked up. “Where’s Malfoy?”
Her expression didn’t change, but her posture stiffened. “Why?”
Harry grabbed his wand and holster. “Because the only person who noticed the residue’s magical signature... was him.”
And if Malfoy had seen something once…
Then he might be the only one who could see what came next.
Harry stormed into LUXOR like a stormcloud in boots, moving with the kind of determination that made security guards itch for their radios. For once, he wasn’t in Auror robes—he’d at least had the foresight to throw on a jacket—but his badge hung around his neck like a neon sign that screamed trouble. He wasn’t here for pleasantries. He wasn’t here for protocol.
He was here for answers.
The poor receptionist looked up, and her eyes widened in a very I-was-not-trained-for-this kind of way. He slammed the badge down on the counter, the magic shimmer of the enchantment adjusting instantly to match local enforcement clearance.
“Malfoy. Now,” he snapped.
She fumbled for the phone like it was a live wire, her fingers trembling as she dialed through to his office. “M-Mr. Malfoy,” she stammered. “There’s… an officer here to see you.” A pause. Then she stood, clearly relieved she wasn’t about to get yelled at. “He’s expecting you. I’ll let you through.”
The sleek little security gate hissed open once she tapped her ID to the scanner. He didn’t bother thanking her—didn’t have time to—and instead made a beeline for the lift. Thirteenth floor. He'd remembered it was the bloody thirteenth. Malfoy had to be dramatic even with his office placement.
The moment the doors opened, it was déjà vu. Heads turned. Whispers bloomed like wildflowers in his wake. Everyone had the same look: curiosity with a hint of fear. Because a cop like Harry Potter in a corporate office meant something was going down. And no one wanted to be caught in the crossfire.
He didn’t knock. He didn’t pause.
He burst through those pretentious wooden doors and marched straight up to the desk where Draco Malfoy sat like a smug little monarch, London’s skyline sprawling behind him like a crown.
“Potter,” Draco greeted, glancing up from his paperwork, lips curling into a knowing smile. “What brings you here this time? Don’t tell me there’s another victim already.”
Harry slammed his palms down on the desk, hard. “Cut the act.”
Draco raised an elegant brow. “Pardon?”
“You knew Avery. Knew more than you told us. And now you’re playing consultant on a case you’re way too comfortable with. So tell me—what the hell are you hiding?”
Draco tilted his head, almost intrigued. That damned smile didn’t fade—it sharpened. “Merlin, you’re intense today,” he murmured. “It’s cute. You get this little line between your brows when you’re trying not to explode.”
Harry’s jaw clenched. “Malfoy—”
“I’m not playing around, Potter,” Draco interrupted, voice lower now. “But fine. You want answers?” He leaned back casually, reached into the drawer behind him, and pulled out a stack of receipts. Tossed them onto the desk with a thud.
Harry blinked. “What’s this?”
“Alibi,” Draco said smoothly. “Company dinner. Look at the dates and timestamps. You’ll find I was eating overpriced steak and pretending to laugh at corporate jokes the night Avery died. You’re welcome to question anyone on my team. They were all there.”
Harry flipped through the receipts. The times matched. The date matched. He hated how neat it was.
“Think about it,” Draco went on, voice silk and steel. “You think I murdered Avery, erased his ties to Death Eaters from Ministry records, and then what? Offered myself as a consultant to you? That's quite the compliment, Potter. I didn’t think you held me in such high regard.”
Harry scowled, practically growling. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Draco’s smile widened. “Too late.”
Harry shoved the receipts back across the desk. His mood had tanked and now he was just left with more frustration and no leads.
He turned to leave, pausing only at the doorway.
“This isn’t over.”
Draco’s voice followed him out like a smirk pressed to his ear.
“I’d be disappointed if it was.”
When Harry stomped back into the Ministry, he dropped into his chair with the grace of a falling Bludger. Ron was already there, arms crossed and wearing that look—half concern, half what now?—that Harry had seen way too many times. Before Ron could even open his mouth, Harry muttered darkly, “Malfoy.”
Ron blinked, then just nodded in understanding like that explained everything.
But what really threw Harry wasn’t the sympathy—it was what Ron said next.
“Maybe,” Ron started, cautiously, “you should… let Malfoy off the hook this time.”
Harry nearly whiplashed upright in disbelief. “What?”
“I mean,” Ron said with an awkward shrug, “doesn’t mean I like the guy, but come on. He’s been living like a bloody accountant for the past fifteen years. Ever since that night at the bar… he seems like he’s actually just, you know—normal. Annoying, posh, still a git—but normal.”
Harry stared at him like he’d just confessed to being a Death Eater. Ron. Ron Weasley. Was defending Draco Malfoy.
“Are you seriously saying you believe him?” Harry asked, eyes narrowing.
Ron rolled his eyes. “I’m saying that if he was the killer, it doesn’t make sense that he’d wait over a decade to start picking people off. Not when he had the perfect chance to disappear for good. Why come back into the light, work with you of all people, and risk everything just to leave breadcrumbs?”
Harry had no comeback. Because… he wasn’t wrong.
The receipts. The alibi. The smile that made him want to throw something through a window. Maybe—just maybe—he had overreacted. Malfoy had even bought him shawarma when he’d caught him spying, for Merlin’s sake. If that wasn’t proof of innocence, it was at least a gesture Harry hadn’t expected. And now that he thought about it... storming into a Muggle corporate building, flashing a badge, and slamming hands on Malfoy’s desk probably hadn’t been the most rational move.
That’s how he found himself, hours later, back in front of LUXOR. Just standing there like a complete idiot.
The lights on the thirteenth floor were the last to go out. Of course. Always the bloody thirteenth. Harry leaned against a pillar outside the building, arms crossed, face unreadable except for the storm behind his eyes.
Then the glass doors slid open.
Draco Malfoy stepped out—polished, composed, and entirely too attractive for someone who had probably been staring at spreadsheets for ten hours. Pinstripe suit, vest tailored to within an inch of his life, hair slightly tousled like he'd just run a hand through it, and car keys dangling between his fingers.
He stopped when he saw Harry. Raised an eyebrow. Smiled.
“Well, well,” he drawled. “What did I do to deserve the one and only Harry Potter… twice in a single day?”
Harry didn’t flinch. His arms stayed crossed, his posture tense. “I remembered I never paid you back for the shawarma,” he said, tone clipped. “I hate feeling indebted.”
Draco’s smile widened. “Look at you. All serious and mature now. I’m almost proud.”
Harry scoffed. “It’s a one-time offer. Take it or leave it.”
That damned innocent smile slipped right into place again. The one Harry hated more every time he saw it—because he couldn’t tell if it was genuine or just part of Malfoy’s lifelong hobby of driving him insane.
Draco tilted his head. “Well then,” he said, eyes glinting. “What are we waiting for?”
He gestured for Harry to follow him toward the car.
And Merlin, what a car.
The interior smelled like expensive leather and lavender, and the seats were so soft they made Harry feel like he was being seduced by upholstery. As they pulled out of the parking lot, he shifted awkwardly and muttered, “I've been thinking about this for a while but, since when do you even know how to drive?”
Draco gave him a look from the corner of his eye. “Fifteen years living among Muggles teaches you a thing or two. I even make coffee now. From scratch.”
“Gods forbid,” Harry mumbled, and silence settled for a while.
It was… weird. This was the first time they were alone. Not because of work, not because of some incident. Just… two people, in a car, going out for food.
Harry glanced over. Draco looked like money. Like calm. Like everything he wasn’t. And it pissed him off how good he looked doing nothing at all.
Then, the soft hum of a familiar melody started as Draco turned on the radio. Harry’s head tilted. “Wait… is that Queen?”
Draco chuckled. “Discovered them while learning about Muggle culture. Fell in love with the music. 70s and 80s rock has a certain flair.”
Harry let out a low hum. “Found a box of old vinyls at Grimmauld. They were Sirius’. Haven’t stopped listening since.”
Draco glanced at him, expression unreadable. “Guess we have something in common then.”
Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
They pulled up to the restaurant. A little hole-in-the-wall joint Harry knew for its dumplings. As they stepped out, Harry gestured with his chin. “Hope you like dumplings.”
Draco smirked. “I’ll try not to be too disappointed if they’re not up to shawarma standards.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Don’t push your luck.”
But there was a flicker—just a flicker—of something different in the air between them.
And for once, Harry didn’t hate it.
Harry hadn’t planned for this. He wasn’t the kind of person who made space in his schedule for anything that wasn’t tied to a case file, a crime scene, or the never-ending paperwork that haunted him like a curse. And yet, here he was—weeks after that first dumpling night—somehow stuck in what had become a ritual.
Every Tuesday. Dinner. With Draco bloody Malfoy.
It wasn’t even something they ever officially agreed to. No solemn vow, no half-assed promise. Just… a rhythm that formed. One week after dumplings, Harry walked out of the Ministry and found Malfoy waiting by the curb, leaning against yet another car like he was filming a Muggle cologne advert. No words, no smug announcement. Just a flick of keys and a look that said get in, Potter.
Next thing he knew, Harry was in the passenger seat of a sleek navy Jag, heading toward a Thai place tucked into some alley that Draco apparently “read reviews about.” Then it was Korean BBQ. Then Moroccan tagines. Then some tiny Lebanese spot that Harry still dreamed about.
Now it was Tuesday again, and Harry was slipping his jacket on and waving Ron off with some half-assed excuse about being tired. Ron raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve been leaving on time a lot lately,” he noted, suspicious but not quite accusatory.
Harry just gave a lopsided smile and said, “Trying to adult properly for once. Don't jinx it.”
Ron shrugged. “Weird. But goodnight, I guess. Don’t let the paperwork eat you in your sleep.”
“Wouldn’t be the worst way to go,” Harry muttered, slipping out into the street.
Their meeting point was a few blocks down, because of course Harry had refused to let Malfoy pull up outside the Ministry like some celebrity arriving at a red carpet event. It was bad enough the guy drove a different fancy car every week—he didn’t need the entire Auror department speculating about who Harry was “secretly dating.”
Draco was already there. Of course. Standing against a champagne-colored car, dressed in a tan suit and a black turtleneck like some kind of bloody model off a fashion runway, with his hair annoyingly perfect despite the wind.
That smile greeted him. The one that knew too much, said too little, and made Harry's chest feel like it was being poked by a very smug, very sharp stick.
“Evening, Potter,” Draco purred, casual as anything.
Harry rolled his eyes, got in the car, and buckled in. “So, what are we eating today, your highness?”
Draco chuckled. “Portuguese. I found a place in Soho. Family-owned. No reservations. Cozy atmosphere. You’ll hate it.”
Harry snorted, relaxing just a little as Bowie began to play through the speakers. “You’re getting good at predicting my reactions.”
Draco shot him a look. “I’m not psychic, Potter. You’re just painfully consistent.”
“Rude.”
“Truthful.”
And that was the thing. Somehow, amidst the war memories, the professional distance, and the murder investigations—they’d found a strange sort of… ease. The jabs weren’t barbed anymore. The silences weren’t awkward. And Harry… Harry was starting to feel the weight in his chest lift every time Bowie started playing and Malfoy pulled out onto the road.
He was getting too used to this. The food. The conversation. The low hum of the engine and Malfoy’s voice, calm and smug and frustratingly comforting.
Too used to it.
But he wasn’t about to admit that.
Not yet.
The table they picked was, as always, tucked in the quietest, darkest corner of the restaurant—just enough out of the way that no one would notice them unless they were really looking. Which, unfortunately, people tended to do when a luxury car was parked out front like it belonged to a Bond villain, and two decently attractive men in expensive coats were sipping wine and eyeing menus like the food might offend them.
Still, Harry had learned to ignore the curious stares. Let them speculate. He and Draco had developed a rhythm—soft banter, shared glances over food they’d never heard of, and the kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled.
They were browsing the menu, conversation lazily flowing between them—Draco critiquing the wine selection, Harry mocking his high standards—when a voice chimed in.
"Harry?"
Both their heads turned.
A girl with chestnut curls and wide, porcelain-doll eyes stood a few feet away, beaming at Harry like he'd just stepped out of a dream.
Harry blinked. Recognition flickered in his eyes, and then came the silent curse of someone trying to place a name with a face that had clearly erased itself from memory. After a beat, he murmured, "Silvia?"
The girl gave a dramatic little gasp. "You do remember! Barely, but I guess it still counts."
Harry laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Of course I remember. You look... great. What are you doing here?"
Silvia giggled, brushing some hair behind her ear. "Love this place. Came with a few friends. And you?"
She turned her attention toward Draco, eyes twinkling with curiosity. "Out with a friend too?"
She didn’t recognize him. How curious.
Harry nodded, trying not to look like he wanted to vanish into the floor. “Yeah. We’re just—grabbing dinner.”
Draco turned on that weaponized smile. The one Harry had seen melt boardrooms and charm entire floors of muggles into thinking he was the perfect man. “Draco Malfoy. Pleasure.”
The way Silvia lit up, Harry could feel her swooning.
Harry gave Draco a subtle, murderous side-eye. He ignored it entirely.
“And how do you two know each other?” Draco asked, voice all honey and teeth.
Harry opened his mouth—too slowly, apparently.
“Oh, we used to date,” Silvia sang, beating him to it.
Harry nearly choked on air.
Draco’s smile sharpened, still pleasant but now with just enough bite to draw blood. “Did you?”
“We did,” Silvia confirmed. “Ages ago. He was a total workaholic, though. Always had one foot out the door. But maybe he’s mellowed out now?” She gave a hopeful glance at Harry. “Looks like you’re finally making time for friends.”
Harry forced a laugh. “Still drowning in work, trust me.”
Silvia didn’t look convinced. She smiled again—sickly sweet—and rested a hand on his shoulder like she still had a claim. “Well, we should catch up sometime. Floo address?”
Harry gave a vague noncommittal hum and nodded. It was the kind of answer that meant please don’t call me but I’m too polite to say it.
When she finally walked away—swaying just a little extra, Harry noted—he let out a breath and turned to Draco.
Big mistake.
Draco was back to that smile. The one that said he knew something Harry didn’t want him to. The kind that could skin you alive without lifting a wand.
“Didn’t know you had such a colorful past, Potter. Exes crawling out of the woodwork to remind you how charming you used to be.”
Harry groaned. “She’s an old acquaintance of Ginny’s. We went out a few times, realized we had zero chemistry, and called it off. That’s it.”
Draco just hummed, sipping his wine like it didn’t taste like jealousy and regret.
Harry picked at his food when it arrived, appetite thoroughly killed.
Draco never said another word about it—but he didn’t have to.
That smile stayed long after Silvia had left.
The next morning was cruel. The kind of cruel that didn't slap you across the face, but slipped in quietly, like fog seeping under your skin and turning your insides cold. Harry Potter sat hunched at his desk, staring at a stack of parchment he hadn't touched in an hour, and all he could think about was how quiet last night had been.
How quiet Draco had been.
Dinner had been a disaster. Not even dramatic, loud, explosive disaster—just the awkward kind. The kind that lingered like bad perfume and made your skin itch.
They barely spoke after Silvia showed up, and that silence had stretched all the way to Grimmauld Place. Harry had mumbled a thanks as he stepped out of the car. Draco, for once, didn’t flirt. Didn’t tease. Didn’t even smirk.
He just said, “Good night, Potter,” and drove away.
The words echoed louder than they should’ve.
So here Harry was, sulking into his lukewarm coffee like a heartbroken teenager, trying not to admit that maybe—just maybe—he’d grown used to those damn Tuesday dinners.
Hermione was the first to catch the storm cloud hovering above him. She stood next to Ron’s desk, clearly having popped by on her break, and her bright smile faltered the second she got a good look at him.
“Merlin, Harry, what happened? You look like someone murdered your dog.”
Ron chimed in, snorting. “Yeah, or like he became the dog and then got kicked.”
Harry rubbed his temples and muttered, “Just had a rough night, that’s all.”
He wasn’t about to tell them he’d had dinner with Malfoy and ran into an ex and now everything felt like it was dipped in acid. No way. He’d rather fight a Hungarian Horntail barehanded.
Hermione, of course, wasn’t buying it.
She stepped closer, voice soft and full of that steady, unshakable concern only she could manage. “Maybe take the morning off. You look exhausted, Harry.”
Ron nodded, unusually serious. “You’ve looked better, mate. And I’ve seen you hungover during Yule Ball week.”
Harry looked between them—Hermione with her warm eyes and gentle patience, Ron with his lopsided grin and quiet loyalty—and felt the familiar lump in his throat. Not sadness. Just... gratitude. The kind that doesn’t need words, only the silent acknowledgment that these two have always had his back, even when he didn’t ask.
He sighed, walking over to Hermione and grabbing her hands. “I’m really fine. Promise. If it gets worse, I’ll go home.”
She gave him the look—that terrifying, all-seeing mum look—but finally just squeezed his hands and nodded.
Ron, being Ron, immediately whined, “Why don’t I get sent home to rest?”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Because you sleep eight hours a night, hit snooze five times every morning, and nap after lunch like a toddler.”
Ron clutched his chest. “My own wife! Betrayed me in front of our best friend!”
Harry snorted, actually laughed, and for a second the gloom lifted.
But the universe wasn’t done being cruel.
Because just as he settled in to try actually working, Amy—sharp, stone-faced Amy—appeared at his desk with a look that instantly set off every internal alarm.
Without a word, Harry stood. Ron was already rising too, a shared glance passing between them, years of partnership making words unnecessary.
Another victim.
That look in Amy’s eyes said it all.
Harry grabbed his jacket, his wand, and his badge. Ron was already out the door, headed to the scene.
Harry?
He turned on his heel.
Time to go get the consultant.
Notes:
Fun fact, while writing this story I didn't really have any live action fancast in mind but instead was thinking about animated/drawn characters from manhwas, mangas, comics and even fanarts. For Amy's character in particular idk why but I just kept thinking on Maki from jjk
Also yeah draco is quite a car lover here. Owns a shit ton of them because he can and has the money to buy them and it drives Harry crazy (no pun intended). For which I also wanted to just give a little reminder that Draco is NOT a CEO here. He's a finance director. He doesn't own or run the company he works for but does have a pretty high position nevertheless. He did earn that with his hard work. Didn't hypnotize anyone to give it to him but had to learn and start from the ground up with fake documentation of course and since he's naturally good at finances cuz of his background as a rich kid he climbed the ladder pretty quick.
Finally, I just wanted to remind everyone that this fic is DARK. don't get fooled by the cliches and tropes and jokes. This is a murder mystery where Draco is a serial killer and has a very VERY broken moral compass. He's NOT a good guy. And the conflict of interest between Harry's principles and Draco's messed up logic are gonna play a big role in the future. I'm already writing the last chapters (ch 19 to idk) but it's going to get dark. And yes it's still a drarry fic meaning Harry will be put in a hard position between his own principles and duty as an Auror and his love for draco. If u don't like that kind of stuff (which is totally okay btw) feel free to not read.
And please for the love of god READ. THE. TAGS. This is a FANFICTION at the end of the days. The morals (or lack of) and choices that certain characters take do not by any means represent my own. It's purely fictional and just me playing around with a dark concept. Don't go around murdering people! Just saying this because I did put this fic open to both registered users and guests so some people might not know how to use the tagging system and miss some stuff. Also I'm a little nervous since it's my first time posting something like this here so yeah. thank you for reading and have a nice day.
Chapter Text
The moment Harry stepped through the magical barrier, the world shifted into sharp clarity—the kind that made your skin crawl and your instincts snap to full alert. The low hum of Ministry wards buzzed faintly in his ears, aurors murmured in clipped voices, and magic hung in the air like smoke after a fire.
Draco was at his heels, silent, composed, as always. Predictable, except when he wasn’t.
Harry flashed his badge without a word, ducked under the shimmering tape, and braced for what was on the other side.
But he wasn’t ready.
He should have been. By now, he should have been.
Ron was crouched near the body, glancing over his shoulder as they approached, already mid-sentence—“We’ve got a female, late-twenties, cause of death appears—”
But Harry wasn’t listening.
Because lying there on the cobblestone, her skin pale and waxy, her chestnut curls now dusted grey, her doll-like eyes sunken and wide open in a glassy stare—was Silvia.
Still in the dress she’d worn last night.
Everything in him locked up. Muscles turned to stone. Heart thudded once—hard—then dropped like a stone in his chest.
He bumped into something behind him—someone.
A hand closed gently around his arm.
Draco.
Expression unreadable. Jaw tight. Eyes not cold for once, not smug or amused—just watchful, a steadying weight in the storm. That squeeze on his arm was small, barely a gesture, but it anchored him. Reminded him to breathe.
Harry forced air into his lungs. It tasted bitter.
He stepped forward.
Ron gave him a sidelong glance but didn’t say anything at first. “She’s cold. Same magical damage. No witnesses. Looks like the body was moved here post-mortem—no blood, no signs of a struggle, and the alley wards didn’t pick up an Apparition signature. Either someone knew how to sneak past the system or they had inside help. Same as the others.”
Harry crouched down, gloves already sliding onto his hands. He stared at Silvia’s face for a moment too long.
Ron said gently, “You know her?”
“Old acquaintance.” His voice was hoarse. Rougher than it should’ve been. “We went out a few times. A long time ago.”
Ron didn’t push. Bless him for that.
Then Harry saw the slip of parchment in her hand.
He reached for it.
Draco moved beside him without a sound, just a blur of motion and that sharp, unwavering gaze. Harry unfolded the note carefully, magic sizzling faintly along the edge of the parchment—Silvia’s magic.
The message was short.
It’s been a while.
That was all.
Harry didn’t need an analysis to confirm it was written in essence magic. He could feel it. The kind of violation that made your skin itch. The kind of dark spellwork that left ghosts in your bones.
“Bastard’s taunting us,” he muttered, crumpling the note tighter than he should have.
“You alright?” Draco’s voice was soft at his side, deceptively casual, but Harry knew that look now. That specific one. The quiet concern he never voiced.
Harry nodded.
Even if it was a lie.
Didn’t matter. He had a job to do.
Draco knelt beside the body, scanning it with that quiet intensity that still unnerved every Auror who witnessed it. Ron leaned closer to Harry, muttering under his breath, “Still weirds me out, that thing he does. Seeing the traces like that.”
Harry didn’t answer. He was too busy watching Draco work.
There was a calm to him, methodical and unsettling. After a few long minutes, Draco sat back on his heels and looked up.
“Same magical signature,” he said flatly. “Drained and reshaped into the same serpentine sigil. The killer didn’t rush it. Took their time.”
“Anything else?” Harry asked.
Draco’s gaze drifted around the alley. He stood, turned in a slow arc, eyes narrowed in concentration. His fingers twitched at his sides. Harry didn’t know what he was seeing—but he knew Draco was seeing more than he ever could.
Finally, Draco shook his head. “Scene’s clean. Too clean. There was magic here, but it’s been scrubbed. Nothing left but her.”
Harry exhaled, heavy.
Draco added, quieter this time, “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”
“You’re doing more than you think,” Harry replied without missing a beat. And he meant it.
Ron looked between them, something unreadable flickering in his eyes—but said nothing.
Harry turned back to the body one last time, gaze dropping to the curled fingers, the once-lively eyes now empty.
One more name.
One more soul.
One more victim of the Serpent’s Shadow.
The bell above the bar door gave its familiar ding, tired and shrill like it, too, had seen too much for one lifetime. Harry stepped inside, the weight of the day clinging to him like a second skin. His coat was still damp from the drizzle, his hair an unruly mess no spell had managed to tame. He locked eyes with old Riggs behind the counter, who didn’t even bother asking—just reached wordlessly for the bottle of scotch and poured a generous double.
Harry gave him a nod of silent thanks and crossed the room to the booth tucked in the corner like a secret. Ginny was already there, legs crossed, glass of wine in hand—until she saw his face.
That tight-lipped smile he gave her didn’t fool her for a second.
“You sounded… off in the Patronus,” she said.
He dropped onto the seat opposite her with a heavy sigh, just as Riggs set the glass down in front of him. He took a long sip before answering. “Silvia’s dead.”
Ginny didn’t say anything at first. No gasp. No questions. Just stillness. She already knew better.
Harry ran a hand through his hair and leaned back, the ice in his glass clinking as he tilted it slightly.
“We’re still processing the scene. Body came in today, autopsy’s underway. Officially, I can’t say much. But…” His voice dropped, almost tired. “Yeah. It looks like the same killer.”
Ginny exhaled, slow and quiet, before flagging Riggs and asking for whiskey instead of her usual wine or cocktail. That alone told Harry how much she was affected.
“How are you holding up?” she asked.
He nearly laughed. Not because it was funny—but because what the hell did that even mean anymore?
“I…” he started, then stopped. He tried again. “I forgot she even existed until last night.”
There. The bitter truth. Sharp and cruel and honest.
He didn’t say it to be cold. He said it because it was real.
Ginny reached across the table and placed her hand on his. Her thumb rubbed gentle, grounding circles into his skin. That small, human kindness nearly undid him.
So he told her the rest.
“That’s the worst part. I saw her last night. Coincidentally. She showed up at a restaurant while I was…” he hesitated, eyes dropping to the drink, “while I was with Malfoy.”
Ginny’s brow arched just a little, but she didn’t push.
“Do you think it matters that he was there?” she asked softly.
Harry stared at their hands for a moment. Her skin was warm. His felt cold. “I don’t know,” he said, voice lower now. “Ever since Malfoy showed up again, things have been off. Chaotic. And no matter how far I try to push him away, somehow, I keep getting pulled back.”
He rubbed at his chest, as if that would ease the pressure pressing into his ribs.
“After we saw Silvia, everything felt wrong. And then today…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.
Ginny didn’t speak, just listened—really listened—the way only she could.
“I keep going back to him,” Harry muttered. “And when I saw her dead—her face—I looked at him. He was completely blank. No reaction. No guilt. Just… nothing.”
He looked up, finally meeting Ginny’s eyes.
“I don’t know if he’s the killer,” he said. “But the worst part is, I don’t think I care.”
That made Ginny still. Her fingers paused in their movement.
“You don’t care if he is?” she asked carefully.
Harry shook his head, a hollow laugh catching in his throat. “A part of me doesn’t. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve stopped trusting myself, or if I just... I don’t know, Ginny. I’m so tired. And if he is the killer, then maybe at least I’ll understand why I can’t stop thinking about him.”
There it was. The truth.
Not the kind you find in courtrooms or reports.
The real kind.
Ginny squeezed his hand tighter. “Then let’s just hope he’s not.”
Harry nodded, barely, and brought the scotch back to his lips. It burned, but not enough.
Nothing ever burned enough these days.
Harry wasn’t sure how many drinks he’d gone through—just that the number was too high for comfort and not enough to numb everything he wanted it to. The bar’s muffled chatter pressed against his skull like he was underwater, Ginny’s voice threading through it all, distant and worried, saying something about getting him home. But the words slid right off his brain like water off glass.
He blinked. The world doubled.
And then another figure appeared—tall, suited, steady in a way that made Harry's stomach lurch. He couldn’t make out what he said to Ginny, only caught the way her expression relaxed, trusting, and then the shift of hands under his arms as he was lifted to his feet like he weighed nothing at all.
The material under his cheek was smooth. Cold. Expensive. A suit jacket, maybe. And there it was again—that scent. Not the bar. Not scotch or sweat or burnt oil. No, this was something clean, sharp—spicy with a citrus bite. The kind of smell that clung to money and arrogance and charm. Harry leaned in with a giggle and mumbled, “Smells good.”
A sigh answered him. Wry. Familiar. And then they were outside.
The cold slapped him instantly, but the warmth of the body he was pressed against soaked into his skin like a lifeline. He curled into it instinctively, burying himself in the heat. Another low huff rumbled above his head—half amusement, half exasperation—and then he was being eased down into something that groaned under his weight.
Leather. Smooth. Warmed. A car seat, maybe? He blinked again.
Something brushed his chin—hair. Soft and annoyingly perfect. He giggled and reached up without thinking, his fingers tangling in it as he muttered, “Soft…”
A chuckle, low and deep, was the only reply before he felt the seatbelt drawn across his chest. A click. Safety.
The door shut.
It opened again a second later, and he felt the air shift beside him. Then nothing but the quiet thrum of the engine, the heat on his face, and the warmth of the seat beside him. He drifted.
When he stirred again, the world tilted.
Movement. A sway in his belly. His head lolled. The rhythmic click of shoes on pavement reached him through the fog, but he wasn’t cold. Not anymore. The warmth had returned, stronger than ever, and Harry curled closer to it like some enchanted cat. The arms around him shifted but held firm.
He liked this bed. Soft, mobile, steady. Better than his own, even.
Another blink, and the world had changed again. He was horizontal. Sinking into something that smelled like old wood and laundry detergent. Home. Grimmauld Place.
His shoes were slipping off, hands deft and careful.
Then footsteps—fading.
No. No, that was wrong.
His fingers twitched. Reached.
He caught a wrist.
A pause.
The moment hits like a slow, quiet thunder.
Harry blinks up at him, still dazed, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed with scotch and sleep, but there’s no mistaking the smile that blooms across his face when recognition finally settles in. It’s lazy and warm and utterly disarming. Like a fire catching on damp kindling.
"Malfoy," he whispers, like it’s a secret between just them. Like saying it too loud might break the spell.
Draco stares down at him, half-kneeling beside the bed, one of his wrists still caught in Harry’s grip. His expression is unreadable—lips parted like he’s about to say something, eyes sharp but caught off guard. Vulnerable in a way Harry rarely gets to see. He looks like a man who walked into a room expecting a fight and found a hand reaching for him instead
Then a sigh. “What are you doing?”
Harry just hums, that smile not fading as he tugs weakly on Draco’s wrist again. “Stay,” he murmurs. “Warm.”
A beat of silence. Then another. And another.
Draco’s eyes search his face like he’s trying to find the trap, the punchline, the spellwork underneath it all. But there’s nothing. Just Harry—soft, drunk, and letting the cracks show.
The moment stretches thin between them, fragile as spun glass. And then Draco sighs. Not the annoyed kind. The kind that sounds like surrender.
He shifts, the mattress dipping again beneath his weight, and Harry’s already curling toward the warmth before Draco’s even settled fully beside him. No hesitation. No space. His fingers find the lapel of Draco’s suit jacket, and for a moment, he’s content to breathe in that same citrus and spice scent, cheek pressed against his shoulder like it’s the only safe place left in the world.
“You’re impossible,” Draco mutters, voice low and tired and maybe just a little fond.
Harry only hums again, sleep tugging him down like a tide. “Still smells good,” he mumbles, barely coherent.
Draco chuckles under his breath, one hand hesitating in the air before it lands softly on Harry’s back. Not pulling. Not holding. Just... resting there. A quiet anchor.
And in the faint silver wash of moonlight, with the window cracked and the world mercifully still for once, Harry Potter sleeps soundly for the first time in weeks.
Draco stays.
Because of course he does.
The morning after was pure hell.
Harry woke up feeling like a Hungarian Horntail had stomped on his skull. His head pulsed with the kind of ache that made him question every life decision that had led him here. Breathing felt like a chore. Moving was out of the question—until the memory crawl started.
Bits and pieces at first. Silvia. Her body. The note. Ginny. A bar. Scotch.
Fuck.
His eyes opened fully, blinking against the dim light filtering through the curtains. He didn’t remember how he got home. Hell, he didn’t even remember leaving the bar. He groaned, turned over—and froze.
The left side of the bed was messy.
Harry never, ever slept on that side. It was his one stubborn bit of control. A rule his body enforced even when he was half-dead from exhaustion. Which meant...
Someone had been there.
He sat up too fast and regretted it instantly, swearing under his breath as a wave of nausea hit. No. No way. He couldn’t have. He wasn’t that drunk—right?
...Right?
Then came the noise.
Rattling. From downstairs.
Every Auror instinct in his system lit up. He reached for his wand like it was second nature, creeping toward the bedroom door in nothing but his boxers and a worn tee. Grimmauld’s stairs felt endless as he made his descent, the pounding in his head synced up perfectly with each step.
He approached the kitchen, silent, focused, ready to curse first and ask questions later.
Then he turned the corner.
And promptly wished the floor would swallow him whole.
Draco Malfoy stood at the stove, barefoot, in nothing but black trousers that clearly weren’t his—tight enough to do damage—and one of Harry’s shirts, sleeves rolled up, collar popped messily, clinging to his lean frame in a way that should’ve been illegal. Over it all? A bloody apron. The most domestic, absurd thing Harry had ever seen.
He dropped his wand. Clattered against the floor.
Draco turned with a casual “Good morning,” as if this was an everyday thing.
Harry’s voice came out strangled. “What the fuck is going on?”
Draco arched a brow and gestured down at himself. “Borrowed clothes. All your trousers are too small. You should really consider tailoring.”
“That’s not the point!” Harry snapped, the volume making his own skull throb. “Why the hell are you in my house?”
Draco turned off the stove, wiped his hands, and leaned over the counter with that infuriatingly sweet, polished smile. “That’s no way to treat someone you literally jumped last night.”
Harry’s jaw dropped.
Draco gave a scandalized little gasp, complete with a flutter of his lashes. “Honestly, I try to be a gentleman. I come all this way to make sure you get home in one piece, carry your arse upstairs, and what do I get for my trouble? You dragging me into bed like it’s still sixth year and the Astronomy Tower's too far.”
“I—what—” Harry couldn’t breathe. His face was red. Not flushed. Red. “I did not—”
“Oh, you did,” Draco drawled, walking around the counter, a pan in one hand. “It was adorable, really. You said I smelled nice. Touched my hair. Pulled me into bed like a needy little—”
“Stop talking!” Harry shouted, horrified beyond recovery.
Draco stopped right in front of him, standing too close, radiating smug heat. “This reminds me of old times,” he whispered, and then—because he’s the devil—he leaned in and blew into Harry’s ear.
Harry jerked back like he’d been scorched, clutching his ear as if it had been hexed. “What the fuck is wrong with you!?”
Draco just beamed and said, “Breakfast is ready.”
And just like that, he turned, served two bowls of porridge, and set two glasses of juice on the table. In front of Harry’s bowl, he placed a glass of water and an aspirin.
“I didn’t find any hangover potions in your sad excuse for a pantry, so we’re going muggle-style,” Draco said, sitting with graceful nonchalance.
Harry blinked, still stunned. Still half naked. Still questioning if he’d slipped into an alternate reality.
Then he took a bite of the porridge.
…He hated how good it was.
Like, suspiciously good. Warm, a little sweet, perfectly balanced.
“Don’t look so surprised,” Draco muttered, sipping his juice. “I lived on my own. I had to learn how to cook unless I wanted to starve.”
Harry glared at him. “I still don’t know what the hell happened last night.”
Draco smirked. “You tried to sniff me and passed out. That’s the short version.”
Harry groaned, stabbing his porridge with his spoon.
This man was going to be the death of him.
Breakfast was a war zone of clinking spoons and silence. Harry, still sore from embarrassment and a splitting headache, focused on his porridge like it held all the answers to life. Draco, across from him, looked annoyingly comfortable—hair neat, shirt loose around the collar, one leg crossed over the other like he belonged in Harry’s bloody kitchen.
Finally, Harry broke. “How did you know where I lived? Actually, how did you even get in?”
Draco didn’t even blink. He just leaned his chin into his palm, lips twitching. “Really, Potter? You forget who my mother is?”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “What does Narcissa have to do with—”
And then it hit him.
“Oh,” he muttered, setting down his spoon.
Draco let out a soft sigh, equal parts fond and exasperated. “Dense as ever. My mother is Narcissa Black. Cousin to Sirius Black. Which makes me—” He gestured dramatically. “A Black. By blood. The house likes me. Always has. Honestly, it practically rolled out the bloody carpet.”
As if on cue, he glanced around the kitchen with that far-off, squinting expression Harry had come to recognize—the one that meant Draco was seeing things layered in enchantments and bloodline echoes. Probably witnessing the ghost of some house-elf muttering about the state of the counters.
Harry buried his face in his hands. How the hell had he forgotten that detail?
Draco didn’t let it go, of course. “Beautiful house,” he said. “Neglected, but beautiful. You really should consider giving it some affection. Maybe a little polish. Let the walls breathe.”
Harry grumbled. “Who the hell pampers a house?”
“You’d be surprised,” Draco said breezily, reaching for his juice. “Homes respond to care. It’s basic magical sympathy.”
Harry snorted. “You sound like Hermione.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Silence settled again—less awkward now, but no less charged. Until Harry, against all better judgment, asked, “So… nothing happened last night?”
Draco’s smile turned sharp. “Are you disappointed, Potter? Missing our little… adventures from back in the day?”
Harry turned crimson, glaring down at his nearly empty bowl. “I knew I shouldn’t try to have a normal conversation with you.”
Draco was laughing quietly now, his finger absentmindedly tracing lazy circles on the table. “Relax. We did nothing but sleep. You’re still walking, aren’t you?”
Harry choked on his water, fighting the urge to launch his spoon at Draco’s head. “You’re the worst.”
“I’ve been told.”
Then—unexpectedly—Harry inhaled, steadied himself, and muttered, “Thanks.”
Draco blinked, caught off guard for the first time that morning. “What for?”
Harry wouldn’t look at him. “For bringing me home. Last night.”
Draco’s grin returned in full force. “I’d do it anytime. Just call. I’ll come running.”
“In your dreams,” Harry shot back, scowling into his glass.
But Draco was already standing, gathering their dishes like this was his flat and not Harry’s ancestral haunted crypt. That, more than anything, made Harry jump up after him.
“You don’t have to do that—I’ll do them,” he said, reaching for the plates.
Draco raised an eyebrow, ever the aristocrat in borrowed clothes and an apron. “Don’t you have work?”
Harry froze.
“Shit.”
He spun around, eyes wide, muttering about Robards and how he was going to end up assigned to magical maintenance duty if he was late again. But Draco just leaned against the sink, arms crossed, so smug.
“Relax,” he said. “I called in for you.”
“You what—?”
“I said you were recovering from a long-term surveillance operation. Half-true. Robards bought it. Gave you the morning off.”
Harry actually sagged in relief, nearly collapsing against the counter.
“I hate you,” he muttered.
“You’re welcome,” Draco replied, ever so pleased with himself, and turned the tap on.
Water ran. The dishes clinked. And Harry—well, Harry stayed in the kitchen long after breakfast was done, trying not to think about how he couldn’t remember the last time someone had taken care of him like that.
The quiet clatter of mugs and the soft bubbling of water filled the kitchen like a lull in a storm. Harry busied himself with the kettle, willing his thoughts to not go where they clearly wanted to go—namely, Draco Malfoy, who was leaning across the kitchen island like he owned the place, all bare feet and smug attitude, wearing his clothes like sin incarnate.
He kept his eyes anywhere but on Draco.
“Don’t you have work this morning?” Harry asked, far too casually.
Draco smiled. “Had to call off, obviously. Couldn’t very well leave you in that tragic state, could I? I’m a gentleman, Potter. I don’t just vanish after spending the night.”
Harry nearly choked on nothing. His face flushed hot, and he instinctively rolled his eyes, trying to smother whatever reaction was crawling up his spine. “We slept, Malfoy. Just slept. You could’ve left.”
Draco gave a lazy chuckle, the kind that made Harry irrationally want to strangle him and also maybe kiss him. “Such concern,” he teased. “Worried I’ll miss work? It’s fine. Being on the board comes with perks, you know. I could disappear for a week and no one would care—as long as the reports are filed and I don’t skip any meetings.”
Harry scoffed, grumbling under his breath. “Rich people problems.”
Draco didn’t miss a beat. “You’re rich too, Potter. Or have you tragically forgotten the vaults in your name?”
“I don’t use them,” Harry replied defensively. “Just because I have money doesn’t mean I want to sit around and live a life of debauchery.”
“That might actually kill me,” he added, and regretted it instantly.
Because Draco laughed.
Not smirked. Not sneered. Not gave one of his performative PR-approved chuckles.
He laughed.
A deep, warm, almost startled laugh that made Harry freeze mid-reach for the tea tin. It was...real. Disarming. Infectious.
And beautiful.
It hit Harry like a Stupefy. Draco Malfoy, barefoot in his kitchen, wearing his too-tight clothes that hugged every muscle, casually preparing to share tea like it was the most normal thing in the world, hair slightly messy, no sleek style or glamour charms in sight—and he was laughing like they weren’t both emotionally stunted disasters playing chicken with their own unresolved tension.
Harry stared.
Draco caught it. Of course he caught it. He tilted his head and smirked with that look—the one that said I know, and I dare you to do something about it.
“You’re going to have to boil another pot,” he said, voice low and far too pleased with himself, “if you keep looking at me like you’re five seconds away from pinning me to the counter.”
Harry blinked.
The water behind him was screaming.
“Shit—” He turned around, fumbling to turn off the burner, steam billowing around him like a fog of shame.
Draco chuckled again, the sound slinking its way down Harry’s spine like a damn curse. “Do I really look that good? You nearly burned water.”
Harry didn’t answer.
Not because he didn’t have an answer—but because his pride was hanging on by the thinnest thread, and admitting the truth would mean surrender.
And Harry Potter did not surrender.
Harry balanced the tea tray like it was a bloody peace offering, setting it down on the low coffee table before collapsing into the armchair with a sigh. Draco, of course, made himself perfectly at home on the sofa, long legs stretched out, fingers wrapped around his mug like he was starring in some pretentious lifestyle ad.
His eyes swept the room with thinly veiled judgment.
“No telly?” he asked finally, the disbelief practically dripping from his voice. “I mean, I get that this is an ancestral shrine to the noble and ever-dusty House of Black, but you were raised Muggle. Didn’t you say you have electricity?”
Harry raised a brow, taking a careful sip of his tea. “Yeah. Got a few circuits re-wired a couple years ago. Needed a power supply for the lights. Candles and torches are sort of a fire hazard nowadays.”
Draco gave him a look. “You have enough current to charge a mobile, but no television?”
Harry shrugged. “Didn’t really feel the need. I’m barely home, and when I am, I’m either passed out or locked in the studio. What am I supposed to do? Watch EastEnders?”
Draco huffed, lounging back like Harry had personally offended him. “You really are a workaholic. That girl—what was her name again?” His tone was light, but there was a glint in his eyes. “Silvia. She was right.”
Harry went rigid.
The mug nearly slipped from his fingers.
Draco didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. No guilt, no regret, not a sliver of emotion flickered across that annoyingly flawless face. Just that same collected, impassive mask. That void again—just for a second—and then it was gone.
He blinked slowly, and then, as if he hadn’t just mentioned the dead woman whose corpse they'd stood over the day before, he pivoted—seamlessly.
“So,” Draco asked, crossing one leg over the other like this was nothing, “what else have you been working on lately? Anything besides the serial killer?”
Harry gaped for half a second. It was whiplash. It was terrifying. It was...Malfoy.
“I—I’ve got other cases. Loads of them, actually,” he said, still trying to figure out if this was a trap. “The Shadow’s the big one, yeah, but at least the others make sense. There’s a point to them. Something to solve. There’s hope.”
Draco chuckled, tapping his fingers along his mug. “Hope. You always were an optimist in the most depressing way.”
Harry narrowed his eyes, but before he could throw a quip back, Draco leaned in, smile lazy. “Show me.”
Harry blinked. “What?”
“Your other cases. Let me take a look. Who knows—maybe I’ll see something you missed.”
Harry snorted. “You realize I’m not allowed to do that, right? You’re cleared as a consultant only for the Serpent’s Shadow. The rest are—”
“—against protocol, I know,” Draco finished for him, waving a hand dismissively. “Merlin, Potter, you sound like a pamphlet. Relax. I’m not going to steal Ministry secrets and sell them on the black market. I’m bored, curious, and, shockingly, quite clever.”
Harry hesitated. Robards would skin him if he ever found out. But Draco was looking at him now, all smug interest and casual arrogance, and something in Harry’s chest was itching.
“Don’t you have work?”
Draco checked his watch with theatrical flair. “Not until three. And it’s not like I need to clock in with a time card. We’ll be done before then, won’t we?”
Harry stared at him for a long moment. Every rational part of his brain screamed no. But the other part—the one that didn’t know how to say no to Draco Malfoy when he looked at him like that—well. That part had already stood up.
He sighed and muttered, “Come on. Studio’s upstairs.”
Draco smirked like he’d already won something.
He probably had.
Harry regretted his decision the moment the studio door creaked open and Malfoy stepped inside with all the smug disdain of a man walking into a room of filthy peasants. His nose wrinkled like the scent of ink and paper personally offended him.
“Merlin’s saggy left—this is where you work?” Draco muttered, looking around as though he’d just walked into a crime scene rather than Harry’s half-living, half-suffocating workspace.
Harry didn’t even have a second to defend himself before Draco strode in and ran his fingers dramatically along a stack of case files piled precariously on the floor next to the desk. The stack wobbled slightly under his touch, paper bending like it might give in to the sheer weight of Draco’s judgment.
“Honestly,” Draco tsked, “you’re a disaster. Professionally and personally.”
Harry rolled his eyes, marching past him to grab a binder off a nearby shelf. “It’s organized chaos. I know where everything is.”
Draco raised a brow. “Do you really?”
“Yes,” Harry snapped, then pointed at the stack. “Those are solved cases. They live there now.”
“They live there?” Draco echoed, dry as the Sahara. “And what, do they pay rent to your laziness?”
Harry ignored him. With a few aggressive sweeps of his arm, he cleared off the small couch—which was buried under scrolls, quills, and at least one half-eaten biscuit that might’ve been there since Yaxley’s arrest last month. He gestured toward it. “Sit. Since you’re so desperate to help.”
Draco chuckled but took the seat with that same impossible elegance he always moved with, like even among Harry’s mess he couldn’t be touched. Harry handed over a thick binder, the case file of a robbery ring operating through several boroughs of London. No leads, no witnesses, no patterns Harry could pin down, and it was starting to eat at him.
“I’ve looked at it a hundred times,” Harry muttered, plopping into his chair. “If you can find something I missed, then have at it.”
Draco didn’t respond. He flipped open the binder and the air in the room shifted.
Harry had expected some snark, maybe a sarcastic jab followed by a lazy skim. What he got instead was… different.
Draco’s entire posture changed. The humor melted away, replaced by something Harry hadn’t seen in years—perhaps not since sixth year, when Draco sat in the back of the Potions dungeon pretending not to care while furiously annotating every instruction like it would save his life. Maybe it had been trying to.
Now, that same intense stillness had returned. Eyes sharp and scanning, the barest crease forming between his brows. His fingers moved lightly across the pages, not turning them quickly, but almost feeling for something.
His leg bounced once—impatient. Impatient with the inefficiency, with the lack of cohesion. Harry could see it. Draco hated that the case didn’t make sense. He wasn’t just reading—he was dissecting it.
And Harry… just watched.
He didn’t mean to stare, but he couldn’t help it. This wasn’t the smooth-talking, smug consultant with too many suits and too much charm. This was the strategist. The tactician. The man who had once, even as a boy, understood how to manipulate an entire castle full of people without lifting his wand.
The man who’d outgrown childish cruelty and replaced it with a razor-sharp mind that refused to be idle.
For a second—just one second—Harry forgot why he was suspicious of him. Forgot the killer, forgot Silvia, forgot the fact that Draco still terrified him in the way only people who know your deepest truths can.
He just saw him. The real him. Quiet, calculating, brilliant.
And for a moment, Harry wondered—
What is he seeing that I missed?
Or worse.
What is he hiding in plain sight?
And then he said it.
Just a quiet, smug, “Hah.” Like a man who’d just solved a riddle no one else in the room even realized existed. Harry blinked, barely registering the sudden spark in Draco’s eyes—the kind of gleam you only see in treasure hunters or lunatics.
He leaned back, fingers drumming against the binder as he tilted his head. “Potter,” he said, far too satisfied with himself, “come here.”
Harry, who was still processing the fact that Draco had apparently found something in a file he’d spent weeks tearing apart, took a slow, skeptical step closer. Draco glanced up, unimpressed.
“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” he sighed, reached forward, and pulled.
Harry stumbled, nearly crashing into him before catching himself just enough to sit beside him—way too close for comfort. Their knees brushed. Their shoulders practically overlapped. And Harry, predictably, jerked away just enough to restore a two-inch buffer zone like his skin might catch fire.
Draco noticed. Of course he noticed.
But instead of commenting on Harry’s deeply repressed panic, he just grinned that infuriating, self-satisfied grin and said, “Relax, Potter. I don’t bite… unless asked nicely.”
Harry groaned. “For the love of—just tell me what you found.”
Draco smirked like he’d just won something, then turned back to the file and tapped his finger over the list of reported robbery locations. “You’ve been looking at them individually,” he said, “but the trick is to stop thinking like an Auror and start thinking like a thief.”
Harry frowned, brow creasing. “That’s supposed to mean something?”
Instead of answering, Draco stood up, practically gliding across the room to the map of London tacked to the wall. He grabbed the marker nearby—black, of course—and circled each address listed in the file. Harry crossed his arms and leaned on the desk, watching but still not seeing it.
“Do you seriously not—oh, Potter,” Draco groaned, shaking his head. “You’re painfully daft for a top Auror.”
Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Draco was already drawing. Lines connected the circles—clean, sharp, deliberate—and then… there it was.
A pattern. A spiral, almost. Not perfect, but distinct enough. The thefts had been radiating outward in a slow, clockwork motion. Strategic. Purposeful.
“Shit,” Harry muttered, straightening. “How did I—”
“Because you’re thinking like law enforcement,” Draco said, smug as ever, “not like a man building a puzzle with real property.”
Harry stepped up beside him, eyes tracing the web of connected dots. “So, what—whoever’s doing this is clearing zones in a loop?”
Draco nodded, then circled a new spot further along the pattern. “If the timing stays consistent, this is the next target. Likely within the week.”
Harry stared. Not at the map—at him.
He’d actually cracked it.
The man who was once all sharp sneers and potions class insults had casually just outplayed half the Auror department in ten minutes. And when Harry turned to look at him, Draco was already watching him with that quiet, dangerous smile that said you’re welcome, and I’m not letting you forget it.
Harry tore his eyes away, muttering a quick, “Thanks.”
Draco didn’t let it slide. “It was obvious after a while.”
Harry scowled. “Not everyone memorizes every street in London, Malfoy.”
That earned another low, amused chuckle.
And Harry—grudgingly, silently—thought that maybe, just maybe, Draco Malfoy was more helpful than he let on.
Even if he really needed to be punched just once. Just for balance.
Later that day, Harry found himself being dropped off in front of the Ministry once again, tucked into the leather interior of yet another one of Draco’s absurdly luxurious cars—this one charcoal black with gold detailing like it belonged to a Bond villain. He sighed as he unbuckled his seatbelt, running a tired hand through his hair.
"Thanks for the ride," he muttered, halfway out the door.
But of course, Draco Malfoy, perfectly put together in a navy suit and styled hair like he was on his way to a bloody Vogue cover shoot, had to ruin it.
“Don’t I earn a kiss for that?” he said, smirking, voice smooth and lazy like silk draped in sin.
Harry jolted like he’d touched a cursed object, then snapped, “You’re an idiot,” before slamming the car door harder than necessary and storming away.
He heard the window roll down behind him.
“It was nice spending time with you, Potter,” Draco called out. “We should do it more often.”
And if it had been anyone else—literally anyone else—it might’ve sounded sincere.
But this was Malfoy, wearing that godforsaken smirk like it was tailored along with his stupid, perfect suit, and all Harry could do was growl under his breath and mentally beg the ground to open and swallow him whole.
He just had to get back to his office. Get lost in case files. Pretend the last twelve hours never happened.
At least, that was the plan—until he turned around.
And saw them.
Hermione and Ron. Standing by the Ministry doors. Mouths open. Eyes wide.
Ron’s coffee cup dangled from his fingers like he’d forgotten he was holding it. Hermione’s eyes flicked from Draco’s retreating car to Harry’s face like she was solving an unspeakable level Arithmancy problem in real time.
Harry froze. His brain short-circuited.
No. No no no no no.
Merlin, please. Just this once. Tell him they didn’t see. Tell him they didn’t hear.
Oh, but they did.
Harry didn’t need Veritaserum to know it.
The way Ron’s jaw was slack like he’d just witnessed a Bludger hit a unicorn, and Hermione had that look—the one where her mouth hung open for a full second before she blinked once, slowly, like her entire system had just glitched.
Harry could only stand there, mid-turn, backpack slung over one shoulder, looking very much like a child caught with his hand in the bloody biscuit tin.
“…You two are—” Ron started, pointing vaguely at the street where Draco’s car had just disappeared with a smug purr.
“We are not,” Harry cut in, way too fast, voice way too high. “We are nothing. There is no two. Absolutely not. It’s—he just—shut up.”
Harry decided right then and there that being hit by a bus would’ve been less humiliating.
“Was that Malfoy?” Hermione asked, voice tight like she was restraining a scream, though whether it was of excitement or panic, Harry couldn’t tell.
“No,” he said. “Yes. Kind of. Look, it's complicated.”
Ron blinked. “He just asked if you owed him a kiss.”
“He was joking!” Harry insisted, waving his arms, flustered to the point he almost tripped over his own feet as he stomped toward them. “He always says shit like that. It’s just—it's Malfoy being Malfoy.”
“And you blushed,” Hermione added, too observant for her own good. “Harry. You blushed.”
“Did not.”
“You did, mate.” Ron looked personally offended, like Harry had just confessed to dating a blast-ended skrewt. “You blushed and then stomped out like some flustered teenage girl in a romance novel.”
“You read romance novels?” Harry snapped, trying to redirect.
Ron blinked. “That’s not the point, Potter.”
Hermione folded her arms. “How long has this been going on?”
“Nothing is going on!”
Silence. Just three war veterans standing in the grand marble entrance of the Ministry like they were re-enacting a bad soap opera.
Harry sighed. “Look, I may have accidentally spent the night with him—”
“WHAT?” Ron nearly shrieked.
“—without doing anything,” Harry clarified, lifting a hand. “I was drunk, okay? Ginny called him to pick me up because apparently my life is a circus now and she’s the ringmaster.”
Hermione's eyes narrowed. “And you just happened to end up in his car again this morning?”
“I had a headache! He brought me tea! There was porridge!” Harry ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t even know anymore.”
Ron groaned into his hand. “Mate… You need help.”
Harry groaned right back. “Trust me, I’m well aware.”
And then Hermione—sweet, always-wise Hermione—let out a slow breath and patted him on the shoulder. “Just… be careful, okay?”
That was somehow worse than all the yelling.
Harry trudged past them, muttering something about needing to drown himself in paperwork.
But deep down, he couldn’t help but remember Draco’s smirk, the warmth of porridge, the look on his face when he cracked that case file…
Yeah. He was so screwed.
Notes:
I like the idea that Harry is one of those stingy rich people. He doesn't like being rich because he genuinely doesn't know how to be rich and has always survived in the bare minimum so thats why when he found out he had money he tried buying gold cauldron. Now he mainly donates his money every so often but it just never seems to run out
And Harry does have a phone. Everyone in the ministry has a ministry issues phone but it's ancient and Harry never learned how to use it so he doesn't. Later in we'll touch the whole technophobia theme
Chapter Text
A few days later, after submitting the report to Robards and nearly biting his nails off waiting, Harry was finally given the green light. The operation was a go. The official go-ahead to set a trap in the area Malfoy had pinpointed with that too-smug smile of his, and Harry was half-convinced that if this actually worked, he'd owe the bastard a steak dinner. Or at least another Tuesday.
Inside the Auror department’s operations wing, the room buzzed with energy. His team was already in gear—uniforms pressed, wands polished to a gleam, holsters strapped tight against their chests. There was tension in the air, thick enough to slice through. The kind that came with waiting to pounce. The kind Harry had learned to live with.
Ron sauntered in already suited up, his robes flaring behind him like he thought he was in a bloody action film. He flopped onto the bench next to Harry, who was hunched over the final copy of the operation outline.
“I still don’t get how you cracked this one,” Ron muttered, glancing at the map that had haunted their whiteboard for the last three weeks. “We were chasing our tails. Then suddenly—bam. You’ve got a pattern, a location, a freaking schedule.”
Harry tensed. He didn’t look up. “Just... went over everything again. Fresh eyes.”
“Right,” Ron said, unconvinced but too tired to argue. “Well, tell those eyes of yours to keep working overtime.”
Harry offered a tight smile and didn’t dare say a word more. He couldn’t tell Ron it had been Draco bloody Malfoy who cracked the code. Not without triggering a shitstorm that’d end with Ron storming into the Ministry demanding to see Harry’s skull for signs of a Confundus Curse. And if Robards found out Malfoy had been let within three feet of a closed case file? Harry could kiss his badge goodbye.
So instead, he said nothing. Just stood up, clapped his hands together, and called the team to attention.
This part never got easier.
He’d hated it back in Hogwarts too—rallying his team as Gryffindor’s Quidditch captain, trying to sound like he had a clue when his guts were in a knot. And here he was again, years later, still bluffing his way through speeches because someone, somewhere decided it was part of the job.
He cleared his throat. “Alright. You all know the drill. We've got eyes on every block within a two-kilometer radius. Ward triggers are in place, and backup teams are stationed along the exit routes. We’re not here to start a duel—we want clean, fast arrests. No casualties, no chaos.”
His gaze swept across the room. He saw the nerves, the tight jaws, the bouncing legs of young recruits who’d never seen live action.
“Stick to your posts. Don’t get cocky. And don’t try to play hero,” he added, his voice a little harder now. “If anything looks off, call it in. We move as one. No one gets left behind.”
The silence that followed was sharp. Focused. His team gave him nods, salutes, brief affirmations.
And as Harry holstered his wand and led them out into the night, he tried not to think about the irony—that the operation he'd just rallied half the department for? Was thanks to the man who, at that very moment, was probably sipping wine in a ridiculous robe and reading economic reports in his penthouse office.
Merlin help him if this worked. Because if it did...
He really was going to owe Malfoy a favor.
It was dark—London dark. Not pitch black, but that deep, smoky grey that crawled through upper-class neighborhoods on cloudy nights when the city forgot to hum. On the third floor of a modest but well-appointed flat, a figure moved like water through shadow. Smooth. Silent. Practiced. The kind of thief who knew exactly which floorboards creaked, who didn’t waste time, who’d stopped feeling guilt years ago.
The place was perfect. Rich enough to have things worth taking, but not guarded enough to make it a challenge. A weak ward or two, a lazy alarm spell easily undone. The kind of home where someone believed they were safe just because they lived near diplomats and wore pressed suits. Idiots.
They were almost done—pockets heavy, charm bag full—when they reached the bedroom. The mark was sleeping soundly, a lump in expensive bedsheets. Easy pickings. The thief slipped in, wand flicking soft silencing spells as they knelt at the nightstand, rifling through drawers for gold, crystal, the kind of crap that bought time and freedom.
And then—they saw it.
A ring. Not just any ring, either. One of those custom pieces, heavy-set, glimmering with intention and old money. Hanging off the finger of the sleeping figure like bait.
The thief moved closer. Fingers steady. Nearly there.
Until the hand grabbed back.
"Shit—"
Green eyes glared up at them, furious and awake. Not the woman who lived here. Not some helpless target. It was Harry Potter, and he looked very pleased with himself.
The thief didn’t think. They acted. Threw the sack of stolen goods straight into Potter’s face, just enough distraction to dive through the open bedroom door.
"Oi!" Harry barked, tossing the bag aside and sprinting after them.
Through the hallway. Down the stairs. The chase was on.
He heard Ron's voice crackle through his earcom, half-laughing, half-concerned. "What's going on? You alright? The rest are down."
"Got a live one!" Harry panted. "Stay in formation—don’t let anyone else get loose. I’ll handle this."
The bastard was fast, darting through the empty streets like a stray fox—knew the layout, used the darkness. They vaulted a fence and slipped into a building still under construction, scaffolding creaking under their boots. Harry didn’t hesitate.
He’d chased Death Eaters through cursed forests. A thief in a half-finished building wasn’t going to throw him off.
The place was a skeleton. Steel beams, loose bricks, the sour scent of wet cement. Fifth floor, Harry thought. That’s where he had to corner them. Higher was unsafe—hell, it was unfinished.
Then it happened.
He saw movement. Darted after it. Rounded a half-wall.
Too late.
A spell cracked across his ribs, knocking him clean off his feet. He grunted, skidding backward and nearly tumbling over the edge. One more inch and he’d have had pavement for breakfast.
The thief stepped out of the shadows, wand raised and eyes gleaming. Young. Scarred. Smug. The type who thought they were clever because they hadn’t been caught yet.
"Impressive, Potter," he said, voice like cracked glass. "Didn’t think you’d figure it out. Thought the Auror Corps was slipping."
Harry didn’t blink. "Yeah? Shame you lot aren’t very original. Takes a bit more than dumb luck to outsmart me."
"You won’t live long enough to brag about it."
Harry’s hand flexed at his side, fingers twitching. But he was still winded. Still off-balance. At wandpoint.
The thief smiled, teeth yellow. "Even if I go down, I’ll take you with me. One less hero."
And then—
A blur. A whip of light.
The thief’s body jerked into the air, suspended mid-step, limbs flailing. His wand flew from his hand and clattered somewhere behind the beams.
From behind, in the shadows, calm and deadly as a blade in silk—
"Really," drawled a voice. "You were going to monologue?"
Harry turned. Draco stood there, wand lazily raised, dressed like sin in pressed trousers and a wool coat that clung like tailored arrogance. His eyes glittered with cruel delight.
"You always did underestimate me," he added, sauntering forward as if he didn’t just fry someone’s spine with a single spell.
Harry couldn’t stop the smile that curled, sharp and breathless. “Took your bloody time.”
Draco quirked a brow. “What, and miss the dramatic entrance?”
Harry rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.
The thief groaned, still writhing mid-air.
“Get him down,” Harry muttered, still holding his ribs, “before he pisses himself.”
Draco smirked. “As you wish.”
The glow dimmed. The thief collapsed to the ground with a thud.
Harry watched, still panting against the ache in his ribs, as Draco flicked his wand with precision, binding the thief’s wrists and ankles in one fluid, practiced motion. The smug bastard wasn’t smiling now. He was groaning and writhing, the floating grip of Draco’s spell cinched tight. Harry didn’t even feel a lick of pity.
Then Draco turned. His long strides brought him straight to the edge where Harry still sat, legs dangling, the concrete biting into his thighs and pain pulsing sharp in his side. He held out a hand.
Harry took it.
He wasn’t expecting the tug that came next—didn’t expect to be pulled into a solid, firm chest wrapped in expensive wool and that damn scent again. Spice. Citrus. Warmth that sank past the adrenaline and pain and landed somewhere in his gut.
And fuck, was Draco hugging him?
Harry blinked. “I’m—uh—I’m fine now,” he managed, trying to awkwardly pull back.
But the grip didn’t loosen.
Draco’s arms stayed wrapped around him, firm and steady and infuriatingly comforting. Harry sighed, one hand patting his back stiffly. “Malfoy, I said I’m fine.”
That finally did it. Draco pulled back, but his expression... Merlin. Harry had to look away. His face was too open. Not cocky, not snide—just... soft. And it was wrong. It was wrong because Draco wasn’t supposed to look at him like that.
Like he gave a damn.
Harry tried to cut through it with humor. He chuckled weakly. “So. How’d you know I’d be here?”
Draco rolled his eyes, as if the answer was obvious. “I solved the bloody case, Potter. I had a feeling today was the day you'd try to wrap it up. And I know you—trouble magnet with zero self-preservation instinct. Thought I’d keep an eye on you.”
Harry squinted at him. “You’ve been... watching me?”
Draco didn’t even flinch. “From a safe distance. You're predictable.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You're also reckless and allergic to asking for help.”
That part stung a bit. Because it wasn’t wrong.
Draco shifted his weight, arms crossing over his chest. “Saw you tail the thief into a building that looked like it’d collapse under the weight of a strong breeze. Didn’t take a genius to guess how that was going to end.”
Harry gave him a flat glare. “I was handling it.”
“Mm. Hanging off a ledge like a sack of potatoes. Excellent technique.”
“Alright, alright.” Harry sighed, wincing as he tried to push himself up. “You saved my arse. I owe you one.”
He regretted it instantly.
Draco’s eyes gleamed. “Oh? I’ll hold you to that.”
“Figures.” Harry groaned.
He tried again to stand, but Draco was already there—hands at his shoulders, easing him down before Harry could bite out another protest.
“Don't even think about it,” Draco said, all command and certainty.
“I can walk.”
“You can barely breathe.”
Harry huffed. “I need to go. The other Aurors—if they see you here—”
“Let them.”
“They’ll ask questions, Malfoy. I can’t exactly tell them I’m being babysat by a—bloody Slytherin finance director turned part-time vigilante consultant.”
Draco raised a brow. “You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t ask for help.”
“And yet,” Draco said smoothly, slipping one arm under Harry’s knees and another around his back, “you’re clearly getting it.”
“Oi—no—Malfoy!” Harry yelped as he was hoisted off the ground.
“Shhh,” Draco cooed mockingly. “You’ll rupture your spleen with all that thrashing.”
“I swear I will hex you into next week.”
“Try it, and I drop you.”
Harry groaned, face flushed, equal parts mortified and miserable. His ribs screamed, and every bounce sent a new wave of pain through his torso.
“Fine,” he hissed. “Just get me out of here before anyone sees.”
“Too late,” Draco said cheerfully, already levitating the thief behind them like some smug conjurer parading his prize pony. “You’ll have to live with the scandal.”
And Harry, cradled like a stubborn princess in the arms of the one man who absolutely shouldn’t be carrying him, whispered, “Kill me now.”
Draco grinned. “Oh no, Potter. Not until you pay me back.”
The aftermath was chaos, plain and simple. Not the good kind either—the smug, smirking, whisper-behind-your-back kind that followed Harry like a damn tail ever since he let Malfoy—of all people—carry him across a crime scene like some Victorian damsel with fragile ankles.
The entire team had seen it. His entire bloody team. And not just them—half the Auror department, a few onlookers, even a couple trainees from the academy who probably thought he’d been cursed or hexed into submission.
Harry swore on Merlin’s grave he saw Amy, the most granite-faced, emotionally-deadpan Auror in the building, smirk. Just slightly. But it was there.
And Ron—oh, Ron had been the worst. Barely holding back a tsunami of questions that threatened to explode from him. Draco, to his credit—or to his damn audacity—just cut in, cool as ever.
“You can babble all you want after Potter gets medical attention,” Draco said, not even sparing Ron a glance.
It shut him up. Miraculously.
Ron had muttered a grumpy, “You alright, mate?” and Harry had mumbled that he was fine.
Until Draco shifted his weight on purpose and pressed into his ribs.
Harry winced and glared up at him. “That was intentional.”
Draco’s only response was an angelic smile. The bastard.
Now, post-treatment, post-wandlight interrogation from the team, and after arguing with yet another nurse about the absolute non-necessity of staying overnight for “observation,” Harry was at his wit’s end. Frustrated, sore, and very ready to crawl into a pit.
Ron and Hermione had shown up about ten minutes ago. Ron still had a thousand questions Harry refused to answer, and Hermione had pulled her best Disapproving Mum expression as she tried to talk him into staying the night.
He refused. Stubbornly.
Until the curtain shifted and there he was.
Tall. Expensively smug. Hands in his pockets like he owned the bloody hospital.
Draco.
“Potter,” he said, ever casual, “you could leave, sure. But maybe check your ribs again before you sprint out the door like an idiot.”
Harry didn’t even have time to protest before Draco stepped forward. His ribs flared instantly, sharp and unforgiving.
Harry flinched. “Fine. I’ll stay the damn night.”
Hermione’s eyes bounced between them like she was tracking a particularly compelling chess match.
Ron, on the other hand, narrowed his eyes. “Why is he still here?”
Draco leaned against the side of the bed frame, unbothered as usual. “Because I’m apparently the only one competent enough to babysit your reckless friend.”
Harry groaned, “I didn’t ask for a babysitter.”
“You didn’t ask to almost fall off a building either, and yet here we are,” Draco quipped, his voice smooth as butter.
And then came the million-galleon question.
“So,” Ron said slowly, suspiciously, “why were you even there in the first place, Malfoy?”
Harry’s blood went cold.
He froze—completely—because there was no good answer to that. What was he going to say? That he’d shown Draco off-the-record files? Let him solve the damn case? Violated every bloody rule in the Auror’s handbook?
But Draco—Draco didn’t miss a beat.
“I own a flat nearby,” he said, nonchalant. “Was out for a walk, heard the commotion. Stumbled onto your danger-magnet leader trying to become one with the pavement.”
The ease. The sheer nerve.
And what was worse? Harry believed it. The git probably did own a flat there. Hell, he probably owned the building. Maybe the whole block.
Ron grunted. “Weird coincidence.”
“Mm,” Draco said, absolutely not denying it.
Hermione, bless her sharp-eyed soul, watched the exchange with the kind of knowing smile that made Harry want to sink into the mattress and disappear.
“Well,” she finally said, brushing nonexistent dust off her coat, “we should let him rest.”
“Oi, we just got here—” Ron began.
But Hermione was already tugging him toward the curtain.
“Bye, Harry. Get some rest. You’ll need it.”
She nodded politely to Draco as she passed, and dragged her husband with her, Ron grumbling the entire way.
The moment the curtain flapped shut, Harry knew it.
Alone. Again. With him.
He flopped back onto the pillows, groaning. “Is there a law against stalking Aurors in their hospital beds?”
Draco smirked and pulled up a chair. “If there is, I’ll be sure to break it for you, darling.”
Harry tossed a pillow at his face.
Missed.
Unfortunately.
That night, sleep felt like a foreign concept. It slipped through Harry’s fingers the moment he thought he had it, leaving behind nothing but sore ribs, restless limbs, and thoughts he couldn’t quiet.
The ward was dark, hushed in the way hospitals always were after hours—unnaturally quiet, like the building itself was holding its breath. The only glow came from the soft yellow of the bedside lamp, casting warm light over the book resting on Malfoy’s lap.
Yes. Still here. He’d refused to leave earlier with that same infuriatingly casual tone he always used when he’d already made up his mind. And Harry hadn’t fought it. Why? He couldn’t really say. Maybe it was the bruised ribs. Maybe it was how tired he was of pushing everyone away.
But now, lying here, unable to sleep, he was stuck with him—Draco Malfoy: suit still on, white shirt partially unbuttoned, collar relaxed, sleeves pushed up and held with those stupidly attractive sleeve garters, jacket draped over the back of the chair like this was just any other night. The wool coat hung neatly on the rack by the curtain, and under the dim lamplight, his hair shimmered like bloody silver silk.
Harry stared. And thought. And regretted thinking because that was always where the trouble started.
How had he let Malfoy—Malfoy, of all people—saunter back into his life like this? Twist it up into knots, stir everything he’d buried years ago, and make it feel… real again. Like the past wasn’t quite done with them.
And the worst part? Now that he was back, it was hard—impossibly hard—to imagine him gone again.
Three months. That’s how long it had been since Draco came crashing back into his orbit like a meteor with good hair and a sharper wit than should be legal. Three months of secrets, smirks, fights, and lingering glances. And Harry realized—painfully—that he didn’t know the man sitting just a few feet away from him. Not really.
He knew he worked as a finance director at some fancy Muggle-tech company currently hybridizing with the magical sector. He knew he wore expensive suits like a second skin, drove a car Harry still couldn’t pronounce the brand of, navigated tech better than most Ministry IT workers, liked old music and weird foreign food, and had a disarmingly sharp tongue.
But that was all surface.
Because there were moments—fleeting but unmistakable—when the mask dropped. When the warm smile slipped off his face like melting wax and those grey eyes turned glacial, flat, inhuman. Moments that made Harry’s stomach twist, because the charm, the wit, the sophistication… they weren’t the whole picture.
So which version was the real Draco?
The polished executive with a devil-may-care grin?
Or the ghost behind his eyes when he thought no one was looking?
Harry’s musings shattered when Draco shut his book with a soft thump. He startled, instinctively squeezing his eyes shut like a bloody first year. The next thing he knew, the mattress dipped under new weight, and Draco was climbing into the bed.
“What the hell are you doing?” Harry whisper-hissed, flinching as Draco’s arm brushed against his side.
Draco just made himself comfortable. “Well, since you’ve been staring holes into me all night, I figured you were having trouble sleeping.”
Harry groaned. “And squeezing into a one-person hospital bed is supposed to help?”
“It worked last time,” Draco replied, smirking as he yanked the blanket over both of them. “You even drooled on my chest. Very endearing.”
Harry thanked every bloody star that the lights were off because his face was definitely burning.
He rolled over, back to Malfoy, and muttered, “Suit yourself.”
Behind him, Draco chuckled—low and warm, like a secret only the night could hear.
And oddly… with that solid warmth pressed lightly against his spine, breath steady behind him, Harry finally—finally—slipped into sleep.
Days blurred into each other like streaks of rain on a Ministry windowpane. Harry was back in the whirlwind of his professional life, and Merlin, it was bleak.
Taking down an elusive ring of magical thieves? That should’ve earned him a vacation, maybe a week in the Scottish Highlands or somewhere that didn't smell like burnt parchment and disappointment. But no—just another certificate of recognition, signed and stamped and promptly shoved in a drawer already overflowing with similar commendations he barely remembered earning. What did it matter if he could barely keep his eyes open through Ministry galas, a walking corpse powered entirely by coffee and spite?
He hadn’t even seen Malfoy since that night in the hospital.
When he’d woken the next morning—ribs sore, head fuzzy—the space beside him had been cold. Empty. A note had been left on the nightstand, naturally, written in that unnecessarily elegant scrawl of his:
“Had to return to the company. Don’t die. -DM”
Charming.
And that had been it. No late-night meals, no sudden appearances, no ridiculous comments about his hair looking like a broom caught in a thunderstorm. Silence. A void. And Harry didn’t miss him—he really didn’t—it was just… weird. Off. Because even when Malfoy was allegedly “too busy,” he always made sure to show up. In one way or another.
So maybe he really was busy. The man was a director of finance for a hybridizing Muggle-magical company, after all—not some aristocratic socialite lounging in silk robes and drinking firewhisky at noon.
Harry rubbed his eyes and stared back down at his paperwork. He was knee-deep in minor crime reports, the kind that made him question his life decisions. Across from him, Ron groaned, forehead flat against his desk, buried beneath stacks of half-read documents and a small army of empty coffee cups.
They were all slowly decaying.
“Tell me again,” Ron muttered without lifting his head, “why we wanted this job?”
Harry sighed. “Because it was better than ending up in accounting.”
Ron made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob.
If Harry could curl into the fetal position under his desk and weep without it ending up in a Prophet headline, he would. But alas, decorum. So he simply grabbed another file from his ever-growing pile of petty crimes and tried to pretend he didn’t want to hex his own chair into splinters.
After the robbery ring was taken down, their caseload had thinned. The major cases had either been closed or passed along. Now all they had left were a parade of minor complaints: neighbors arguing over invisible boundaries, charmed brooms going rogue, misplaced magical pets, and people reporting “stolen” artifacts that turned out to be under their beds. Riveting.
Only one case remained remotely interesting: The Serpent’s Shadow. But that one had gone quiet again. No new bodies. No new clues. Just the eerie silence of a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.
“God, I just wanna go home to Hermione and pretend we don’t live in a bureaucratic hellscape,” Ron whined.
Harry chuckled, patting his best friend’s shoulder. Comforting Ron had become its own routine, though he wasn't exactly qualified to offer emotional support. His own life wasn’t exactly an ad for stability.
He went home to an empty house. Ate toast over the sink. Passed out on his sofa in full uniform. Sometimes he even remembered to shower.
Malfoy had said once—half teasing, half cutting—that his life lacked pleasure. That maybe, just maybe, he should get a telly and stop living like a martyr-in-waiting.
Harry had scoffed at the time. But now? With the quiet of Grimmauld Place waiting to swallow him every night, that suggestion had started sounding dangerously reasonable.
Ugh. There it was again. Malfoy.
Why was he in his head again?
Harry shook his head, cursed under his breath, and forced himself to focus. Back to the reports, Potter. Not ghosts. Not Malfoy. Just paperwork.
Easier said than done.
The moment Chris burst into the office like a Kneazle set on fire, everything around Harry snapped into color.
The poor rookie was panting, red-faced, and wide-eyed, but Harry had never been so happy to see someone look so utterly horrified in his life. That face—equal parts panic and adrenaline—that was the face that reminded him he hadn’t completely wasted his life wading through mediocrity.
“They found another victim.”
The words lit something inside him. And yes, maybe he shouldn’t be excited about murder—but Merlin, if he had to read one more report about a hexed gnome or magical garden dispute, he would’ve gone feral. He didn’t even hear Robards yelling from down the hallway about protocol or assignments or paperwork—Harry was already halfway out the door, Ron hot on his heels.
When he reached his destination, his boots practically slid on the marble floors of the lobby. And of course it had to be there. That company building again.
And of course Draco sodding Malfoy was already striding through the lobby like a runway model on a finance-themed catwalk—impeccable black suit, perfectly polished shoes, subtle silver tie clip, and that same ridiculous confidence that had Harry clenching his jaw and—unfortunately—grinning like an idiot the second they locked eyes.
He hated that grin. Really. It just… happened. Uncontrollably. Like some involuntary spell reaction.
Malfoy was surrounded by a gaggle of assistants and junior execs hanging on his every word, scribbling on their little notepads like he was doling out prophecies. And the worst part? Harry wasn't annoyed this time. Not even a little.
God help him.
Draco dismissed his entourage with one fluid motion—like a bloody conductor—and strolled over, hands in his pockets and amusement already playing at his lips.
“Well, well, Potter,” he drawled, that voice like silk with a smirk, “Miss me already? It’s barely been two weeks. I’m flattered.”
Harry huffed, shooting him a look that lacked the venom it was supposed to carry. “Jump off your high horse, Malfoy. We’ve got a new victim.”
Draco hummed, his eyes alight with interest. “Should I be concerned at how pleased you sound about that? Might give off the wrong impression—Auror Harry Potter, Defender of Justice and avid murder enthusiast.”
Harry rolled his eyes so hard he saw the back of his skull for a moment. “Shut up and follow me.”
And just like that, they were back in sync—Auror and consultant, cat and mouse, pull and push. Harry felt the click of it, familiar and dangerous. Malfoy walking beside him in perfect stride, too close and yet not close enough.
The game had resumed. And Harry, damn him, was ready to play.
The routine had become… seamless.
Too seamless.
No one blinked anymore when Draco Malfoy strode beside Harry Potter into an active crime scene like he belonged there. The yellow glamour wards shimmered faintly in the air—keeping out Muggle eyes—and Draco passed through them without pause, a flicker of magic curling around his silhouette before dispersing. Not a single Auror challenged him. Not even the newer ones. He was part of the operation now. Unofficially. Invisibly. Unshakably.
Ron was already there, pacing near the body like he was trying to scare death itself into giving answers. When he saw Harry approach, he didn’t even bother with a greeting—just handed over a profile folder and a letter in a damn envelope.
Harry blinked at it. “Well, that’s fancy,” he muttered, prying the letter open.
Inside, scrawled with that same eerie, glowing ink—what the forensics team still suspected was the victim’s magical essence—were the words:
Did you miss me?
Harry scoffed. “Getting cocky, aren’t we?” he murmured, jaw tight. He didn’t need to say anything else. Draco was already crouched beside the body, gloves on, eyes sharp. Silent. Focused.
It was the same mark again—the spiral-like sigil etched into the skin, faintly glowing, pulsing in rhythm like it had a heartbeat. Draco inspected it carefully before standing up, dusting off his hands with the care of someone who knew his suit was worth more than Harry’s monthly salary.
Harry was ready to go through the motions again—take notes, collect the same useless statements, wait for dead ends.
But then he saw it.
Draco didn’t just step back. He moved. Walked away from the center of the scene, toward the far side of the building—toward the wall. He raised a hand, palm brushing air just inches from the bricks.
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Malfoy?”
Draco didn’t look at him. “Foreign magic,” he murmured, voice low and sure. “Residual. We’re talking hours ago—maybe a day at most. It doesn’t match the protective ward signatures.”
Harry’s heart kicked. Finally.
He was already calling over the forensic team, voice loud and sharp, issuing orders to bring in the specialized ward analysis unit. This wasn’t a hallucination. There were traces—actual, lingering traces of external spellwork layered thinly under the wards. They had something new. Something concrete.
Draco was motioning the team to specific areas now, pointing out where the disturbance lines began and faded. His tone was detached, clipped, professional—but Harry could see it in his eyes.
Satisfaction.
Harry exhaled slowly, watching the organized chaos unfold around him as Aurors swarmed the wall, spells cast in flashes of blue and green as they captured the trace, bottled it, analyzed its resonance.
For the first time in weeks, he felt like they’d taken a real step forward.
He looked back at Draco—tall, poised, sleeves rolled slightly as he traced the contours of a barely visible rune with the tip of his gloved finger—and he thought:
Maybe I wasn’t wrong about you after all.
Back at the Ministry, the air crackled with tension and energy—the kind only stirred by chaos with a glimmer of hope laced through it.
The department had transformed. Desks were buried in parchment, files levitated across the room with reckless charmwork, Aurors shouted over one another, and the main conference room now looked like a war council bunker. Half-eaten sandwiches teetered on stacks of classified documents. Someone’s owl had gone feral trying to deliver a memo. It was beautiful, in a terrifying sort of way.
When Harry and Ron returned, they barely had time to breathe before Amy intercepted them, face grim but eyes bright. “Lab. Now.”
No arguments. They followed.
Inside, the hum of arcane equipment filled the space, low and constant like a magical heart monitor. Zola—the forensic specialist with a mind like wildfire and hands steadier than time—stood over a shallow basin filled with a glowing, swirling potion. Her goggles were perched high on her forehead, curls flying in every direction, but the look on her face was one of excitement.
“We’ve been working on something,” she said, voice quick. “Based on Malfoy’s... talent. You know, seeing magic. We call it the Sight, right? Well, we’ve been trying to reverse-engineer a way to replicate what he sees.”
Ron raised a brow. “You mean—make invisible magic visible?”
Zola nodded. “Exactly. And not just visible. Transferable. Something permanent. Tangible. So it’s no longer subjective or tied to someone who can ‘just see it.’ Something we can present as evidence.”
Harry stepped closer, gaze dropping to the small velvet box next to her, where Avery’s enchanted ring soaked in potion like it was steeping memories.
Zola carefully flicked her wand over it, slow and delicate, as if painting air. A shimmer rose from the ring, faint and nearly invisible—until she guided it, impossibly, onto a piece of paper enchanted with tracing runes.
A moment later, black lines began to crawl across the page. Forming. Curling. Spiraling.
Harry’s eyes widened.
The same sigil Draco had drawn weeks ago during one of their first consulting sessions.
The same damn mark.
“Bloody hell,” Ron breathed beside him, voice more awe than alarm for once.
Zola didn’t look up as she added, “It’s still in development. Slower than just having someone like Malfoy look and tell us, but it confirms his readings. Makes them admissible. And repeatable.”
Harry exhaled a laugh, stunned. “Zola, this is brilliant.”
She blinked, caught off guard. Then she smiled—small, proud, but just shy of beaming. “Well, it’s nice to hear it from the Boy Who Broods.”
Harry smirked. “Don’t get used to it.”
But even as they bantered, the air in the lab had changed. They weren’t chasing ghosts anymore. They had proof. They had tools.
For the first time in months, it felt like they were gaining ground.
And Harry… Harry was finally beginning to believe they might win this.
Harry hadn’t even heard the damn door open before Malfoy appeared, walking beside one of the ward specialists like he owned the entire bloody Ministry. Which, given the way he carried himself—pressed suit, perfect posture, that untouchable air—he might as well have. But that wasn’t the part that had Ron raising a brow and Harry internally cursing himself.
No, that came when Harry shot up from his chair like a wand had gone off under it.
“Subtle,” Ron muttered just loud enough.
Harry ignored him. Mostly.
Malfoy didn’t comment on it, which was shocking. Suspicious, even. But then again, maybe he didn’t need to. The faint twitch at the corner of his smug mouth said enough.
The ward specialist handed Harry the report, crisp parchment and glowing with embedded enchantments. “We confirmed it,” the man said. “There were traces of foreign magic interfering with the building’s wards. It’s faint, but someone remotely manipulated them.”
Harry's brows rose. “Remotely?”
The specialist nodded. “Didn’t trip any alerts. But it’s how your killer’s been bypassing security—manipulating protections without ever being physically near the scene. No contact. No residue. No immediate trace.”
Ron leaned in from behind, murmuring darkly, “That’s how he’s dumping them, then. No one sees him come. No one sees him go. Bloody brilliant.”
Not the word Harry wanted to use, but… yeah.
He looked at the specialist, thanking him—but the man just smiled and jerked a thumb at Malfoy.
“If you’re thanking anyone,” he said, “thank him. We wouldn’t’ve even known what to look for if he hadn’t pointed us in the right direction. You’ve got someone very… uniquely skilled on your side, Potter.”
And with that, he left. Just like that. Dropping a statement like a bomb and walking away without a care.
Malfoy turned, so sweetly smug it made Harry want to hex him and kiss him at the same time. Ron groaned, visibly, like the headache he’d been avoiding all day had just settled behind his eyes.
“I’ll go… submit the report to Robards,” Ron muttered, grabbing the folder and taking a wide berth around Malfoy. He paused beside Harry, leaned in, and whispered, “Don’t do anything drastic, yeah?”
“Define drastic,” Harry muttered back, but Ron was already gone.
Which left him alone with Malfoy again.
Malfoy, who was still wearing that insufferably pleased expression. “Did you hear that?” he asked, like he hadn’t already engraved the compliment onto his ego. “‘Uniquely skilled.’ You should consider framing that. Maybe next to all your awards.”
Harry snorted, leaning against the desk, arms crossed. “Still an annoying, pretentious arse.”
“Mm. But an arse that’s solved half your case for you.”
Unfortunately. He wasn’t wrong.
And Harry had never been one to withhold what was due.
“Fine,” he muttered, shooting him a reluctant glance. “Thanks. Again. You’ve been… helpful.”
Malfoy hummed, as if weighing the word in his mouth like an exotic flavor. “I like this new Potter. So much more agreeable. I should help out more often.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Don’t let it go to your—”
“But,” Malfoy cut in, stepping forward. Close. Too close. “You’re racking up quite a bit of debt, Potter. I’m thinking you start repaying those favours. Maybe… a coupon system?”
Harry squinted. “A what?”
“You know,” Malfoy said lightly. “A little stack I can cash in. For things. Favors. Dates.”
Harry choked. “You—”
“Don’t push it?” Malfoy echoed innocently. “Why, Potter. Are you scared?”
And there it was. That glint in his eye—challenge, promise, danger.
Harry’s body tensed on instinct, but his chin lifted.
He didn’t back down from a fight.
So he stepped forward until their faces were inches apart, matched him stare for stare, and said, low and defiant—
“Do your worst. If you can.”
The grin that spread across Malfoy’s face was pure sin wrapped in silk.
Oh, he was so screwed.
Notes:
Loving how Harry is the first one saying that everyone should be careful and move as one, but is also the first one to chase a criminal alone and gets hurt in the process
Chapter Text
That Friday evening had the sweet taste of victory clinging to it—months of exhaustion and near-burnout finally rewarded with progress that felt real. So when Ron clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder after their shift and said, “You’re not skipping out this time, mate,” he knew resisting was pointless.
Harry followed Ron and Hermione through the soft glow of Diagon Alley, into a newly opened bar tucked between a Quidditch merch shop and a potion cafe. According to Dean, one of his Muggle-raised friends had finally realized his dream of opening a mixed bar—magic-friendly, Muggle-cozy, and effortlessly cool.
And it was nice.
The lighting was low, warm, enchanted just enough to make the space feel private no matter how crowded it got. Spell-cleaned crystal glasses reflected the hues of multicolored cocktails, and booths curved in half-moons for maximum secrecy or maximum mischief.
Their usual crew was already huddled in a massive leather booth near the back. Ginny waved them over, a glowing drink in one hand and a teasing smirk on her lips. Seamus was in the middle of what looked like a dramatic retelling of a broom malfunction, while Neville laughed quietly into his butterbeer and Luna swirled her drink absently, eyes scanning the room like she was trying to see beyond it.
Ron slid in beside Hermione, whistling low. “Bloody hell, Dean. This place is posh.”
Dean grinned. “Told you. My mate’s been working on this for years. Invited me the second it opened. Said I could bring ‘the Aurors.’” He gave Ron and Harry a mock-salute, then added, “First round’s on the house. Try the green one. You might lose vision in one eye for twenty minutes, but it’s worth it.”
“That’s comforting,” Harry said dryly, slumping into the booth.
Ginny laughed and raised her drink. “Honestly? Worth it. I can taste the rainbow. Not even metaphorically.”
Seamus leaned in. “So, is it true? You two cracked the case?”
Ron made a face like he wanted to downplay it, but Harry just nodded with a small smile. “Got a lead. First real one in months.”
Cheers, high-fives, and clinks of glass followed. Neville beamed. Dean ordered a round of drinks. Seamus asked if it was that case. Luna, of course, was the only one not asking questions.
She turned to Hermione instead and said, quite plainly, “You can’t drink tonight.”
The entire booth froze mid-laugh.
Ginny blinked. “Wait, why?”
Neville was already digging into his enchanted satchel for something herbal. “Are you feeling off? Dizzy?”
Hermione blushed, hands lifting defensively. “No, no—it’s not like that.”
Ron leaned in closer, worry lines forming. “Are you okay? Do we need to go—?”
“Ron,” she said gently, placing her hand over his. “I’m fine. I promise. I just… I have an announcement.”
Harry stilled. Luna tilted her head like she was waiting for someone else to catch up.
Hermione hesitated just a beat, then smiled with that soft sort of glow that only meant one thing. “I’m pregnant.”
Silence.
Then—
“WHAT?” Seamus’s voice cracked the moment like a lightning spell.
The booth exploded.
Ginny shrieked and threw her arms around Hermione, nearly knocking her drink over. Neville gasped and dropped his satchel. Dean just grinned like someone had cast a happiness charm over the entire table.
Ron blinked. Then blinked again.
“I’m… I’m gonna be a dad?” he said, voice small like the idea didn’t fit in his head yet.
Then louder, “I’m gonna be a dad?”
Hermione nodded, eyes misty. “You’re going to be a dad.”
The look on Ron’s face was something Harry wished he could bottle up and keep forever. Pure, blinding joy. He pulled Hermione into his arms, squeezing her so tight she squeaked.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I just found out this morning,” Hermione said through laughter and a few happy tears. “And you’ve both been so busy lately, I didn’t want to—”
“No. No. Hermione Granger-Weasley,” Ron said dramatically, “You are the best wife a man could ask for.”
Harry laughed, shaking his head as the table erupted again in congratulatory cheers.
He raised his glass and grinned, “Another Weasley incoming. Merlin help us all.”
Ginny clinked her glass to his. “We’ll start prepping the redhead starter pack.”
Harry smiled wide, for once letting himself feel the warmth of the moment without any shadows. No killer, no workload, no sleepless nights. Just joy, family, and the weird, wonderful chaos they were all built for.
Even if he did catch himself thinking—wondering—what Malfoy would say if he knew.
And that… that was a dangerous thought.
The night glowed with that rare, intoxicating warmth that wrapped itself around Harry like an old jumper—familiar, worn, and so easy to sink into. The booth was a pocket of laughter and light in the bar’s soft ambiance, their little world tucked between rounds of drinks, soft music, and stories that reminded him of everything he used to fight for.
Dean and Seamus were the loudest—no surprise there. Dean had barely finished his pint when Seamus practically climbed over the table to dig into his coat pocket, dragging out his phone like it held a holy relic.
“You lot aren’t ready,” he declared.
And indeed, they were not. The moment the screen turned to show a very tiny, very fuzzy German shepherd pup looking criminally adorable in a little jumper knitted by Dean’s mum, the table collectively melted.
“Her name’s Parsnip,” Seamus said with the reverence of a proud father.
Ginny clutched her chest, already halfway over the table. “No, you don’t understand, I need her. I need to steal her and give her my last name.”
Dean reached over and gently yanked Seamus’s phone back, pulling his boyfriend closer with an arm around his shoulder. “She’s our daughter, thank you very much.”
“Not for long if Aunt Ginny gets involved,” she countered with a wicked grin.
Seamus clutched his phone like it was the Elder Wand. “Over my dead, chewed-up trainers, Weasley.”
Neville was next, radiating calm satisfaction as he shared updates about teaching Herbology. “It’s good. Feels like I’m finally in the right place. No cursed hallways. No hexed criminals. Just greenhouses and students who only occasionally try to eat the plants.”
Ron sighed into his drink. “You lucky bastard. I swear the last bloke we arrested was living in an alley with seventeen cats and a collection of singing socks. We need a career change, mate.”
Harry nodded, deadpan. “Let’s just drop it all and open a magical coffee shop in the Alps.”
“I’ll come visit,” Neville offered. “Bring the mandrakes to serenade your customers.”
Ginny then chimed in, tipping back her neon drink with flair. “Enjoy me while you can. My team’s flying to Japan next week for the semifinals. They’re going down, obviously, but I’ll miss you lot.”
That earned a chorus of groans and cheers, Neville even raising his glass in salute.
“Bring back sake,” Seamus added, to which Ginny just winked.
But Hermione, her hands wrapped protectively around a fizzy non-alcoholic drink, leaned forward with narrowed eyes.
“Alright, Luna,” she said, voice full of faux-suspicion. “How did you know?”
Luna blinked. “Know what?”
“That I was pregnant. Before I said anything.”
Luna tilted her head, eyes dreamy. “Oh. There was a Flibberwish fluttering around your hair. They only come near pregnant people. Or goats, but there weren’t any of those around.”
No one questioned her.
Instead, they all nodded like that explained everything, which, in Luna-language, it did.
Hermione smiled fondly and said, “Aside from the small life inside me? Life’s good. We just closed a major deal with the Brazilian Ministry. Renewed some peace accords, and they sent over imported coffee.”
That earned a low whistle from Dean.
“The good stuff?”
Hermione nodded. “They said it’s enchanted to keep you focused for twelve hours straight without the shakes. I’ll owl some this weekend.”
The table erupted in collective adoration, Dean dramatically declaring her Saint Hermione of the Blessed Bean.
Harry sat back, drink in hand, taking it all in.
His friends. His family.
Laughter. Future babies. Puppies. Peace treaties. Coffee from Brazil.
And yet, even in that warmth, in the happiest little bubble of the week, his thoughts drifted—uninvited, inevitable—back to a particular pair of grey eyes, to a smirk that came with challenges, and a man who could see magic like others saw light.
Draco Malfoy.
Harry took a sip of his drink and shook his head at himself.
What a damn mess.
But he couldn’t stop smiling.
The hum of laughter, clinking glasses, and soft music filled the bar, but Harry wasn’t really in it. Not fully. He was smiling into his drink, eyes a little too distant, mind a little too far away. And Ginny—of course Ginny—caught it.
She leaned across the table, lips already tugging up in that I’m-about-to-expose-you smirk, and called him out without mercy. “Alright, Potter,” she purred. “What’s got you smiling like an idiot?”
The grin died on Harry’s face like someone had hit it with a Killing Curse. He sent her a warning glare, but she only raised an eyebrow in response, undeterred. Bloody exes and their divine intuition.
He scrambled for an excuse, muttering something about the coffee—yes, the coffee, because clearly that was the most thrilling part of his life these days. Ginny just hummed in that suspicious way that said she absolutely didn’t believe him. Then, she dropped the bomb with all the grace of a well-aimed Bludger.
“Sure it’s not because of a certain blonde with a great arse who picked you up the other night when you got wasted?”
Silence. The table froze.
The next beat felt like the entire bar had turned to listen.
Harry felt his stomach plummet straight through the floor.
Ron’s head jerked toward him so fast it was a miracle he didn’t get whiplash. “Wait—what? Didn’t you say Ginny called Malfoy to come get you?”
Ginny’s grin sharpened into something positively feral. “Why would I call Malfoy? I don’t even have his number.”
A collective gasp. Dean nearly choked on his beer. Hermione’s eyes were wide with intrigue. Seamus lit up like a Christmas tree. Luna just blinked serenely like this was the least surprising thing in the world. And Ron—
“Malfoy?” he spluttered, looking personally offended. “Malfoy?!”
Dean leaned in, his tone way too casual for someone about to stir chaos. “So… what are you two, then?”
Harry, very valiantly, lied through his teeth.
“Acquaintances.”
Ron let out a snort. “Acquaintances don’t save each other from falling to their deaths and then bridal carry them to the bloody hospital. I saw the way he looked at you—gross, by the way.”
Seamus was practically bouncing in his seat. “Details. I need details. C’mon, mate, you can’t just casually be shagging Malfoy and expect us not to ask questions.”
“I am not shagging—!”
“Yet,” Ginny cut in sweetly.
Neville, ever the gentle traitor, offered in a soothing tone, “No one’s going to judge you, Harry.”
“You all absolutely are judging me,” Harry said, glaring daggers.
Ron nodded solemnly. “You’re right. I am judging. Seriously—Malfoy?”
Hermione elbowed him hard in the ribs.
And then Luna, as if she hadn’t just been watching everyone combust with mild amusement, added dreamily, “They always seemed rather close since fifth year.”
Harry could’ve set himself on fire right then and there. Would’ve been less painful. Less public.
Finally, defeated, he drained his glass in one go and slammed it down on the table.
“Fine,” he muttered. “We used to date.”
The table went dead silent.
Then, chaos.
“WHAT?”
“You’re joking—”
“Since WHEN?”
“How?!”
“Please say it was just a one-night thing—”
“Christmas of fifth year to the start of sixth,” Harry mumbled, pressing his fingers to his temples. “It wasn’t even a year.”
Hermione’s jaw dropped. “That’s why he was such a menace to Cho! I knew it.”
“And here I thought Harry was jealous of me,” Dean muttered, shaking his head. “But nah. He was just sneaking off to snog Malfoy.”
“Everything makes sense now,” Seamus said reverently, like he’d cracked a lifelong conspiracy.
Harry let his forehead fall onto the table. He briefly considered staying there forever.
Neville, kind as ever, tilted his head. “But… why Malfoy? He was part of the Inquisitorial Squad back then. He made your life hell.”
Harry sighed. He hadn’t planned on giving a bloody monologue, but apparently, tonight was full of firsts.
“It was… complicated. After the attack on Arthur that Christmas, everything felt like it was falling apart. I was angry. Tired. Just—done. One night I went for a walk to clear my head and I ran into him. And it just—happened. I don’t even know how. But for some reason, when Sirius died, he was the only one who made me feel like I wasn’t going to fall apart completely.”
The table went quiet, the laughter dying down to a low hum of understanding.
“But then, beginning of sixth year, he just—left. Broke up with me. No explanation.”
Ron rubbed his face. “That’s why you were so weird about him that year. Obsessive.”
“I wasn’t obsessive,” Harry muttered.
“You stalked him across the castle,” Hermione reminded gently.
“You followed him to Knockturn Alley,” added Neville.
“You were a full-blown creeper,” Seamus said cheerfully.
“Okay, okay—fine,” Harry groaned. “I had a thing. But nothing’s happening now.”
The whole table gave him the look. That “Sure, Jan” look.
Harry lifted his glass. “I’m not doing this sober.”
And with that, he downed another drink, fully aware that this would be a night he’d never live down.
Harry drank until the warmth in his cheeks wasn’t just firewhisky but something numbing, dull around the edges, easier than regret. He laughed too hard, smiled too wide, and when the time came to say goodbyes, Hermione offered to walk him home, concern clear in her soft eyes and quiet voice.
But Harry, swaying slightly with the weight of booze and exhaustion, waved her off with a crooked grin and a slurred, “I’m fine, ‘Mione. Just get Ron home before he starts serenading the entire city.”
Hermione hesitated, eyeing the wobble in his stance. Ron, leaning heavily on her shoulder with flushed cheeks and a dopey smile, chimed in with a mumbled, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” hands already protectively on her stomach.
She gave Harry one last look, uncertain, but relented with a sigh. “Alright. But please don’t do anything reckless tonight.”
“I’m always reckless,” he said with a half-hearted wink, which only made her groan.
As she helped Ron into the cab, Harry watched them go with a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. There was something grounding in that moment—watching two of his best friends stumble into the next stage of life, hand in hand, laughing into their future.
The cab door shut. Hermione waved. The car pulled away.
And just like that, the night crept quiet again.
He turned to find Dean and Seamus half-carrying a very drunk Neville, the poor bloke mumbling about needing to repot something. Harry gave them a nod and a lazy salute as they passed, Seamus returning it with a lopsided grin.
Luna followed behind them, gliding as if gravity never applied to her, hair loose and eyes dreamy. Completely sober. As always. She gave him a little wave and a look he couldn’t quite interpret. She never said much—but Luna knew things. Things he wasn't ready to ask about.
Then came Ginny, all wildfire hair and the kind of confidence you didn’t earn—you were born with. Her heels clicked against the pavement, stopping just in front of him.
“Alright there, Potter?” she asked, voice low, amused.
“Always,” he lied, grinning.
She gave him a look that peeled through every layer of bravado. “Mhm.” Then, quieter, “Don’t regret it.”
He blinked. “What?”
She leaned in, pressed a kiss to his cheek, and whispered again, “Don’t. Regret. It.”
And with that, she turned and walked away, red hair swaying like the last flicker of a candle.
Harry stood there a moment longer, her words echoing in the cavern of his chest.
Then, without quite knowing when his feet had made the decision, he turned and walked—slowly, steadily, as the cold air bit into his flushed skin and sobered him up inch by inch. The world buzzed around him, cars passing, voices dim in the distance, but he was somewhere else now. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere familiar.
He stopped beneath the streetlamp just outside the tall, glass-paneled building that had begun to feel too significant.
The chill seeped through his jacket, fingertips numb, but it was nothing compared to the thrum in his chest.
And then—there.
The door opened with a soft hiss, and out walked him.
Tailored charcoal suit. Polished shoes. A briefcase in one hand, a wand holster peeking beneath the sleek fall of his coat. And hair like damn moonlight, catching the faint golden hue of the streetlight and turning it to halo. Malfoy didn’t even flinch at the cold.
Harry didn’t speak. Just watched. Let himself look. Let himself feel. Because tonight, after all that had happened, he was done lying. To himself. To the others. To the ghosts of what almost was.
Draco paused the second he spotted him. That elegant mask of indifference cracked for just a fraction of a heartbeat, surprise flashing across his features—then something softer. Subtle, but unmistakable.
But something shifted—just a little—in those pale grey eyes. Something real. Something Harry had chased all the way here.
“What are you doing here, Potter?” Draco asked, voice low and even, but his steps betrayed him—already closing the distance between them.
Harry didn’t move. Didn’t answer. Just tilted his head, eyes scanning the face that had haunted him for fifteen years. The same mouth that used to smirk against his skin. The same eyes that had once seen through his bravado and brokenness alike. The same presence that made him feel like he mattered, even when the world tried to convince him he was nothing more than a symbol.
“I was drunk,” Harry finally said, his voice rough. “Walked around. Thought I’d—end up somewhere familiar.”
Draco arched a brow. “You wound up here by accident?”
Harry shrugged. “Maybe.”
A beat of silence.
Draco looked at him. Really looked at him. Then he took a step closer. “You look like shit.”
Harry laughed, loud and bitter. “Nice to see some things don’t change.”
Draco didn’t laugh, but his mouth twitched. “You’re shivering.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
And before Harry could protest again, Draco’s coat was coming off, draped over his shoulders with practiced precision. The smell of him hit instantly—spice, citrus, expensive fabric, and something Harry didn’t have words for. Something that had made a home in his bones long ago.
Harry blinked, staring down at the coat wrapped around him like a memory.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” Draco interrupted, and this time his voice was softer.
Harry’s throat worked around a dozen things he couldn’t say.
“Why now?” Draco asked quietly. “Why tonight?”
Harry swallowed. “Everyone found out. About… us.”
Draco stilled. Then, “And?”
Harry looked up, lips parting. “And I didn’t deny it. Not anymore.”
That silenced them both.
Draco was the first to speak, stepping in just close enough that Harry could feel his breath against his cheek.
“Are you here because you wanted to see me, or because you didn’t want to be alone?”
Harry’s response came instantly. Honest. Raw.
“Both.”
And then there it was—the look. The one that said Draco Malfoy had waited years to hear those words. The one that said maybe he hadn’t stopped hoping after all.
He didn’t say anything. Just reached up and touched Harry’s cheek, fingers light but steady.
“Come with me,” he murmured.
Harry hesitated for half a second. Then nodded.
Because tonight wasn’t about denial. Or shame. Or pretending to be fine when he wasn’t.
Tonight, Harry chose. Chose to follow
Draco inside.
Chose not to regret it.
Not this time.
The cold had faded.
Somewhere between the streetlamp and the polished leather seats, it disappeared—along with Harry's ability to think straight. Draco's hand was steady at his waist, guiding him with the quiet confidence he always wore like second skin. The world blurred around them—city noise dulled by Harry's heartbeat drumming like war in his ears.
He didn’t know which car it was. Didn’t care. They were all sleek, ridiculous, expensive. This one smelled like leather and something distinctly Draco—citrus, spice, and the faint trace of cologne Harry remembered from a time he’d promised himself to forget.
The passenger door opened with a soft click, and Draco ushered him in. The gentleness was unnerving. Disarming. Like he wasn’t sure what was more dangerous—Draco’s bite or his care.
Then Draco leaned in again to buckle him in, the seatbelt clicking softly. And this time—this time—Harry didn’t let him go.
He leaned forward. Just a small press of lips. Barely a kiss. Barely a breath.
But it was everything.
Something ancient and aching and dangerously tender bloomed between them. The kind of moment that changed the taste of air, the kind that made the skin tingle with the ghost of what was and what could still be.
Draco didn’t speak. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t hesitate.
He devoured the distance instead, a low sound escaping his throat as he surged forward and kissed Harry like something reclaimed—like a man picking up where he left off in the ruins.
Harry melted into it. His hands moved without permission, fingers tangling in that perfect blonde hair, tugging like he'd done a hundred times before. Memory burned under skin and bone. It wasn’t nostalgia. It was hunger. Need. Buried too long. Denied too often.
When Draco pulled back, Harry barely had enough breath to gasp.
He looked into those silver eyes and saw a war there—one Harry had no intention of walking away from this time.
Then another kiss, rougher, messier, as if Draco had reached his limit too.
A curse. A whisper. The door shut. Draco circled the car.
Harry sank back against the seat, flushed, dazed, lips tingling.
He didn’t remember the drive. Not the turns or the lights or the songs playing on the radio. Just Draco’s hand resting heavy and warm on his thigh like it belonged there. Like it never left.
And Harry—he didn’t move it.
They didn’t make it far past the door.
The flat was a blur—walls, corners, furniture forgotten in the haze of urgency. All that mattered was the weight pressing Harry against the wall, Draco’s mouth dragging over his like he was claiming lost territory. Their hands moved without patience, tugging, fumbling, grasping like they'd spent years pretending they didn’t crave this exact moment.
Harry’s back hit the wall with a soft thud, and Draco’s body followed—flush, heated, solid. Their chests rose and fell in jagged, desperate rhythm, breath tangled between open-mouthed kisses. It was maddening, the way Draco moved, like he knew the choreography Harry’s body still remembered. The places to touch, the angles to bite, the way to pull a sigh straight from his lungs with a single graze of teeth.
Then lips—hot, open, needy—found Harry’s throat, sucking bruises into brown skin like promises. Harry’s head tipped back, fingers laced in soft blond hair, holding on for dear life. He wasn’t sure when his feet left the ground, only that Draco had him—arms strong, grip sure, like letting go was never an option.
The bed greeted them in a sprawl of limbs and breathless laughter that died into another kiss. Harry barely registered the softness of the sheets beneath him before deft fingers made quick work of his belt, the metallic clink sharp in the quiet.
Then—
A mouth.
Hot. Wet. Unrelenting.
Harry gasped, the sound guttural, pulled from the base of his spine. One hand flew to Draco’s hair, the other slapped over his mouth to silence the choked sound that threatened to echo through the room. But Draco looked up, eyes hooded, voice low and full of wicked intent.
“Don’t.” A slow, open-mouthed kiss against his thigh. “I want to hear everything.”
Harry dropped his hand.
What followed wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft.
It was teeth scraping against sensitivity. It was fingers digging into thighs. It was the kind of pleasure that unraveled him thread by thread until the only thing left of him was sound—moans, whimpers, gasps torn from somewhere deep and far too vulnerable.
Draco never looked away.
And Harry? He gave in.
Let the pleasure swallow him whole. Let his body arch off the bed. Let every noise be heard because for the first time in a long, long time—he wasn’t hiding.
Not from Draco. Not from himself.
And when he finally fell apart, shaking, undone, all he could think was—
Gods, what happens when this is only the beginning?
Silk.
That was the first thing Harry registered. Silken sheets, far too smooth, far too expensive, and definitely not the cotton-polyester monstrosity he called his own. He groaned, eyes squeezed shut, as if sheer willpower could banish the pounding in his skull and the slowly dawning memory of last night’s… events.
His arm stretched out instinctively, searching for the comfort of a duvet or maybe his wand—what it found was warm skin.
Firm. Bare. Warm. Definitely human.
And then—dear Merlin—he opened his eyes.
What greeted him was a very defined, very naked, very pale chest. His face was inches from it, nose practically buried against a collarbone. He blinked. Once. Twice. Slowly, eyes trailed up the elegant line of that throat, the gentle dip of the jaw, the soft flutter of sleep-heavy lashes. And then, like a cruel punchline, the identity of that chest hit him.
Draco Bloody Malfoy.
Harry’s breath caught as he realized the full weight draped across his body—Malfoy’s arm was secured around his waist like a steel band, bare legs tangled like ivy in spring. Skin against skin.
He was naked.
They both were.
Panic flared in his chest and he tried to shift back, but that iron grip only tightened. A sleepy, low hum left Malfoy’s throat, dragging against Harry’s ear like silk on bare nerves.
“Sleep more,” came the gravel-drenched murmur.
Oh, no.
No, no, no. That voice. That damn morning voice—somewhere between a purr and a sin. It went straight down his spine, short-circuiting his willpower.
He froze.
And then Malfoy’s eyes opened—those unreasonably clear grey eyes, sharp even with sleep clinging to their corners. They blinked once, focused, and then curved into a slow, smug smile.
“Good morning, love,” he said, voice still rough, and with the kind of confidence that should be illegal.
Harry nearly choked on air.
He tried to scramble away, untangle his limbs, maybe throw himself out the nearest window, but Draco, traitor that he is, only tugged him in tighter, until Harry’s entire body was pressed flush against his.
"You're suffocating me," Harry mumbled, trying to twist away, but Malfoy chuckled—a low, dangerous thing—and rolled them, pinning Harry squarely on top of him. Arms locked firm over the small of his back, holding him there like some sort of smug incubus.
Harry let out a sound of pure indignation, hands braced against the other man's chest, ready to shove off. Or slap him. Or maybe both.
“Malfoy,” he hissed. “What the hell are you—”
And then it happened.
Draco leaned in, slow, lazy, like he had all the time in the world, and kissed him.
Not rough. Not greedy. Just soft—unforgivably soft.
Harry went very, very still.
When it ended, Malfoy didn’t move far. Just looked at him with that knowing gaze and said absolutely nothing—because the silence said everything.
Harry’s face went red. Scorching red. A shade that could burn the wallpaper off.
He was already halfway into a defensive rant, something about muscles and inappropriate smugness and how this meant absolutely nothing, obviously, when Malfoy just grinned and gave his arse a very unapologetic squeeze.
“Breakfast?” he asked.
Harry groaned into his chest. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
Draco’s reply? Just that maddening smirk and, “I’d make it worth it.”
Draco was the first to rise—because of course he was. Harry heard the rustle of sheets, the low creak of floorboards, and opened one eye just in time to catch a glimpse of pale skin and a very defined back stretching in the morning light. Muscles shifted, graceful and lean, as Draco stepped into a pair of trousers that had no right to still look tailored after being crumpled on the floor.
Harry squinted, then groaned, dragging the blanket over his head in a half-hearted attempt to shield himself from the assault of… reality.
He heard soft footsteps, then felt Draco’s weight lean briefly onto the mattress, followed by a kiss to his forehead—infuriatingly gentle, almost sweet. Too sweet. Harry peeked from under the sheet, catching only the back of Draco's head as he left the room without a word.
Once he was sure he was alone, Harry let out a very undignified groan and flopped onto his back. He stared up at the ceiling. White. Flat. Minimalist.
It matched the rest of the room—sleek, polished, entirely black and white, sterile almost. Soulless, if he were to be blunt. Not a single picture, no books, no sign of life except the rumpled sheets on the bed he currently occupied and the faint scent of cologne lingering in the air. It didn’t feel like someone lived here. It felt like someone was hiding here.
And Harry? Harry was wearing underwear, which was an odd relief—until he noticed that his trousers were nowhere to be found.
“Of course they’re not,” he mumbled, dragging himself out of bed with all the enthusiasm of a cat being tossed into a bathtub.
He searched until he found what could only be described as a walk-in wardrobe on steroids. Racks upon racks of suits. Greys, blacks, the occasional navy. Not a single T-shirt in sight. The man didn’t own casual, apparently.
Eventually Harry tugged on the largest, softest sweatshirt he could find—it smelled faintly like laundry detergent and Draco—and deemed it good enough. No pants. None of them fit him properly and frankly, it was Saturday. He was already in Malfoy’s house, his dignity was a distant memory, and if Draco had a problem with the thighs he was now flaunting in his posh clothes, well… that sounded like a him problem.
The flat was massive. Two floors, clean lines, expensive furniture, and entirely too quiet. He padded down the floating staircase, fingers trailing along the cold steel rail. The lower floor opened into a massive open kitchen with floor-to-ceiling windows letting the sharp winter light flood in.
And there he was—Draco—standing by the stove, spatula in one hand, phone cradled between his ear and shoulder, spouting something about “quarter-end figures” and “vendor compliance delays” in a clipped, polished tone that Harry only ever heard when he was ambushing the man at his office.
Harry paused just outside the doorway, watching him. Shirtless still. Hair slightly tousled from sleep but somehow still styled. The sight of it—all that grace, all that efficiency—made Harry want to both kiss him and hex him. And maybe do a few other things he wouldn’t name before breakfast.
He tugged the hem of the sweatshirt lower on his thighs—it barely helped—and finally stepped into the kitchen.
Draco turned, caught sight of him immediately, and—without missing a beat—said coolly into the phone, “No, send me the report by Monday. I’ll call you back.”
Click.
Phone down. Spatula turned. That knowing smirk already forming.
“Well,” Draco said, eyes sweeping over Harry’s bare legs and borrowed jumper. “Good morning, Gryffindor.”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “You don’t get to sound smug about your clothes being too fancy to lounge in.”
Draco flipped a pancake, calm as ever. “You didn’t seem to mind the lack of clothes last night.”
Harry flushed. “I hate you.”
“You say that every time you wear my clothes and nothing else.”
Harry scowled and stole a strawberry off the plate next to him.
Draco let him. “Coffee?”
Harry nodded, chewing slowly.
He wasn't going to survive this man.
Breakfast was awkward—so awkward it made Harry irrationally angry, because food shouldn’t be allowed to taste that good when the air was this tense. Every bite of perfectly crisped bacon, every mouthful of the most unfairly fluffy eggs, just reminded him that Draco Malfoy could not only cook like a bloody professional, but was also sitting across from him shirtless, smug, and too calm.
To make matters worse, Malfoy’s phone lit up every other minute. Message. Email. Call. All ignored. And for reasons Harry would absolutely not examine, the fact that he wasn’t the center of Draco’s full attention irked him. Not enough to admit it out loud—he wasn’t a masochist—but enough that his chewing grew increasingly aggressive.
Eventually the silence got under his skin. His fork clinked too loud against the plate as he said, a little too forced, “Nice place.”
Draco didn’t look up immediately, just hummed, glancing around the immaculate kitchen like he’d only just remembered where they were. “Closest one I could think of,” he said. “I only stay here when I’ve got late shifts. It’s near the office.”
Harry blinked. “One?”
Draco’s eyes met his. “Yes, Potter. I have other places.”
Of course he did. The git. Harry scoffed and looked away, not missing the way Draco’s lip twitched.
“I wasn’t exactly planning a sleepover,” Draco said, leaning back in his seat, arms stretching lazily behind his head, like he wasn’t the source of all Harry’s current misery. “You weren’t very patient last night either, if I recall. Clocking out of work to find a drunk Chosen One practically humping the lamp post? Forgive me for rushing.”
“I wasn’t—!” Harry groaned, sinking into his seat and scrubbing a hand down his face. “Merlin.”
But Draco wouldn’t let it go. Oh no. He never lets anything go.
“You climbed me like a bloody tree,” Draco continued, tone casual, as if they were discussing the weather. “Slurred something about my godlike bone structure, if I’m not mistaken.”
Harry slammed his fork down, nearly knocking over the orange juice. “Shut up, Malfoy. Who the fuck does anything with someone that drunk?”
The room went still. Quiet. Then—
“Relax, Potter,” Draco said, voice smooth, too smooth. “We didn’t go all the way.”
Harry froze, caught between indignation and confusion. “We… didn’t?”
Draco’s smirk deepened. “What kind of man do you think I am? Honestly. You were practically incoherent. I’d sooner hex myself than take advantage of that. Consent, remember? Still the sexiest thing a man can have.”
Harry blinked at him, brain trying to load.
“You really thought—?”
“I woke up naked, Malfoy!” he snapped, pointing his fork at the blonde like it was a bloody wand.
“And whose fault is that?” Draco replied, entirely unbothered. “You tried to seduce me with your socks still on.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
Harry flushed crimson, stuffed a too-big bite of toast in his mouth, and chewed furiously, glaring at his plate like it had personally betrayed him.
Draco didn’t stop smiling once.
After breakfast, Harry let out a grunt of pure exhaustion and muttered something about needing a shower. He stood from the table, stretching out the ache in his limbs when suddenly—arms wrapped around his waist from behind. A body pressed too close, and lips brushed the shell of his ear with a husky, “We could shower together, you know.”
Harry jumped like he’d been hexed. He spun around, holding his ear like it might fall off from the offense, and glared daggers at Draco.
“Are you serious? No. Absolutely not. Where’s the bathroom—and my clothes, you prat?”
Draco, completely unfazed, only smiled like the smug bastard he was. “Your clothes are in the wash. You reeked of Firewhisky and bad decisions. But you’re welcome to borrow mine.”
Harry narrowed his eyes. He wanted to argue, but he also didn’t want to sit in his own alcohol-stained trousers or walk around in only boxers for another second. “Fine. But if you try anything—anything—while I’m in there, I swear to Merlin I’ll hex your dick off.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Draco said sweetly. “Not unless you beg.”
Harry growled under his breath and followed Draco back to the bedroom he’d woken up in. With a wave of his hand, Draco opened a sleek white door that led to an ensuite bathroom.
“I’ll leave a change of clothes for you,” Draco said, ever the gracious bastard, and winked before shutting the door behind him.
The bathroom, like the rest of the flat, was pristine. Elegant. Clinical. It smelled faintly of eucalyptus and whatever rich-people soap Draco probably imported from the Alps. But it was also eerily unlived in, like a showroom with just enough charm to pass as someone’s home.
Still muttering about shamelessness and never drinking again, Harry glanced at himself in the mirror—and screamed.
The door slammed open almost immediately.
“What happened?” Draco rushed in, all mock concern, only to find Harry scowling murderously and jabbing a finger at his chest.
“This! What the bloody fuck is this?”
Draco looked. And laughed.
Harry’s torso was a battlefield of hickeys. His neck, collarbones, and chest looked like he’d gone twelve rounds with a very horny vampire. “Merlin,” Harry muttered, “I look like a chew toy.”
“I am thorough,” Draco said innocently, but his eyes dropped down Harry’s bare body with a look that was anything but. The moment Harry felt that heat, he snatched the clothes from Draco’s hands and shoved him backward, kicking the door shut in his face.
“Pervert.”
“I take full responsibility,” came the muffled reply. “Proudly.”
The shower helped. The water was hot, the shampoo suspiciously expensive, and the silence was just long enough for Harry to collect what remained of his sanity. But the second he stepped out and caught sight of his reflection again, all that calm melted into a groan of horror. The marks were still there. Purple, red, some damn near black.
“Fucking hell,” he grumbled, towel slung low on his hips as he eyed the clothes Draco had left. He’d expected a button-up and trousers that reeked of snobbery. What he found was… shockingly normal.
A hoodie. Soft. Worn in. Charcoal grey with faint fading around the cuffs. Sweatpants—too long, but cozy. And new underwear, still folded like it had come straight from the shop.
“…Huh,” Harry mumbled.
The sweatpants, once folded at the ankles, fit just fine. But the hoodie—Merlin’s beard, the hoodie drowned him. It hung off his shoulders, neckline wide enough to leave the tops of his collarbones bare and the worst of the bite marks exposed. He tugged it up instinctively, but it only slumped back down.
He looked at himself in the mirror. Half dressed in Draco Malfoy’s clothes, covered in Draco Malfoy’s kisses, standing in Draco Malfoy’s stupid sterile flat.
He looked like a bloody claim.
“Stupid snake,” Harry muttered.
But he didn’t change.
Harry sank into the plush velvet sofa like it might swallow him whole. His fingers were buried in the sleeves of Malfoy’s oversized hoodie, the hood slumped over half his face like he was trying to disappear inside it. Maybe he was. Because any sane, rational adult would’ve already left. Apparated away. Picked up whatever pieces of dignity remained, slapped a Disillusionment Charm on their memories, and moved on.
But no. He was still here. In Malfoy’s flat. In Malfoy’s clothes. Marinating in last night’s decisions like a simmering stew of regret, confusion, and whatever the hell that kiss had been. Or all three kisses. Or maybe four—he’d lost count after the second time Malfoy had moaned against his throat like he was something sweet worth savoring.
Harry groaned into the hoodie fabric. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Ginny’s voice surfaced in his mind again—don’t regret it—and he wanted to throttle her. Because what did she mean by that? And why—out of all the places he could’ve run to when drunk and spiraling—did his traitorous feet take him here?
His train of thought derailed the second an arm, still damp and smelling like citrus and spice, snaked over his chest from behind. Harry jumped, his heart skipping a beat—or three—as he twisted around to find Draco fucking Malfoy looking entirely illegal.
Grey sweatpants. Tight black T-shirt clinging to his chest and shoulders like it had been painted on. Towel draped over his neck. Hair dripping faint trails of water down his temples.
This wasn’t the posh, buttoned-up arsehole Harry was used to. This was… domestic Draco. Post-shower Draco. Wet-hair-and-barefoot-in-sweats Draco.
And it was a problem.
Draco grinned like the cat that got the canary. “You wear me well. Especially that neckline.”
Harry flinched like he’d been slapped, arms immediately crossing over his chest in a doomed effort to cover the way the hoodie collar dipped low enough to show half the constellation of marks on his skin. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“You’re sitting in my flat. In my hoodie. After last night.” Draco lifted a brow. “I’ll look however I want.”
Harry groaned and looked away, petulant. With the sleeves swallowed past his hands and his scowl plastered on his face, he looked less like a grown man and more like a moody teenager caught sneaking out.
Draco only chuckled and made his way to the front of the room where a sleek leather briefcase sat by the door—Harry hadn’t even noticed it. Must’ve been tossed there last night in the chaos of desperation and questionable decision-making. He watched as Draco pulled out a thin black laptop, flipped it open with practiced ease, and sat beside the coffee table without missing a beat.
“You planning to stand there sulking all day?” Draco asked, typing already. “Sit. You’re messing with the aesthetic.”
Harry muttered a curse under his breath but relented, sinking back onto the couch—on the opposite end, obviously.
Draco didn’t even look up. “Relax. I have some reports to finish. Be a good boy and entertain yourself.”
Before Harry could snap at the phrasing, Draco tossed something at him. Reflexes honed by years of chasing Dark wizards kicked in, and Harry caught the object on instinct—a remote control. Sleek. Matte black.
“I’d suggest the Netflix app,” Draco said, smirking faintly. “You’ll be surprised what Muggles come up with to keep themselves entertained.”
Harry stared at him. “You didn’t even know how a line phone worked back at Hogwarts.”
“And now I own three streaming subscriptions,” Draco said, smug as sin. “Times change, Potter.”
Harry scowled at the remote like it had personally offended him. Then again, he had nothing better to do. He threw a glare across the room, flipped the television on, and flopped deeper into the couch—hood still half-swallowed his face, pride bruised, and absolutely no clue what the fuck this was turning into.
Harry had no right to be this invested in a bloody Muggle action flick from 2013. It had started off as a way to kill time—him, the oversized hoodie, and Draco’s way-too-sophisticated remote control—but an hour in, he was murmuring insults at the screen like a seasoned critic. “Don't open the door, you absolute tosser—”
What he didn't notice was the subtle shift in gravity.
At some point during the third chase sequence and before the lead made another questionably dumb decision, Draco had closed his laptop, shifted down the sofa, and—without ceremony—fallen asleep, head tilted back, mouth slightly open, and one arm now draped casually across the backrest... just behind Harry.
It wasn’t until the end credits rolled and the flashing light dimmed that Harry felt the warmth—that warmth—next to him and turned, realizing just how close Malfoy had gotten.
Five inches. Maybe less. That arm? Definitely behind him. Maybe even brushing his shoulder, just faintly, like a phantom touch.
And Draco? Out cold. Peaceful. Relaxed. So not the man Harry had been arguing with for the better part of the year. Gone was the perfectly-coiffed, steel-eyed executive. In his place was something real—sweatpants, tousled hair, that infuriating mouth parted just slightly. Vulnerable, even.
Harry hated how his stomach twisted at the sight. Get a grip, Potter.
He was about to shift away. That would’ve been the smart thing. Logical. Respectful.
Instead, he leaned closer. Just a breath. Just enough to look. To see.
And damn it all—he looked good even like this.
But then something else struck him. Every time Harry had lingered near Draco's company building, he’d seen the same thing: Malfoy, the last to leave. Emails past midnight. Business calls while making breakfast. The man worked himself to the bone. Worse than Harry himself.
And yet… last night, he’d dropped everything for him. Held him. Let him in. Cooked him breakfast. Took his bloody clothes to the wash.
Harry didn’t know what to make of that.
Maybe that was what pushed him. Not lust. Not habit. Just… gratitude.
So, with the faintest touch, he pressed his lips—soft and tentative—to the corner of Draco’s mouth. Barely a whisper of a kiss. A thank-you, maybe. An apology. A mistake. He pulled back quickly.
But not fast enough.
That arm on the backrest shifted—wrapped around his shoulders instead. Harry tensed, already gearing up to bolt.
Then grey eyes cracked open, still heavy with sleep but impossibly sharp as they locked onto him.
Shit.
He opened his mouth—no clue what to say. Draco beat him to it.
“If you’re going to kiss me,” he muttered, voice gravel-deep and sleep-rough, “at least do it properly.”
Harry didn’t even get a chance to process that before Draco pulled him in. Fully. Warm lips crashing into his. One arm anchoring him at the shoulders, the other sliding around his waist, dragging him across that five-inch gap like it had never existed.
Harry gasped against his mouth, his hands instinctively pressed to Draco’s chest in a weak push—but it was useless. Not when he was melting, bones liquefying like the bloody idiot he was.
His brain screamed that this was a mistake. That the lines were blurring too fast. That regret would come knocking, as it always did.
But Draco’s kiss silenced everything else.
And maybe—for once—Harry didn’t want to be saved from it.
Notes:
Yep conset is the sexiest thing any person can have. Draco may be a psycho but be still has some values
Also just a friendly reminder that this technically is 2013 but if you see any inconsistencies regarding products or services then oops.
Something else, this is where Harry as it's to having been in a relationship with draco prior to sixth year sort of explaining why he was so obsessed at some point with especially since he was unaware of him becoming a death eater since draco broke up with with suddenly and then the events of sixth year happened
Finally yay! Hermione and Ron are gonna be parents!
Chapter 10
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Somehow, without even realizing how it happened, Harry had ended up straddling Draco Malfoy’s lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. The telly still hummed quietly in the background, forgotten, a pale flicker in the otherwise dim sitting room.
Their kisses had grown slow, lazy, like the world outside didn’t exist. Harry’s arms hung loosely over Draco’s shoulders, fingers occasionally curling into the nape of his neck. Draco’s hands had settled on his waist, but as time passed, they had started to roam—confident, slow, fingers slipping under the oversized hoodie Harry still wore like it was his now. The touch was cold, sharp enough to make Harry shiver and bite back a noise.
They parted only when breathing became non-negotiable. Draco said nothing, just pulled Harry closer—tighter—until their chests were pressed together and Harry’s head was guided to the curve of his shoulder. The hood fell back enough to expose Harry’s flushed face, but Draco didn’t seem to notice or care. His nose buried itself in the crook of Harry’s neck. A deep inhale. Like Harry was something safe, something grounding.
And that was the strange part, wasn’t it?
It was peaceful. Too peaceful. Like nothing had ever been broken between them.
But, of course, it never lasted. Not with Malfoy.
“I’m cashing in one of those favours,” Draco murmured suddenly, voice muffled against Harry’s skin.
Harry immediately jerked back, narrowing his eyes with all the suspicion of a man who knew better than to think anything came free with this particular snake.
“Already? Merlin, you’re worse than Gringotts,” Harry snapped. “Fine, what is it? You want me to cover your next arrest warrant or dig up some secret file? What?”
But Draco didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned in and kissed Harry’s cheek. Just a soft press of lips, followed by a lazy brush of his nose against Harry’s skin.
“It’s a surprise.”
“Oh, bollocks,” Harry groaned. “How am I supposed to do you a favour if you don’t tell me what the sodding favour is?”
“I am telling you.” Draco’s voice was maddeningly smug. “Just stay with me. All day. No bolting.”
Harry blinked. “That’s it?”
“Mmhm.”
He didn’t believe him. Shouldn’t believe him. Which, clearly, showed on his face because in the next breath, Draco stood up.
“What the—Oi! What the hell are you doing?!” Harry yelped, clinging instinctively—arms tightening around Draco’s shoulders, legs wrapping like a koala about to be tossed off a tree.
Draco just laughed. “Told you. Don’t move.”
“I’m heavy, Malfoy!”
“I lift weights, Potter. You’re a feather in comparison.”
And with that, he casually carried Harry up the stairs, as if he weighed no more than a pillow. Back into the massive, overly minimalist bedroom where Harry was promptly dropped onto the bed with a bounce and a huff.
Thirty minutes later, Harry found himself sulking in the passenger seat of one of Draco’s cars—a different one, because apparently this man had a bloody fleet—still wearing Malfoy’s clothes (a less oversized hoodie, decent jeans that were suspiciously his exact fit, and brand-new trainers). Draco sat beside him in the driver’s seat, not in a suit, but somehow still looking like he owned the world.
Harry scowled at him sideways. “Where the hell are we going?”
Draco tapped his fingers against the steering wheel like he was orchestrating a symphony. “Errands.”
“Errands? This is your grand favour?”
“I like having company when I shop.”
“Malfoy, you could’ve just asked. I’m not an errand boy.”
“You owe me,” Draco sing-songed. “Remember? Evidence. Magic sigils. Wards. My good side in the reports—”
Harry cut him off with a groan. “You sound like Hermione when she’s high on paperwork.”
“She’s a woman of taste,” Draco replied smoothly.
Harry sighed, letting his head hit the window with a dull thunk. “You do know that kidnapping an Auror is illegal, right?”
Draco didn’t even blink. “Not kidnapping if you came willingly.”
“…I was carried.”
“You clung,” Draco corrected with a smug smile.
Harry cursed under his breath and pulled the hoodie’s collar higher. This better not be another bloody regret.
The first place Draco took him to was, in Harry’s humble opinion, the ninth circle of hell disguised as a luxury shopping district. Every shopfront glistened like a diamond with names Harry barely recognized but somehow still hated, oozing a kind of posh arrogance that screamed, you don’t belong here, peasant.
Harry, with his arms crossed and his soul already halfway out of his body, shot Draco a sideways look that could curdle milk. “Really? This is the grand favour? Dragging me through capitalism’s wet dream?”
But Draco was already striding forward, silk and superiority in motion, tossing a “Keep up, Potter,” over his shoulder like this was normal behavior. Harry grumbled something not-safe-for-ministry-records and followed like the reluctant, hoodie-swaddled hostage he was.
The first store was a blur of too-bright lighting and the distinct scent of overpriced cologne. The moment they stepped inside, sales clerks descended like vultures to a corpse—except the corpse was rich and apparently regularly shopped there. They greeted Draco like royalty, all warm smiles and shallow praise.
Draco gave them a simple nod, murmured something about “just browsing,” and made a beeline for a rack that probably cost more than Harry’s annual salary.
“Don’t you already own enough expensive suits?” Harry muttered as he followed, trying not to brush up against anything in case it spontaneously charged his account.
Draco didn’t even glance at him. “A man can never have too many options. Besides, I have a gala coming up.”
Harry rolled his eyes so hard it almost gave him whiplash.
Then it got worse.
Draco, with the eyes of a predator who’d spotted his prey, plucked a deep navy button-down off the rack and, without warning, pressed it to Harry’s chest. He tilted his head. “Hmm.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Seeing if this works with your unfortunate posture,” Draco said absently, then flagged a clerk with a flick of his fingers. “Do you have this in emerald? Or charcoal?”
And before Harry could protest, he was gone. Swept into a dressing room by a terrifyingly efficient shop assistant, arms burdened with outfits Harry wouldn’t wear even if held at wandpoint. Draco had casually mentioned, “I need to see them on a body. You know, for context,” like this was the most obvious thing in the world.
Harry had stood in that fitting room like a cursed doll.
The first set—some soft-as-sin slacks and a silk-blend shirt—felt like betrayal. He stepped out, unsure where to put his hands. Draco was lounging on a plush sofa just outside, legs crossed, fingertips pressed together like he was evaluating a painting at the Louvre.
“Turn around,” Draco said smoothly.
Harry scowled. “I’m not your bloody model, Malfoy.”
“Then stop looking so good in everything,” Draco replied, not missing a beat.
And that’s how it continued. Outfit after outfit. Harry spinning in place like some runway-trained house elf while Draco made a show of tilting his head and saying things like “Hmm, yes, that fabric really brings out the war trauma in your eyes.”
Harry had started off annoyed, then more annoyed, then outright existential. He was beginning to hate the texture of satin.
And just when he thought it couldn’t get worse, Draco turned to the sales clerk and said, with an indecent amount of nonchalance, “We’ll take everything he tried on. Bag it all.”
Harry gaped. “Excuse me?!”
But Draco had already moved on, tugging Harry by the sleeve to the next store.
And the next.
And the next.
Each more obnoxiously elegant than the last.
By the end of the second hour, Harry was drowning in shopping bags, his dignity in shreds, and Draco Malfoy looked like he’d just won the World Cup of petty indulgence.
And they were still not done.
By the time Harry was in the dressing room of the last bloody store, he'd abandoned any hope of self-preservation. Modesty? Dead. Dignity? Buried under a pile of designer shirts. He was stripped down to nothing but a pair of tailored shorts, feeling the prickle of expensive fabric on skin that had no business being anywhere near this luxurious.
He grumbled to himself, half-naked and entirely done with this day, when the curtain whispered open behind him. He turned just in time to see Draco step in — silent, smug, and entirely too close. The curtain swished shut.
“What the hell—” he started, but then Malfoy was already crowding him, eyes heavy, mouth curled in that damn smile that spelled nothing but trouble.
“Relax, Potter,” he murmured, one hand landing on Harry’s bare hip like he had every right to. “Just needed a second opinion.”
“On what?” Harry snapped, trying — failing — to ignore the slow burn igniting under his skin as Draco leaned in, his breath ghosting over his neck.
“How good you look pressed against a wall.”
Harry barely had a second to scoff before Draco proved his point — hips flush, lips trailing heat along his throat, fingers moving like he owned him. And Merlin, he hated how much he responded to it.
Harry tried pushing him off but Draco wouldn't budge and he wasn't going to lie when he said his biggest concern at the moment was wrinkling the very expensive shorts he was wearing. Draco didn't seem to care because instead he began kissing his ear and down to his neck.
When Draco’s mouth latched onto a mark he'd left hours earlier, Harry nearly gasped. But he caught himself, biting his lip, squeezing his eyes shut, because they weren’t alone. Dressing rooms weren’t exactly fortresses. One noise — one sound — and the entire boutique would know just how thorough Draco Malfoy could be.
Harry shivered and when Draco's tongue licked over another hickey and then his mouth closed over a nipple Harry was clutching onto the back of Draco's shirt like his life depended on it. He felt Draco grin over his skin as he abused his chest. He heard him whisper something about his chest being soft and plump before his hands were already pulling at the belt. Harry pushed him saying they couldn't do this there but draco only grabbed him by his arm and turned him around.
The wall felt cold against his chest, Draco flat against his back and then he heard the buckle being undone and the sound of a zipper going down. Harry wanted to protest, but when he felt Draco's hands wrapping around him, that was it. His mind turned into goo and sanity was out the window.
Draco chuckled low against his throat, a sound that vibrated down his spine. “Quiet, Potter,” he whispered, palm flattening against Harry’s stomach, voice dark and full of promise. “You wouldn’t want to give them a show…”
Harry whimpered as Draco's hand stroke him just right. Draco's other hand came to wrap over his mouth and Harry was really losing it. He finished with a muffled groan.
Harry didn’t remember when his knees gave out, or when he clung to Draco’s shirt like it was the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence. All he remembered was heat, hands, and the slow unraveling of his thoughts one touch at a time.
By the time Draco stepped back, looking every bit the composed aristocrat while Harry could barely string a thought together, the bastard smirked and whispered against his ear—
“Good boy.”
Harry really thought he was going to stay mad. He really thought a bit of silent treatment could rattle Draco Malfoy. Cute. But then Malfoy sat him down like a pampered brat surrounded by luxury bags and came strutting back with a tray of greasy, glorious temptation that smelled like heaven in a paper wrapper.
Yeah. So much for resolve.
Harry tried to glare, to cross his arms and scowl in defiance, but the moment that burger hit the table, his stomach quite literally betrayed him with a growl so loud, half the food court probably heard it. Draco smirked like the smug git he was, telling him to eat up because shopping could take down even the “sturdiest of Aurors.”
Harry wanted to retort that they did far more than shopping—the dressing room situation alone deserved its own classified report—but instead he was already halfway through the burger like it was a goddamn Portkey to paradise.
Draco casually sipped his drink like he hadn’t just nearly ravished him in a designer boutique, watching with amused eyes as Harry inhaled the food.
“Slow down,” Draco said, voice all silk and superiority. “I’d rather not explain to a Healer how the Chosen One died via burger.”
Harry gave him a sharp look, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—only for Draco to lean across the table, swipe a thumb across the corner of his lips, and lick it off.
Right. Straight to Azkaban. That’s where Harry was going. Because what the actual—
The look Harry shot him could’ve incinerated an Inferius. Draco just smiled, that smile, the one that knew exactly what it was doing to him, and said, “If you’re done, we should head out.”
Bastard.
With his stomach full and pride barely hanging on by a thread, Harry sulked his way back into the passenger seat. He didn’t expect their next stop to be an electronics store. Nor did he expect to stand awkwardly by while Draco shopped for a phone.
When the clerk came over, Draco said he was looking for a model that was “easy to use but not completely idiotic.” Harry side-eyed him, then the phone, then the smug face of the man clearly plotting something.
And plot he did.
Because once they were back in the car, Draco nonchalantly dropped the bag on Harry’s lap and said, “It’s yours.”
Harry blinked. “I don't need a phone.”
“Belive me, you need a phone,” Draco countered. “This has a working touchscreen, actual signal reception, and a battery life longer than your attention span.”
Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Draco kept going.
“You storm into my office at ungodly hours. You floo into my closet, Potter. My closet. I’ve had to ban Ministry calls from the building and you—do you realize how hard it is to get soot out of a cashmere rug?”
Harry closed his mouth.
Draco gestured to the phone. “Same model as mine. My number’s already in it. So is yours. And I’ve added contacts you might actually use. I even got you a decent case. You’re welcome.”
“You’re very... productive,” Harry muttered.
“You have no idea.”
And then Draco reached over, tapped the new phone’s lock screen, and Harry stared as a picture lit up — the absolute audacity — it was one Draco had taken when Harry wasn’t looking: hoodie too big, hair tousled, sleeves covering his hands, face twisted in mid-rant while holding fries like a weapon. A fucking menace. His contact name?
“Whiny Auror 💥”
Harry was definitely going to kill him.
...Just after he figured out how to change the wallpaper.
Harry should’ve known. The moment that car pulled up outside an arcade, he should’ve turned and bolted. But no—he stayed, because Malfoy had already killed the ignition and was getting out like this wasn’t absolutely unhinged.
Harry stared after him, disbelief etched into every muscle. “You do realize I’m not twelve, right?”
Draco, without missing a beat and with all the goddamn smugness in the world, tossed over his shoulder, “Please. I’d never do half the things I’ve done to you with a child.”
Harry short-circuited. Brain fried. Libido startled awake and screaming. He clenched his fists, half tempted to hex him, half tempted to drag him back into the car and prove a point. But Malfoy was already disappearing into the sticky, loud, overstimulating chaos of teenage dreams.
Inside, the place smelled like sweat, soda syrup, and pubescent testosterone—Harry hated how nostalgic it made him feel.
Then Draco just casually waltzed up to a token machine, pulled out what looked like half the contents of Gringotts, a bill with too many zeroes, and fed it in like this was just another day. Coins clattered into a plastic basket, loud and excessive. Of course it was loud and excessive—it was Draco Malfoy.
Basket in hand, he looked at Harry like this was the moment of truth. “Coming?”
Challenge accepted.
The basketball hoops loomed like gods demanding sacrifice. Both men slammed coins in the slots at the same time, and the moment the buzzer went off, war began. Balls flew, taunts were tossed, and Draco—that bastard—was actually decent. But Harry, driven by years of suppressed competitiveness and sheer spite, managed to edge just a few points ahead.
When the timer ended, Harry cheered—jumped like a kid—and landed, stupidly, chest-to-chest with Draco. Their laughter faltered, and Harry blinked up into those gray eyes, way too close, way too aware. He cleared his throat, took a hasty step back, and mumbled, “So… what else is there to play?”
What followed was pure madness. Utter, sugar-fueled chaos.
They tackled everything—from old-school Pac-Man to the latest shooter game. Draco, it turned out, had the reflexes of a cursed cat and the competitive bloodlust of a Slytherin Quidditch Captain. He annihilated in racing games, took headshots like a pro, and had the gall to adjust his goddamn cardigan while gloating.
Harry refused to be beaten by someone who wore designer knits to shoot pixelated zombies.
They drew a crowd. Teenagers whispering, recording. At one point someone said, “Whose the one in glasses?” and someone else replied, “Who’s the hot blond with him?” and Harry almost stopped playing. But then Malfoy smirked, and it was on again.
By the end, they stood triumphant, sweaty, panting, and holding a ridiculous armful of tickets like war heroes.
On their way to the prize counter, Draco suddenly veered. Harry turned in time to see him heading toward the claw machines.
“Oh, come on, those things are rigged,” Harry called.
Draco just shrugged. “Still have one coin left.”
He inserted it. The claw descended, wobbled... and actually caught something.
Harry gawked as the claw rose—precariously, impossibly—and dropped a plush creature into the chute. Draco knelt, retrieved the thing with exaggerated care, and held it up like a trophy. It was hideous. Unidentifiable. A dragon? A cow? Satan in plush form?
He jingled it in front of Harry with a shit-eating grin and the most unbearable smugness known to mankind.
Harry rolled his eyes and muttered, “You’re not impressing anyone.”
“Oh, but you smiled,” Draco said, voice silky.
Harry looked away. He had, damn it. He had smiled.
And now they were going to the prize counter like children, but only one of them had a grown man’s voice that haunted dreams and hands that remembered every soft part of him.
Arcade tickets? Worth about as much as a Chocolate Frog wrapper after the frog’s hopped off. Even with their absurd haul, the only “prize” they walked away with was a pair of cat keychains—matching, of course, because the universe apparently loves a good punchline.
Harry’s mind was still reeling as Draco pulled back into the private underground parking lot. The familiar hum of the engine settling was drowned out by the pounding in Harry’s head. It was just supposed to be a simple errand day, right? Well, apparently that was a lie—nothing about this day had been simple.
He glanced at Draco, who looked completely unfazed, as usual, and muttered in confusion, “Why are we back here? The day’s over, right?”
Draco’s lips curled into that infuriating smirk. “The day’s not over yet. We’re just stopping for a change of clothes.”
A chill ran down Harry’s spine, but he shoved it aside, deciding that yes, he had, indeed, changed clothes more today than he had in his entire life. But Draco was already out of the car and moving, and Harry—despite every instinct screaming at him to leave—followed.
He didn’t pay attention to the floor number of Draco’s penthouse the first time he came, but now as they walked through the sleek lobby and into the elevator, the thought struck him like a lead balloon: Of course he lived in the penthouse.
The man practically oozed wealth and arrogance—why would he settle for anything less?
Inside, Draco led Harry into a different room, one that didn’t have that luxurious bed, and just like that, Draco pushed him in, dropped a shopping bag at his feet, and without another word, shut the door. Harry blinked, still processing the shift in their dynamic as Draco disappeared, but he stood there for a moment, staring at the bag like it had offended him personally.
Why was he doing what Draco asked?
He had no idea.
He muttered under his breath, cursing the absurdity of it all. But that muttering stopped the second Draco knocked—and then entered without waiting for an answer.
There he stood, resplendent as ever, wearing an immaculate suit that only someone like Draco Malfoy could pull off with such nonchalance. His hair was perfectly styled, half slicked back, and he smelled like something intoxicating. It made Harry’s head spin. And then there was that damn smile again.
“Well?” Draco’s voice was a low hum, filled with amusement. “I knew plum would look good on you.”
Harry glared at him, arms crossed over his chest. “Are you going to tell me why we’re playing dress-up again?”
Before he could protest further, Draco was already at his side, buttoning Harry’s shirt with too much precision. He held the tie in his hands, gliding it around Harry’s neck like he had all the time in the world. He muttered something about how Harry should’ve learned how to tie a tie properly at Hogwarts, but Harry barely heard him over the pounding in his ears.
Draco pulled him closer by the tie, and before Harry could even register what was happening, Draco’s lips were on his—fast, needy, and unexpected. Harry froze, eyes wide, but before he could process it, Draco was already pulling him away and leading him to a mirror, hands holding him in place as he leaned over Harry’s shoulder.
“We look good together, don’t you think?” Draco’s voice was soft, almost teasing, but his fingers were tight around Harry’s waist, keeping him there, anchored.
Harry didn’t even know what to say as he stared at their reflection. Draco’s suit was black and sharp, contrasting sharply with the plum hue of Harry’s, the black tie completing the picture. But more than the suits, Harry was acutely aware of how Draco was wrapped around him, his chest pressed against his back, his chin resting lightly on Harry’s shoulder.
“I asked you why we’re dressing like we’re going to a wedding,” Harry grumbled, shifting slightly in Draco’s grasp.
Draco’s smile widened, somehow even more innocent than before. “I mentioned a company gala earlier. That’s tonight.”
Harry’s stomach dropped. “And you’re telling me now?”
“Mm,” Draco hummed, leaning in closer to press a kiss to Harry’s neck. “You’re going with me. You’re my date.”
Harry recoiled slightly, not ready to process the implications of that statement. “No, I’m not. I’m not—”
But Draco just cut him off, already knowing Harry’s reaction. “You owe me, Potter. And the day isn’t finished yet.” He gave Harry that look—smug, unbothered, as though he had all the control in the world.
“You owe me,” Draco cut in smoothly. “Unless you’re not a man of your word?”
And that was it.
That damn line.
Cue the car ride to god-knows-where, Harry glaring out the window, cursing every decision that had led him here, dressed to kill, seated next to a man who probably already had. And the worst part?
He knew. He knew he was going to follow him in.
Because something about being at Draco’s side made him feel less like Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and more like Harry—someone wanted. Chosen. Kept.
Harry walked right into the lion’s den—lip bitten, suit flawless, and eyes wide like he hadn’t just spent all day clinging to Draco Malfoy’s lap like a fever dream. And now here he was, trapped in a ballroom dripping with luxury, surrounded by the exact kind of people he swore he'd never become.
Everything about this event was the stuff of Harry’s nightmares—polished marble floors, waiters gliding around like swans with silver trays, strings playing softly in the background, and every conversation punctuated with fake laughter and champagne flutes. The only thing worse than the crowd was the reason he was even in this mess. Or more precisely, who.
Draco.
Wearing that black three-piece suit like it was second skin, hair slicked back, his usual smirk replaced by something softer, warmer, more terrifying. Because he looked comfortable. Effortless. And right beside him, Harry felt like a wild animal forced into a tailored cage.
They’d barely crossed the threshold before Harry felt the weight of every gaze land on them. Draco, naturally, leaned in, breath hot by his ear, and purred, “Relax.”
Relax?
Harry shot him a side-glare that would’ve turned lesser men to stone. “They’re all staring,” he hissed.
“And?” Draco murmured, voice full of teeth. “You’re a walking legend, Harry. You were born for the spotlight. Besides, these people love a good power couple. Don’t deny them their fantasy.”
Harry opened his mouth to object—power couple?!—but they were already being approached.
The first was an older man with a blinding white suit, an expensive tan, and a smile that probably cost him a small country. He looked like money had aged him like fine wine. “Draco! Always a pleasure.” His voice was slick and warm, like a handshake dipped in honey.
Draco’s switch flipped in an instant. Gone was the smug bastard who manhandled him into suits—now he was gracious, elegant, full of charm.
When the man’s eyes landed on Harry, the question followed smoothly, “And who might this handsome young man be?”
Harry wanted to melt into the floor, but Draco’s grip around his waist tightened, possessive, grounding. “This is Harry,” he said, tone low and intimate. “He’s my date tonight.”
Date. Merlin, that word hit different in public.
But Harry, ever the survivor, pulled his best celebrity-smile out of cold storage and presented himself with the kind of poise Hermione had beaten into him over years of Ministry events. “Pleasure to meet you, sir,” he said, shaking hands with perfect posture, biting back the urge to run screaming for the fire exit.
And so the charade began.
Socialite after socialite. Fake laughs, compliments, questions about Draco’s work and Harry’s fascinating eyes. He played along, charmed them all. But it got harder when he saw one man freeze, eyes going wide.
“Harry Potter?”
Harry’s stomach dropped.
He panicked.
He wasn’t supposed to be recognized here—this was a Muggle event, wasn’t it?
But Draco’s arm turned steel around his waist. “Breathe,” he whispered.
The man smiled nervously. “I—I just didn’t expect... wow, it’s really you.”
Draco leaned in, his smile full of mischief. “Harry, remember what I told you? LUXOR is... expanding. Crossing the border, so to speak. This gala celebrates our hybrid future.”
Hybrid.
The word felt slippery. Dangerous.
When they finally walked away, Harry leaned in and muttered, “Are you insane? Mixing muggles and wizards in one room? What about the Statute of Secrecy?”
Draco chuckled, clearly delighted. “You’re adorable when you’re paranoid.”
Harry glared.
Draco just waved a hand dismissively. “Relax. Everything’s worded carefully. Muggles think they’re dealing with foreign tech conglomerates. Wizards hear... more. Everything’s coded. It’s genius, really.”
Harry groaned and resisted the urge to pull his tie off. “I can’t believe you dragged me into this.”
Draco smiled again and said, soft but lethal, “You owed me.”
And just like that, Harry realized—
He was going to regret this night.
Or worse...
He wasn’t.
Notes:
Harry is totally the type that goes on a very obvious date and doesn't even realize it's a date. Clueless... Truly
Just a little tip, they may be acting all chummy now but they aren't officially dating yet. Just sort off fooling around with unspoken and most likely unaware of feels. This is an idiots in love after all. Or one idiot and one psycho
Chapter 11
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Harry hadn’t signed up for this—didn’t even agree to this. One second he’s being manhandled into a plum suit and the next he’s seated among strangers, surrounded by velvet, money, and wine that probably cost more than his first wand. And the worst part? The chair next to him—Draco’s chair—was empty.
He turned to shoot the man a glare, only for Draco to lean down beside his ear like some smug, sexy devil.
“I need to go upstage in a moment.” A whisper, warm breath against his skin, and Harry flinched.
“You’re leaving me?” he hissed through clenched teeth. His eyes screamed don’t you dare leave me with the rich snobs, but Draco just ruffled his hair like Harry was a puppy, grinned, and whispered, “Be good, sweetheart.”
Then he was gone.
And Harry… Harry turned around and realized the entire damn table was watching him like he'd just confessed his undying love. Shit. He must’ve looked needy—clingy even. Like one of those swoony boyfriends who can’t bear to be apart for five minutes.
And to make matters worse? These weren’t even wizards—they were muggles. They didn’t know who he was. They weren’t giving him those polite Ministry stares that meant we respect your trauma and fame. No, they were giving him the look. The aww, how cute, he's so whipped look.
The older man they’d met at the entrance beamed at him and said, “It must be nice, being treated so well. I’ve known Draco for years. Brilliant young man. Hard-working. Deserves every bit of success he's earned.”
Harry almost choked. Hard-working? Brilliant?
Sure, if you consider building a successful double life as both a corporate prince and a magical consultant.
He smiled politely. “Yeah… he’s very… driven.”
Then came the woman he vaguely remembered being introduced to—some marketing exec or whatever. She leaned in, eyes gleaming. “So how did you two meet?”
Harry froze.
“School,” he muttered vaguely.
Wrong move.
Her eyes lit up, and she turned to her boyfriend, grabbing his arm with excitement. “High school sweethearts! Oh my god, that’s so romantic.”
Harry almost fell out of his chair. “We’re not dating,” he said quickly, loudly.
But it was no use. The table was smiling like they’d just heard wedding bells. They wanted the fantasy. They loved it. And Harry, already flustered and wine-starved, had no idea how to claw his way back out of it.
Then the lights dimmed.
The hostess took the stage, all diamonds and red lipstick, welcoming the guests. She gave some fancy speech about growth and global expansion. Some chairman-type followed. The words blurred. Draco was still gone. Harry’s wine glass was empty. His patience was wearing thinner than the thread count on his nerves.
And then he saw him.
Spotlight hit the stage, and there he was—Draco fucking Malfoy.
In all his goddamn glory.
Hair slicked back, suit sculpted like armor, expression calm, composed, commanding. He didn’t just walk onstage, he owned it. And in that moment, Harry finally understood what everyone else had been seeing all night.
Draco radiated power. Poise. The kind of elegance that came naturally to purebloods but was weaponized in him. He spoke—voice smooth, confident, and perfectly pitched—and the room listened. Not out of fear or obligation, but respect. Admiration. Desire.
Harry stared.
Next to him, the woman whispered, “He’s very popular in the company, you know. People joke he’s the unofficial mascot. Recruitment numbers spike whenever he’s used in promotions. We get flocks of interns and new hires just hoping for a glimpse.”
Harry turned to her, blinking.
Just hoping for a glimpse.
And there it was again—that pull in his gut. That ugly, heavy knot that had no name but felt suspiciously like jealousy.
Because Draco didn’t just belong on that stage—he thrived there. He was admired, craved, wanted… by everyone.
And suddenly Harry was sitting there in a borrowed suit, in a room full of strangers, wondering what it meant that the idea of someone else wanting Draco like that made his magic itch just beneath his skin.
Harry hadn’t even noticed when Draco had finished his speech, hadn’t felt the moment he slipped back into the seat beside him like a shadow reclaiming its light. No, Harry had been too busy looking—really looking—at the man he thought he knew. That smirk, those perfectly cut lines of his face, the way the lights made his skin glow golden and cruel.
Draco Malfoy didn’t just age well. He evolved.
And for a moment, Harry sat there, heart lodged in his throat, wondering when the fuck they went from two reckless boys in a war-torn castle to this—two men in suits, playing pretend in front of strangers with way too much money and champagne. When did fifteen years fly by? When did the ache between them change shape instead of fading?
Then, of course, Draco nudged him.
“Are you going to say something or just stare all night?”
Harry blinked. Shook it off. Grinned too wide. “Nice speech.”
“Mm.” Draco arched a brow, clearly not buying the casual tone but letting it slide—for now.
Dinner came and went. It was a joke. Art on a plate, barely enough to feed a pixie, let alone a full-grown Auror with a metabolism like a dragon. Still, Harry managed. The wine was better. The conversation even tolerable.
Until it wasn’t.
Because somewhere between the sixth flute of sparkling wine and Draco discussing stocks and export projections with some CEO from the Philippines, she showed up.
Na Jiyoon.
If Aphrodite and a vulture had a lovechild, it would be her. Tall, sharp, elegant—the kind of woman who walked like she already owned the room. And her eyes? Oh, she only had eyes for one thing in the building: Draco.
Harry saw the change instantly. She glided over, a slow, deliberate predator with stilettos and a smile that was too much teeth. She called Draco’s name like they’d just rolled out of bed that morning, voice honeyed and sultry, thick with history.
Harry felt his jaw tighten.
Draco stood tall, easy smile on his lips—the fake one. The one he used with clients and people he didn’t like but couldn’t afford to offend. “Jiyoon,” he said, like greeting an unexpected tax audit. “It’s been a while.”
Oh, so they knew each other.
Jiyoon barely looked at Harry. He might as well have been a decorative fern. Not that Harry cared. Until she finally glanced at him, all plastic charm and eyes dripping with superiority. That look she gave him? That was a challenge.
That was a you’re not on my level, sweetheart.
Harry didn’t return the smile. He matched it. Calculated. Cool. Deadly.
Draco—sensing the incoming storm—cleared his throat. “Harry, this is Na Jiyoon, heiress to Na Corporations. They’re one of our Korean partners. Jiyoon, this is Harry Potter—my date.”
And boom.
There it was. The flicker. The smile on her face faltered for just a second. And Harry knew it wasn’t because of his name. She didn’t know who he was. She didn’t need to. What she did know was that Draco had claimed him—and that stung.
Good.
“Pleasure,” Harry said smoothly, extending a hand.
She took it, weak grip, not a single ounce of sincerity in her touch.
“The pleasure’s mine,” she said, voice still silky but now tinted with venom.
Harry tilted his head. “You know, it’s funny. You look exactly like one of the girls from my academy's self-defense simulations.”
Draco choked on his champagne.
Jiyoon blinked.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Harry said, eyes glinting. “We learn how to handle threats in heels.”
And just like that, the fake smile cracked.
Draco’s hand tightened at Harry’s waist, and if Harry didn’t know better, he’d say he was turned on. The energy between them sparked, flared, burned.
This wasn’t a gala anymore.
It was war.
And Harry Potter? He came dressed for blood.
Because Harry knew better.
He saw her.
Na Jiyoon might’ve looked like she walked out of a runway catalog, but that wasn't just expensive perfume she wore—it was power, entitlement, and a decades-old legacy of thinking everything she wanted would always be hers. Especially pretty blond men in suits.
But she made one fatal miscalculation.
She underestimated Harry James Bloody Potter.
And sure, Draco—that smug bastard—was practically purring against him, hiding his smile in Harry’s hair, clearly enjoying the spectacle like it was dinner theatre. But he wasn’t the one in the ring.
Harry was.
And she jabbed first. She smiled through her teeth, threw little barbs laced in etiquette, every word a polished dagger. Oh, she was trained for this. Groomed to handle corporate ballrooms like a battlefield. But Harry? Harry had survived a war. And he wasn’t about to lose this one to some heiress in designer heels.
Then she made her move.
Turned to Draco, lips all sugared poison, and said, “So, have you given my proposal any thought?”
Draco blinked. “Hm?”
“You know…” She glanced at Harry like he was a footnote. “The engagement.”
Boom.
Oh, she did not just—
And Draco, ever the instigator, had the audacity to hum. Hum, like this was just another meeting on his calendar he’d forgotten to RSVP to. That smug, slippery smile of his wasn’t helping either.
Jiyoon saw an opening. Harry saw red.
But instead of exploding like some second-rate, scandal-fueled drama? Harry acted. Calm. Cold. Strategic. And brutal.
He reached out, hooked two fingers in Draco’s collar—no permission, no hesitation—and kissed him. Full. Possessive. Intoxicating. The kind of kiss that says mine in a language older than pride.
Draco froze for a second, then melted into it like wax meeting fire.
And Jiyoon? Oh, she heard the message loud and clear.
The soft huff.
The sharp click of heels turning.
The sound of her pride crumpling like silk under pressure.
Harry pulled away just enough to breathe. Draco? He was dazed and drunk off it, smile lazy and lips bitten.
“Well,” Draco murmured, brushing his thumb across Harry’s cheek like they were the only two left in the room, “never thought I’d live to see the day you’d get jealous.”
Harry scowled. “It wasn’t jealousy. It was pest control.”
“Mhm,” Draco said, clearly not believing a word, tightening his grip around Harry’s waist like he owned every inch of him. “Well, pest control, would you like to get out of here before I drag you into the coatroom and thank you in ways that’ll get us banned from polite society?”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “You want to thank me?”
“Oh, love,” Draco purred, leaning close, lips brushing his ear, “I’m a Slytherin. I always repay my debts. With interest.”
And just like that, the gala, the crowd, the velvet and the wine and the whispers—they all faded. Because there was only one question left now.
Was Harry ready for what came after walking out that door?
And more importantly...
Would he survive it with his sanity—and trousers—intact?
To his surprise, Draco didn't take the turn toward the flat. Instead, he pulled into the parking lot of a Wendy’s.
Harry blinked, brow raised, thoroughly confused as he eyed the glowing red-and-yellow sign above them like it was mocking him. “Seriously?” he asked, and Draco only smirked, unbothered.
“There’s no way you were full after that sad excuse of a dinner,” Draco replied, already undoing his seatbelt. “Come on, Potter. Even your taste buds deserve a break.”
Harry didn’t argue. His stomach grumbled before his mouth could, and honestly, after the day they’d had, greasy food sounded like a small slice of heaven.
They stepped into the nearly empty fast-food joint, utterly out of place in their crisp, tailored suits and shiny shoes. Harry could practically feel the eyes of the tired cashier and lone customer burning holes through them. But Draco looked unfazed as usual, already scanning the menu like this was the most natural thing in the world.
Harry muttered something about the caloric crime of eating two fast-food meals in one day, to which Draco lazily responded, “I don’t mind a chubby you. Especially if it makes your chest more squishy.”
Harry threw a fry at him. Missed. Draco laughed.
Time slipped by unnoticed as they sat in that ugly red booth, trading insults and jokes and tearing into their burgers like starved teenagers. They joked about the gala, imitating the most ridiculous conversations they’d overheard—Draco, of course, had a sharp memory for all the subtle snobbery. It was like being seventeen again, but with better food and far worse decisions.
By the time they got back in the car, the city was quiet, wrapped in the soft hush of night. Harry hadn’t even realized how late it had gotten. He watched silently as Draco drove them not back to the penthouse but toward Grimmauld Place. He should’ve expected that, but something in him twisted with something dangerously close to disappointment.
When they pulled up outside, Draco threw the car in park.
Harry glanced over and said, “Thanks. For the ride. And, well… I actually had fun. Surprisingly. Minus the twelve wardrobe changes.”
Draco grinned, cocky as ever. “Stop lying. We both know you loved the dressing room.”
Harry scoffed, already reaching for the door handle—but then paused. His hand hovered. Something in his chest tugged.
Draco caught it. Turned to him, one brow raised in quiet question.
“It’s not midnight yet,” Harry said.
Draco tilted his head, not catching the thread just yet. “And?”
“You said your favour was for me to stay with you all day.” Harry looked at him now, not coy, not challenging—just honest. Just there.
And Draco understood.
There was no smirk this time, no teasing jab—just the soft shift of him leaning in, noses brushing. “Can I kiss you?” he asked, voice lower than before, slower.
Harry smiled. “Since when do you ask for permission?”
And then he kissed him—soft, slow, steady. All the chaos of the day melted into that kiss, and somehow it felt like the first honest thing either of them had done in a long time.
When they finally pulled apart, breath mingling, heartbeats steadying, Harry’s voice came soft.
“Do you want to come in?”
And somewhere in that silence, between the streetlights and the lingering taste of fast food and kisses, they both already knew the answer.
They stumbled into Grimmauld Place in a mess of breathless laughter and clumsy hands, the front door slamming shut behind them with a thud that echoed through the silent halls. Harry barely registered the familiarity of it all—the hand in his hair, the press of lips against his throat, the way their hips knocked into the old umbrella stand. It was dizzying. Addictive.
Somewhere between a groan and a giggle, Draco had Harry pinned against the narrow side table in the entryway, his mouth on Harry’s like a man who had been denied water in a desert. But Harry wasn’t content to play the passive role anymore. He shoved him right back, pressing Draco into the wall with a satisfying thud, a wicked grin blooming on his face as he tugged Draco’s tie loose and tossed it somewhere down the hall.
Shoes were kicked off blindly. Buttons popped and flew. Shirts were half-removed and then abandoned. Each piece of clothing stripped off came with another laugh, another kiss, another stumble. They crashed into the banister, nearly tipped over the coat rack, and Harry couldn’t remember the last time chaos had felt this electric.
That is, until they stumbled too close to the shrill screech of a portrait hanging crooked by the stairs.
"Filth!" the painted woman shrieked, voice like nails on glass. "Degenerate, disgusting—"
“Oh do shut up, Aunt Walburga,” Draco said casually, as if this wasn’t the most debauched moment of his week. He waved a wand, and silence blanketed the painting mid-screech. “You were never this lively at your own parties.”
Harry blinked. “You just silenced a Black family heirloom.”
Draco only shrugged, reached for him again, and murmured, “You're a better use of my magic.”
From there, everything became a blur of stairs and kisses and wandering hands. They tumbled through the door of Harry’s room, Draco landing on the bed with a laugh, hair a mess and shirt clinging to one shoulder. Harry followed, straddling him with a hunger he hadn’t let himself feel in years.
But when Draco's hands paused for just a second, eyes flickering with the faintest hesitation, Harry leaned in and kissed him softly. "I’m sober," he whispered against his lips. "And I want this. You have my consent."
That was all it took.
The moment Harry climbed over Draco, something shifted—like the atmosphere itself had thickened, anticipation coiling between them like a drawn bow. The air in the room was warm, heavy with the scent of cologne and sweat, of magic and something older, rawer—desire long restrained, now set free.
Draco lay there sprawled on the sheets, shirtless and smug, hair tousled and eyes dark. One hand rested lazily behind his head, the other reaching up to trail down Harry’s side with a touch that was maddeningly light. Possessive. Teasing.
“You sure you’re not drunk again?” Draco asked, voice low, hoarse with arousal.
Harry smirked as he leaned in, noses brushing. “I told you already. I’m sober.”
“Pity,” Draco murmured, pulling him in until their mouths met again. “Would’ve liked an excuse to ruin you twice.”
The kiss was slower this time—no desperation, no stumbling—just the steady burn of control slipping away. Draco’s hands slid down Harry’s back, nails dragging faint red trails against his skin. Harry rocked against him, feeling the telltale friction that had both of them groaning into each other’s mouths.
Clothes came off in stages: a belt unfastened with agonizing slowness, trousers peeled down over thighs that trembled from restraint, breath stuttering with each new patch of exposed skin. They weren’t teenagers anymore. There was no frantic rush, no clumsy fumbling. Just the devastating confidence of two grown men who knew exactly what they wanted—and knew how to take it.
Draco sat up, pulling Harry into his lap, hands spreading across his lower back as if to memorize every inch. “You’ve always had a thing for trouble,” he whispered against Harry’s neck. “And look where it’s got you—panting, flushed, in bed, riding the edge like it’s the only place you’ve ever belonged.”
Harry only answered with a gasp as Draco’s mouth found a sensitive spot just beneath his ear.
It was slow, sensual torment—grinding against each other, tangled sheets and tangled limbs, hot breath and hotter skin. Hands exploring, lips mapping out old territory rediscovered. Harry felt himself unraveling under the attention, the tenderness layered beneath every wicked motion.
What followed was a slow unraveling. No rush, no hesitation—just the growing storm of something inevitable. Every touch felt like a match being struck, heat spreading across skin and nerve endings like wildfire. Draco had always been a careful lover, but not tonight. Tonight, he gave in. And Harry? Harry let himself feel again.
It wasn’t just about lust—it was about being seen, touched, claimed, wanted.
Limbs tangled, bedsheets wrinkled, breath stolen in staggered gasps. It was overwhelming and grounding all at once. The kind of release that wrung the tension out of his bones and replaced it with something warm and terrifyingly addictive.
When Draco finally rolled them over, taking his time tasting down Harry’s chest, Harry let his eyes flutter shut and let go. Let himself be touched like he mattered. Let himself need.
And when Draco finally took him in hand—firm, perfect, cruelly skilled—Harry’s back arched off the mattress. Draco’s free hand pinned his hips, his mouth working in tandem with a rhythm that had Harry gasping for air. There were words—curses, praises, pleas—but Harry couldn’t remember any of them later.
Only the way Draco looked up at him, lips wet, eyes gleaming like sin incarnate.
Only the way it felt when he finally came apart in his hands—biting down on his own wrist to keep from screaming, thighs trembling, stars bursting behind his eyes.
Only the way Draco kissed him afterward, slow and deep and with so much intention it almost broke him.
Later, when they lay there catching their breath, bodies still humming from the aftershocks, Harry reached out—just a quiet touch against Draco’s chest.
"You’re trouble," he mumbled.
Draco smirked, eyes half-lidded. “You love trouble.”
And fuck if he didn’t.
Harry turned to Draco, chest still rising and falling. “So,” he murmured, voice rasped, “was that part of the favour too?”
Draco chuckled, the sound vibrating against Harry’s skin. “No,” he said. “That was just me collecting interest.”
Morning sunlight filtered through the half-closed curtains of Grimmauld Place, painting gold streaks across the tangled sheets. Harry stirred with a soft groan, only half-conscious, caught in that hazy warmth of sleep and something—someone—pressing soft kisses along his thigh.
His eyes snapped open.
“Malfoy—what the hell are you doing?”
Draco didn’t even flinch. In fact, the little shit looked pleased. He was curled up between Harry’s legs, chin resting comfortably on his thigh like it was a damn pillow. “Good morning to you too,” he purred, pressing a teasing kiss against Harry’s skin. “Thought I’d start my day with something sweet.”
Harry groaned—not in protest, but because the warmth was quickly racing back through his body like fire on a fuse. He flopped onto his stomach, half-burying his face into the nearest pillow. “You’re a menace.”
“Mhm,” Draco hummed, now crawling up the bed with that same infuriating grace he always had. “A menace with very talented hands and a mouth you didn’t seem to mind last night—”
“Don’t—don’t even try that,” Harry snapped, managing a weak scowl as Draco leaned down to kiss his temple. “You don’t get to kiss me after your mouth’s been—there.”
Draco only smirked. “You weren’t complaining then.”
Another pillow was sacrificed in the name of dignity. It hit Draco square in the face, and he laughed, actually laughed, like the sound of it belonged in the quiet of a Sunday morning rather than echoing through the home of Sirius Black.
And that’s when it really hit Harry—Draco Malfoy. In his bed. Naked. Looking like sin wrapped in smugness and sunlight. All those years of history between them, and now… this?
Fuck.
Harry sat up quickly—or tried to, anyway. The moment he moved, a sharp ache flared across his lower back, and his knees buckled, dumping him unceremoniously onto the floor with a yelp.
Draco peeked over the edge of the bed. “Tried to warn you.”
“Don’t,” Harry hissed, glaring murderously as he clutched the sheet around his waist. “Help me up before I hex you.”
Draco, bless his audacity, didn’t even pretend to hide his amusement. He leaned down, surprisingly gentle, and helped Harry back into bed, hands firm around his waist like he didn’t trust him not to try and bolt again.
Once Harry was settled, scowling like a kicked cat, Draco kissed his temple again. “You’ll live.”
“I might survive,” Harry grumbled. “But you owe me for this. My back is killing me.”
“Oh no,” Draco said, not sounding even remotely sorry. “The big, bad Auror taken down by one night of pleasure. Tragic.”
“You’re lucky it’s Sunday,” Harry muttered, “or you’d be explaining to the Head Auror why I’m walking like I’ve just fought a Hungarian Horntail.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Draco said, tone far too gleeful. “I’d bring snacks to that meeting.”
Harry rolled his eyes and sank further into the pillows, knowing full well he wasn’t going anywhere. Not with the way his body was currently protesting every movement.
Draco settled in beside him, stretching out like a cat. “As penance,” he said dramatically, “I shall spend the entire day catering to your every whim.”
“You mean,” Harry muttered, eyes already slipping shut again, “you’re doing the bare minimum.”
Draco just smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind Harry’s ear. “Call it foreplay for next time.”
By mid-morning, Draco was in full-on butler mode—and Harry was not letting him forget it.
“Oi, Malfoy,” Harry called from the bed, voice still groggy but laced with too much smugness for someone who couldn’t even walk properly. “My tea’s gone cold.”
Draco, dressed now in grey sweatpants and a loose black T-shirt that clung too nicely in all the right places, arched an eyebrow from the doorway. “You could say please, you know.”
Harry raised a single brow. “I gave you the night of your life. Please is implied.”
Draco didn’t argue. He just walked over, took the half-drunk mug, and leaned down to kiss Harry stupid before whispering, “You’re lucky you’re pretty when you’re demanding.”
While the tea reheated, Harry sat half-draped in pillows like a Roman emperor with a wicked glint in his eyes and only a pair of boxer briefs protecting what was left of his decency. The new phone sat on the bed beside him, untouched. Draco returned with the tea, placed it in Harry’s hands, and then plucked the phone off the sheets.
“You’re not going to ignore this like your Ministry-issued one,” he warned.
“I’m not ignoring it,” Harry protested. “I’m... acclimating.”
“Bullshit,” Draco said as he climbed into bed beside him and opened the settings menu. “You’ve used magic to avoid every form of modern communication, and I’m not letting you get away with that anymore. Look—this is how you unlock it. Your fingerprint’s already saved. This is your contacts list. I’ve organized it—alphabetically and by emotional trauma, of course.”
Harry snorted into his tea.
“And this—” Draco opened the camera and turned it to selfie mode. “—is how you see that you’re a hot mess with terrible bed hair. Smile.”
Before Harry could stop him, click.
Harry groaned. “You did not just—Malfoy!”
Draco was already setting the picture as Harry’s contact photo under “My Favorite Mistake.”
“You’re the worst.”
“Correction,” Draco said, leaning in to peck the corner of Harry’s mouth, “I’m the best thing to ever happen to your Sunday.”
He didn’t get an argument.
By noon, Draco was drawing a bath. A proper one. Not just tossing in some soap and hoping for the best—no, this bath had essential oils, bubbles, a playlist in the background (jazz, of course), and a glass of wine Harry didn’t ask for but sipped anyway.
Draco helped him in slowly, hand on his lower back and steady beneath his arm, letting him sink into the hot water with a sigh. And then the traitor sat at the edge of the tub, rolled up his sleeves, and started running a hand through Harry’s hair.
“You’re treating me like I’m terminal,” Harry muttered, eyes fluttering shut as those fingers worked behind his ears.
“You said your back was broken.”
“I was being dramatic.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Draco drawled. “I’m simply proving I’m better than every ex you’ve ever had.”
Harry cracked an eye open. “You were already winning by default.”
Draco smirked, leaned down, and kissed him. Long and slow and lingering—like he had all the time in the world and didn’t care one bit that Harry was soaking wet and sighing into his mouth.
When dinner came around, Harry had collapsed back into the bed, clean and warm and very much still sore. From the kitchen, clattering and sizzling could be heard.
“What are you even making?” Harry shouted.
Draco’s voice drifted back. “It was meant to be something impressive, but then I remembered who I’m cooking for, so—eggs, toast, and hash browns.”
“Rude,” Harry grumbled. “I’m a refined palate now.”
“You ate half a Wendy’s menu last night.”
“...And it was divine.”
Draco entered with two plates in hand and no shirt—because apparently, why not. Harry stared at the toned stomach and said, “You know, if you wanted to kill me for real, you could just keep walking around like that.”
Draco sat beside him, handed over the plate, and stole another kiss. “If I wanted to kill you, Potter, I wouldn’t have spent the entire day pampering you like a spoiled house cat.”
“Princess, actually.”
“Even worse.”
They ate on the bed, watching a dumb romcom Draco claimed to hate but laughed at anyway on his laptop because he brought that. Between bites, Draco would reach over, brush a crumb off Harry’s lips, kiss his cheek, or casually drape a hand across Harry’s stomach like it was second nature.
And maybe it was becoming one.
The movie flickered lazily on the screen, some half-forgotten love scene playing out as the late hour settled like dust over Grimmauld Place. Draco was slouched against the pillows, shirt slightly rumpled, hair a mess again despite the gelled perfection it had started with. He’d drifted somewhere between sleep and conscious thought, warm and lax under Harry’s arm, until Harry shifted just enough to let the light from the laptop catch along his bare forearm.
That’s when Harry saw it.
Or, more precisely, saw what was left of it.
The Dark Mark wasn’t gone—no magic could undo what had been burned into flesh—but Draco had buried it beneath something else entirely. Swirling, deliberate lines, intricate glyphs, shapes that tangled and weaved around the cursed brand like ivy reclaiming a ruin. It wasn’t an erasure. It was a reclamation.
Draco stirred, barely cracking an eye open, lips twitching. “You’re really staring at me in my sleep again? Going to develop a complex at this rate.”
Harry didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. His fingers trailed gently over the skin, mapping the shapes in silence.
He’d noticed the tattoos before—yesterday, in the penthouse, under the biting glare of morning sun. But now… now it felt different. This was quiet. This was real. This was Draco, unguarded and a little sleepy, letting himself be touched without posturing.
Harry finally asked, voice low, “Why the tattoos?”
Draco shifted, but didn’t pull away. His head turned just enough to glance down at his own arm, then back to Harry. “Couldn’t stand looking at it,” he said. “The Mark, I mean. Every time I caught my reflection, it was like being yanked backward. Like I never left that place. Never grew past it. I thought about just blacking it out completely, but... I didn’t want to pretend it never happened either. So I got something new. Something mine.”
He gave a lazy shrug, though his voice tightened slightly. “It hurt like hell. Took forever to finish. But now, when I look in the mirror, I don’t see him. I see... me. Finally.”
Harry’s fingers stilled.
The weight of that admission hit harder than Draco seemed to realize. And before he could think too hard on it—on what it meant or what it revealed—Harry leaned forward and pressed his lips to the inked skin. Just below where the darkest shadows lingered. A kiss, soft as breath. A wordless vow of acceptance.
Draco made a low sound in his throat, something between a groan and a laugh. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
Harry smiled faintly against his arm. “Wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”
Draco’s arms tightened around him, tugging him closer, and in that moment—there was no war. No past. Just ink, heat, and the heavy hush of understanding.
The morning sunlight spilled into Grimmauld Place like a lazy intruder, softening the edges of the worn wood and cold stone. Harry stirred at the sound of a voice—not loud, just a murmur—and the warmth of lips pressed to his forehead before the sound of retreating steps lulled him right back into sleep.
It wasn’t until his alarm started screaming that he finally woke properly. And when he did, the space beside him was empty.
Except for the neatly folded blanket on Draco’s side, the faintest imprint of where he’d slept, and the bite-marked note left on the nightstand in that annoyingly perfect cursive: Off to work. Don't miss me too much, Potter.
Harry groaned, stretching like a cat and groaning louder when his muscles ached in all the wrong ways. Monday. Right. Being a wizard might let him fight off Dark Lords, but apparently it didn’t excuse him from the cruel joke that was adulting.
He padded downstairs in rumpled pajama pants, dragging his hand through his hair, only to stop dead when he stepped into the living room.
Bags.
Everywhere.
All those luxury brands from Saturday’s spree lined up in neat rows like smug, expensive soldiers. Draco’s aesthetic taste stood proudly in every neatly folded shirt, every tailored trouser, every shoe box. And right there, nestled on top of a navy cashmere coat, was a note.
All an excuse to dress you up like my own personal doll. No regrets.
Harry rolled his eyes. Dramatic bastard.
Then his eyes caught on something else. That ridiculous, stitched-together creature Draco had pulled from the claw machine—the abomination of a plushie that was somehow part cow, part dragon, and all kinds of ugly.
Harry stared at it.
Then sighed.
…Damn it, it was adorable.
Dragging his feet to the kitchen, half-hoping for coffee and mostly just running on autopilot, he found the last surprise waiting: a full breakfast already plated and charmed to stay warm, with one final note pinned beside it.
Reheat it. Eat it. Don’t even think about skipping or I’ll know. You’re not invincible, Potter.
He chuckled, shaking his head.
Draco Malfoy, apparently, didn’t just storm back into his life—he’d made himself at home, turned Harry’s world sideways, and decided to take full custody of his wardrobe, breakfast habits, and heart.
Harry sat down, dug into the eggs, and tried very hard not to grin like an idiot.
If he showed up at work that morning noticeably lighter on his feet, lips twitching at the memory of forehead kisses and dragon cows—well. No one needed to know.
Notes:
Enjoy this honeymoon era is gonna last a little. And then... Well
Chapter 12
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It was exactly twelve-oh-three when Ron Weasley exploded.
Hermione had just come down to the Auror Department to drag him to lunch—because if she didn’t, he’d forget and then complain about starving like a dramatic toddler—when Ron shot up from behind his desk like a man possessed, palms slamming flat against the paperwork in front of him.
"Alright, I’ve had enough," he barked, eyes blazing with all the unfiltered chaos that only a hungry redhead can summon. "Where the hell were you this weekend?!"
Harry blinked up from his desk like Ron had asked him something as innocent as what the weather was like. Which only made it worse.
"You disappeared, mate. Vanished. No letters. No firecalls. You didn’t answer the bloody mirror. And now you waltz in here on a Monday morning like you’ve just won a Quidditch World Cup—smiling like an idiot and staring at a keychain. A cat keychain."
Harry glanced down at the small charm dangling from the zip of his satchel—the hideous, adorable little plush that they had exchanged all their arcade tickets for. His fingers curled protectively around it like it was a national treasure.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about," he said, entirely unbothered. "I was home all weekend."
"Like hell you were," Ron shot back, pointing an accusatory finger that had too much energy behind it.
Before either of them could escalate further, a sharp buzzing broke through the room. Harry’s hand instinctively dipped into his pocket, and out came the source of the sound.
A phone.
A sleek, expensive phone.
Harry's face softened the moment he read the screen, the kind of smile that should have come with its own theme music and warning label for how fond it was. His thumbs were already typing back a reply.
Ron gawked. "When did you get a phone?!"
Hermione, still in the doorway, corrected absently, "It’s pronounced fone, Ron, not fawne—" before she squinted and leaned in closer.
Because Harry—grumpy, technophobic, magic-over-everything Harry—was texting. Not fumbling. Not stabbing the screen like a caveman. Actually texting like he’d been born with it.
And grinning.
"I gave up teaching him tech years ago," she muttered, incredulous. "He once broke my microwave by glaring at it too hard."
Now he had a smartphone and muscle memory.
Ron crossed his arms. "Is that... one of those phones that cost, like, two months' salary?"
"Maybe," Harry said, already pocketing it with the kind of casualness that screamed someone else bought it for me and I’m pretending it’s normal.
They stared at him in disbelief. He stared right back.
Finally, Harry stretched, stood, and clapped Ron on the shoulder with a cheerful pat.
"Come on, lunch awaits. Unless you want to stand there and keep interrogating me while my sandwich grows cold."
Hermione narrowed her eyes, gears visibly turning in her head. She wasn’t quite fooled. Ron was still grumbling under his breath.
But Harry?
He was already walking ahead of them, hands in his pockets, posture a little too loose and lips twitching at some memory only he was privy to.
He didn’t say that the person he was texting was the same one who bought him that phone.
Or that said person had spent the entire weekend wrapped around him like a second skin.
Or that his back still ached pleasantly in ways he was definitely not mentioning to his best friends.
No, Harry kept that secret close to his chest—right where his dragon-cow plushie and cat keychain now dangled.
Sadly, the week had not been as merciful as the weekend.
Gone were the lazy mornings tangled in sheets and limbs, the soft moans over reheated breakfast, and the stolen kisses between soap bubbles and bedhead. Now, Harry was back in the thick of it—papers, blood, and the suffocating feeling that something was still out there watching them.
Another victim.
The moment the file landed on his desk, his feet moved before his brain could catch up. He was already out the door, coat whipping behind him, ignoring Ron’s shout of “Where the hell are you going this time?!”
He didn’t answer. He knew where.
The lift at LUXOR chimed just as he arrived, and Harry looked up, chest tightening, breath stuttering in a way it absolutely shouldn’t have—not after all these years, not for him.
But there he was.
Draco Malfoy, descending from the heavens (or the finance department, more accurately), perfectly pressed and devastatingly pretty. That damned three-piece suit fit like sin, his platinum hair slicked back and glinting in the soft LED glow. And then there was the smile. That disarming, murderous smile that made Harry forget why he ever found him punchable in the first place.
Draco approached with the smooth stride of someone who knew he was being watched—especially by the idiot standing dumbstruck in the middle of his own lobby.
“I did get you a phone for situations exactly like this, you know,” Draco murmured, stopping just in front of him, all up-close scent and confidence and trouble. “Was it not working, or do you simply enjoy storming into my workplace like a scandalized spouse?”
Harry blinked, caught off guard. “It works just fine. I’ve just… grown used to the aesthetic of this place.”
Draco cocked an eyebrow. “The aesthetic?”
Harry didn’t say your face or the way you look at me when you think no one notices or I just missed you, you prat. He shoved his hands in his coat pockets and shrugged. “Yeah. I like the chairs.”
“Chairs,” Draco repeated, unimpressed but amused. He didn’t push. Of course he didn’t. Malfoy knew how to wait someone out, and Harry… Harry was still trying to figure out what the hell they were.
They weren’t strangers anymore.
They weren’t just colleagues. Or friends.
But lovers? No. Not really. Not yet.
They had kissed and clawed, bruised and bled together. They had shared beds and meals and secrets. But there was no name for this… thing between them. No neat little label Harry could wrap around it and tuck into his pocket. And maybe that was okay.
Or maybe it would kill him slowly.
“I need you for something,” Harry finally said, pulling himself together.
Draco’s posture straightened subtly. The switch in tone—casual to clinical, soft to sharp—was immediate.
“Another one?”
Harry nodded. “First in weeks.”
Draco’s expression didn’t change. Not even a flicker in those steel-gray eyes.
But he smiled. That same gentle curve of his lips that made Harry feel like he was being handled rather than heard.
“Lead the way, Auror Potter,” he said smoothly.
And Harry, god help him, didn’t have the mental strength to question it. Not when Draco’s shoulder brushed his on the way out. Not when he caught the faint scent of his cologne lingering on his own coat.
He didn’t know what they were. Didn’t know how this ended. But for now, he’d take the ache, the quiet, the war behind the smiles.
He’d take whatever this was.
When they reached the scene, Ron was already mid-sentence, rattling off the victim’s profile from the parchment in his hand. But Harry didn’t need to hear it. He knew this one.
He didn’t need the name. The moment his eyes landed on the body, twisted and frozen in what must’ve been a moment of pure agony, recognition settled in his gut like ice.
Walden Macnair.
An old Death Eater, notorious executioner, and someone who’d repeatedly evaded justice through legal loopholes, bribery, and fear. One of the many stains on the war's legacy—smiling in courtrooms, walking free in alleyways. Harry had dreamed more than once about seeing him behind bars. Or worse.
Well… here he was now. Dead. Not in Azkaban, but unmoving, expression contorted, veins blackened by whatever untraceable curse the killer had used. Whether it was justice or vengeance, Harry couldn’t decide. But it didn’t sit right either way.
The note lay there, next to the corpse. Not hidden. Not obscured by magic or mischief. Just… waiting.
Harry leaned down, jaw clenched, and read the words:
A gift for you.
He didn’t even blink. Just stared at the neat, clean handwriting as if his gaze alone might burn it into ash. His fingers tightened into fists, one twitch away from crumpling the message and letting every ounce of his frustration out.
The killer was playing with him. Again.
Behind him, Draco stepped around the body, crouched low with gloved fingers, and calmly said, “Same sigil as before. Burned deep.”
Ron didn’t comment when Draco stood and his shoulder brushed against Harry’s thigh—close, familiar, and entirely too comfortable. Nor did he mention the car keys clipped to Draco’s belt, the little dangling trinket unmistakable: a cat-shaped keychain, identical to the one Harry now kept on his own.
Instead, Ron stayed professional, giving Harry space, maybe too much space.
Because the moment Draco slipped toward the building’s perimeter to check the wards, Harry followed.
No words, no excuses. Just instinct.
The next time someone looked up, the two were gone.
Harry had pulled him behind the collapsed wall of a neighboring structure, out of sight, out of logic.
“You need to stop doing this to me,” he’d growled, tugging Draco by the tie until their mouths crashed together.
Draco had chuckled lowly against his lips. “Not my fault you look indecent in those Auror robes. Do they shrink in all the right places, or is that just you?”
And just like that, Harry’s back was pressed against the cold brick wall, fingers wound in blonde hair, breath lost somewhere between want and war.
He didn’t care about propriety.
Didn’t care about the job, not in that moment.
All he knew was Draco—warm, smug, deliciously close—and the maddening ache he brought with him.
When they finally reappeared, no one said a word.
Harry’s hair was messier than usual, his expression unreadable—but flushed. Draco’s tie was crooked, his collar undone, and his smirk a little too pleased for someone walking away from a crime scene.
Ron noticed. He always noticed. But he didn't say a thing.
Because at this point, what the hell could he say?
Back at the Ministry, the cold, sterile hum of the Auror department buzzed like a reminder that the real world waited for no one—not even war heroes unraveling at the seams.
The report from the ward specialists had just come in. Harry didn’t even need to open it to guess what it would say. Ron confirmed it for him anyway, voice flat, frustrated, “Same as the last one. Tampered remotely.”
Harry rubbed his temple, leaning forward in his chair as if the posture could help him make sense of something that had long since stopped making sense. Zola was off in her corner, gloves on, verifying the sigil Draco had spotted and transferring it into tangible, court-admissible evidence. Another symbol. Another layer to this sick game.
And yet…
"It doesn’t make sense," Harry muttered, mostly to himself, eyes on the note still sealed in the evidence bag. His thumb tapped anxiously against his thigh. “For months this prick didn’t leave a single trace. Not one hair, not one spell signature. Nothing. Now suddenly we’ve got sigils, corrupted wards, messages… breadcrumbs. Why?”
Ron exhaled hard through his nose, jaw clenched. “Maybe they’re getting bored?”
Harry's head snapped toward him, eyes sharp. “So what—you’re saying we’ve been so shit at catching them they decided to spice things up for us?”
Ron raised both eyebrows, unimpressed. “I mean, when you put it like that, yeah. Bit of a twisted way to flirt, innit?”
Harry scoffed, raking a hand through his hair, irritation crackling off him in waves. He hated how plausible that sounded. Hated even more how right Ron might be. For months the killer had been meticulous, precise—surgical in their executions. No spell traces, no residual magic, no surviving witnesses. But then Harry got involved. And the letters started. The gifts. The personal taunts.
He didn’t want to admit it, but the pattern was there, undeniable and growing louder. This wasn’t just murder. It was personal. Targeted.
Him.
Ron leaned against the desk, folding his arms. “Look, mate. I know you don’t want to believe it, but this one’s got a fixation. Could be ideological, could be emotional, or—hell—could be they think they’re doing it for you.” He made a face. “Wouldn’t be the first nutcase with a Potter complex.”
Harry looked at him, face carved in stone, but his voice was softer than expected. “You think they’re obsessed?”
“I think,” Ron said carefully, “you’ve got a long history of turning admirers into stalkers. And this one’s got all the signs—minus the bedroom shrine and lock of your hair. Yet.”
Harry dropped his head into his hands. “Bloody hell.”
“Exactly,” Ron muttered. “So whatever’s going on with Malfoy—”
Harry glared.
Ron raised a hand in surrender. “Not my business. But be careful, Harry. This one’s getting bolder. And if they’re doing this for your attention… they’re going to escalate.”
The silence that followed sat thick between them.
Because Ron was right.
And Harry knew—whatever was coming next wasn’t going to be a breadcrumb.
It was going to be a bomb.
That night, the Ministry corridors had long emptied by the time Harry finally peeled himself away from his desk. The halls were quiet in that eerie way that made even his own footsteps sound intrusive. Snow had started falling again—thick, steady, softening the edges of the world outside like nature itself was trying to hush everything.
He didn’t think. He didn’t plan.
His body moved before his brain caught up.
And when he finally did come to, he was standing outside that building. The one with the penthouse at the top. The one with the warm lighting behind tall windows. The one that, somehow, without ever saying it aloud, had become his place to land.
A few seconds after knocking, the door opened.
Draco stood there in casual clothes—no suit, no tie, no polished mask. Just soft joggers, a long-sleeve shirt, and the faint trace of sleep on his features. His hair was half-tamed and his expression unreadable for a moment.
Then his eyes raked over Harry—coat still dusted in snow, shoulders hunched, face tight with something unspoken—and he stepped aside without a word.
Harry entered wordlessly, as if pulled by invisible thread. He didn’t even take off his coat before sinking into the sofa, cold seeping out of him and leaving a dull exhaustion in its place.
Draco left the room only to return a few minutes later, placing two steaming mugs of tea on the table before settling beside him.
Harry murmured a thank-you, voice low and frayed. Then, without warning or hesitation, he curled into Draco’s side, resting his head against his chest, knees tucked under him like he was folding into warmth itself.
Draco didn’t speak.
Didn’t ask.
Didn’t tease.
He just slid an arm around Harry and let him settle.
Harry closed his eyes, letting the quiet hum of Draco’s heartbeat soothe whatever storm still buzzed behind his temples. The scent of tea, the weight of the blanket someone must’ve draped over them, and the slow rise and fall of Draco’s breathing—all of it wrapped around him like a cocoon.
And for a while, Harry didn’t have to think.
He didn’t have to chase killers.
He didn’t have to explain anything.
He just existed.
Not even two days had passed before chaos clawed its way back to the surface.
Chris had barely knocked before bursting into the office, breathless and pale, announcing another victim. The words barely registered before Harry was on his feet, tension coiling in his spine like a spring pulled too tight. This time, he didn’t detour to LUXOR. No reason to. Just a simple text sent from muscle memory:
Another one. Address below. See you soon.
He followed Ron straight to the crime scene, instincts sharp but nerves fraying. The air was cold, sterile, heavy with the scent of magic and death. Forensics were already there—white suits, flashes of cameras, murmurs between specialists. It all blurred.
Until he saw him.
Lying crumpled on the floor like a discarded puppet, eyes wide, mouth frozen in a final scream, magical core burnt out like a candle snuffed violently. And Harry froze.
Benjamin Wilt.
That Ministry stalker. The one who’d bumped into Draco in the lobby. The one who muttered praises of “The Chosen One” like he was some kind of divine relic.
Gone.
Just like that.
Harry’s stomach turned over, bile rising in his throat as the implications slammed into him like a freight train. No. He hadn’t liked Wilt—no sane person would—but this? This was murder. Violent, personal, grotesque. He staggered a step back, head spinning.
Ron was the one who caught him this time, steady hand against his back. Harry hadn’t even realized his own hand was shaking, gripping the note found beside the body so tightly it crinkled.
"You're welcome."
The words made his blood run cold.
Personal. Direct.
Ron had to physically pry the paper from Harry’s fingers, murmuring something about contamination. But Harry barely heard. His eyes were locked on the corpse. On the smirk Wilt had once worn when he'd murmured Harry's name like a mantra. And now—
Now he was nothing but a statistic.
Another mark on a growing list of the damned.
“You want to pull out of this one?” Ron’s voice was quiet, but firm, cutting through the static. “Just this once?”
Harry shook his head. “No,” he croaked. “If I stop now, it wins.”
He took a breath. Then another. And stepped forward.
The click of shoes echoed behind him. Harry didn’t have to turn to know it was Draco. The air shifted subtly—his presence always did that—and when Draco stepped into view, eyes flickering to the body, Harry saw something behind his mask.
Recognition.
A flicker of something—dull, unreadable—before it was gone.
Draco said nothing. Just studied the scene like he always did. Efficient. Precise. Clinical.
Harry didn't speak either. Didn’t trust himself to.
Instead, he stared at the body, then the note, and finally at Draco, wondering if he was the only one suffocating under the weight of a question no one dared ask.
Beside him, Ron muttered, almost absently, “First time we’ve had two this close together.”
Harry nodded slowly, voice bitter with realization. “Yeah. Killer’s getting impatient.”
He glanced at the note again, hands clenched at his sides.
“Desperate for attention.”
And the worst part was…
Harry knew exactly whose attention.
A few weeks had passed since Benjamin Wilt's body had been found, and one more victim had been added to the list since then. The case was still going, still clawing at the edge of Harry’s sanity, but things had changed in quieter ways too—ways that made the night less cold and the mornings a little less hollow.
Harry had been spending more and more nights at Draco’s flat—what started as occasional overnight visits had become a routine. Not that they’d talked about it. Not that Harry could even put a name to whatever it was they were doing. He just knew that curling up in Draco’s bed, feeling him breathe against his neck, made it easier to sleep. That the soft clink of plates being washed and the smell of something warm cooking made the weight on his shoulders lift, if only slightly. That the forehead kisses, the way Draco whispered “Welcome home” when he walked through the door, made the murder scenes and screaming portraits feel like they belonged to someone else’s life.
Draco had a way of making the world quieter.
And Draco lived muggle. Really lived it—barely used magic at home, unless he absolutely had to. And in the strangest way, that grounded Harry. In a world where his name still echoed like a prophecy and every case weighed like a curse, the ordinary became a balm. The sound of the kettle. The flick of light switches. The TV playing low in the background while Draco passed him a blanket and complained about plot holes in crime dramas.
Christmas was coming fast. London was already glowing. Lights on every window, carolers down the street, wreaths and snowflakes and festivity on every corner. But Harry wasn’t feeling merry—not with the killer still out there, still playing games with him, still blurring the line between taunt and obsession.
The department of Magical Law Enforcement looked ridiculous that morning. Tinsel had been charmed to sparkle brighter than necessary, the archway of the entrance had a floating mistletoe hanging like a trap, and someone had even spelled the coffee to taste like peppermint. He walked through it all with a scowl, dragging his feet until he saw Ron waving him over.
Hermione had left a miniature tree on their shared desk—something with glittery baubles and a crooked star that made Harry smile despite himself. He dropped into the seat and groaned, already eyeing the stack of case files that were breeding like flobberworms overnight.
“Still thinking you’ll get all that filed before the new year?” Ron asked, amused.
“Trying,” Harry muttered. “My resolution was to have a life this year. Apparently, murder disagreed.”
Ron offered a sympathetic noise, chewing on a sugar quill. “You coming to the Ministry party tomorrow?”
Harry looked like he’d been personally cursed. “Do I have to?”
“Mate, you know Robards is going to throw a fit if the public figurehead of the entire department isn’t seen eating questionable canapés under the floating lights. He already ordered your robe rental.”
“I’m showing up, staying an hour, and ghosting,” Harry said flatly.
He was mid-eye roll when someone walked through the department entrance and his entire body stiffened. He turned so fast he almost knocked over his chair.
Draco.
Wearing a suit again, of course—coat open, scarf stylishly slung over one shoulder, the picture of composed elegance. But he wasn’t here on business. Harry could see the familiar green lunchbox in his hand and cursed under his breath.
Draco walked up with that infuriatingly smug smile and handed it over. “You left this on the counter this morning. Again.”
Harry grabbed the box with an embarrassed thank-you. “You didn’t have to bring it.”
“I did,” Draco said casually. “Because you forget to eat and have zero self-preservation instincts.”
He winked. Winked. And then, like he hadn’t just walked into the most politically sensitive, gossip-hungry space in the Ministry, turned and walked away, coat flaring behind him.
When Harry turned back around, Ron was staring at him.
So was half the department.
Ron leaned forward, both hands on the desk. “Mate,” he said slowly. “Explain.”
Harry blinked. “Explain what?”
“The former Death Eater-slash-walking magazine cover who just strolled in to personally deliver your lunchbox like some kind of husband.”
“He’s not my—” Harry started, then stopped, because it felt wrong. Not wrong. Just… not exactly true.
Ron narrowed his eyes. “Are you shagging Draco Malfoy?”
The silence said everything.
Ron groaned and threw his hands up. “Bloody hell. First you turn down every date for years, and now you’re sleeping with the most complicated man alive. What did I do to deserve this?”
Harry shrugged, biting back a smirk as he opened his lunchbox.
Ron grumbled into his cup. “Horny best friends and their corporate gits. I'm too old for this.”
And Harry? Harry just picked up the little dragon-shaped sticky note tucked inside with Draco’s looping handwriting—Eat all of it. Don’t test me.—and felt something tighten in his chest.
He wasn’t sure what this was. But he was sure it felt like something worth holding onto.
Of course, the giddiness didn’t last.
It never did, not for long—not in Harry’s world.
He was still smiling faintly at the stupid sticky note when Amy marched over, red Santa hat askew over her stern face, holding a file like it was a live bomb. She didn’t say much—just handed it over and said, “Thomas Avery. They finally decrypted the real files.” Her tone was flat. Not cold, just bracing, like she was preparing him for a blow.
Harry’s breath caught in his throat. The real ones. Not the whitewashed, bureaucratic nonsense they’d had before. The true contents of Avery’s sealed record.
He barely got out a thank-you before flipping it open—and what he read made his stomach twist.
Not just a Death Eater’s son. Not just a minor smuggler who slipped through the cracks. This man was worse than Harry had imagined. Cruel, calculated. Connected to trafficking rings—both magical and non-magical. Disappearances tied to his name. Under-the-table experimentation with dark spells. Whispers of a hidden, unsanctioned facility outside of legal jurisdiction where he’d taken “undesirable” subjects.
It was evil, plain and simple. Not misled. Not misunderstood.
Monstrous.
Harry’s fingers tightened around the manila folder as he read line after line. Every sentence felt like a stone to the chest, and by the time Ron had leaned in and read over his shoulder, even he couldn’t keep his voice steady.
“What the hell—who let this man keep walking free?”
Harry didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The question itself already echoed in his mind.
Who had covered for Avery? Who had buried all of this?
Who had decided that this man didn’t deserve justice?
Because for a moment—just a flicker of thought in the back of Harry’s mind—he almost didn’t blame the killer. If this was the kind of filth they were targeting… was it even wrong?
He hated that he thought it.
Ron’s voice was low beside him. “This reads like a horror novel. And if someone kept this under wraps for this long...”
Harry closed the folder, his face blank but his mind spinning. “Then someone wanted him free.”
“And someone else decided that wasn’t good enough.”
The holiday lights above their desks flickered as if the building could feel the shift in atmosphere. The tinsel looked gaudy now. The mistletoe an afterthought. The tiny Christmas tree Hermione brought no longer cute—just out of place.
That warmth from earlier? Gone.
Replaced with the burn of obsession again. Of purpose.
Because no matter how complicated this case had become, no matter how tangled his feelings were about the killer—Harry knew one thing now:
He had to end this.
No more breadcrumb trails. No more distractions.
Whoever was behind this was forcing his hand. And if they thought Harry was done chasing ghosts in the dark—
They didn’t know him at all.
The cold didn’t register anymore. Not the crunch of snow beneath Harry’s boots, not the sting of winter air cutting his cheeks as he sprinted down slick muggle streets. His legs burned, lungs aching, but adrenaline shoved him forward like a freight train. He’d been chasing this bastard for days—leader of a smugglers’ ring that trafficked mythical creatures through muggle spaces. As if unicorns and manticores could be passed off as circus props. As if risking the entire Statute of Secrecy was just a minor inconvenience.
But this wasn’t about politics. This was about monsters—both magical and human. And tonight, Harry was determined to bring one of them down.
His badge, charmed to look like a Scotland Yard ID, bounced wildly on its chain as he tore around a corner and into a maze of dim alleys between abandoned shops. He swore he saw a flash of movement—left. A shadow slipping through the dark.
He didn’t hesitate. He followed.
That was his first mistake.
The man leapt from the shadows like a rabid beast, knocking Harry to the ground so hard he saw stars. His wand clattered away into the snow. The man fought like an animal—wild, flailing, desperate—but Harry had been through worse. He fought back harder.
Rage helped. Years of it. Enough to fuel punches that came with the weight of more than just the case. He pinned the bastard down, but that was when he made his second mistake—he forgot that criminals don’t play fair.
A metal pipe came down hard on his head.
The world spun. His balance faltered. And just as the pipe was raised again, the man screamed.
Harry’s knees gave out. He didn’t hit the ground though.
Because standing between him and the attacker, eyes cold and wand raised, was Draco.
He looked... unreal. Like he’d stepped out of a dream or a nightmare. Blonde hair tousled, tan suit now flecked with snow and blood and something far more dangerous.
The screams kept coming. They tore through the alley.
Because the man wasn’t just stunned—he was burning from the inside. Cruciatus. Harry knew that pain. He’d seen what it did. And the man wasn’t just twitching—he was breaking.
“Draco,” Harry gasped, stumbling forward. His fingers found Draco’s wand hand, gripping it.
“Stop.”
Draco didn’t respond. Not immediately. His face was carved from ice, unreadable—but his hand trembled faintly under Harry’s. Then, slowly, the spell broke. The screams stopped, the alley fell silent but for the rapid, shallow breathing of the man now crumpled on the ground.
And Harry swayed—too fast, too heavy, too much.
He barely registered Draco catching him before his body tilted sideways, cold hands supporting him, fingers sliding into his hair and—
Draco paled. “You’re bleeding.”
Harry blinked. His vision blurred.
He felt the warmth now. Not the comforting kind—the sticky, hot slide of blood down his temple.
“Fuck,” Draco muttered. His voice was shaking now. No calm. No fake smiles. Just panic. Raw and real and surging.
Harry tried to speak, but it was garbled. His legs wouldn’t work. The world dimmed at the edges.
Then it all went black.
When Harry came to, it wasn't gentle.
It was pain first—lancing white-hot across the side of his skull and blooming behind his eyes like fireworks going off in the dark. A groan tore from his throat, unbidden, and somewhere far off, he heard his name.
“Harry—don’t move. Just—stay awake, alright? I’ve called for the healer.”
A voice. Familiar, tight with panic. Soft in ways it never let itself be. He tried to turn toward it, but the pain was too much, dragging him back down. Consciousness flickered like a dying candle. Voices blurred into static.
When he finally resurfaced, the world felt sterile and heavy. He blinked slowly, nose wrinkling at the bitter scent of antiseptics and potions.
St. Mungo’s.
Again.
He exhaled slowly, rolling his head toward the only real weight in the room. And there he was—Draco Malfoy, slumped in the chair next to his bed, head in his hands like he’d been there for hours.
Harry’s throat was dry, voice cracked. “Draco.”
The reaction was immediate. Draco was on his feet in a heartbeat, eyes wide with relief and something else—something heavy, clinging to his features like guilt or fear. No smirks. No witty remarks. Just him, real and raw, and smiling like Harry was the sun coming up after a hellish night.
“How do you feel?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“Like I got hit by the Whomping Willow,” Harry groaned, trying to sit up before immediately regretting it.
Draco chuckled, hand reaching out to gently card through his hair. “That’s because you practically did.”
Harry offered a crooked grin. “Don’t look so worried, Malfoy. I’m alive. Besides, the concerned boyfriend look doesn’t suit you.”
That earned him a real laugh. A shaky one, but real nonetheless.
And then the door burst open.
“Harry!” Hermione’s voice cracked with emotion. Ron was right behind her, pink-eared and flushed. Hermione looked two seconds from crying and ten seconds from strangling him.
Harry winced, but smiled. “You two look like you’ve aged a decade.”
“You prat,” Ron huffed. “You nearly died. Again.”
Harry opened his arms the tiniest bit, which was all he could manage. “But I didn’t. Again.”
Hermione was at his bedside in an instant, brushing hair off his forehead like he was still seventeen. “You’re lucky. Stress isn’t good for me right now, Harry.”
He chuckled despite the dull throb in his head. “Yeah, yeah. Think of the baby, I know.”
Hermione glared, but there was no real heat in it. Then her eyes shifted—narrowing in on Draco, who had stood back quietly while the reunion unfolded. She turned fully toward him.
“We heard you were the one who saved Harry.”
Draco blinked. Hard. That was probably the first time Harry had ever seen him caught off guard without a rebuttal loaded. His lips parted, then closed. And when he did finally speak, it wasn’t in his usual confident tone.
“I… I just happened to be nearby.”
Hermione smiled at him—genuinely—and said, “Thank you, Draco.”
Even Ron muttered his own reluctant version of gratitude. “Yeah… thanks, I guess.” But then he frowned. “Though—how did you know he was there? I mean, he didn’t text you, right? And it’s not like the Ministry broadcasted the chase.”
Harry’s breath caught. He hadn’t even thought about it in the moment—just how fast Draco had gotten there, how precise his timing had been. That cursed memory flickered in the back of his mind—Draco’s face blank and cruel as the Cruciatus poured out of his wand like it had always belonged there.
Draco didn’t flinch. “I was walking back to LUXOR from lunch. Saw people running, thought I caught sight of Harry. I followed. Lucky I did.”
Ron scratched his head and grunted. “Huh. Yeah, guess that checks out.”
But Harry was still watching Draco.
There was no smugness in him now. No defiance. Just calm, careful control. Too calm.
Too perfect.
And Harry knew—no one in that room could know the truth. Not about the look in Draco’s eyes when that spell flew. Not about how fast his wand had been drawn. Not about the killer that kept leaving Harry presents.
And Harry didn’t know what that made him. Only that it was far too late to walk away.
Notes:
There's finally some plot omg
Chapter 13
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Harry didn’t really know what to think after that day.
The image wouldn’t leave him—the way Draco had stood in that alley, so poised, so still. Not a tremble in his wand hand. No hesitation. No remorse. It was like something inside him had cracked open, just enough for Harry to peer inside… and what he saw made him recoil. Because it wasn’t a stranger’s face under that spell. It was someone he had trusted—with his sleep, with his silence, with his softness.
With himself.
But that was insane, right? Harry couldn’t accuse Draco Malfoy of being a murderer just because of a feeling. There was no hard evidence, no trail of proof, nothing but a cold sliver of doubt and the eerie timing of his appearances. And yet… that voice. That gut instinct. The one that had saved his life more times than he could count. It whispered to him at night, when his wards were sealed and his thoughts wouldn’t stop racing:
What if it’s him? What if it’s always been him?
Harry didn’t want to think about it. He couldn’t afford to.
Because if he let himself believe it—if he even so much as entertained the idea that Draco could be the killer—it would shatter something fragile he hadn’t even realized he’d been clinging to.
So he didn’t.
Instead, he did what he was best at—he buried it. Let it rot in the back of his mind while he pretended not to see it. He stopped going to Draco’s penthouse. No more lazy Sunday mornings in bed or warm meals waiting for him when he got off work. He started responding to texts hours late, then days. Eventually, they dwindled. Work became his shield again, just like it always had.
Ron noticed first.
“You look like hell,” he said one morning, dropping a bacon sandwich on Harry’s desk. “And not the sexy, tortured kind. Just the exhausted and halfway to a breakdown kind.”
Harry grunted something unintelligible in response, eyes still glued to the latest minor offense case.
Even Hermione had started giving him the look. The one that meant she was worried and five seconds from dragging him to St. Mungo’s—or worse, to a therapist. She even threatened to start funding weekly sessions herself if he didn’t “sort his emotional constipation out.”
Harry waved her off with the usual line. “Just trying to get ahead of case closures before year-end reports. You know how Robards gets.”
And it wasn’t a complete lie. In two weeks, Harry had managed to rip through more backlogged paperwork and unsolved petty cases than the entire floor combined. He was a machine, powered by a deep, gnawing need to be too tired to think. Too busy to remember how it felt to have Draco’s fingers on his skin or his lips on his temple whispering that he wasn’t going anywhere.
But he had. Harry had.
He stayed late most nights, well after the others clocked out. Grimmauld Place stayed cold and quiet when he returned, his footsteps echoing in the dark. The plush dragon-cow hybrid stared at him from the couch like it knew. Like he knew.
And that bloody phone. Still on the table. Still lighting up every now and then.
Unread messages. Unopened calls. All from him.
But Harry couldn’t bring himself to press the button.
Because once he did… once he looked, once he asked—
He might get an answer.
And Merlin help him, he wasn’t ready for it.
The Ministry’s annual Christmas party arrived with all the forced cheer and glittering desperation of a holiday someone else planned for you. Harry wasn’t in the mood—hadn’t been in the mood for days, really—but tradition is a stubborn beast, and Robards wielded guilt trips like a Gryffindor wields a sword.
Harry had every intention of skipping. Hide out in his office, blame paperwork, maybe fake the flu if he had to. Let the Auror Department sip spiked punch and wear enchanted antlers without him.
Unfortunately, fate had other plans. More specifically, Hermione and Ron had other plans.
He should’ve known something was up the moment the two of them approached his desk with the eerie synchronicity of co-conspirators. They didn’t say a word. Just took one arm each and dragged him out of his chair like he was luggage and not the Chosen Bloody One. Harry flailed, obviously, but only half-heartedly—mainly because the sight of Hermione's narrowed eyes was enough to threaten spontaneous combustion, and she was pregnant, which made her at least three times more terrifying than usual.
They dumped him back in Grimmauld Place like he was under house arrest. Ron had taken over guard duty, slumped on Harry’s bed with the smug expression of someone who wasn’t about to get manhandled into a three-piece suit. Meanwhile, Hermione tore through his closet with surgical precision, her muttering growing more and more suspicious with every hanger.
That’s when Ron spotted it.
The plushie.
He picked it up with two fingers, like it might bite. “What in Merlin’s unholy left sock is this?”
Harry’s stomach dropped. He’d forgotten he’d moved the dragon-cow monstrosity to the bed during one of those long, Draco-less nights. It’d helped, okay? Sort of. Maybe. Shut up.
Harry cleared his throat. “Fanmail.”
Ron raised a brow. “Didn’t you ban fanmail after that woman sent you a vial of her tears?”
“It looked cute,” Harry said flatly, already committing to the lie. “So I kept it.”
Ron turned it upside down. “Is it… a dragon? With cow ears?”
“Don’t be rude,” Harry snapped, snatching it back and hugging it close on instinct. “It has personality.”
“It has issues,” Ron deadpanned.
Before Harry could defend the plushie’s honor further, Hermione emerged triumphantly, her arms full of clothes—not just any clothes. A lineup of luxurious, clearly tailored, suspiciously expensive suits.
Ron blinked. “Mate. Since when do you own clothes that don’t look like they’ve been slept in for three years?”
Harry scowled. “I have taste.”
“You have hoodies,” Ron countered. “And the same three pairs of jeans since the Triwizard Tournament.”
Harry mumbled something about having money now and finally using it.
Hermione arched a knowing brow. “You’re a cheap rich, Harry. You bought secondhand furniture for a magical house.”
He opened his mouth to argue, then promptly shut it. She wasn’t wrong.
And he knew they both knew exactly who had bought those suits, who’d picked the fabrics, probably enchanted them to adjust for his terrible posture. But neither said a word. Hermione simply held one up, eyed him critically, and declared, “Put this on.”
“I—”
“No.”
Before he could even begin a dramatic protest, the pair of them swept out the door, and behind them, Harry heard the unmistakable click of a lock spell settle into place.
He stood there, plushie in hand, surrounded by silent luxury and all the ghosts of his whatever-ship with Draco Malfoy, and groaned.
Murder cases were easier than this.
When Harry finally emerged from the battlefield that was his wardrobe, dressed in the dark green velvet suit Hermione had practically knighted him with, he descended the stairs like a man on his way to a duel. He tugged at the sleeves with theatrical annoyance, every step heavy with resentment. Velvet. Velvet. He felt like an overpriced gift wrap.
He found Ron and Hermione already waiting in the living room, decked out in their annoyingly coordinated festive office-casual outfits—Ron in deep burgundy with gold accents, Hermione in soft cream with matching details. They looked like they belonged on a holiday card, and Harry would’ve rolled his eyes straight out of his skull if the sight hadn’t hit him square in the heart first.
Because there Ron was, hunched slightly over the sofa, murmuring something to Hermione’s barely-showing baby bump, his hands resting tenderly over it as she giggled. Genuine, soft, belly-deep giggles that Harry hadn't heard from her in weeks. And suddenly, Harry wasn’t thinking about how itchy velvet was or how desperately he didn’t want to attend this damn party. He was thinking about how good it felt to see them like this—happy, soft-edged, full of hope.
He wasn’t going to cry, of course. But he might’ve blinked too many times.
Hermione spotted him first and let out a delighted gasp. “Oh, Harry! Look at you!”
Ron turned, whistled low, and grinned. “Blimey. Green suits you more than it should, mate.”
Harry crossed his arms. “You two are far too excited to see me in something that isn’t a hoodie.”
Ron snorted. “I’m just saying, maybe you should let Malfoy pick your clothes more often.”
Harry froze. Blinked. Hermione shot Ron a look, but the damage was done. Ron visibly winced, opened his mouth to cover the slip, and then shut it again. There was no taking it back.
Harry, to his credit, just ignored it.
“Right,” he said, clearing his throat with all the subtlety of someone avoiding emotional minefields. “Let’s get this over with before Robards comes to drag me there himself.”
And so the three of them—an exasperated hero in velvet, a radiant mother-to-be, and the world’s most awkward ginger—headed off to the Ministry’s Christmas party. Harry wasn’t mentally prepared for any of it. But for once, he didn’t feel quite so alone.
The party was exactly what Harry had dreaded—and expected. Loud laughter echoed off the marble floors, fairy lights blinked like they were enchanted to induce migraines, and the air was saturated with a mix of cinnamon, clove, and egg nog so aggressively spiked it could be considered a potion. The entire atrium had been glamoured into a winter wonderland, complete with floating snowflakes that never melted, and tables stacked high with magically refilling hors d'oeuvres.
Harry stood at the entrance a moment too long. Eyes were already swiveling. Whispers too. As always. Because he was there. The Boy Who Lived. The Boy Who Grew Up. The Auror Department’s shiny poster boy. Just as Ron warned, his presence was a magnet—and unfortunately not the kind that repelled.
He spotted Robards across the room, who caught Harry’s eye and gave him that insufferable good-you’re-here-don’t-you-dare-leave look. The man was dressed in a glittering gold button-down with reindeer antlers on his head and a blinking red light enchanted over his tie like some festive horror show. Honestly, if that wasn't enough to make Harry bolt, nothing was.
He was already forming his escape plan—stay an hour tops, wave to a few department heads, maybe pose for a photo, and then vanish like a good little Houdini. Simple. Elegant. Cowardly? Maybe. But effective.
Except—
He turned.
Ron and Hermione had vanished.
Brilliant.
How two people who stood out like glittering holiday elves could disappear so quickly, he didn’t know. One minute they were at his side, the next they were swallowed by the crowd. New record, probably.
Muttering to himself, Harry navigated to the bar. If he had to deal with forced socialization, he’d need a drink in hand. Preferably something strong enough to kill memory cells. He took a sip of the egg nog and grimaced. It was... egg nog. Thick, aggressively creamy, and spiked with something that tasted suspiciously like dragon fire.
He squinted at Tamara, the catering head, who stood nearby humming to herself with far too much innocence.
Half a bottle of vodka, Tamara? Really?
At least it helped blur the chaos around him.
Then came the buzz in his pocket.
He shouldn’t have checked. He really shouldn’t have. But habits die hard, and he was weak in more ways than one.
One wrong swipe later, Draco's message opened—of course it did.
First, the photo.
A deep wine-red suit, rich and smooth like aged merlot, tailored to within an inch of Draco’s life. The photo was tastefully framed, showing only a portion of his shoulder and collarbone—just enough skin, just enough tease. The background was lavish: a banquet hall, decorated in opulent golds and silvers, bodies swirling behind him in dance or chatter. It reeked of corporate money.
Then the text followed:
Office Christmas parties are hell. I hope you're suffering equally.
And damn it—Harry smiled. The kind he didn’t mean to smile. The kind that softened his eyes and curled at the corners before he could catch it.
So Draco was stuck in party hell too. Somehow, that made everything feel... lighter.
He didn’t reply. Of course he didn’t. Not after days of dodging messages, of slow-fading excuses and silent self-preservation.
But he held the phone a little longer than necessary.
And maybe it made him feel a little less alone in the crowd.
Of course, the peace didn't last. Did it ever?
Once the greetings started, they rolled in like an avalanche. First wave was tolerable—familiar faces, people he actually liked. His team.
Amy was first, and Harry nearly choked on his egg nog. She was in a black glittery number that barely qualified as “coverage,” let alone “office-appropriate.” Tight in all the dangerous places, the neckline plunging like it had a death wish. A glint of metal caught his eye—oh Merlin, was that a deer tail clipped to her belt? He blinked once. Twice. Yeah, it was there. Swishing when she moved. Why?
It didn’t help that this was Amy. Cold-eyed, steel-fisted, tactical genius Amy who had once made a criminal cry in under three minutes just by staring at him. And now she was dressed like some dominatrix Rudolph. The world was off its axis.
Chris followed, thank Merlin, bringing down the chaos levels. Still sweet, still clumsy, and still trying so hard not to fanboy in Harry’s presence. Harry found it oddly endearing. The guy had proven himself—earnest, skilled, green but eager. He was learning. Harry respected that. Even if he still fumbled his words and got flustered when Harry just said hi.
Ashley bounded over next like a candy cane come to life, all sparkles and bows and that impossibly red Santa dress that made her look like she'd stepped out of a holiday special. She grinned at him, smudged some glitter on his sleeve, and declared it an upgrade. Honestly? Harry didn't have the heart to disagree.
Then came Nabu. Tall, dark, broad, blessed by every divine being ever to grace the Earth. In a perfectly tailored navy blazer and slacks, Nabu looked like he was about to model for Wizards Weekly: Power Edition. Harry had to suppress the sigh when half the room turned to ogle him. Even Ashley swooned dramatically into Zola’s arms.
Speaking of Zola—she strolled in with her usual mad-scientist glam. A white bodysuit that screamed brilliance and danger in equal measure. Sleek. Sharp. Her curls were wild, her eyes sharper than a blade, and she handed Harry a drink she probably concocted herself with a wink and a warning, "Don’t sip if you value brain function." He politely set it on the nearest tray when she wasn’t looking.
So far? Not bad.
But then.
The second wave came.
The upper echelon.
The executives.
The ancient, posh, and painfully self-important.
That’s when the polite smile came out. The one that said yes, I’m very impressed by your name-dropping and veiled jabs at modern youth. The one that felt like it was carved from granite. The one he reserved for press conferences and photo ops.
He nodded. He chuckled at the appropriate volume. He made eye contact without looking too intense. It was a performance—and he'd gotten good at it, but that didn’t mean he liked it.
Then he saw Robards approaching. Harry instinctively stiffened.
Of course he wouldn’t come alone.
Beside him? The Head of the Department of Mysteries. Cloaked in formality and mystery and a coat that looked like it was made of stitched shadows. Their eyes glittered with the kind of knowledge that made your skin crawl—not evil, just... old. Watching. Always watching.
Harry felt stifled.
His collar too tight. His thoughts too loud. His heartbeat too fast.
He smiled, though.
Of course he did.
Robards had barely said a word, but the look he gave Harry from across the glitter-drenched ballroom was a loaded do not fuck this up. The kind of expression that managed to communicate volumes without uttering a syllable. Harry responded with his most polished smile—Saint Potter on display. Polite, charming, the perfect blend of war hero and diplomatic golden boy. He could almost hear the applause.
It was exhausting.
By the time the head of the Department of Mysteries had moved on, all cryptic smirks and invisible notes being mentally taken, Harry seriously debated vanishing. Not just from the party, but maybe from the country. But he didn’t get the chance.
“Harry.”
He sighed before he even turned. Of course. Kingsley.
He couldn't ghost the Minister of Magic—even if he was the Chosen One, even if his head was buzzing and his egg nog was starting to feel like regret.
Still, it was Kingsley, and there were very few politicians in the world that Harry could say he genuinely liked. He turned around—only to be blindsided.
Santa. Kingsley Shacklebolt was in a Santa Claus suit. Full beard, velvet hat, magical sleigh bells. And he looked pleased.
Harry stared. Eyebrow cocked. He didn’t even pretend to hide the slow, confused sweep of his gaze over the ensemble. The unimpressed shake of his head followed a beat later.
Kingsley only chuckled, unbothered. “What? Just because I’m Minister doesn’t mean I can’t be festive.”
Harry took his hand with a dry smirk. “You’re many things, Kingsley. Festive is not one of them.”
They laughed—real, easy laughter, the kind that only came from familiarity built over years and shared chaos. It was one of the few comforts of knowing someone who saw him not as the Boy Who Lived, but as the boy who once snuck contraband into Order meetings and fell asleep during strategy sessions.
“I won’t bother asking how you're enjoying the party,” Kingsley added knowingly, “since I caught you mid-escape.”
“I wasn't escaping,” Harry replied, not even pretending to sound convincing.
Kingsley raised an eyebrow. “Right.”
“...I was just going to the loo.”
“Which is that way,” Kingsley pointed, completely opposite of where Harry had been heading.
“Could be a secret loo. Ever think of that?”
Kingsley laughed again. “Stay at least until I finish the speech.”
Harry groaned. “Must I?”
“You must. That’s an order.”
Harry didn’t hesitate—he flipped him off without a word.
Kingsley just grinned and walked away, his bell-laced robes jingling with power.
Moments later, a familiar weight slung around his shoulders.
“Ah, the privileges of being Harry Potter,” Ron said. “Flicking off the Minister of Magic and getting away with it. You're like a national treasure.”
Hermione was on his other side now, arms crossed and head shaking in mock disappointment. “Honestly,” she said. “Where were your manners, Potter?”
Harry turned to them, glaring. “Where were you two? You left me with the sharks.”
“We went to find seats,” Ron replied smoothly. “Then we got cornered by some old bloke from International Magical Cooperation who wants us to try vegan Butterbeer.”
Hermione nodded, eyes glinting. “And besides, it’s good for you—socializing. We can’t always be here to parent you.”
Harry scoffed. “You’re not my parents.”
They both gave him the look.
You know the one. The one that said try again, sweetie. The one that reminded him they’d literally kept him alive more times than he could count.
Harry deflated, mumbled something about betrayal, and decided he needed a second egg nog.
At this point, even the Santa-suited Minister seemed easier to handle than his smug pseudo-parents.
Luckily enough for Harry, it had only taken listening through Kingsley's speech and for Ron too look at the portion sizes of the dinner that followed for him to suggest to leave and get some real food.
This—this—was what Harry thought Christmas should feel like. Not the cinnamon-scented, ministry-sponsored PR nightmare with eggnog that tasted like regret. This was it. Upstairs at some noisy Argentinian restaurant, music humming low in the background, charred asado smoke curling in the air, and his favorite people bickering across a long wooden table like the family they’d chosen. No dress code. No flashing cameras. Just laughter, teasing, and dangerous levels of meat.
They toasted first—soda, spiked punch, a questionable house wine in Luna’s case—cheering to escaping their respective work holiday disasters, to the holidays in general, and to Ginny bloody Weasley returning victorious after the Harpies snagged their spot in the World Cup finals.
Cheers erupted. Harry beamed. His stomach didn’t even hurt for once.
Then, of course, it started.
“Damn, Potter,” Seamus said between bites, eyeing him up and down like he was about to bid on him at a charity auction. “That’s not your usual ‘I got dressed in the dark’ look.”
Dean snorted. “Seriously, where’d you get that suit? Looks bespoke. You get adopted by royalty or something?”
Neville, mouth half-full, added, “You usually just show up in whatever t-shirt survived laundry. That thing probably cost more than my entire closet.”
Harry rolled his eyes, already regretting every decision that had led to him wearing the dark green velvet number. Especially now that Ron and Hermione were sitting there smug as hell—Hermione sipping her drink innocently while Ron was failing horribly at hiding his grin.
And then, Luna, like the calm chaos storm she was, tilted her head and said dreamily, “Draco has taste.”
The entire table howled.
Harry groaned, head thunking against the back of his chair. “Really?”
Ginny leaned over her plate with an evil grin. “Oh please. Ron and Hermione have been keeping us very updated. You, grinning at your phone? Malfoy dropping off homemade lunchboxes? We’ve got a bloody soap opera playing out in our group chat.”
Harry shot his traitorous best friends a look of pure betrayal. Ron shrugged, unapologetic. “What? You were being disgustingly domestic. It was a public service announcement.”
Seamus leaned in. “So what happened? You two shag and he ghosted you or something?”
“We never dated,” Harry groaned.
Neville chimed in, unhelpfully. “You did drunkenly admit you two were a thing in sixth year, so technically this would be a ‘re-dating’ situation.”
Harry slapped a hand over his face. “Why do I even talk to any of you?”
“Because we’re prettier than your Auror paperwork,” Luna answered without missing a beat.
Ginny grinned, elbowing him. “So what happened this time? If you’re done with Malfoy, I might take a swing. He’s rich, hot, and makes a mean soup going by what I heard from Ron.”
“Ginny.”
“What? I like a man who can cook.”
Harry glared at her, red to the ears. “It’s not that simple. I just… noticed things. And I’m not sure he’s who I thought he was.”
It was vague. Too vague. But it shut them up for a second—until Dean, brows raised, leaned in and asked quietly, “Wait. You still think he’s the killer?”
A beat.
And then chaos again.
“Mate, no—”
“I thought you cleared him!”
“Harry, come on—”
“He literally saved your life!”
“You’re back to your killer kink obsession—”
“I swear to Merlin, if you screw this up—”
Harry groaned again, slumping into his chair as if gravity had tripled. He buried his face in his hands and muttered, “I don’t want to suspect him. But I can’t stop. Something’s off. It’s been gnawing at me for weeks.”
The table finally quieted. They didn’t argue this time. Because they knew Harry. Knew he didn’t make accusations lightly. Knew he trusted his gut even when it made him miserable. And they all hated that he was even entertaining the thought.
Because if Harry was right… it would mean the one person who made him feel safe might be the same person manipulating him from the shadows.
And if he was wrong… he might lose someone who genuinely cared about him.
Either way, Harry was already losing.
Luna, of course, was the one to drop the bomb. She always did it so quietly too, like tossing a pebble into a pond just to see how far the ripples would reach.
“Maybe,” she said, staring off at nothing in particular, “you’re not letting yourself be happy.”
The table fell quiet. And Harry—Harry blinked like he’d been struck between the eyes with a Stupefy.
“Excuse me?” he asked, voice a little too sharp, a little too defensive. “What kind of masochist do you think I am?”
But then Hermione, damn her insightful, logic-wielding brain, leaned forward and nodded thoughtfully. “No, Luna might be onto something.”
And that’s when Harry knew he was in trouble.
“Harry,” she began in that calm, careful tone she only used when she was about to emotionally wreck someone with kindness, “you’ve been under pressure since you were a child. You’re always working, always fighting, always trying to be what everyone expects. Maybe you’re so used to being Harry Potter—the Chosen One, the Auror, the war hero—that the moment something good happens to you, something real, your brain doesn’t know how to process it. So it sabotages it before it can be taken away.”
The silence after her words was deafening.
And Harry didn’t know what to say, because fuck—maybe they had a point.
He’d expected more jokes, maybe Dean or Seamus starting a food fight to change the topic. But instead, it was Ginny who reached over the table, hand curling around his wrist like an anchor.
“Look,” she said gently, “we’ll respect whatever you decide. If you truly think something’s wrong with Malfoy, we won’t stop you. But just… think about it. Really think. Is it because you find him suspicious, or because he makes you happy, and you’re scared of what that means?”
Her thumb brushed over the scar on his wrist like she remembered every scar on his skin. “Remember what I told you, that night. About not living with regrets?”
Harry’s throat tightened. Damn her for remembering that conversation.
He looked around the table then. Every pair of eyes was focused on him. And not with judgment or pressure. Just… care. Sincerity. An open invitation.
And it hit him like a kick to the stomach—how seen he felt. Like they’d peeled him open without even needing a wand.
Dean was the one who broke the tension next. “Whatever happens, mate—whether you chase after him or file a restraining order—we’re behind you. We always are.”
Ron threw an arm around Harry’s shoulders, squeezing just enough to hurt. “Yeah. I mean, we’ve seen you try to date half of wizarding London. Still stuck around. What’s one more love crisis?”
Ginny smirked. “We dated for a decade and almost got married. You think you can scare us off now? Please.”
Then she added with a wicked grin, “And, y’know, if you really decide to toss Malfoy, I wouldn’t say no to his number.”
“Ginny—” Ron looked half offended, half resigned.
Harry snorted, rubbing a hand down his face. “You’re all bloody insane.”
“Maybe,” Hermione said with a shrug. “But we’re yours.”
And for all his fear and doubt and trauma and terrible, messy dating history, Harry couldn’t help but smile.
Because maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t alone in this. And maybe, he didn’t have to be afraid of happiness forever.
Even if happiness came in the form of Draco Malfoy, wine-colored suits, and very illegal curses.
After the impromptu therapy session disguised as dinner, Harry had returned to Grimmauld Place with a brain full of questions and a heart stretched too tight. He was exhausted—not the kind sleep could fix, but the kind that weighed behind the eyes and sat heavy in the bones.
He peeled off the dark green velvet suit jacket, draped it over the back of a chair, and made his way to the kitchen. Tea. That’s what he needed. Something warm and grounding. He hadn’t touched anything alcoholic since the overly aggressive eggnog at the Ministry party, and at the restaurant he’d only sipped soda, too sober for the truths he'd been forced to face.
The kettle hissed, steam curling upward like the thoughts in his head, and just as he poured the hot water into his mug, a sharp knock echoed through the quiet house.
Harry blinked, mildly startled. Who the hell would be knocking at this hour? Maybe Ron had forgotten his gloves. Or Hermione had returned to hex him into therapy. Or worse, it was Kreacher with one of his dramatic midnight reports about dust on the second-floor curtains.
He padded toward the door, barefoot and mug in hand, still in slacks and his dress shirt unbuttoned at the throat.
And then he opened it.
And everything in him stopped.
Leaning casually against the doorframe, like some goddamn fever dream, was Draco Malfoy.
Blond hair half-slicked, half-falling loose in defiance. The deep wine red suit he’d glimpsed in that photo now fully on display, and Harry’s stomach gave a traitorous twist. No shirt beneath the vest, just bare skin where skin had no right being exposed. His collarbones gleamed faintly—glitter—body glitter, for Merlin’s sake. His eyes were unreadable, but his expression was taut, serious… and maybe just a touch furious.
Harry’s brain short-circuited.
“W-What are you doing here?” he stammered, voice cracking like he was a schoolboy again and not a grown man who had faced down death itself.
Draco didn’t respond.
He didn’t need to.
He stepped inside instead, one booted foot crossing the threshold like it belonged there. Harry instinctively stepped back, heart thudding louder than he’d like to admit, eyes locked on the slow, steady approach of a man who looked like temptation itself and smelled like spice, citrus… and trouble.
Draco walked him backward, silent, deliberate, until they were standing in the low light of the entrance hall, Harry cornered without even realizing he’d moved.
And then, finally, Draco spoke—quiet, sharp, cutting through the air like a knife, “Just why the hell have you been ghosting me, Potter?”
Harry swallowed.
Yeah.
He’d been dreading that question.
Notes:
Ohoho! Well that's dramatic. Umm thoughts and prayers for Harry's ass. He ain't surviving this. Goodnight!
Chapter 14
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Harry stumbled as the back of his knees caught the armrest, gracelessly collapsing onto the sofa with a thump that knocked the air from his lungs. Before he could scramble up or even blink, Draco was already there—on him—one knee slotting between his thighs, suit fabric brushing too intimately against his hips, and that glitter-dusted chest far too close to his face.
Still angry.
Still beautiful.
Still looking at him like he was something to be dissected under harsh light.
“Wait—wait,” Harry blurted, pressing both hands against Draco’s chest, trying to create any semblance of distance. Sparkles clung to his fingers. Fucking glitter. “It’s not what you think. There’s been—there’s been a misunderstanding—”
Draco didn’t budge. Didn’t blink. Just stared down at him with the quiet intensity of a storm before the crack of thunder. It wasn’t just anger—it was challenge. Try me. That look said. Go on, Potter. Lie. Say something pathetic. Make it worse.
Harry was doomed.
Still, that didn’t stop his mouth from scrambling to come up with some half-baked string of words that resembled an excuse. "I was just—there were cases and I didn’t want to distract you, and I wasn’t sure if I was even—if we were—"
But before he could finish unraveling into a mess of cowardice and deflection, Draco moved.
And not forward.
He pulled away.
Harry blinked in shock as the warmth left his body, replaced with the chill of air and regret.
Draco straightened, slid his hands into his pockets, and let out a slow, weighted sigh—like he was trying to let go of something he wasn’t sure he could.
And then, casually, he pulled something out of his coat pocket. Harry’s stomach flipped.
A cigarette box.
Draco slid one between his lips with the practiced ease of habit. He pulled out a lighter—gold, elegant, of course—and flicked it open.
But he didn’t light it.
Instead, he just… paused.
His gaze flickered to Harry. Something unreadable passed through his eyes. Then, in a move that felt more intimate than any kiss, he bit off the end of the cigarette, plucked it from his lips, and tucked both the lighter and cigarette back into his coat.
No theatrics. No explanation. Just a quiet, exhausted kind of restraint.
Then he slumped down into the armchair opposite the couch, elbows on his knees, face cast in shadow, and exhaled slowly—not smoke. Just emotion.
Harry watched him, stunned silent. Cautiously, he sat up, the fabric of the sofa groaning under his shifting weight. His eyes didn’t leave Draco. Not for a second.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” he finally said, voice softer, unsure.
Draco didn’t look at him when he answered. “I don’t.” A beat. “Not around you.”
That knocked the breath out of Harry faster than the fall onto the couch ever could.
And it hit. Hit like something heavy and slow and impossible to ignore. He remembered, now—the faint trace of tobacco the first time they'd reconnected. Barely noticeable under layers of citrus and cologne. And then, over time… it faded. Disappeared. Until all Harry ever smelled on him was soap and spice and skin.
He hadn’t even thought about it.
Not until now.
And suddenly, that silence between them—the weeks, the space, the avoidance—felt heavy with all the things Harry hadn’t noticed. All the ways Draco had been trying. Quietly. Constantly.
Harry stood up. “Want some tea?” he asked, like it wasn’t the stupidest thing to say after weeks of dodging someone you may or may not be falling for.
Draco didn’t answer.
But he didn’t object, either.
So Harry turned, walked to the kitchen, and came back with another cup.
He handed it over. Their fingers brushed.
And for the first time that night, neither of them moved away.
The silence between them was sticky—dense—broken only by the clink of teacups and the occasional sip as neither quite met the other’s eyes. The air smelled of cinnamon and guilt, of unspoken truths brewing hotter than the tea in their hands.
It was Harry who cracked first.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, setting his cup down with a gentle clatter. “For pulling away. For ghosting you. For… everything.”
Draco let out a low, humorless chuckle, the kind that carved into your ribs with a scalpel instead of a laugh. “Oh? So you do realize what you did. Could’ve fooled me with all those lovely little excuses you spat out earlier.”
Harry winced. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” Draco’s voice was sharp, polished, clinical.
“Talk to me like I’m just another suit you manage. Cold. Distant. Like we’re strangers again.”
“Oh, you mean the way you’ve been treating me these past two weeks?” Draco snapped, tone cutting clean through any remaining pretense.
Harry sat up straighter, feeling the weight of it settle in his chest like lead. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said softly.
Draco gave a bitter shrug, raising his cup for another sip but not drinking. “Intent doesn’t undo impact, Potter.”
The way he said his surname—like it was an alias, like it wasn’t someone he kissed, held, cooked for—made Harry’s stomach twist.
He looked down at the rug, eyes trained on a single frayed thread. Shame clawed up his throat, thick and scratchy. Was this what Draco felt every time he left a message unanswered? Every time he canceled last minute or deflected with a case file and an apology?
Gods, it hurt.
His eyes stung and his face burned and still—still—he hadn’t said the words out loud. But then, before he could even speak again, he heard the sound of porcelain gently clicking against the coffee table, followed by a quiet shift of movement.
A hand on his knee.
Draco knelt in front of him now, eyes leveled with his, searching his face with maddening calm.
Harry hated it. Hated how gentle he looked despite the anger, hated how even now Draco was the one comforting him.
“Don’t cry,” Draco said, voice low.
“I’m not crying,” Harry snapped reflexively.
“Your nose is red.” And with a ghost of a smirk, he reached up and pinched it.
Harry yelped and jerked back. “Bloody hell, Malfoy!”
Draco smiled, and it was that real one—not smug, not calculated—just soft and amused and real. And for a moment, Harry could breathe again.
Draco moved to sit beside him. Not touching. Just there.
The distance between them felt like a canyon.
“Why?” Draco asked again, this time quieter.
Harry sighed and let his head fall back against the sofa, staring up at the ceiling like it might whisper the answer down to him. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “I’m still trying to figure it out.”
Draco said nothing, waiting.
Harry’s fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. “The past few months… even before we—you know…” He waved vaguely in the air. “It’s been a lot. At first I thought it was the shock of seeing you again after fifteen bloody years. You vanished, Malfoy. No letters. No owls. You ghosted the entire Wizarding World like you were allergic to us.”
Draco didn’t deny it. He just tilted his head, listening.
“And then you came back,” Harry continued. “Tailored suits, smug smirk, the goddamn cars, and your obsession with overpriced coffee machines. You were still the biggest arsehole I’ve ever met.”
Draco snorted. “Takes one to know one.”
“But then there was the shawarma. And the dumplings. And our Tuesday dinners, and those late-night car rides, and the porridge you made when I woke up hungover, and those stupid conversations about tea blends. And somewhere in between snogging, shagging, and falling asleep next to you, you just—you—started to take up space in my life. A lot of space. And I let you.”
The quiet swallowed them again.
Harry’s voice dropped. “And then that night happened. When you used the Cruciatus. And I saw your face. No hesitation. No guilt. It scared me.”
Draco turned to look at him now, guarded. “Scared of me?”
Harry shook his head, then nodded, then shook it again. “No. I mean, maybe for a second, yeah. But not really because of the curse.”
Draco’s brows knit.
Harry met his gaze then, eyes raw. “I was scared of how deep you’ve gotten into my life. How easy it was to let you in. How fucking comfortable it is, being with you.”
That silenced Draco.
“I’m not used to that,” Harry admitted. “I’m used to fighting. To resisting things that feel too good. Because things that feel good don’t last. Not for me.”
He looked at Draco, really looked at him—the red suit, the sparkle still dusted across his collarbone, the guarded way he sat just far enough not to touch.
And Harry said the thing that had been eating him alive for weeks.
“I didn’t pull away because I don’t want you. I pulled away because I do. And I’m scared as hell of what that means.”
Draco stared at him. His jaw worked once, then again like he was chewing on a thousand words he didn’t know how to spit out. Then, in a whisper, barely audible, “You’re such a fucking idiot.”
Harry huffed a laugh. “Tell me something new.”
Draco didn’t flinch—not when Harry looked him dead in the eye, not when he whispered the one thing that had kept him awake and crawling inside his own head for weeks, "I’m scared that even if you turn out to be the man I’m supposed to arrest… I’d still want you."
He said it like a confession and a curse in one breath. And Merlin, it tasted like sin and salvation all at once.
"As an Auror, no—as someone who's spent his whole life fighting against evil… that’s the worst thing that could happen to me."
The seconds that followed were quiet. Too quiet.
Draco didn’t blink. He didn’t smirk or tease or throw it back in his face. He just looked at him, gaze steady, unreadable.
And then he asked, quietly, "What are you going to do about it then, Potter?"
Harry’s breath caught. The way he said it—flat, hollow—like he already knew the answer, like he’d already imagined this scene ending with Harry shackling him.
"What if I really am the monster you’re meant to catch?" Draco asked, voice softer now. He leaned in close, eyes boring into Harry like he was peeling him apart.
They were barely inches apart. Too close. Not close enough.
Harry’s gaze flicked down to his lips—red, parted, still faintly glitter-dusted—and then back to those stormy grey eyes.
"I have no fucking idea," Harry whispered. "But I know one thing right now."
Draco tilted his head. "And what's that?"
"How badly I want to kiss you."
And then he did.
No more space. No more doubt. Just lips crashing together in a way that tasted like desperation and something dangerously close to hope. It was messy and intense and Harry could taste the remnants of champagne and the faint burn of menthol cigarettes Draco hadn’t even smoked.
Draco groaned into his mouth, and Harry swore he felt it in his bones.
One of Draco’s hands tangled in the short hair at the back of Harry’s neck, the other sliding firmly around his waist like he belonged there. Harry gasped against his lips, teeth grazing. He was being pulled into a tide he had no hope of resisting—and maybe for the first time in forever, he didn’t want to resist.
When they finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, Draco didn’t move far. His gaze was still fixed on Harry’s lips like he wasn’t done. Like he’d never be done.
"What now?" he murmured, voice rough with something unspoken. "Now that we’re here. Like this?"
Harry’s hands had settled against Draco’s chest, fingers curling into the velvet. He didn’t want to pull back. He couldn’t. He leaned in until their foreheads brushed, whispering,
"I still have no fucking idea."
Draco huffed a soft laugh, then said, "Well, we could start by dropping the surnames. I want to hear you say my name."
That made Harry’s throat tighten, chest too full for words. They had used first names before—accidentally, in moments of vulnerability when the shields dropped—but this was different. This was intentional. Real.
And when he said it, voice barely a breath, "Draco—"
Draco snapped.
He surged forward, kissing him again with a hunger that made Harry dizzy. Hands pulled at each other’s clothes like they didn’t want a single inch of space left untouched.
Draco pulled Harry onto his lap in one fluid motion, and Harry wrapped his arms around his neck, letting himself drown in the sensation of it all—heat, want, need. There was no Auror and suspect here. No titles. No war. Just Harry and Draco, and the fire between them.
And gods, Harry was terrified. Terrified. Of what this meant, of what came next, of how this story might end.
But with Draco’s mouth devouring his, hands on his hips, dragging him closer like he’d die if they separated—he didn’t care.
He was tired of pretending he didn’t want this.
So he leaned in, lips brushing the shell of Draco’s ear, and whispered,
"Take me to bed."
And Draco did.
Draco didn’t respond with words. He didn’t need to.
The moment Harry whispered those four words Draco moved like a man possessed. One swift, practiced motion and he had Harry cradled against him, standing with surprising strength for someone who spent his days in an office. Harry let out a startled breath, arms looping around Draco’s shoulders, fingers gripping the velvet lapels of that wine-red suit like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.
No more hesitation.
They moved through the dim halls of Grimmauld like a current ripping through calm water. Shadows played over them from the flickering gas lamps, painting gold across sharp cheekbones and flushed skin. Draco kicked the door to the bedroom open without ceremony. It crashed against the wall, echoing like a promise.
He laid Harry down like a prayer he’d never learned to say properly—slow, deliberate, worshipful. But then his hands… oh, they weren’t gentle. They were starving.
Velvet rasped as Draco pushed his own jacket off, lips dragging down Harry’s jaw to the space just beneath his ear. The stubble burn, the scrape of teeth, the warm exhale of breath—it was all maddening. Harry arched up, his own hands mapping familiar terrain like it had been too long—even if it hadn’t been long enough.
“Say it again,” Draco murmured against his throat.
Harry blinked, breath coming out in shaky bursts. “Say… what?”
“My name.”
The request wasn’t sweet—it was a command. A low growl of want wrapped in silk.
Harry’s breath hitched. “Draco.”
“Again.”
“Draco—fuck—”
Draco smiled like a devil being praised, mouth dragging lower, over collarbones and trembling sternum, kissing across skin like he could etch himself into the places no one else had touched. Harry’s heart was a war drum, thunderous, betraying every second of how badly he wanted this—wanted him.
Clothes were undone piece by piece, every button another line crossed, every inch of skin revealed another truth they couldn’t unlearn. Draco moved like he had all the time in the world and yet like he was desperate to feel everything at once.
“Still scared?” Draco whispered, eyes locked onto Harry’s from above, both of them half undressed, breathless, barely hanging on.
Harry swallowed hard. “Absolutely.”
Draco leaned down, their noses brushing. “Good. That means you know this is real.”
And just like that, the fear didn’t matter anymore.
Because it was real. And messy. And terrifying. And Harry was diving in anyway—hands pulling Draco down, lips crashing back together, mouths open, tongues tasting truths neither of them had spoken out loud.
Draco kissed him like a storm—wild and relentless—like he could undo all of Harry’s damage just by wanting him hard enough. Harry kissed him back like he’d never get another chance. They clung to each other, drowning in heat, in years of unresolved tension, in every sideways glance, every brush of hands, every "just rivals" lie they’d fed themselves since fifth year.
Eventually, the world outside the sheets blurred. Moans swallowed by lips. Fingertips digging into skin. The creak of the bed. The sweat between them. The heartbeat against heartbeat.
They didn’t need to say it out loud—but it was there, between every kiss, every gasp, every tremble.
Mine.
Yours.
Ours.
And when the silence finally came, tangled in sheets and limbs and shallow breath, Draco pressed a kiss to Harry’s temple, and whispered,
“You should’ve come home sooner.”
Harry smiled faintly, eyelids heavy, and whispered back, “I'm here now.”
The next morning crept in gently, spilling gold through the half-closed curtains and bathing the room in that warm, quiet light reserved only for December mornings and those rare moments where time slows down just enough to be savored. Harry stirred with a soft grunt, blinking into the haze of half-sleep as the first thing he felt wasn’t the cold air or the dull ache in his back—but the solid warmth of a body molded perfectly against his.
A heavy, inked arm lay sprawled across his waist like a claim, warm fingers curled just under his ribs. A soft breath ghosted against the nape of his neck—rhythmic, unhurried—and Harry didn’t need to look behind him to know who it was. Draco always held on in his sleep like he was daring the world to try and pull them apart.
Harry smiled into the pillow. That slow, indulgent kind of smile only reserved for morning-after thoughts and the soreness that came with being thoroughly ruined by the man currently wrapped around him.
He could’ve stayed like that forever—draped in warmth and memories of last night, of skin on skin and Draco’s voice wrecked with want. Of whispered curses that turned into groans and kisses too desperate to be anything but true. But then, of course—the alarm. The bloody alarm blared from the nightstand, slicing through the moment like a knife.
“Turn off the damn thing,” Draco grumbled behind him, voice gravelly and husky with sleep. He buried his face into Harry’s neck like it owed him something. His legs shifted against Harry’s, tangling them further.
Harry chuckled softly, stretching an arm over to silence the infernal beeping. The moment it stopped, he rolled in Draco’s arms, turning to face him.
And there he was.
Hair mussed to absolute hell, grey eyes barely open, lashes dark and long against his cheekbones. He looked younger like this—unguarded, undone by sleep and nothing else. His lips curved slightly, barely, like a secret being kept just for Harry. Then he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Harry’s mouth—just a brush of lips, but enough to make Harry forget why he'd ever want to leave this bed.
“Good morning,” Harry murmured against his mouth.
Draco hummed. “It would’ve been better if we hadn’t been rudely woken by technology,” he said with that usual disdain, like the concept itself had personally offended him. “Then again…” His voice dipped, sultry and teasing, “I wouldn’t have minded being woken by other things.”
Harry yelped when he felt a sharp squeeze to his arse, swatting Draco’s hand and rolling his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m right,” Draco countered, unrepentant and already leaning in for another kiss. “Also—it’s Christmas Eve, Potter. Even I’m off this week.”
Harry sighed, smiling despite himself. “I know. But I’ve got half a shift. Reports to file. Robards will gut me if I don’t deliver them before the turkey gets carved.”
“I can gut Robards for you,” Draco offered nonchalantly.
Harry scrunched up his nose in mock thought. “He doesn’t look very tasty.”
Draco smirked, pushing himself up on one elbow, eyes gleaming. “You do.”
The kisses started then—light, teasing pecks along Harry’s jaw, under his ear, across his throat. Ticklish and sweet, annoying and addictive all at once. Harry let out a laugh that cracked something open in his chest and pushed at Draco’s shoulder. “Stop, you lunatic. You’re clingy when you’re rested.”
Draco just tightened his grip like a vice. “Deal with it.”
Harry cupped his face, fingers threading into the mess of blond hair and pulled him in for one final, lingering kiss—wet and slow and full of something so real it made his toes curl. “I’ll be back by noon.”
“Fine,” Draco sighed with the weight of someone whose day had been personally ruined by responsibility. He fell back into the pillows dramatically, arms sprawled like a prince abandoned by his lover in some tragic love story. The sheets had slid down his chest, stopping just at his hips. His entire posture screamed sulk, but his eyes tracked Harry with open hunger.
Harry—completely naked, towel abandoned at some point in the night—made his way to the bathroom, and Draco didn’t even try to look away.
No, this, he could watch. Could memorize. Could keep like a painting etched behind his eyelids. The little half-smirk Harry gave over his shoulder as he caught him staring didn’t help.
Draco smirked right back. “Take your time, love. But not too long. I’ve got ideas for how we spend Christmas Eve once you return.”
And Harry? He believed it.
Wholeheartedly.
By the time Harry stepped out of the bathroom, skin still warm from the shower, steam curling around him like a second skin, he was dressed in jeans and a hoodie—Draco’s, of course. A dark emerald one he’d “borrowed” weeks ago and conveniently forgotten to return. It still smelled like cologne and expensive laundry detergent and memories. He tugged it over his head and padded barefoot down the stairs.
The scent hit him first—rosemary, something buttery, and eggs sizzling on a hot pan. The clatter of dishes followed, and when he turned the corner, there it was.
Draco Malfoy. In his kitchen.
Topless.
Wearing only last night's perfectly tailored black trousers and that damn apron—the navy one that always made Harry feel things no decent breakfast should awaken in a man. His back muscles flexed as he reached over the stove, light catching on pale skin and the faint glimmer of—was that still glitter? Sweet Merlin, it was.
Harry didn’t hesitate. He closed the distance like a man bewitched, wrapping his arms around Draco’s waist and pressing against his back like he was afraid he’d vanish again. He stood on his toes just enough to rest his chin on Draco’s shoulder, mouth brushing against the glitter-dusted skin there before trailing up toward his neck.
Draco chuckled low. “You really shouldn’t be distracting the cook, Harry. It’s a fire hazard.”
“You smell better than breakfast,” Harry mumbled against his neck, pressing a kiss just beneath his ear. “And that’s saying something.”
Draco hummed, his smirk practically audible. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go back to your scavenger diet. No more vending machine sandwiches, burnt toast, and coffee disguised as a meal.”
Harry didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. The way he nuzzled closer spoke volumes. But eventually, with much muttering and another warning about fire hazards, Draco plated the food—two omelettes shaped like Santa hats, complete with tiny tomato wedges and crème fraîche details—and turned toward the table.
Harry, however, was still glued to his back.
“You do realize we can’t eat like this?” Draco said dryly.
Harry’s response was a pout. An actual pout. Lower lip out, eyes wide, shameless.
Draco blinked. “Are you pouting?”
Harry didn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Draco rolled his eyes—too fond, too used to this nonsense now—and finally peeled him off, guiding him toward a chair.
“Sit. Eat. Stop being a child.”
Harry grumbled something under his breath, but the moment that first bite hit his tongue, the grumpiness vanished. His face went slack with pleasure as he groaned—actually groaned—at how good it tasted.
“Bloody hell,” he mumbled with his mouth full. “You trying to marry me with this food?”
“Eat slower or you’ll choke,” Draco said, sliding a mug of coffee toward him.
Harry took it—because he never learns—and immediately hissed when it scorched his tongue.
“Honestly,” Draco muttered, exasperated and affectionate as he leaned against the table.
And that’s when Harry saw it. The glitter.
Still there.
Across Draco’s collarbones, dusted lightly over his chest like a constellation of sins and questionable decisions. Harry choked on his eggs.
Draco, of course, noticed. Eyebrow arching, he glanced down, saw what Harry was staring at, and smirked like a man who knew exactly what kind of chaos he carried on his skin.
“You okay there, love?” he purred. “You look a little… flustered.”
Harry glared, red-faced and still chewing. “You still have glitter on your chest.”
“Oh?” Draco glanced down, brushing a slow hand across his pecs. “Leftovers from last night. You didn’t seem to mind when it was all over you.”
Harry made a strangled sound.
Draco smirked wider. “Relax, love. You’ve got work, remember?”
“Not helping.”
“I wasn’t trying to.”
Harry muttered something very unholy and went back to inhaling his breakfast while Draco leaned over, stole a bite from his plate, and kissed the top of his head like this—this domestic chaos—was the most natural thing in the world.
And maybe it was. Maybe this was what healing looked like—omelettes shaped like Santa hats, stolen hoodies, glitter still clinging to their skin, and morning kisses that made everything else feel like background noise.
Harry had almost made it out the door.
Almost.
His bag was slung over his shoulder, reports stuffed inside, wand tucked in the inner pocket of his coat. The key to the Floo was in his palm. He was ready. Prepared. And then Draco sauntered over, wearing that smug, sleepy look paired with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a royal cape and his usual “I-own-every-room-I-enter” aura.
“Wait,” Draco said, in that slow, dangerous voice that always came right before Harry’s knees gave out. “You’re forgetting something.”
Harry turned, confused. “I’ve got everything.”
“No, you don’t.”
Then Draco lifted the long, wine-red scarf from where he'd left it on the rack last night, stepped close—too close—and gently wrapped it around Harry's, letting it coil like silk and cinnamon and intent. Then he tugged—hard enough to pull him in—until Harry’s lips crashed into his with a startled little gasp that got swallowed by a kiss far too deep for someone who claimed to be “on his way out.”
Draco broke the kiss only when Harry’s fingers had curled around the blanket around his shoulders, only when the world narrowed down to nothing but the taste of lips and the heat between them.
“You forgot this,” Draco murmured against his mouth, breath warm, voice thick. “And to kiss me goodbye.”
Harry blinked, dazed. “You’re a menace.”
“I’m irresistible,” Draco corrected with a smirk, fixing the scarf with delicate precision like he hadn't just derailed Harry’s morning routine entirely. “And you like when I call you love.”
“I—shut up,” Harry said weakly, completely missing the mark when his cheeks betrayed him in traitorous crimson.
Draco leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Admit it. You love it.”
“I’m going to be late,” Harry tried.
“You could stay,” Draco offered, low and silken, pulling him close again, his hand slipping under Harry’s hoodie to rest on his lower back. “It’s Christmas Eve. You’ve already saved the world more times than anyone has the right to. Robards will survive one day without his poster boy.”
Harry very seriously considered it. The scent of coffee still lingered in the room, Draco looked like a sin wrapped in fleece and glitter dust, and the house was warm. His body was sore in the best way. He could just… sink back into bed. Pull the covers over both of them. Lose himself in another hour—or three—of being touched and kissed and called love like it wasn’t something sacred.
But—
“If I skip out now, he’ll double my reports next week,” Harry muttered, forehead resting against Draco’s. “And I promised to do the year-end wrap-ups before Christmas dinner.”
Draco sighed dramatically. “Fine. Be responsible. But if you’re not back by noon—”
“I’ll be back by noon,” Harry promised, stealing one last kiss because he was weak and Draco was warm and so much.
Draco looked far too pleased with himself as Harry stepped into the fireplace and tossed the Floo powder in.
Landing in the Ministry atrium felt like whiplash. The air smelled like parchment and disinfectant, not cinnamon and eggs. The lights were too harsh, too real. His scarf still smelled like Draco.
He barely made it ten steps before someone from Magical Records flagged him down. “Auror Potter! We’ve got an urgent request from the Bulgarian Ministry—something about cross-border wand tracking—”
Harry took it with a tight smile and mumbled something about following up soon. His head was still in a different universe. A glittery, half-naked, smirking one.
He made it to his department, tossed his bag onto the chair, and slumped onto the desk. Five minutes in and he already wanted to leave. He should’ve stayed. What was he thinking, choosing paperwork over Draco’s hands?
Then his phone buzzed.
🐍 Draco: Noon, Potter. Not a minute later. Or I’ll come get you myself.
Harry groaned.
🧣Harry: You're lucky you're hot.
🐍Draco: I’m lucky you're mine, love.
Harry dropped his forehead to the desk.
There was no surviving this man.
11:17 AM – Auror Department, Ministry of Magic
Harry was dying.
Not literally. Not yet. But his soul had left his body somewhere around his fourth report. His back ached, his wrist hurt from signing forms, and his brain was running on a shameful mix of instant coffee and memories—memories that involved Draco in nothing but an apron and glitter, pressed very firmly against his kitchen counter.
Every time he tried to focus, his damn scarf (still tied around his neck) smelled like spice, citrus, and poor life choices. His quill paused mid-report as he caught himself writing “Mr. Malfoy” instead of “subject of investigation.”
He rubbed his eyes. Get it together, Potter.
But his face must’ve still looked like post-coital chaos because when Ron walked in holding a sandwich and caught sight of him slumped over his desk, he froze.
Then narrowed his eyes.
“…Mate,” Ron said slowly. “Why do you look like someone personified a snog?”
Harry didn’t even look up. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve got glitter behind your ear.”
Harry immediately swiped at it like he’d been burned. “No I don’t.”
“You do,” Ron said, pointing like he’d spotted a crime scene. “And is that… is that a bite mark on your neck? Is that why you’re wearing a scarf indoors in December?!”
Harry said nothing. He knew if he made one sound, Ron would combust.
“Oh my gods, you did it, didn’t you?” Ron’s face went through seventeen stages of betrayal. “You spent the night with Malfoy. No wonder you look like a devoured pastry!”
Harry groaned and dropped his forehead to his desk. “Why are you like this?”
“Because you’re my best friend and I know things now that I never wanted to know. You glow, Harry. There’s actual light coming off your skin. What did he do to you?”
Harry muttered into the wood, “I’d like to not be psychoanalyzed by a man eating a corned beef sandwich.”
But Ron was already pacing like an overprotective dad. “Do I need to give you the talk again? Because I swear, if Malfoy hurt you—”
“He didn’t,” Harry snapped. “Quite the opposite.”
“Oh Merlin.” Ron paused, then stared. “Are you in love?”
Harry looked up. “What—no. I mean, maybe. I don’t know.”
Ron pointed at him like he was the last Horcrux. “You’re so in love.”
Before Harry could strangle him with his own scarf, the door opened.
12:01 PM – Auror Department, precisely on cue
Harry didn’t hear Draco arrive.
He felt it.
The temperature dropped by five degrees, and somehow everything got sharper—the sound of footsteps, the subtle scent of cologne, the energy in the room like static before a storm.
Ron looked up first and nearly dropped his sandwich.
“Bloody hell, he’s real,” he whispered.
Draco Malfoy walked in like he owned the Ministry, dressed in a perfectly tailored dark coat, black turtleneck, and gloves like he just walked out of a fashion show and was ready to commit emotional arson. His eyes locked onto Harry's the moment he stepped through the door.
Everyone stopped what they were doing. Even Chris, mid-coffee sip, choked and whispered, “Is that him?”
Harry stood, frozen, lips parted. “You’re early.”
“It’s noon.” Draco checked his watch with theatrical precision. “Exactly. And I warned you, love—I’d come get you if you weren’t back.”
Ron backed away slowly like he was witnessing a wild predator steal his best friend. “Are you being claimed right now?”
Harry didn’t answer. Draco closed the distance, untied the scarf around Harry’s neck like he was unwrapping a present, and coiled it around his own hand possessively.
“Time’s up, Potter.”
Harry blinked. “But—I still have three reports—”
“No, you don’t,” Draco said smoothly. “I’ve already told your supervisor you had urgent ‘personal obligations.’”
Ron stared. “How the hell did he get past Robards?”
Draco didn’t even glance at him. “I speak fluent intimidation.”
Harry should be embarrassed. He should be telling Draco off for storming the Ministry. He should not be melting under the weight of his smirk like a teenager with a crush.
But instead, he leaned in and whispered, “You planned this.”
Draco’s smile turned dangerous. “Obviously.”
And then he turned, scarf trailing, one gloved hand wrapped around Harry’s as he tugged him toward the exit.
“Have him back by New Year’s!” Ron shouted. “Or—or don’t, I don’t even know anymore!”
Outside the Ministry – 12:07 PM
“I cannot believe you marched in there like that,” Harry muttered, hand still locked in Draco’s.
“I gave you an out,” Draco replied calmly. “You ignored it. I warned you.”
Harry shook his head, smiling despite himself. “You’re the worst.”
“And you’re madly in love with me.”
“Shut up.”
“You called me ‘love’ last night six times.”
“Shut up.”
Draco grinned.
Harry didn’t stop him from pulling him closer.
He couldn't stop smiling.
Lunch had been at a small Puerto Rican restaurant tucked between two bookstores, the kind of place that felt like a secret once you stepped in—warm, humming with Spanish carols and the clatter of plates, the air spiced with sofrito and garlic. Harry had smiled at the scent alone, and by the time the waitress brought their arroz con gandules and pernil, he'd been ready to melt into the booth.
The car ride back reminded him of their old Tuesday dinners. Familiar. Comfortable. But now it hit him like a slow-burning revelation: this didn’t have to be just Tuesday anymore. Draco’s hand rested on the gear shift, fingers brushing his knee every now and then, and Harry caught himself thinking—we could do this whenever we want. Any day. Every day. A private little world of their own.
When they pulled into the garage beneath Draco’s penthouse, Harry's heart sped up, a quiet thrill under his skin. They made their way to the elevator, fingers laced—no gloves this time. Draco had peeled them off and stuffed them in his coat pocket as casually as if it wasn’t a declaration. Skin against skin. Honest. Warm.
By the time they reached the hallway to Draco’s flat, Harry was buzzed—not from sugar or rum but from the softness in every quiet gesture. He expected the door to swing open to fairy lights or at least a pine-scented candle.
But when he stepped inside, the realization struck.
Nothing.
No garlands. No wreaths. No blinking lights. Not even a sad little snow globe on a shelf. Just sleek black furniture and clean lines—the same minimalist elegance Draco lived in year-round. Harry blinked.
Draco helped him off with his coat, gentle fingers brushing his shoulders, and Harry turned with a frown.
“Wait. Why didn’t you decorate?” he asked, incredulous, hands still half in the sleeves.
Draco arched a brow, clearly unbothered. “I don’t usually. Not really big on Christmas. It’s just... me here. Doesn’t feel worth the effort.”
Harry stared at him like he’d just confessed to preferring Marmite on toast. “That—” he gestured to the whole sterile, undecorated space, “—will not do. Draco, this is a holiday emergency.”
Draco sighed, already hearing the tone that meant he was about to be dragged headfirst into something irrational. “Harry—”
“I’m serious. We’re fixing this. You can’t just live like this. No tree? No tinsel? No holiday cheer? This is a crime, Draco.”
Draco narrowed his eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being festive. It’s a public service. You're welcome.”
And just like that, Harry Potter—who had barely crossed the threshold—spun around, grabbed Draco’s wrist, and began dragging him toward the door with the momentum of a man on a Christmas crusade.
“We’re going shopping.”
Draco groaned. “You’ve been inside for less than ten minutes.”
“I’ve seen enough. We’re saving your soul, one ornament at a time.”
Draco muttered something under his breath, but followed. Fingers still laced. Grumbling the entire time.
And maybe, just maybe, there was a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as Harry led him straight into a whirlwind of fairy lights, singing wreaths, and tinsel explosions.
This Christmas was going to be chaos.
They ended up in a brightly lit department store, decked out in so many twinkling lights and hanging garlands it looked like Christmas had exploded across every aisle. Draco pushed the shopping cart with the kind of resigned dignity only he could muster, while Harry turned into a glitter-fueled menace. Every ten seconds he’d spot something sparkly or tacky and toss it into the cart with zero hesitation—reindeer antlers, a singing Santa hat, three different snow globes, a candy cane wreath that jingled like a cursed object.
Draco sighed the sigh of a man who had accepted his fate. But his eyes never left Harry, and the fondness in them was so raw, so unfiltered, it felt almost indecent. It etched itself quietly into his soul—Harry Potter, Christmas gremlin extraordinaire, radiant with joy in a crowded muggle store.
They could barely move freely with how many people were elbowing past, arms filled with last-minute gifts, kids shrieking about toy aisles and grandmas fighting over wrapping paper, but Harry was too enchanted to care. And honestly? It was infectious.
No one in the store recognized him—not as The Boy Who Lived, not as the ministry’s most celebrated Auror. They just saw a bloke with messy hair and way too much tinsel. He wasn’t Harry Potter, he was just Harry—shopping for decorations like a completely normal idiot in love with the holidays.
And then, somewhere between debating which string lights screamed “classy sparkle” instead of “Christmas rave,” a voice called out:
“Draco?”
Both of them turned. Harry recognized her instantly from the company gala over a month ago—black cocktail dress, soft curls, and the kind of smile that could slice bread with its poise. She was holding hands with her boyfriend, her other arm carrying a very overworked shopping basket.
“Oh, it is you!” she said brightly, eyes flitting between them. “Didn’t expect to run into you here. Last-minute Christmas shopping?”
Draco flashed his public Draco smile—charming, polite, distant. “More like I was dragged here,” he said dryly, nudging Harry with a not-so-subtle elbow.
The woman looked at Harry and lit up in recognition. “You’re Harry! Right—Harry Potter.” She laughed, catching herself like she wasn’t sure if it was okay to say his full name. “We met at the gala. I was hoping to see you again at the Christmas party, but Draco showed up alone, which was terribly disappointing.”
Harry blinked. “Oh?”
She leaned in like she was sharing government secrets. “Draco never stays more than an hour. Comes in, makes his rounds, vanishes like a well-dressed ghost. But that night?” She smiled like she was proud of herself for noticing. “Three hours. Three. Full. Hours. And he was actually socializing.”
Harry turned to look at Draco, who was suddenly very interested in the baubles on the shelf behind her. No witty comeback. No smirk. Just a tiny hint of pink on his ears.
Oh, Harry thought. Interesting.
The woman glanced between them, clearly catching on, but had the grace not to say anything more. She simply smiled, wished them both a merry Christmas, and walked away with her boyfriend in tow.
Draco didn’t say a word. Just pushed the cart forward.
Harry leaned in close, not touching, just enough to make Draco twitch.
“You stayed three whole hours?” he asked, voice low and teasing.
“It was a slow night,” Draco muttered, ears still pink.
Harry grinned. “Must’ve been a very slow night.”
Draco grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “You’re insufferable.”
Harry leaned even closer and whispered, “And yet... you stayed.”
Draco turned to glare at him but failed spectacularly, because his lips twitched right at the edges.
Harry’s heart thumped.
Draco cared.
He cared enough to stay.
The rest of their shopping trip was... chaos. Unholy, glitter-drenched chaos with the emotional undercurrent of a romantic comedy gone rogue.
First came the argument over the tree’s color scheme.
“Gold and red,” Harry insisted, holding up a garland like he was brandishing Gryffindor pride in tinsel form.
Draco recoiled as if he'd just been offered a dead gnome. “Absolutely not. That’s tacky. We’re not decorating a school dormitory.”
“Well excuse me, Princess Malfoy,” Harry fired back. “What, do you want silver and green like your Slytherin soul?”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “Actually, I was thinking matte gold, cream, and navy blue. Tasteful. Sophisticated.”
“You sound like a catalog.”
“And you sound like a colorblind five-year-old with a glitter addiction.”
They settled on a bizarre compromise that no one else in the world would’ve found aesthetically cohesive—but it worked for them. Somehow.
Then came the candles. They stood in the aisle sniffing every single scented candle like deranged sommeliers. Draco hated “Cinnamon Fir.” Harry gagged at “Snowy Musk.” They both agreed on “Toasted Chestnut & Vanilla Spice,” but only because Draco called it "decadent" and Harry muttered something about it reminding him of winter in the Burrow.
Then—hot chocolate. Sampled. Bought in every flavor imaginable. With marshmallows. And peppermint sticks. Because Draco was an elitist until it came to cocoa, where he suddenly became a six-year-old sugar-gremlin.
And somewhere between the bickering and the sampling, the night of the gala came up like an old ghost walking out of a snow globe.
Draco arched a brow, slipping a box of fairy lights into the cart. “Remember Na Jiyoon?”
Harry groaned. “How could I forget?”
“She was convinced we were getting engaged,” Draco said, dry amusement dripping from every word. “Thought I’d say yes.”
“She told me,” Harry muttered, rolling his eyes. “Was one condescending comment away from getting hexed.”
“Oh, I remember.” Draco was smirking now. “You stood next to me like a bloody guard dog, growling every time she so much as breathed. It was adorable.”
“I was not growling—”
“You made jabs about her perfume. Harry, you don’t even notice perfume.”
“She started it!”
“And I enjoyed every second of it.” Draco’s voice was all velvet and mischief. “Especially when I had to pull you close to stop you from causing a diplomatic incident. You looked good that night. Jealousy suits you.”
Harry scowled. “You used me like a bloody emotional support cushion.”
Draco leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of Harry’s ear. “You’re more than an emotional service pillow.”
And that whisper wasn’t fair. It wasn't.
Because Harry shivered. In the middle of the store. Holding tinsel.
“Nope,” he said too quickly, cheeks red, grabbing Draco by the arm. “We’re paying and getting the hell out of here before you say anything else that makes me blush in front of reindeer plushies.”
Draco, of course, looked far too pleased with himself.
Back at Draco’s penthouse, it took three goddamn trips from the parking lot to the top floor to haul in everything they'd bought—bags upon bags of ornaments, garlands, strings of lights, an inflatable snowman, scented candles in six unnecessary variations, and, of course, the seven-foot artificial Christmas tree currently stabbing Harry in the shoulder.
“This would’ve been so much easier with a Levitation Charm,” Harry groaned, trying not to trip over the tangled reindeer antlers poking out of one bag.
Draco, balancing three boxes and looking far too graceful for someone lugging a literal miniature forest, gave him a flat look. “I live in a Muggle building, love. You want us to get slapped with a magical secrecy fine the day before Christmas?”
Harry muttered something about the Statute of Secrecy being overrated.
Draco scoffed. “And you’re the one who went absolutely feral in the ornament aisle, not me.”
Fair.
Harry would’ve never guessed in a thousand years that Draco Malfoy—son of a pureblood supremacist—would be the one cautioning him about using magic. But then again, Draco had spent the last fifteen years living like a Muggle, working in finance, blending in like it was second nature. He barely even used his wand anymore. Hell, Harry was starting to think the man kept it more as a sentimental relic than an actual tool.
Still, once they finally got all the bags and the tree inside and slammed the door shut behind them, Draco let out a long sigh, hands on his hips. “Alright. We start now if we want to finish before midnight.”
But before he could take even a step toward the boxed-up tree, Harry flung out a hand to stop him. “Wait. We have one very important thing to do first.”
Draco narrowed his eyes, immediately suspicious. “Harry—”
And then Harry was rummaging through a bag like a gremlin on a mission before pulling out two of the ugliest Christmas sweaters Draco had ever laid his eyes on. One was a violently green monstrosity covered in 3D pom-poms and a singing Santa. The other one lit up. Lit up, for Merlin’s sake.
“No. Absolutely not.” Draco took a step back like they were cursed objects.
Harry’s grin could’ve rivaled the sun. “Too late. You will wear this.”
“I’m not putting that thing on. It blinks.”
“Yes. That’s the point. Festivity.” Harry was already shimmying into his own horror of a sweater. “Don’t make me wrestle you, Malfoy. I’ll do it.”
Draco gave him a long, slow look. “I’d like to see you try.”
Challenge accepted. What followed was less of a duel and more of a tangle of limbs, laughter, and Harry practically tackling Draco onto the sofa to wrestle the blinking monstrosity over his head. Somewhere in the chaos, clothes shifted, kisses were exchanged—slow and smug and warm—and when Draco finally gave up and slipped into the abomination of a sweater voluntarily, Harry kissed him again. Longer this time. Sweeter.
Ten minutes later, they were stringing up lights around the windows with Bing Crosby crooning in the background, Harry in flashing reindeer antlers and Draco with a Santa hat that tilted to one side no matter how many times he fixed it. Every few minutes Harry would sneak a peppermint-laced kiss, and Draco would pretend to grumble while leaning in for more. The scent of cinnamon filled the air, and somewhere in the corner, the Christmas tree began to take shape under their shared, chaotic effort.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was theirs.
By the time they finally finished, the flat twinkled like a damn Christmas miracle, radiating nothing less than the pure, chaotic spirit of the season. Both of them slumped against the couch, breathing heavy and looking like they’d just run a marathon—or survived a particularly brutal wrestling match with an inflatable Santa. Sweat clung to Harry’s forehead, his horrendous green jumper clinging awkwardly but proudly to his frame, and a mug of hot chocolate warming his hands. He was grinning like a kid on Christmas morning—high on sugar, lights, and the fact that Draco was still right there beside him, smelling like spice, citrus, and a hint of cocoa.
Harry’s fingers absently brushed through Draco’s ruffled hair that had fallen messily over his forehead. “You know,” he said softly, voice low and fond, “you look really good with your hair down like this. Soft.”
Draco smirked without missing a beat. “I look good anyway, don’t I?”
Before Harry could roll his eyes or throw some sarcastic comeback, Draco lunged forward and kissed him fiercely—like they hadn’t just spent the last few hours untangling lights, wrestling with wreaths, and draping every surface in festive chaos. The kiss was sharp and hungry, Draco’s cold hands sneaking under Harry’s green jumper, sending shivers right through him.
Harry whimpered quietly into the kiss, heart racing, his mind melting into the delicious weight of Draco’s touch. But just when things started to get dangerously close to very bad decisions, Harry gently pushed him back, his voice barely above a whisper. “We can’t.”
Draco’s brow shot up, offended and confused. “Why not? Christmas Eve sex is basically a tradition.”
Harry chuckled, brushing a soft kiss against Draco’s cheek. “That can wait. Right now, we’ve got places to be.”
Before Draco could ask what kind of holiday mission Harry was scheming, Harry had already grabbed his hand, pulling him up and leading him toward the bedroom. Confused but intrigued, Draco followed, watching as Harry disappeared behind the door with a playful smile—apparently intent on a shower and a quick change.
Whatever was coming next, it was definitely not your typical Christmas Eve. And Harry? He was all in.
The sky was bleeding amber and plum by the time Draco eased the car to a stop in front of the house. A neat little thing tucked in a quiet suburban street, cream-colored and glowing softly from inside, a wreath hanging proud on the front door like it had something to prove. Draco didn’t even try to hide his suspicious side-eye as he cut the engine.
“You’re sure this isn’t some weird trap?” he asked, slow and unimpressed, fingers still resting on the steering wheel.
Harry just grinned, annoyingly cheeky in his cozy jumper and the kind of jeans that made Draco's restraint ache. “We’re going out for dinner,” he said, far too innocently.
“This doesn’t look like a restaurant.”
Harry leaned over, pressed a kiss to his cheek, and whispered, “Humour me.”
Which was how Draco found himself standing next to Harry on a perfectly pruned porch, holding a gift bag that he absolutely did not remember grabbing. When Harry asked when he'd even picked it up, Draco shrugged. “I stock the boot of my car like a diplomatic envoy. Always useful. Dessert brand, fancy ribbon, looks like I made an effort. It’s foolproof.”
The door creaked open before Harry could tease him further.
Hermione Granger, wearing a Santa hat with the kind of authority only she could pull off, opened the door and blinked at them both. Surprise flickered across her face for the briefest moment—directed, of course, at Draco—but she recovered fast and offered Harry a warm hug.
“Harry,” she said with a fond exhale, and then turned to Draco. “Malfoy.” Polite, almost neutral, the tiniest curl of interest in her eyes.
Draco nodded, handed her the gift with the grace of a pureblood bred for state dinners. “Happy Christmas, Granger.”
“Come in,” she said, stepping back. “We’re just waiting on the turkey.”
Draco followed Harry inside… and then stopped.
The house looked like Christmas had exploded. No, like Christmas had come home drunk, done a line of powdered sugar off the kitchen counter, and vomited joy in every room. Tinsel wrapped everything. There were lights strung across doorways and the ceiling, blinking with chaotic enthusiasm. The smell of cinnamon, nutmeg, and roasted meat hovered like a warm spell.
Draco blinked once. “And here I thought you were the Christmas lunatic.”
Harry shrugged. “I’m an amateur. Ron’s the real menace.”
Hermione laughed softly. “He’s been decorating since November. You’ve walked into a house of holly-fueled madness.”
And she wasn’t kidding.
As they entered the dining room, the scene hit Draco like a memory wrapped in mischief. Ginny was already sipping from a wine glass, Luna was humming something that sounded suspiciously like a carol sung backwards, Neville was carving something that was not the turkey, and Dean and Seamus were in the middle of what looked like a heated debate about Christmas crackers.
The moment they saw Harry, the greetings started—a chorus of warmth and inside jokes. But then all their eyes turned to Draco, and the smiles... shifted.
Ginny’s grin curled slow and predatory. “Malfoy. Again.”
Dean raised a brow, eyes darting to where Harry and Draco’s shoulders brushed.
Seamus barely tried to be subtle. “Well, well, look what the elf dragged in.”
Even Luna looked unusually lucid as she added, “You brought him to Christmas dinner. That’s a soul-binding gesture in some cultures.”
Harry, looking like he regretted every decision that brought him to this moment, just cleared his throat and said, “Everyone, be nice.”
Draco, spine straight, jaw set, and expression like marble carved into elegance, only offered a tight-lipped smile. “Nice is overrated.”
Ginny raised her wine glass. “This is going to be fun.”
And just like that, Harry knew:
He had officially thrown his whatever-ship into the middle of a pack of wolves in Santa hats.
Now? He had to pray they didn't bite.
The table had been magically extended to fit the chaos that was their makeshift family, and for once, Harry sat at its center—not as the savior, not as the Auror—but as just Harry, squished between a very smug Draco Malfoy and a far-too-interested Luna Lovegood.
And shockingly… no hexes had been thrown yet.
In fact, it was almost suspicious how smoothly things were going. The conversation flowed, laughter echoed, and aside from a few devilish looks tossed Harry’s way, everyone was playing nicely. Too nicely.
Draco, to Harry’s disbelief, was handling it like a damn diplomat—shoulders relaxed, mouth quirked into that maddening little smirk, answering questions with just enough sass to earn respect but not so much as to be tossed out the front door. He even laughed—laughed—when Neville brought up the time Harry accidentally hexed his own eyebrows off during a mission. Which, rude.
But before Harry could retaliate by stomping on Draco’s foot under the table, Ron and Hermione waltzed back in like holiday royalty, a line of floating dishes gliding behind them like obedient soldiers. Roasted potatoes, glazed carrots, brussels sprouts charmed to sparkle with edible glitter (thanks to Luna, probably), and the pièce de résistance—an impossibly golden turkey that landed centerstage with all the drama of a Quidditch match final.
Hermione clapped her hands and declared, “That’s it, everyone. Tuck in!”
Champagne bottles popped, plates were passed, Dean and Seamus nearly arm-wrestled over who got the turkey leg, and the table came alive with a kind of warmth Harry hadn't realized he’d missed.
Then Ginny, the menace, cleared her throat.
“So,” she began sweetly—too sweetly, which meant danger—“Malfoy, how exactly did Harry convince you to come tonight?”
Draco didn’t miss a beat. “Convince?” he drawled. “I was tricked.”
The table roared. Dean nearly choked on his drink. “Mate, you hit the bloody jackpot. Malfoy fits in faster than that guy you dated for two weeks who tried to hex the toaster.”
Harry groaned. “He was experimenting.”
Hermione, ever the traitor, joined in. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure you’d even show up after Ron told me about the little scene you made at the Ministry earlier.”
Ron snorted, mouth full of stuffing. “Oi, I told you—gave him ‘til New Year’s to bring Harry back, not to drop him off same day.”
“I wasn’t dropping him off,” Draco said, deadpan. “I was collecting him. Big difference.”
“You collected him?” Luna repeated, sounding fascinated.
Draco lifted a brow. “I plan on keeping him, so yes. I collected him.”
The audacity. Harry dropped his fork and promptly tried to hide behind a very unassuming mountain of mashed potatoes.
The table cheered.
Neville banged his glass. “To collecting Potter!”
“To keeping him!” added Ginny.
“Merlin’s saggy socks,” Harry mumbled, cheeks on fire, as Draco reached over and casually plucked a stray bit of turkey from Harry’s plate with all the smugness of a man who had very much won.
And Harry?
…Well, he wasn’t exactly mad about it.
The rest of dinner was—unfortunately—a masterclass in emotional whiplash for Harry. On one hand, watching Draco slip so easily into the chaos of his misfit family made something tight in his chest loosen. The laughter, the wine, the banter—Draco didn’t just tolerate it, he thrived in it. Quick with a retort, sharper with a wink, and far too smug for his own good, the man was charming the hell out of everyone. Even Ron.
Ron.
Ron bloody Weasley was nodding along as Draco described his absurd Muggle apartment setup with a coffee machine that Harry still didn’t know how to use and some overly complicated smart lock that required facial recognition and a blood pact, apparently.
“You’re joking,” Ron said, wide-eyed. “A car that parks itself?”
Draco raised his glass. “Muggle magic. Terrifying, but impressive.”
And everyone laughed like that wasn’t the most surreal thing to ever happen at a dinner table.
But it got worse.
Because once the questions shifted from “Where’ve you been all these years?” to “What’s your type?” Harry realized he had made a very grave error bringing Draco to dinner with people who knew far too much and had zero self-preservation instincts.
Seamus leaned across the table, smirking. “Harry told us you’ve got, what, four cars? Five? That’s a serious power move, mate.”
“I like efficiency,” Draco said, swirling his wine. “And German engineering.”
Neville, bless him, nodded like Draco was delivering a TED Talk. “And your job—at LUXOR, right? That's the big one that handles all the international asset security for Muggle corporations?”
“Among other things,” Draco replied.
“Oh, he’s rich and mysterious,” Ginny cut in, eyes glinting. “Merlin, no wonder Harry’s been looking like a kicked puppy these past two weeks. You could’ve warned us, Harry.”
“I did,” Harry mumbled into his cranberry sauce.
Ginny grinned, but then turned to Draco with that signature wicked tilt of her head. “So what about your love life before our brooding bachelor here?”
Harry’s fork froze mid-air.
Draco didn’t even blink. “You mean between Hogwarts and now?”
“Mhm,” Ginny said sweetly. “Any past flames still smoldering? Anyone we need to punch?”
Harry tried very hard to send her a silent warning across the table, but Draco was already smirking.
“I’ve dated,” he said casually. “Muggle, magical—few of both. Nothing lasting, really. Mostly one-night things.”
Harry stabbed his turkey. Aggressively.
Seamus let out a low whistle. “Makes sense. A bloke like you—tailored suits, sleek cars, sharp jawline—you’re built for the fast lane.”
Draco chuckled. “Apparently.”
Ginny raised an eyebrow. “So no serious exes? No tragic love stories?”
Draco turned to Harry, then shrugged. “None worth remembering. Guess I’m a bit of a collector of first dates. But they all fizzled out.”
“Oh,” Ginny said, mock-sighing. “Shame. Well, if Harry gets boring—”
“I won’t,” Harry cut in sharply.
“—call me. I always wanted to go to Paris for something more than just Quidditch matches.”
Draco actually laughed at that.
Traitor.
And Harry—who had been perfectly fine hearing about Draco’s brilliant Muggle job, his fancy condo, his self-parking cars—suddenly found himself clenching his jaw. Because hearing him talk about past lovers, even dismissively, made something sour twist in his stomach. He wasn’t jealous, not really. Okay, maybe a little. But mostly—
He didn’t like how easy it sounded. How casual.
How Draco could kiss him like he meant it, hold him like he was the only man on Earth, and then just sit there and talk about past hookups like they were tax forms.
He didn’t want to care.
And yet—
stab.
The mashed potatoes didn’t deserve that.
Draco must’ve noticed, of course. Bastard noticed everything.
But instead of calling him out, he gently reached under the table, squeezed Harry’s knee once, and leaned in with a whisper that made Harry freeze, “I don’t even remember their names, love.”
And somehow, that single line had Harry blushing harder than the damn turkey.
After dinner, the cozy warmth of the sitting room welcomed them with the hum of a magical fireplace and the sound of champagne corks popping for the third—maybe fourth—time that evening. Pillows had been transfigured into ridiculously plush floor seats, and fairy lights blinked softly from the corners of the ceiling like they were tipsy themselves. The air was thick with cinnamon, vanilla, and whatever spiked concoction Seamus had whipped up in the punch bowl.
Harry sat wedged into one end of the sofa, Draco lounging beside him with a half-empty glass in one hand and the other lazily resting along the back of the couch. It was the first time in years Harry had seen his friends so utterly relaxed—and Draco right in the middle of it all, as if he’d always belonged there.
Hermione had taken over the conversation, of course. “So, I was saying—Harry once screamed at the washing machine because it started spinning mid-cycle. He thought the thing was possessed.”
Laughter bubbled through the room. Dean almost spit out his drink.
“I wasn't expecting it to sound like it was about to take off,” Harry muttered, crossing his arms and sinking a little lower into the cushions.
“Right,” Hermione said with a wink. “And then there was the time I tried to get him a telly and he asked me where the parchments went.”
Draco was already chuckling. “It’s not just with her, you know. Every time he’s at my flat, I catch him side-eyeing the thermostat like it insulted his mother. The coffee machine alone took three attempts and a near explosion before I had to give up and make it myself.”
“Untrue,” Harry grumbled. “I made it work on the fourth try.”
“That was me,” Draco said flatly. “From across the kitchen. With the remote app. On my phone.”
The entire group erupted again, and Draco, never one to waste an opportunity, raised a smug brow and added, “Also, he didn’t know what an emoji was until I sent him a heart and he replied with, ‘What is that pink bean and why is it smiling at me?’”
Neville howled, Ginny almost fell off her chair, and Luna just smiled dreamily and said, “Maybe he thought it was a sentient sweet.”
Harry gave Draco a shove. “Stop humiliating me in front of my own friends.”
Draco smirked, leaned in, and murmured just loud enough for the others to hear, “Love, if I wanted to humiliate you, I’d start with your browser history.”
“You absolute—”
“Boys,” Hermione interrupted cheerfully, “this is a family environment.”
“I’m just saying,” Draco said with mock innocence, “I’ve met baby Mandrakes with better tech instincts.”
“I fought Voldemort,” Harry snapped.
“And yet your greatest enemy is the toaster,” Ron deadpanned.
Harry threw a pillow at his head.
And just like that, he was laughing too—because what else could he do? His cheeks were warm, his heart full, and the sound of Draco’s quiet laughter beside him was a kind of magic no wand could ever cast.
Maybe he was rubbish with electronics.
But somehow, he’d managed to plug himself into something that mattered.
And he wasn’t going to short-circuit it anytime soon.
“I’m not that bad,” he muttered, glaring mildly at Hermione. “You lot act like I’m some kind of ancient relic.”
Hermione gave him a look. “Harry, you once thought the toaster was a cursed object.”
“It spat fire at me!”
“It toasted your bagel, you absolute menace.”
Dean was wheezing into his glass. “I remember that! Didn’t you call in a curse-breaker for that?”
“I had just gotten back from a cursed relic case, thank you very much. My reflexes were sharp.”
“Your reflexes made you hex your own breakfast,” Seamus added, grinning like a gremlin.
Harry turned his glare on Draco, who was sipping champagne far too innocently.
“And you,” Harry said accusingly, “are the worst of them all.”
Draco looked up, all elegant indifference, but there was a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Me?”
“You made me download an app just to change the lights in your flat.”
“It’s called efficiency, Harry. Also—" he leaned forward, tone hushed and teasing, “—you said you liked the blue lighting for movie nights.”
Harry flushed. “Yeah, well... you could’ve just used a switch.”
Draco tilted his head, smirking. “That is the switch.”
Ron shook his head. “This is wild. Hermione’s got three phones and a whole network of self-sorting files at work. Meanwhile, Harry here nearly declared war on a blender.”
“It growled at me, Ronald!”
“I turned it on.”
Ginny leaned back in her seat, hands folded behind her head, clearly loving the spectacle. “You know, I’m almost impressed. How does someone grow up with Muggles and still become more of a caveman than Ron?”
“I was busy growing up, thank you,” Harry muttered. “Fighting for my life, escaping death, saving the wizarding world. Didn’t have time to bond with the bloody microwave.”
Neville raised his cup. “To the Boy Who Lived... in fear of home appliances.”
The room broke into laughter again, and Harry groaned, hiding his face in the throw pillow on Draco’s lap.
Draco chuckled softly, fingers playing through Harry’s hair. “Don’t worry, love. I’ll protect you from the terrifying evil that is... a power outlet.”
“Git.”
“But I’m your git.”
Harry peeked up at him, then grumbled, “I’m never letting you near my toothbrush again.”
“You don’t even own an electric one.”
“I don’t trust things that vibrate in my mouth, Malfoy.”
The room exploded.
Seamus nearly fell off the armrest, Luna giggled behind her glass, and Ginny just wheezed, “I’m gonna need to write that down.”
Draco, for his part, simply leaned down, lips brushing the top of Harry’s head.
“I’ll make sure you never have to suffer a vibrating toothbrush ever again, darling.”
Harry covered his face again, muffling a dramatic groan.
Merlin help him. He was never going to live any of this down.
When the crowd finally gave poor Harry a break from the ongoing roast session disguised as friendly banter, the mood in the room shifted gently into something softer—warm with champagne, glowing with candlelight, and threaded with the quiet intimacy that only comes when people who’ve known each other for too long begin to speak about the future.
Ginny, sitting with one leg thrown over the other and a dangerous smirk on her lips, raised her glass and said, “Well, I won’t be around for New Year’s—off to the bloody finals.”
That earned a round of whoops and a loud bang from Dean's wand as he accidentally set off a mini firecracker in celebration. Ginny ducked, grinning smugly, clearly enjoying the attention as she added, “We’re flying out two days before. Coach wants us to be sharp. So, no champagne for me. I’ll be too busy kicking Bulgaria’s arse.”
“And kidnapping our dog,” Seamus added with mock suspicion.
“I will steal her,” Ginny said without hesitation, pointing at Dean with a fork. “You two don’t deserve that angel.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “We rescued her, thank you.”
“You named her PARSNIP,” Harry deadpanned.
“She’s a delicacy!” Seamus argued.
As the laughter faded, Ron and Hermione’s hands found each other unconsciously. Hermione smiled, her free hand resting over her slightly rounded stomach. “We’re hoping next year’s a quiet one... well, as quiet as it can be with a newborn.”
Cue another chorus of cheers and coos and mock bets over whether it’d be a girl or boy, and which Hogwarts house they’d be in. “Slytherin,” Draco declared, raising his glass with confidence.
Ron looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. “Over my dead—”
“Can’t wait to see Molly knit little baby jumpers,” Neville cut in, saving Ron from himself and earning himself a warm nod from Hermione. “I think she’s already started,” she admitted, laughing.
Neville’s own announcement was met with reverent silence. “I got a letter,” he said, a bit hesitantly, “from a healer in Romania. They’re testing a new treatment. For patients with long-term trauma. I’m considering signing my parents up for it.”
The room swelled with warmth, everyone raising their glasses, some offering quiet words, others just giving him supportive nods. It was the kind of moment that made everything else feel worth it. Harry felt something tighten in his chest, pride and affection and that aching need to protect his people all blooming at once.
Then came Luna.
“I’m hoping to revamp The Quibbler’s lunar editions,” she said dreamily, twirling a strand of her hair, “now that I’m executive publisher.”
Harry blinked. “Wait—when did that happen?”
“Three weeks ago,” she said. “I told you. But you were in a meeting with Draco.”
Draco hummed. “You mentioned it to me. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, cousin.”
The world. Stopped.
Ginny choked on her drink. Seamus dropped a biscuit. Ron looked like his soul had momentarily left his body. “Cousin?”
Draco nodded like he’d just announced the weather. “Well, my father's aunt married into Luna’s line, so it’s distant. But yes. Technically cousins.”
Luna gave a serene nod, like she’d just confirmed that the sky was indeed blue. “He was invited to my third birthday party. Though he doesn’t remember it. I had a unicorn cake.”
Harry stared between the two of them, gears turning far too slowly. “You two knew this and didn’t say anything?”
Draco shrugged. “No one asked.”
Neville blinked. “Explains the hair.”
“And the dramatic flair,” Ginny muttered.
Luna beamed. “Our family tree is quite... eccentric. There’s also a man who thinks he’s a squid and only eats seaweed. Lovely chap.”
Draco sipped his champagne. “He’s one of the saner ones, honestly.”
And just like that, the entire room devolved into hysteria once more. Harry just leaned back, letting his head fall onto Draco’s shoulder with a long-suffering groan.
This was his life now.
Chaotic, ridiculous, slightly inbred... and absolutely perfect.
Once the night wound down and the air was thick with the kind of quiet only a full belly, soft champagne bubbles, and too much laughter can bring, Ron and Hermione stood by the front door bidding everyone goodnight. Hermione gave them both warm hugs—Harry's a little tighter, Draco’s a little more cautious—and Ron clapped Draco on the back with the kind of warning that’s half-joking and half you hurt him and I’ll end you. Classic Ron.
“Safe trip,” Hermione called after them, waving one last time, her Santa hat askew, “and happy holidays!”
Back in the car, Harry flopped into the passenger seat, coat undone and cheeks still a little too flushed. Draco cast him a sideways glance as he slid into the driver’s seat.
“Are you sure you should be driving?” Harry teased, dragging out the word like he thought it’d hide the slight slur in his speech.
Draco raised a brow. “I had the same sparkling wine Hermione drank. Non-alcoholic. And you, Mr. ‘I’m not drunk, I’m just radiant,’ almost faceplanted into their hydrangeas.”
Harry scoffed, eyes narrowing. “It was dark.”
“It was not.”
“Shut up and drive, Grinch.”
Draco smirked but said nothing more, steering them through the quiet, snowy roads back toward the flat.
When they got inside, neither of them bothered flipping on the lights. The soft, golden glow from the fairy lights draped over the balcony and winding down the stair railing lit the place in a warm hush. The entrance hall glowed faintly from the light of the street lamps filtering through the tall windows, and in the living room, the tree shimmered like something out of a dream. Candles flickered gently on the mantle, throwing shadows that danced over the room like whispers.
They slipped into pajama bottoms and oversized shirts—Harry in one of Draco’s again, not that Draco was complaining—and when Draco returned from the kitchen holding two mugs of hot chocolate, the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg trailing behind him, Harry was curled up on the sofa fiddling with the TV remote.
Draco handed him a cup, and Harry accepted it with a soft “Thanks,” followed by a kiss so lazy and slow it might’ve made the cocoa jealous. Then Draco sat down, pulling the throw blanket over both of them as Harry curled up against him, head on his chest, legs tangling under the blanket without question.
The movie began playing—something cheesy, full of snow and improbable love and a happy ending—and Harry didn’t care about the plot. His mind wandered, warm and drowsy, content just listening to Draco’s heartbeat beneath his ear, the occasional clink of his spoon against the mug, and the gentle crackle of the fake magical fire they’d enchanted into the hearth earlier.
He smiled into the cotton of Draco’s shirt, eyes fluttering closed between sips. He’d never really stayed over after a holiday dinner. Always left, always wandered back to Grimmauld, cold sheets and old memories waiting for him. But now? Now he had this.
Warm cocoa. A heartbeat beneath his cheek. Cinnamon and citrus and candlelight. Fingers brushing idly against his scalp.
This wasn’t just a holiday.
This was home.
Notes:
Long Christmas chapter in the middle of July ;)
Ron deserves the Best Friend of The Year Award
Chapter 15
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Harry woke up reaching instinctively for warmth, for the weight of the arm he’d fallen asleep under, for the long body curled against his back like it belonged there. But his hand met nothing but the cool, empty dip of the mattress, and he blinked his eyes open with a sleepy groan. The bed felt too big without Draco in it. Too quiet. Too cold.
He squinted at the glowing red numbers on the digital clock—still early, even by holiday standards. What in the bloody name of Merlin was Malfoy doing up now?
Still groggy, Harry swung his legs off the bed, tugged on the pajama pants he’d tossed onto the floor the night before and shrugged into one of Draco’s cardigans—soft, oversized, and smelling faintly of expensive cologne, cinnamon, and last night. His entire body ached, delicious and satisfied. Christmas Eve sex had been as sinful as it was overdue, and he regretted absolutely nothing. Maybe just the sore thighs.
Padding barefoot across the thick rug, he yelped quietly when his toes met the cold hardwood of the corridor, muttering under his breath as he rubbed his arms and shuffled his way toward the stairs.
The house was quiet, bathed in a soft, pearly morning glow that spilled in through the large windows. Snow hadn’t started falling again yet, but the sky hinted at it—gray and soft, like a lullaby. Halfway down the stairs, Harry caught sight of Draco standing in the living room, back turned, arms crossed.
And—oh, Merlin—he was wearing a headband with wiggling elf feet attached.
Matching plaid pajama pants, a dark green robe cinched lazily at the waist, bare feet peeking from under the hem, and that stupid headband wobbling slightly every time he moved.
Harry stared, took a moment to soak it in, and then smiled. A real one. Soft. Sleepy. Stupidly in love.
“Merry Christmas,” Draco said, glancing over his shoulder with a smirk that melted into something gentler when he saw Harry descending.
“Merry Christmas,” Harry echoed, voice hoarse with sleep as he walked the rest of the way down. He greeted him with a kiss, warm and slow, then murmured against his cheek, “Why’re you up so early?”
Draco shrugged, but his smile betrayed him. “You forced me into an impromptu Christmas miracle yesterday, practically bullied me into cheer, so I figured I might as well give you a proper holiday. First one together, after all.”
That’s when Harry noticed it.
The tree—still blinking gently in the corner—now had a sea of presents under it. Harry blinked at them in disbelief.
“Some owled in this morning,” Draco said casually, watching his reaction. “From your friends, a few of mine. The rest I picked up yesterday. You were too busy arguing with a six-year-old over whether tinsel or ribbon was superior.”
Harry turned slowly, about to say something—maybe a protest, maybe something ridiculously sentimental—but Draco was already guiding him by the elbow toward the dining room.
And oh, it smelled divine.
The table was set in festive reds and golds. There were pancakes shaped like stars and snowflakes, scones, fruit bowls, scrambled eggs, and a suspiciously high stack of cinnamon rolls Harry would absolutely not be sharing. The fire from the chimney crackled nearby, and the candles flickering on the mantle gave the entire room a warm, golden glow.
Draco watched him like he was the one receiving a gift.
Harry’s stomach grumbled loudly.
“Saved by the stomach,” Draco quipped.
Harry turned, eyes a little wide, voice a little softer. “You did all this?”
“I had help,” Draco replied, as if admitting to using magic for breakfast prep still counted as domestic effort. “Also, you looked like you’d bite me if I woke you up for sex before feeding you.”
Harry smirked, stepping closer, slipping his hands around Draco’s waist under the robe. “Might still bite you after.”
Draco rolled his eyes but leaned in, pressing their foreheads together.
“Eat first,” he said firmly.
Harry grinned. “Only if I get to unwrap you after.”
“Might want to finish those cinnamon rolls quick, then.”
And just like that, Christmas morning felt like home.
After breakfast, Harry had insisted on taking a shower, despite Draco lounging on the couch and patting the space beside him with the kind of hopeful grin that usually led to detours. Especially when there were gifts piled temptingly beneath the tree, glinting under the fairy lights and practically whispering open me. Draco’s suggestion that they could unwrap each other first was met with a red-faced refusal from Harry, who glanced longingly at the presents but muttered something about “stickiness” and “not opening anything while feeling like he’s been fucked six ways into Christmas morning.”
Draco had laughed—shameless and smug—as Harry retreated to the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.
When Harry came out again, dressed in soft joggers and a T-shirt that definitely didn’t belong to him (Draco’s wardrobe was slowly becoming the victim of Harry’s cozy thievery), he tugged Draco’s cardigan tighter around himself and padded barefoot into the living room. He expected to see Draco either still sprawled across the couch, sipping something hot and festive, or kneeling impatiently in front of the tree like the man-child he pretended not to be.
Instead, he found Draco on the floor in front of the coffee table, his legs folded beneath him and his face illuminated by the pale blue glow of his laptop. Harry blinked. That wasn't Christmas music playing—it was the faint hum of electronics, the unmistakable clicking of a trackpad, and the scowl of focus Draco usually reserved for shareholders and quarterly earnings.
Harry rolled his eyes. “You're worse than me.”
Draco didn’t answer, eyes glued to the screen, fingers tapping something quickly. Harry walked over, curious despite himself. But instead of rows of numbers or complex spreadsheets, what filled the screen was... something else entirely.
Several tabs were open—an architectural planning site, a layout generator, and a CAD-like program rendering a sleek, digitized 3D model of what looked suspiciously like a house.
“I didn’t know you were into architecture,” Harry said, brow quirking as he leaned over Draco’s shoulder.
Draco froze.
And that was surprising, because Draco Malfoy didn’t freeze. He calculated, redirected, controlled. But for just one beat, he looked like he’d been caught naked in the middle of a confession.
Then, slowly, he tilted his head and rested it against Harry’s knee. “It’s a hobby,” he murmured. “I was going over some remodeling plans. Thought it might be time to update one of my properties.”
Harry let out a huff of a scoff, folding his arms. “Right. I forgot you own more than one place to live. I’ve only ever been in this one, you spoiled git.”
Draco smirked, but it was softer now, something thoughtful hiding behind it. Before Harry could crouch down and poke around the designs, Draco closed the laptop with a quiet snap and turned, still seated on the floor, to look up at him.
And oh, the way his eyes caught the light made Harry’s heart squeeze like it hadn’t been doing that all morning.
Without saying a word, Harry bent down, cupped Draco’s jaw gently, and kissed him—slow and upside-down like something out of a ridiculous romcom. When he pulled back, Draco’s lips chased his just a little, and Harry grinned.
“You ready to open presents?” he asked.
Draco tilted his head. “Only if I get to unwrap you again later.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “You’re insatiable.”
Draco smirked. “You love it.”
Unfortunately—for both of them—he was absolutely right.
The unwrapping of gifts between Harry and Draco was chaotic, loud, occasionally inappropriate, and maybe just a bit emotional—in other words, everything you’d expect from two men with tragic childhoods, shiny new happiness, and vaults big enough to fund a small country.
It started innocently enough.
Draco had been mildly amused to find not only gifts from Harry’s friends to Harry, but several carefully wrapped presents addressed to him as well. Each had a little handwritten tag, scrawled in varying degrees of legibility:
For Draco – a welcome gift. See you next dinner! Don’t be a stranger. – Dean & Seamus
This is for science. Please wear it. – Luna (P.S. It glows in the dark)
I owe you a Butterbeer. Welcome to the chaos. – Neville
Draco had snorted, glancing at Harry with one raised brow while unwrapping a very tasteful (if slightly flamboyant) scarf, only to find Luna’s gift underneath—somewhere between a cloak and a bathrobe, and very much glowing. Harry turned red. Which, honestly, was just a warm-up.
Because then came the more interesting gifts.
Harry had barely started opening his own when Draco let out a quiet, “Oh?” and held up a rather delicate-looking article of clothing, the kind that involved satin, questionable straps, and a level of intention not often seen in things gifted publicly. Harry groaned, immediately burying his face in his hands as Draco laughed, eyes gleaming with all the menace of a man who now had ideas.
Harry thought it couldn’t get worse—until Draco found the toy. Small, sleek, buzzing faintly with magical charge, it looked suspiciously like it had adjustable settings.
Draco, instead of being embarrassed, tilted his head in academic curiosity, observing it like it was a new wand type.
Harry did the only sensible thing: he chucked it under the sofa with a flick of his wand and muttered, “Never happened.”
Then came the familiar red-and-gold paper that made Harry’s chest tighten in the best way—Molly’s signature Weasley wrapping. One bag. Two jumpers.
Harry didn’t even hesitate. He held one out toward Draco—the blue knit with the massive gold “D” stitched into the chest, smelling faintly of cinnamon and lavender and a home Harry still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to return to.
There was a note tucked into the folds:
Dear Draco, I hope you don’t mind that I made you one as well. Ron and Hermione mentioned you might be spending the holidays with our Harry. I wasn’t sure of your size, but magic helps. Merry Christmas, dear. You’re welcome at our table anytime. – Molly Weasley
Harry looked up to say something—probably something snarky about how it fit perfectly, actually—only to find Draco staring down at the jumper, utterly quiet.
A strange softness played around his eyes. He didn’t say anything, just carefully tugged it over his head and settled onto the floor next to Harry without a word.
They finished unwrapping the rest of their gifts in mismatched Weasley jumpers like two oversized children who’d gotten everything they never knew they wanted.
Most of Draco’s gifts for Harry were, in classic Draco fashion, ludicrously expensive—but they weren’t just shiny distractions. A magically insulated coat with hidden wand holsters. A rare-edition book Harry had once mentioned in passing. A potion cabinet with labels so detailed it could make Hermione cry.
And then there was the plushie.
Harry blinked when he pulled it out of the wrapping. It was soft, endearingly lumpy, with curled horns and wings that glittered faintly.
A dragon-goat hybrid.
He stared. “Is this—?”
Draco smirked. “A cousin of your little dragon-cow monstrosity back at Grimmauld. Apparently it’s a collection. Thought you’d want them all.”
Harry clutched the thing like it was sacred. “I do want them all.”
“Of course you do, you emotionally constipated hoarder.”
Harry stuck his tongue out. He didn’t let go of the plushie for the rest of the morning.
Draco’s gifts from Harry were just as thoughtful—some elegant, some ridiculous, all clearly picked with Draco’s strange mixture of posh and practical in mind. Shoes handmade in Italy. Cufflinks that shimmered with enchanted stardust. A sleek charmed pen that translated any language on command.
But the one that made Draco pause was a phone case.
White. Embossed with the cute image of a cat mid-stretch, looking impossibly smug.
Draco slowly turned his head to look at Harry’s phone, which lay forgotten on the coffee table—case up. A black cat. Just as smug.
“You absolute sap,” Draco muttered.
Harry looked anywhere else.
“You got us matching phone cases.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“Matching.”
Before Harry could dodge, Draco tackled him onto the sofa and proceeded to kiss his face aggressively, peppering his jaw and neck and ears with relentless affection. He even nuzzled him, full-on snuffling like a drunk elf.
Harry was a goner. He laughed so hard he cried.
The plushie stayed on his chest the whole time.
The aftermath of Christmas morning had left a trail of tinsel, sugar highs, and a cozy post-gift glow that still lingered by the time Draco and Harry slid into one of Draco’s—of course—many sleek cars. This one had heated leather seats and just enough show-off gleam to make it painfully obvious that Draco Malfoy was not someone who did casual without still looking ready for a cover shoot. Not that Harry was complaining. He just slouched deeper into the passenger seat and let the warmth of cocoa and peppermint settle in his bones.
Their destination was a bit fancier than their usual spots—still warm, still welcoming, still the kind of place where jeans didn’t feel like blasphemy, but the cloth napkins were definitely folded like origami and there were far too many spoons on the table. Egyptian food today. Harry was excited. He’d barely sat down when he was already halfway through a dramatic retelling of “The Time Charlie Thought a Baby Dinosaur Was a Festive Gift.”
He was in the middle of mimicking the screech the creature made when it saw Molly when a voice called out across the room.
“HARRY!”
It was too loud. Too familiar. Too full of teeth.
Harry’s entire body went still.
Draco, who was very gracefully cutting into a dish, immediately clocked the change in posture. Then he turned, just in time to see him—tall, chiseled, annoyingly handsome, in a puff jacket far too clean, with gleaming white teeth and a swagger like he’d invented casual charm.
Draco’s eyes narrowed, just the tiniest bit.
Harry, to his credit, smiled tightly and stood as the guy approached, all friendly and overfamiliar, hands flying to Harry’s arm with ease that hadn’t been earned in Draco’s opinion. There was something possessive in the way he leaned in, in the way he said “Harry” again, like he’d branded it.
Draco said nothing. Yet. But his grip on the fork was… notable.
“Wow, you look good,” the man said, reaching out to touch Harry’s sleeve like they were old flames.
Harry gave a strangled laugh that sounded like he'd swallowed a lemon whole.
“Hi.. uh, I didn't expect to meet you again in a place like this. This is… um—Draco. Draco Malfoy.”
The man turned, eyes scanning Draco up and down, hand shooting out like this was some networking event. “Nice to meet you. I’m Eli.”
Draco smiled.
It was the kind of smile Harry had come to recognize as dangerous. Polished. Razor-sharp. The “I will destroy you politely” smile.
He didn’t take Eli’s hand.
“Of course. Are you a friend of Harry’s?” Draco asked, his voice smooth, casual—an icicle in velvet.
Harry froze. His stomach churned. Oh no.
Eli chuckled. “You could say that. We went on a few dates a while back, nothing serious—right, Harry? Remember that sushi place?”
Harry’s smile looked like it was in pain. “Vividly,” he said, which wasn’t a lie. He still had nightmares.
Draco hummed. His eyes flicked down, slow and surgical, like he was evaluating a fungus. “I see.”
Then he dabbed his mouth with the napkin, stood up in one fluid motion, and said with impeccable politeness, “Well, we were just about to head out. Lunch was lovely, but you know—some things just wrap up better than others.”
Eli blinked. “Oh. Right. Well, good seeing you, Harry. We should go out again sometime.”
Harry’s mouth said “maybe.” His eyes said I’d rather French kiss a Basilisk.
“Absolutely not,” Draco said under his breath, but all the man got was another warm, fake-smile nod.
And then Draco—the 6’1, walking brand ambassador of elite arrogance and freshly-printed currency—circled the table, took Harry’s arm with the elegance of a duke and the quiet promise of don’t worry, I’ll erase him from the planet if you ask, and led him out with a hand around his shoulders.
Still smiling.
Still terrifying.
And once they were out, once the cold air met their cheeks and Harry let out a breath that sounded like an exorcism, Draco said, “Sushi. Really?”
Harry groaned. “It was one time. I didn’t know he was going to be that guy.”
Draco just made a noncommittal sound.
“I hated every second of it.”
“You let him touch your arm.”
“I was being polite.”
Draco glanced at him sideways. “Next time, I’m picking where we eat. And who’s allowed to breathe near you.”
Harry snorted, but he leaned into Draco’s side. “You’re ridiculous.”
Draco pressed a kiss to his hair. “And you’re mine.”
Their Christmas Day unfolded like the kind of romantic film Harry used to scoff at before he found himself in one. The streets of London were dressed in golds and reds, silver lights blinking overhead like little stars had been tangled in wires. Every corner they turned seemed to hold another little moment—warm pastries dusted with cinnamon sugar and dipped in chocolate, steamy air curling from their cups as they walked, gloves forgotten somewhere because their fingers were laced instead. It was soft. Gentle. The kind of day Harry never thought he’d get.
The world around them hummed with choirs and carols and the shuffle of boots across cobblestones. Families, couples, kids with red cheeks and mittens too big—everywhere felt alive, but not overwhelming. It was just… good. A good kind of crowded. A good kind of loud.
They stopped to look at one of the big department store windows—this one decorated with dancing toys and snow that fell in soft flurries behind the glass—when it happened.
A little girl came barreling around the corner, all red coat and tangled scarf, and collided straight into Draco’s legs.
Harry flinched.
He’d expected, maybe, a startled look. Possibly a scowl. At best, a tight-lipped “watch where you’re going.” Because Draco was… well, Draco. Tall. Sharp. Impeccably dressed in a wool coat, scarf wrapped with surgical precision. And yet.
The man who once sneered at first-years for breathing too loud was now crouching, coat brushing the pavement, and smiling at the little girl like he had all the time in the world.
The girl gasped. Genuinely gasped. “You’re a prince,” she whispered.
Harry nearly choked on his hot chocolate.
Draco, for his part, simply chuckled. “Are you alright?” he asked, his voice soft, almost conspiratorial. “Bit dangerous, running that fast. You could’ve taken me down.”
She nodded, eyes wide, then stared harder like she wasn’t quite convinced she wasn’t dreaming.
Then, from his coat pocket, Draco pulled out a tiny, red-striped candy cane—because of course he had candy canes just in case—and handed it to her.
Her tiny hands closed around it like it was treasure.
Her parents appeared seconds later, clearly frantic. “Elsie! You can’t just run off like that—oh—” they froze mid-scold as they saw Draco. “Merlin, we’re so sorry—”
But before they could go on, their daughter declared, “It’s okay! The handsome prince gave me candy.”
Harry had to turn away, biting the inside of his cheek.
Draco simply stood, brushing his knees, the picture of calm royalty. “She’s alright,” he said, flashing the parents a polite smile. “No harm done. She’s adorable.”
They walked away, the girl waving from her mother’s arms. Draco waved back.
Harry? Harry was already staring at him with the kind of smug smile that said I saw that. You can’t unsay that. I will weaponize this.
Draco spotted it. He sighed. “Don’t.”
“You’re good with kids,” Harry sing-songed, grinning like Christmas had come twice.
“I’m good at many things,” Draco said without looking at him, and walked off.
Harry laughed, trotting to catch up, slipping his hand into Draco’s and swinging it back and forth like they were schoolkids instead of two grown men hopelessly pining in the middle of a Hallmark-level holiday daydream.
Yeah. He could get used to this.
The city was wrapped in velvet black by the time they left the restaurant, the only light now coming from streetlamps and shopfronts still stubbornly clinging to the last flickers of holiday cheer. Draco drove in silence, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near Harry's thigh. The heat inside the car was comforting, the kind that lulled Harry to sleep with a full stomach and a full heart.
He didn’t even notice when his eyes shut.
But then, a hand touched his arm. Soft. Gentle.
"Harry," Draco’s voice whispered, barely loud enough to pull him out of the fog of dreams.
Harry blinked himself awake, rubbing the heel of his hand against his eye. “Are we home?”
Draco only smiled, that damned mysterious smile of his, and shook his head. “Not yet. I want to show you something.”
Harry frowned at the cold that hit him the second he stepped out of the car. He was about to curse at the wind biting through his clothes when Draco, the cheesy bastard, took Harry’s hand and tucked it into the warm pocket of his coat. Their fingers laced immediately. Harry didn’t complain after that.
They walked a few more paces and then Harry saw it.
A tree.
No, the tree.
Massive and shimmering with thousands of lights, the kind of tree that stopped conversations mid-sentence. It looked like it had been plucked from a fairytale and dropped right into the heart of Muggle London. Golden and green and sparkling like a goddamn miracle. Draco looked like an elf in comparison—and Harry would absolutely be telling him that later.
There were people around—couples, mostly—but no one mattered.
Harry tilted his head back to take in the height of it, the way it glowed against the dark sky. When he turned, ready to comment or maybe tease him a bit, he found Draco already watching him.
And fuck.
The lights from the tree bathed Draco’s pale face in warm gold. His hair glinted like champagne and there was that smile again—soft, quiet, completely his. Harry didn’t even think. He just leaned in and kissed him, slowly, tenderly, like the moment deserved.
When they parted, Draco’s arm was already around his waist, the other hand brushing his cheek like he was memorizing it.
Then he said it. Low. Steady. A little nervous, a little raw.
“Go out with me.”
Harry blinked, thrown. “I am going out with you.”
Draco huffed, smiling against the cold. “Not like that.” His fingers tightened just a little. “I mean officially. I want to call you my boyfriend during the future boring social events I’ll be dragging you to. I want to wake up every day knowing you’re mine, go on all those ridiculous dates you pretend not to like. I want us to be more than just… shagging and solving murders together.”
Harry’s throat tightened. The words weren’t flashy, but the truth behind them hit like a curse to the chest. He leaned forward until their foreheads pressed together, breathing in Draco’s cologne, the cold on his skin, the warmth of his breath.
“I finally know what I want to do,” he whispered.
Draco stilled. “Yeah?”
Harry nodded. “I want to be yours.”
The kiss that followed burned hot enough to melt snow. It was all teeth and mouths and shaky breaths—soft with the weight of what it meant, hard with the want that had always been there. And then the first hints of snow began falling like some sign form the universe celebrating that they were finally being honest with each other.
When they pulled back, noses brushing, Harry said it first, voice hoarse.
“Merry Christmas, Draco.”
And with that damn smile back on his lips, Draco whispered, “Merry Christmas, love.”
The day after Christmas moved like honey in winter—slow, thick, and a little too sweet if you weren’t in the mood.
Harry had plans, okay? Good, wholesome, post-Christmas plans. Visit a few friends, maybe show off a bit that yes, he did have a boyfriend now, and no, it wasn’t a joke. He’d practically begged Draco to come along, already envisioning the proud little moment of introducing him as his. But life—or rather, capitalism disguised in the form of a last-minute work emergency—had other ideas.
“You’re ditching me?” Harry had blinked up from the bed, hair a mess, wearing nothing but one of Draco’s oversized tees and a look of sheer betrayal.
Draco, halfway through buttoning his shirt, chuckled. “It’s an emergency, love.”
“Oh, I know emergency,” Harry shot back, pouting shamelessly. “You made an entire Greek tragedy when I told you I had a half shift on Christmas Eve. Now you’re the one running off the morning after and expecting me to just take it? That should be illegal, Malfoy.”
Draco didn’t even argue. He just laughed, walked back over, and rolled them both into the sheets. The apology came in the form of kisses, whispered apologies, and more than a few things Harry could not repeat around polite company. And for a moment, Harry had thought he’d won. Sweet, sweet victory.
Until he was a ruined mess on the bed, limbs boneless and satisfaction glowing in every pore… and Draco still got up. Still put on that goddamn shirt, his smirk never once faltering as he adjusted his tie.
“You’re still leaving?” Harry gasped, betrayed beyond measure.
Draco leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll try to be quick,” he murmured, eyes twinkling. “After all, I’ve got a very hot boyfriend waiting in bed. How could I ever dare leave him for more than a few hours?”
Harry huffed and muttered something about breach of contract, but still limped his way to the door to see him off like a good, grumbling househusband. Draco kissed his pout one last time before disappearing down the hall, long coat trailing behind him like some noir villain off to commit emotional war crimes.
And so, an hour later, Harry sat curled up on the couch at Ron and Hermione’s, nursing a hot chocolate and full-on complaining.
“He broke me,” Harry declared dramatically, one leg crossed over the other as if he hadn’t just limped his way through the front door like a very tragic heroine. “And then left. Like I was just some—some—seasonal fling.”
Ron blinked. “Mate… You’re wearing his cardigan.”
“I’m mourning.”
Hermione, ever the voice of reason, arched a brow. “You do realize Draco probably moved heaven and hell to not miss your first Christmas together, and now he’s back to being a finance director with an actual workload, right?”
“I am aware,” Harry pouted into his mug. “Doesn’t mean I can’t be mad about it.”
Ron leaned forward. “Wait, wait, wait—are you telling me Malfoy shagged you senseless, and still made it to work this morning?”
Harry flushed. “That’s not the point—”
“No, that’s exactly the point,” Ron said, scandalized. “That’s psychotic. Is he on—like—some magic sex potion or something?”
“Ron!” Hermione choked on her tea.
Harry groaned, dragging the collar of the cardigan up over his face.
Somewhere in the back of his mind though, he knew Draco would be home by nightfall. He’d walk through that door like a smug bastard with a bottle of wine and something pretentious for dinner, and Harry would forgive him the second he smirked.
But until then, he was going to milk this drama for all it was worth.
In the basement of an abandoned building at the city’s edge, the silence was broken only by whimpers and the faint echo of restrained sobbing. The room was damp, lit by a single flickering bulb swinging from the ceiling like a ticking clock. Beneath it sat Eli—tied to a rusted chair bolted to the concrete floor, gagged, slick with sweat, eyes blown wide with fear. Every muscle in his body trembled, and not from the cold.
His gaze never left the figure in the shadows—tall, composed, seated at an old desk just outside the bulb's glow. The clack of typing on a mechanical keyboard echoed, methodical and dissonant against the wet drip of a leaking pipe. A monitor bathed the figure in cold blue light, casting sharp shadows like a monster half-formed.
Then came the wand.
Eli flinched as if struck. But instead of a hex or a curse, something else stirred—light. Magic shimmered in the air beside the figure, rising in delicate geometric strands until it took the form of a 3D hologram. A city. Buildings. Blueprints spun in the air, glowing with ethereal energy. A click of a mouse sent glowing lines dancing across the models, like veins of light.
“Don’t be scared,” said a voice—low, smooth, unhurried. Almost amused.
Eli shivered violently.
A polished black shoe stepped into the light. Then tailored trousers, a flowing winter coat, and finally—platinum blond hair that gleamed like silver. Draco Malfoy. He wore the same polite smile as the day before at the Egyptian restaurant—where Eli had been a little too bold, a little too handsy… with Harry.
“Happy holidays,” Draco said casually, like this was just another social call.
Eli writhed in place, whimpering against the gag.
Draco leaned down, fingers elegant and clean as he removed the cloth from Eli’s mouth. The air hissed between Eli’s teeth.
“Why are you doing this?” he croaked. “What do you want? I haven’t done anything—”
“You touched what’s mine,” Draco said, voice still calm, but with an edge now. “And I don’t share well.”
Eli paled and with a trembling voice asked, “Does Harry know what you're doing?”
Draco smiled at the mention of Harry. “You see, my darling boyfriend is currently visiting friends. He doesn't need to worry about what I'm doing. And I'd recommend you to keep his name out of your mouth.”
Draco straightened and took a step back, his hands clasped behind his back like a patient professor. “See, I’m not fond of struggle. Or blood. I prefer precision. Clarity. Clean solutions.”
He gestured to the glowing blueprint spinning beside him. “You know what fascinates me about Muggles? Their ability to adapt. Advance. Evolve without magic. All this—” he waved vaguely at the simulation “—done with plastic, wires, and desperation. My father never understood that. Neither did the Dark Lord.”
Eli swallowed hard, not daring to interrupt.
“But wizards?” Draco continued, smile slipping into something colder. “Still stuck with quills and chimney travel. Still playing politics in shadows while people like Harry spend their lives cleaning up the messes they pretend don’t exist.”
His voice dropped, all warmth evaporating.
“Do you know how many Death Eaters walk free? How many monsters the Ministry pardoned in the name of politics?” He turned to Eli, something electric sparking in his eyes. “Harry chases down monsters like a dog, and the system pats him on the head and lets them go. So I decided to do something about it.”
Eli trembled. “What does that have to do with me?! I’m not a Death Eater—I haven’t done anything!”
Draco’s smile disappeared entirely. He stepped forward again, slow and deliberate.
“It’s not just about criminals, Eli,” he said quietly. “It’s about Harry. He is—everything. My axis. My gravity. And you? You made him flinch.”
Eli began to sob, panic rising in choked gasps. “Please—I’ll stay away from him. I swear. I won’t come near him again. I’ll vanish—”
Draco tilted his head.
“Now, where’s the sincerity in that?” he murmured.
In one fluid motion, he replaced the gag, quieting the pleas.
“I promised I’d be home early,” Draco said, almost to himself. “He hates when I lie to him, but he does sleep better when the world’s a little safer.”
He walked back toward the desk, the hologram flickering gently beside him. Behind him, Eli writhed, bound and voiceless once more.
Draco didn’t look back.
“That’s the thing about men like you, Eli,” he said, settling into his chair. “You think being harmless makes you innocent. But you touched him. And now… now you’re part of the problem.”
The lightbulb above Eli’s head flickered one last time—then went out.
Notes:
Yandere Draco! Yandere Draco! Yandere Draco!
So if the tags weren't obvious enough, draco is the killer and a lot messed up in the head and we'll have to deal with it. Again. This is DARK. Morally wrong. Good luck
Istg Harry is so touch starved it's both cute and pathetic
We're gonna see a lot of the L word from here onwards so hold ur stomaches. I promise that when ur stomach does the thing it's probably just organ failure
And we finally meet the infamous sushi guy
Chapter 16
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The soft beep of the lock echoed through the flat, barely audible under the hum of evening silence. Harry perked up instantly from where he’d been curled on the couch, peeking from behind the entryway wall like a nosy house cat. His eyes narrowed—not with suspicion, no—but with the kind of pettiness reserved for someone who’s been waiting far too long for their favorite person.
The door creaked open, and Draco stepped inside, looking far too composed for someone returning from a battle with corporate incompetence. His eyes met Harry's with amused fondness, the corner of his lips quirking up like he knew exactly what kind of greeting he was in for.
“Is this,” he drawled, already toeing off his shoes, “what it feels like to be welcomed home by a doting spouse after a long day of work?”
Harry crossed his arms and made a face. “You took too long.”
Draco huffed and unbuttoned his coat, hanging it with practiced ease. “I was ambushed,” he sighed. “One of my team members botched the reports—completely. We had to start from scratch. Algorithms are not forgiving, Harry.”
But as he walked over, his tone softened. He ruffled Harry’s hair—an infuriating, affectionate habit—and pulled him in. Harry melted against him, burying his nose into Draco’s neck and mumbling petulantly, “You better make up for it.”
Draco chuckled, warm and rich in Harry’s ear. “Merlin, you’re like a cat. Prideful, fussy… but adorable.” He tightened his arms and nudged Harry backward, guiding him toward the sofa.
They collapsed together into the cushions, Harry practically draped over him like a weighted blanket of revenge and affection. “So,” Draco asked, carding his fingers through Harry’s unruly hair, “how was your day, Mister Social Butterfly?”
And just like that, Harry lit up like a wand tip in the dark.
He launched into an animated recounting—visiting Seamus and Dean, playing with their new dog (a tiny menace who apparently hated others on principle), catching coffee with Luna (“she still reads tarot cards at cafés, can you believe?”), dropping by Hogwarts to see Neville and a few old professors (“McGonagall’s still scary, but now in a grandma-knows-your-bullshit kind of way”), and finishing off with a visit to the Burrow.
“Bill and Fleur were there,” he added with a grin. “Played with their kid a bit—Weasley genes really don’t miss. Another ginger. I think it’s a magical curse.”
Then came the part about Andromeda. “Stopped by, had tea. Dropped off gifts for Teddy. She says hi, by the way. Asked if you’re still working yourself into an early grave.”
Draco, who had been watching him the entire time with that same soft-eyed look, finally sighed and leaned his head back. “You had an eventful, meaningful day while I drowned in financial reports and babysat grown men with IQs lower than a wand’s length.”
“You chose that over me,” Harry accused dramatically, pointing a finger.
Draco caught it in his hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed the knuckle with an amused smirk. “What can I do,” he purred, “to earn your forgiveness, oh merciless boyfriend of mine?”
The smile that bloomed on Harry’s face was downright gremlin-like. Mischief curled at the corners of his mouth like a secret about to be weaponized.
“Oh, I’ve got ideas,” he said, already shifting in Draco’s lap with dangerous intent.
Draco blinked, then laughed, resigned and delighted. “Merlin save me.”
It started with a drink.
Well, “drink” was a generous term. It was more of an unholy alliance of every liquid mistake Draco Malfoy had ever purchased in a moment of luxury-drunk impulse. Absinthe? Yes. Firewhisky? Of course. A few imported muggle liqueurs he’d never even cracked open? Now swirling together into what looked like sin in a glass and smelled like regret.
When Draco stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped low around his hips and hair damp from steam, he paused in the doorway like a man walking into a crime scene.
Harry grinned up from where he sat cross-legged on the floor in the middle of a ridiculous pillow fortress, holding out two tumblers of the suspicious liquid like a villain offering candy to a child.
“You're trying to kill me,” Draco stated flatly.
Harry wiggled the glass at him. “Only your liver. C’mon, drink up. You owe me.”
“For what?”
“For going to work the day after Christmas,” Harry whined, like that alone was a cardinal sin. “Now drink the damn potion and come sit in your throne of cushions like the peasant king you are.”
Draco groaned, but the laugh slipped through anyway. He should’ve known better than to think he'd come home to peace. Within minutes, he was wearing nothing but black boxer briefs and his own designer apron—because he’d lost a dare and Harry had dared him to be “domesticated.”
Revenge, thy name was Potter.
Thirty minutes in, the room was chaos.
The coffee table had been pushed aside. The sofa now functioned as a barricade. They were surrounded by half-empty glasses, a stack of cards, open board game boxes, a bag of jelly beans neither remembered opening, and two empty tubes of lipstick.
Harry was shirtless, flushed and tipsy, with bright red kiss marks smeared across his chest and neck. Draco’s own mouth still wore the same hue, a little crooked now from all the grinning and kissing and drinking.
Harry thought he was so clever—so cunning—turning this into a night of playful revenge. What he forgot was that Draco thrived under pressure. He’d played poker with billionaires, lied through his teeth in boardrooms, and charmed information out of politicians. Truth or Dare? That was child’s play.
And he was winning.
“Truth,” Harry slurred, leaning back against a mountain of pillows, hair a mess and eyes gleaming with mischief and intoxication.
Draco smirked, tilting his head. “Alright, then. Tell me the dirtiest dream you’ve ever had about me. And don’t hold back.”
Harry's eyes went wide, like he'd just been caught in a trap he set for someone else.
“That's not fair,” he muttered.
“You picked truth, darling,” Draco purred, voice low and triumphant as he leaned in, breath warm against Harry’s cheek. “Unless you'd rather switch to dare?”
The flush on Harry’s face deepened. “No. I’ll tell you. But you're pouring the next round of your liquid death.”
Deal struck. Game on.
They stayed like that for hours—tipsy, laughing, touching, losing themselves in stories and dares and things they never would’ve admitted sober. There were no masks here, no Ministry badges or pristine resumes. Just Draco in a goddamn apron and Harry shirtless with kiss marks and glitter on his shoulder.
By the end of it, Harry was curled half in Draco’s lap, still giggling. Draco pressed his lips to Harry’s temple and whispered, “Still mad at me for working today?”
Harry hummed. “Depends. Will you wear the apron again next time we play?”
Draco smirked against his skin. “Only if you keep losing on purpose.”
The pillows were everywhere. The drinks forgotten, cards scattered like confessions across the rug. The room glowed low and gold, lit only by the soft flicker of fairy lights from the balcony and the slow-breathing fire in the hearth.
Harry was half-asleep, sprawled with one arm across Draco’s chest, leg hooked lazily over his thigh. His skin still tasted faintly of cherry liquor and cinnamon sugar. His laugh had faded into quiet hums as his fingers traced circles over Draco’s hipbone, slow and absentminded like he was sketching spells he didn’t realize he was casting.
“You’re dangerous,” Draco murmured, voice rough, his fingers carding through Harry’s hair. “You know that?”
Harry hummed against his collarbone. “You wore the apron.”
“You dared me to.”
“You didn’t have to say yes.”
Draco tilted his head down, lips brushing the shell of Harry’s ear. “I never say no to you.”
That earned him a soft bite to the shoulder. “You’re such a liar,” Harry whispered. But the flush on his cheeks betrayed how much he liked hearing it.
Draco rolled them gently, until Harry was pinned beneath him, the weight of him pressing down like a promise. He brushed some hair off Harry’s forehead, then paused, eyes roaming over him like he was memorizing him all over again.
“You’re so bloody beautiful like this,” Draco said, quieter now. No teasing. No game. Just that awful, terrifying truth.
Harry blinked up at him, breath catching. “Like what?”
Draco smiled. Soft. Dangerous. Worshipful.
“Messy. Drunk on fun. Covered in my kisses. And not pretending to be anything but mine.”
Harry swallowed. His hand came up to touch Draco’s cheek. “You’re a sap.”
“You love it.”
Harry’s lips twitched. “Yeah. I really fucking do.”
And then Draco kissed him—not drunk and laughing this time, but with slow, devastating control. Like he was sealing a vow. Like he’d waited years for this exact moment and wasn’t going to let it slip through his fingers.
Harry pulled him closer, hands tangling in the apron strings. “Take this stupid thing off.”
“Make me,” Draco breathed, smirking against his mouth.
And oh, Harry did.
Clothes came off in fragments, tossed somewhere behind the sofa or kicked halfway across the room. Every touch was warm and heady, laced with the kind of affection that hits harder than lust ever could. Harry's legs wrapped around Draco’s waist, their bodies fitting like puzzle pieces that had been apart too long.
They made love like it meant something. Like they were tired of pretending it didn’t.
Draco worshipped every inch of him—his scars, his laughter, the small tremble in his hands when he was overwhelmed. Harry clung to him like he was finally safe, like no one else in the world could touch him when Draco had his arms around him.
When they came, it was together—breathless, tangled, whispered names slipping past lips like prayers.
And when the silence settled around them, when the only sound left was the crackle of the fire and their soft breathing, Draco pulled Harry against his chest and buried his nose in his hair.
“You’re not allowed to ever lose another game again,” Harry mumbled sleepily, already halfway gone.
Draco smiled into his curls.
“Sweetheart, I already won.”
It was late morning when the light crept back into the flat, slanting soft golden rays through the windows and spilling across the wreckage of their pillow fort. A trail of discarded clothing, a knocked-over bottle, lipstick-smeared glassware… and in the middle of it all, two limbs tangled like ivy vines under a throw blanket that had definitely not started on the floor.
Harry stirred first, muscles sore and body deliciously warm—mostly due to the half-naked Malfoy clinging to him like a koala. His lips curled into a satisfied smirk the moment he remembered exactly how they’d ended the night.
He turned his head, nose brushing pale blond strands, and whispered low against Draco’s skin, “You know, it’s really rude to wear me out and then hog the entire blanket.”
Draco groaned without opening his eyes, burying his face in Harry’s neck. “I carried this relationship last night. You don’t get to complain.”
“You carried something,” Harry muttered, hips shifting subtly just to feel the burn of soreness down his spine. He grinned. “Merlin, I should be mad, but I’m just impressed.”
Draco’s eyes cracked open lazily, sharp and silver, voice husky. “Are you trying to seduce me before I’ve had coffee?”
Harry stretched—obnoxiously—and then stood, gloriously naked, dragging the blanket off both of them. “I’m trying to beat you to the shower. That was the deal, remember? Whoever wakes up first gets dibs.”
Draco groaned dramatically. “You’re cheating. That wasn’t a formal agreement.”
“Tough,” Harry called over his shoulder, already halfway across the living room. “Enjoy your cold sheets, Mr. Malfoy.”
But Draco Malfoy was not a man to be left behind.
A few seconds later, Harry barely had time to turn on the water before the bathroom door swung open and a very nude, very determined Draco stalked in like he owned the damn place—which, technically, he did.
“I seem to recall,” he drawled, stepping into the steam and cornering Harry against the glass shower wall, “that you were the one who begged me to make it up to you last night.”
Harry arched a brow. “And you did. Thoroughly. That was last night.”
Draco smirked, hands bracing on either side of Harry’s head. “Then let’s call this morning interest on the debt.”
And just like that, Harry was silenced by water and tongue and heat. Draco kissed him with the kind of morning hunger that had nothing to do with breakfast—slow, deep, as if he had all the time in the world and knew exactly what to do with it.
The water pounded down around them, washing away the last of last night’s lipstick and sweat and alcohol, but not the tension that pulled taut between their bare chests. Not the way Harry arched under every touch. Not the way Draco pressed him to the tile like it was his job.
Harry broke the kiss just long enough to pant out, “You’re insatiable.”
Draco licked a stripe down his throat. “And you’re still standing.”
“Not for long,” Harry muttered, before dragging him back under with teeth and a growl.
The shower fogged over completely. No one cared. Moans echoed, steam curling around the glass, and the only thing louder than the sound of water was the slap of skin and the breathless, “Fuck, Draco—” echoing off the tile.
Eventually, they emerged, pink-skinned and soaked, towels wrapped low around their waists, eyes glazed with post-shower satisfaction. Hair damp, smug grins in place, walking like they’d just returned from war—except they were both winners.
Harry reached for a mug while Draco casually went to check something on his laptop.
“You know,” Harry said, sipping his coffee, “if that’s your idea of making up for ditching me yesterday…”
Draco looked up, eyes lazy. “What, love?”
Harry grinned. "You should do it more often.”
Draco just smirked and muttered, “Careful what you wish for, boyfriend.”
Harry should've known.
Should’ve felt it in his bones, the way everything had been too easy—soft mornings, reckless games, messy kisses and warm lights. He should've recognized that kind of peace for what it really was: the calm before the storm.
So when Robards' gruff voice echoed from the silvery wisp of a patronus in their living room, Harry didn’t even flinch—he just reacted. A bagel flew through the glowing form, landing with a pathetic thud on the floor. Draco raised a brow from the coffee table, already dressed, laptop open and screen blinking with something too complex for this hour.
“At least you didn’t have to hunt me down this time,” Draco said, dryly, like this wasn’t a murder call and just a slight detour in their schedule. Harry narrowed his eyes at him, but said nothing.
Because the voice—the one from the patronus—had said it clearly.
Another victim.
They barely spoke on the ride over. Scarves wrapped tight, coats buttoned to the throat, the illusion of comfort clashing with the weight in Harry’s gut. Draco drove like it was just another errand. He even had the audacity to hum.
Harry hated how calm he looked. Hated how pale hands gripped the steering wheel like this was a meeting. But mostly, he hated the twisting guilt building behind his ribs—because something deep, deep inside him already knew what he’d find.
He just didn’t want it to be true.
The crime scene was cold. Not just in temperature—though the icy wind slicing through the alley didn’t help—but in feeling. The kind of cold that clung to your bones, that left shadows under your eyes even in daylight.
And there he was.
Eli.
Body crumpled. Eyes wide. Lips parted mid-scream. The color was already draining, stiff setting in. There was a smear on the ground, a few broken fingernails, but not a single drop of blood spilled.
Harry didn’t move.
Ron had been saying something about the killer having New Year’s resolutions. Trying to be funny. But even he stopped when he looked back and saw Harry—really saw him.
Frozen. Silent. Shaking, maybe. Or maybe not. It was hard to tell when Draco had a hand on the small of his back, the other gently gripping his wrist like he was anchoring him there.
Draco leaned in, his voice soft but final, “I’ll take him outside.”
Ron’s jaw clenched, but he nodded. “Keep an eye on him.”
Like anyone could ever not keep their eyes on Harry Potter.
Outside, the air was sharper, crisper. Too quiet. The kind of silence that made everything louder—footsteps, breathing, thoughts.
Harry finally spoke.
“Do you think this is my fault?”
Draco didn’t answer immediately. Just lit a cigarette he wouldn’t even smoke, watched the curl of smoke rise.
Then he said, “You think a lot of things are your fault, Harry. That doesn’t make them true.”
Harry looked at him. Really looked. “He was at the restaurant. With me. That’s why he's dead.”
Draco exhaled, smoke ghosting past his lips. “And what? You're going to spend the rest of your life blaming yourself for other people’s proximity?”
Harry didn’t answer. Draco stepped in closer, flicking the cigarette aside.
“I told you once,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “I’ll protect what’s mine.”
“You think I need protecting?” Harry snapped, but it came out too tired, too broken.
Draco reached up, brushing his thumb under Harry’s eye. “No. But I want to.”
There was something vicious in his gentleness, something unholy in the way his touch was so soft while his eyes burned like hellfire.
“Let them try,” he murmured. “Let them touch you again.”
Harry didn’t know what scared him more—the threat in Draco’s voice... or how comforting it felt.
Harry leaned into Draco’s hand like it was the only thing tethering him to this reality. His fingers came up, curled over Draco’s knuckles—tight, grounding.
“I’m scared,” he said. Quiet, but not fragile. Honest. Raw.
Draco blinked.
“That he’ll come after you next,” Harry admitted, voice thick. “First Silvia. Now Eli. They weren’t just friends. They were—people who… who I let in. I don't want to find you like that. I can't.”
A smile tugged at Draco’s lips, small and unbothered. “I’d like to see them try.”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “Don’t joke.”
That was the tone. The Auror Potter tone—etched with command and fear, not open for banter. Draco’s expression softened, the smugness bleeding out.
“You’re right,” he murmured. “I’m sorry.”
Harry didn’t speak. He just looked at him like the entire universe might fall out of the sky at any second and Draco was the only place it could land safely.
“I hate how much control this killer has over you,” Draco whispered, stepping closer. “I hate that you freeze every time we find another body. That they’re manipulating you.”
Harry shook his head, but Draco was already pulling him in—arms wrapping around him tight, warm, protective. Harry buried his face in Draco’s chest, breathing in that maddening mix of spice and citrus, something expensive and distinctly Malfoy.
“You won’t lose me,” Draco said, soft against his hair.
Harry didn’t answer. But his arms around Draco only tightened.
Back at the crime scene, Ron’s frown deepened when he saw them return. He stepped closer, voice low. “You good?”
Harry nodded. “Yeah. Don’t pull me from this. I need to finish it.”
Ron didn't argue, just gave him a clap on the back, eyes softer than usual. “Alright. But I’m watching your back.”
Harry crouched beside the body, his heart dipping all over again when he saw the small corner of parchment poking from Eli’s mouth. It wasn’t the usual placement. No charm holding it to his chest. No spell pinning it to the wall.
Just… stuffed into him. Fed to him.
He used a gloved hand to carefully extract it. The scrawl made his skin crawl.
Merry Christmas.
What kind of sick bastard—
Before the nausea could rise, Draco called his name.
“Harry. Over here.”
Harry stood instantly, heart spiking again—but this time it was instinct, hope, maybe. He followed the sound of Draco’s voice to a moldy, dim corner of the warehouse, where he stood beside a faint glow on the wall. Something pulsing under layers of dust and mildew.
“What is it?” Harry asked, already calling one of the forensics officers to get a camera and sampling kit.
Draco didn’t answer at first. He took a glove from one of them and crouched beside the wall, gaze sharpening. Harry knew that look. The one where Draco wasn’t seeing what was there—he was seeing through it. Into something older, deeper, something no spell could fake and no Muggle machine could catch.
Magic. The way he sees it.
“There’s a ward sequence buried in this layer,” Draco said. “Not just any—it’s fragmented. A signature. Like someone used a piece of a larger code to slip through your surveillance system.”
“A fingerprint,” Harry muttered. “Not of the killer’s identity… but their method.”
Draco nodded. “And if we can extract this thread and analyze it…”
Harry’s eyes lit with sharp clarity. “We might be able to trace where they’re casting from. Where they’re hiding.”
Draco stood, brushing his hands off. “They got cocky. Left a window open. Let’s crawl through it.”
Of course the break was over. Peace never lasts long when you're dating Death’s favorite Auror and sharing a bed with the Ministry’s worst-kept secret weapon. Chaos had come back with a vengeance, and it kicked the doors off the hinges of the Auror Department while it was at it.
Robards was barking orders loud enough to make the walls tremble. The conference room looked like someone had set off a paperwork bomb—parchments, charmed maps, floating diagrams, and half-drained coffee mugs cluttering every surface. Ashley looked like she was running purely on spite and paracetamol, still clutching her forehead like she was one decibel away from death. Even Nabu, usually disgustingly perfect, had a tired sheen to his handsomeness and tie askew like he’d dressed in a war zone.
Harry slipped into the room with two cups of coffee. One was for him. The other, obviously, was for the man currently commanding the whiteboard like a general with a wand and a death wish.
Draco.
He was in his element—coat tossed over the back of a chair, sleeves rolled up, shirt rumpled and elegant, and his expression sharp. He was sketching runic structures on a floating panel with one hand while referencing the glowing magical blueprint hovering beside him. He was talking softly to two Unspeakables and a wardbreaker in the corner, but when Harry walked in…
His head lifted. His eyes lit.
He took the coffee with a quiet “thank you,” brushing his lips to Harry’s temple as if they weren’t in the middle of a magical homicide investigation. Harry barely got out an “I’m sorry for making you work over the holidays—” before Draco shot him a look. That mock-stern, spoiled-prince expression that said ‘you’re being ridiculous and also very cute so I’ll allow it.’
“Stop apologizing,” Draco said, sipping his coffee. “My holiday plans involved you. Now I get you and a mystery with runic fragmentation and layered ward sequences. Frankly, this is better than spreadsheets.”
Harry snorted, but his smile stayed. He looked over the massive whiteboard—now two whiteboards, in fact—covered in equations, sketched spells, and theories strung together by glowing red string like something out of a conspiracy thriller. Ashley muttered something like “I did not sign up for magical rocket science” and quietly excused herself, blinking too hard. Harry swore he saw her mouth “I’m just IT…” before she fled.
Draco followed the line of Harry’s gaze and sighed. “It’s slow, but we’re getting there. The code left behind at the warehouse—it’s not just a spell, it’s a signature. Someone’s custom built this spell-matrix from the ground up. That means they had to test it. Somewhere. Multiple times.”
Harry’s brows furrowed, intrigued. “If we find the testing grounds…”
“We find them,” Draco finished, smirking over the rim of his mug.
Harry exhaled slowly. He wasn’t used to this kind of hope—but with Draco in the room, it didn’t feel like false comfort.
Draco’s hand hovered near his for a second, like he wanted to reach out. But instead, he asked gently, “And you? How are you holding up?”
Harry shrugged, that tired tilt of his shoulders that was more honest than words. “Team leader duties help. Ron’s been on me, though. Keeps slipping chocolate frogs into my coat pockets. Keeps offering to file my paperwork or run errands so I don’t spiral.”
Draco chuckled. “He’s a good friend.”
“The best,” Harry agreed. “But it’s you who keeps me sane.”
Draco didn’t say anything. He just squeezed Harry’s wrist lightly and turned back to the board.
Four days.
Four whole days in which the entire Ministry, still twinkling like a bloody Christmas card, had basically shut down—except for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, which might as well have been renamed Department of Holiday Homewreckers. But did they sulk? No. They did what any stubborn, overworked Aurors would do: they adapted.
Mistletoe hung from every doorframe. Someone spelled fairy lights to flash “STILL NOT SOLVED” in passive-aggressive red and green. A charmed elf doll now wore tiny robes and screamed “PAPERWORK” every hour on the hour. The mood? Festive chaos.
But the real festivity was watching The Chosen One go from emotionally unavailable war-worn lone wolf to literal heart-eyed boy toy. And everyone noticed.
Harry Fucking Potter—their stoic, permanently sleep-deprived, emotionally constipated commander—had been replaced. Not by a doppelgänger, no. But by something far more dangerous: a man in love.
And the cause of it? Draco Lucius Malfoy. Rebranded. Rebuilt. Reformed. Or so they say.
Tall, smug, immaculately dressed in a jumper that probably cost more than Chris's rent, Draco had somehow slithered his way into both their magical murder case and the heart of their commander. And he did it all while looking like he belonged on the cover of Witch Weekly and talking like a tenured professor at some magical MIT.
At first, it was whispers. Then it became lunchroom speculation.
Ashley, who was the unfortunate soul trying to decode ward theory with the Unspeakables, had sat too close during one of Draco’s breakdowns of the killer’s magical coding. She’d nearly passed out—not from the complexity, but because when Draco pushed his sleeve up mid-sentence, she'd seen it. Ink. Not the faint hint of a Dark Mark. No. Too many lines. Too structured.
“He’s got a sleeve,” she’d whispered to Chris like she’d uncovered Atlantis.
“A tattoo?” Chris blinked.
“A whole one.”
“But he was a Death Eater—”
Ashley swatted his arm. “I know the mark when I see it, this wasn’t it. The patterns were intentional. Geometric. Maybe alchemical. Like runic architecture, but artistic.”
Nabu had leaned over at that point, smirking. “Never thought our emotionally repressed commander would bag a man with hidden tattoos and architectural ward magic. Damn.”
Zola scoffed. “Still can’t believe Malfoy’s been living with muggles. With his talent, he could run the entire Department of Mysteries.”
Amy, as always, said nothing. But the way her brow arched slightly—that meant agreement. Or suspicion. Hard to tell with her.
That’s when the air shifted.
A throat cleared. Low. Intentional. Familiar.
Everyone froze.
Because there, standing in the break room doorway like a scene out of a workplace rom-com, was Harry Potter himself. Arms crossed. Brow raised. The top Auror in black slacks and a long coat, looking very much like their no-nonsense commander again... except for the man standing next to him.
Draco Malfoy.
In a cashmere jumper. Smiling like the damn sun. Looking like sin in slacks and effortless confidence. Towering over Harry like a particularly smug Christmas angel who’d never done a bad thing in his life. And holding his hand.
There was a long silence. One of those weight-of-a-thousand-gossips silences.
Harry blinked slowly.
Draco’s smile widened.
Amy’s mouth twitched.
Then—
“Something you lot wanna share with the class?” Harry asked dryly.
Ashley choked.
Draco, to everyone’s horror and delight, leaned just a bit closer to Harry and said, all silk and sin, “They were just admiring your taste, darling.”
Harry groaned.
Nabu laughed so hard he fell off the bench.
And Robards, from down the hall, screamed, “GET BACK TO WORK OR I’LL CURSE THE NEXT CUPPA I SEE!”
Yeah.
Three days in, and this was the Ministry's new normal.
And nobody was surviving unscathed.
Harry had not woken up that morning thinking he'd need to stop himself from mauling his own team like some fire-breathing, sleep-deprived, hangry grey kitten—but here he was, halfway through biting their heads off, and they just kept making it worse.
“We weren’t trying to be disrespectful,” Ashley was saying, hands raised like she thought she was defusing a bomb instead of pouring gasoline on it. “It’s just—we’ve never seen this side of you. You’re always all mission-oriented and broody, but now it’s like... you're blushing. You’re laughing. Smiling.”
Chris nodded solemnly like this was a profound scientific observation. “It’s unsettling.”
“Draco’s just really... interesting,” Zola added unhelpfully, already halfway to launching into a poetic monologue about his cheekbones.
“You’re a hit couple!” Nabu grinned, clearly enjoying every second of this mess. “It’s kind of insane how hot you two are together. Like, boss and high-profile mystery boyfriend? It's like something out of a thriller novel—”
“I swear to Merlin—” Harry started, practically vibrating, his face a cocktail of indignation and restrained violence. His hair was sticking up worse than usual, like even it couldn’t decide how to handle this.
Then.
Amy.
Amy, who hadn’t said a single word this whole time, who could probably sit through a nuclear explosion without blinking.
In her perfectly calm, neutral, soul-draining voice, she said flatly, “It’s your fault. You brought your boyfriend into your workplace and simped for him in front of us. What did you expect?”
Silence.
Like true, heavy, eternal silence.
Even Draco's smile faltered for half a breath.
Then, Nabu snorted.
Ashley gasped like someone had slapped her mother.
Chris howled with laughter.
And Harry—Harry was livid.
His hands clenched into fists, magic crackling faintly off his skin, his expression murderous as he hissed, “I do not simp—!”
“You literally carried his coffee with a love note stuck to the lid,” Zola pointed out, now crying with laughter.
“Shut up!”
“He kissed your temple and you forgot how doors work—”
“I will end you—!”
Draco, of course, was no help at all. Just standing there behind Harry, arms loosely looped around his waist, smiling like an angel who moonlighted as a devil. “I think it’s sweet,” he murmured, utterly unbothered, kissing Harry’s shoulder casually as Harry nearly combusted.
It took the entrance of Ron Weasley, savior of Harry’s dignity and possibly the entire department’s lives, to stop the madness.
He looked like hell.
Dark bags under his eyes, hair a mess, jumper rumpled. The man looked one step away from chucking his wand into the Thames and declaring a one-man revolution.
“All of you, shut it. Robards wants everyone in the conference room ten minutes ago. We’re reviewing what we’ve got.”
Then he added, with the weariness of a man denied his cuddles and cocoa with his beautiful pregnant wife, “And yes, Malfoy, you’re coming too.”
Cut to: chaos containment.
Everyone shuffled into the conference room, their giggles mostly stifled now that Robards’ fury was looming ahead like a blizzard with no forecast. The room was a disaster zone—whiteboards lined the walls, paper everywhere, charts, runes, spell diagrams, someone’s half-eaten muffin tragically impaled on a quill.
Harry took his seat at the front, trying to look dignified again. He mostly succeeded, especially once Draco, now fully in work mode, stepped up next to him.
The transformation was instant. The warm eyes cooled into razor-sharp focus. The smirk softened into subtle confidence. Draco rolled up the sleeves of his cashmere jumper, revealing just a hint of his tattooed left forearm, and when he started speaking, even the most distracted Auror in the room sat up straighter.
“Based on the residual magic found at the scene,” Draco began, pulling up a 3D enchanted blueprint of the warehouse they’d found Eli in, “we’ve confirmed this killer has been using sigil-based anchor points to remotely bypass or manipulate ward structures…”
Harry, sitting back with his arms crossed and a tiny smile tugging at his lips, tried really hard not to swoon. Failed.
Draco was running through layered magical codes, identifying weaknesses in barrier spells, explaining sigil syncing with such brutal efficiency and smooth articulation that the Unspeakables were scribbling down notes like underqualified interns.
Gods, he was so annoyingly good at this.
Ron leaned in and muttered under his breath, “You’re doing that lovesick face again.”
“I am not.”
“You just sighed and clasped your hands.”
“I’m literally holding a quill—”
“Simp.”
“Ron.”
“Simp.”
But all arguments died the moment Draco turned slightly, gaze locking with Harry’s for a beat mid-presentation—and winked.
Harry choked.
And the team? Oh, the team saw everything.
The gossip channels would be thriving for weeks.
The deeper the meeting dragged on, the heavier the air in the room became.
What started off with coordinated updates and neatly categorized findings had quickly unraveled into a cold, gnawing silence between each conclusion. Because for every thread they managed to tug on, three more questions slithered out behind it. The killer—they all knew now—wasn’t just clever. They were calculated, arrogant, and terrifyingly patient.
Someone who had been three steps ahead from the very beginning, and wanted them to know it.
“Let’s just spell it out,” Nabu finally said, running a hand over his face. “We’re dealing with someone high-functioning, magically adept, and bored enough to leave fucking breadcrumbs behind like they’re playing a game of magical chess with us.”
“And they’ve been winning,” Ashley added bitterly.
Draco stayed quiet, flipping through the files in front of him with slow, steady fingers, only speaking up when the theory of the core draining resurfaced. His voice didn’t waver, but there was something darker in the way he looked at the whiteboard. “It’s not just a spell. It’s ritual work. Something drawn out and likely refined over time. To touch the core—let alone extract anything from it without damaging the host—is...” He shook his head. “Unstable magic. Dangerous. And rare.”
“Obscure,” an Unspeakable added. “Most of us didn’t even learn about core theory until we joined the Department.”
And that’s what made Harry clench his jaw, a muscle ticking just under the surface. That. That was what kept scratching at the back of his mind. “So how the hell is someone doing it so cleanly? No burn marks, no traceable magical residue, and every crime scene scrubbed like it’s a bloody operating table.”
Draco glanced at him, and for a moment Harry didn’t care who else was in the room. That look—that quiet concern hidden under sharp intelligence—it grounded him more than anything else could have.
Robards, at the head of the table, finally let out one of his signature old-man grunts and pushed back from the table like he’d aged a decade. “Alright. Enough. We’re not cracking this tonight.”
There were groans of protest—but tired ones. Even the caffeine-fueled wardbreakers were slumping in their seats like deflated balloons.
“I’m not asking,” Robards snapped. “I’m telling. You lot have been going nonstop through the holidays. If we keep grinding like this, we’ll miss the details when they matter.”
He stood fully, rubbing at the space between his brows. “Two days. No work. No reports. No updates. Rest. That’s an order. Merlin knows we’re all going to need it.”
The reaction was instant—an exhausted, ragged cheer as people all but collapsed into themselves in gratitude. The war room suddenly felt a little less like a prison cell and more like a barely surviving common room after finals.
“Go home,” Robards muttered. “Spend the New Year alive. While you still can.”
He meant it as a joke.
No one laughed.
But they got up anyway, filing out in scattered groups, muttering plans to actually sleep or drink something stronger than burnt office coffee. Draco reached for his coat, pulling it on slowly, eyes already flicking back to Harry’s closed-off expression.
Harry hadn’t moved.
Not until Draco reached over and pressed his hand over Harry’s, gentle but firm. “Come on,” he said quietly, just for him. “New Year’s starts the day after tomorrow. And if we don’t get some sleep, we’re not making it to midnight.”
Harry finally exhaled, long and quiet, and nodded.
“Alright,” he murmured. “Let’s go home.”
That night, Harry couldn’t sleep—even when every muscle in his body begged for rest.
Draco had driven them back to Grimmauld Place after Robards declared a surprise two-day break, and the moment they’d dropped their coats at the door, Draco had faceplanted onto the bed and passed out like someone had flipped a switch. Peaceful, content, adorably rumpled.
Harry had stayed up.
Not because he wanted to. Not even because of the caffeine he'd downed like a potion addict in the conference room earlier. It was the thoughts. The endless spinning of questions with no answers, puzzles with no edges, and a killer who seemed to be dancing two steps ahead and one step back just for fun. Like they were playing a game of chess, except the other player occasionally set their own pieces on fire—just to watch Harry flinch.
It was maddening. Worse, it was personal.
He sat on the bed, bare-chested and frowning, watching the soft rise and fall of Draco’s breath in the dark. He hated that Draco had been dragged into all this. Hated the idea that maybe—maybe—Draco had only said yes to helping because he felt like it was part of some invisible boyfriend clause. And Merlin knew the man deserved a break. A real one. Not late-night stakeouts and murder boards dressed up in tinsel.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?” came Draco’s groggy voice, soft and blurry with sleep.
Harry flinched. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.”
Draco hummed, already pushing himself up on one elbow. “Too late. I'm awake now. What’s going on in that noble head of yours?”
Harry sighed, leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I just… can’t. It’s the case. It’s driving me mad.”
Draco moved closer, leaned his chin on Harry’s shoulder, and kissed it. His arms snaked around Harry’s middle, holding him. “I don’t know exactly what it feels like,” he murmured, voice low and slow. “But I know you. And you’re doing more than anyone else possibly could. You’re brilliant. And this—this obsession of yours—it worries me.”
Harry chuckled dryly. “It’s not an obsession.”
“It is,” Draco said without malice. “And I get it. But tonight? Just rest. Not for the world. For me.”
Harry turned his head, nose brushing Draco’s cheek, and whispered, “I’ll try.”
Draco smiled and pulled him down, wrapping around him like a blanket of warmth and soft whispers. A kiss to his forehead. A promise spoken into the dark, “Everything will be fine by morning.”
It was not fine by morning. Not for Harry, anyway.
December 31 greeted him with light pouring through the curtains and a bone-deep desire to stay asleep. But Draco? Draco was already dressed—fully dressed—leaning over him with the kind of smile that should be illegal before noon and pressing light kisses to Harry’s cheek.
“Wakey wakey,” Draco whispered, far too cheerfully.
Harry groaned, dragging the blanket over his head. “Why do you hate me?”
Draco laughed. “I don’t. In fact, I plan on showing you just how much I like you. But first, you need to get up.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m taking you somewhere.”
“Can’t it wait until I want to be alive?”
“Nope. It’s a now thing.”
Harry poked his head out from under the covers, squinting up at the vision of evil in the form of a man he was supposedly in love with. “What kind of somewhere?”
“You’ll see.”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “You’re lucky I like you.”
Draco leaned down, grinning. “You adore me.”
And that was how Harry—grumbling, bleary-eyed, and still half in dreamland—found himself once again dragged into a car by a very smug, very mysterious Draco Malfoy.
Some boyfriends brought you coffee in bed. Others kidnapped you before breakfast. Figures Harry had ended up with both.
Harry absolutely did not panic—except he very much did—when Draco took an unexpected exit off the main road.
It was subtle at first. A left instead of a right. A turn into country roads that looked more like they belonged in a horror film than in a romcom-style date. At first, Harry thought maybe they were headed to a tucked-away brunch spot. Or a nature walk. Or, hell, even a surprise therapy session Draco had sneakily scheduled under the guise of a “cute errand.”
What he didn’t expect was a two-hour drive through the countryside that ended with the slow, ominous approach of wrought-iron gates and that manor coming into view like the final boss level of an anxiety-fueled video game.
Harry blinked at the looming figure of Malfoy Manor as it rose like a pale scar from the earth, regal and cold, exactly as he remembered it. His mouth went dry. “Draco… what are we doing here?”
Draco parked the car like they were pulling up to a bloody farmer’s market and simply said, “After last night, I figured we might try looking for answers somewhere else.”
Harry turned to him, brows already halfway to his hairline. “And that somewhere else just happens to be your childhood home?”
Draco gave a little shrug. “They’ve got a library, Harry. Probably bigger than Grimmauld’s. And more updated, too. If there’s information on magical core theory or obscure rituals, it’ll be there.”
Harry squinted at him. “And you couldn’t have, I don’t know, apparated here? Floo’d? Warned me?!”
Draco tilted his head, unfairly serene. “Thought maybe the drive would help you clear your head. Hasn’t it?”
Harry crossed his arms and huffed. “...Unfortunately, yes.”
Draco smiled, smug and knowing, already unbuckling his seatbelt. But just as he moved to open the door, Harry reached out and caught his wrist. “Wait. Are you sure about this?”
Draco blinked, turning back to him. “Sure about what?”
“Showing up here. With me. With no warning. It’s your parents’ place, Draco. Won’t they—”
“Harry,” Draco cut in gently, and his voice was low, even. “I may have dropped off the face of the wizarding world for a while, but I didn’t cut them off. We talk. Not often, but enough. And as for you…” He reached over and laced their fingers together, pressing a kiss to the back of Harry’s hand. “You literally spoke in their defense at the trials. Even my father isn’t dense enough to forget that.”
Harry still looked unconvinced, shoulders taut, jaw tight with nerves.
Draco’s eyes softened. “And if he has forgotten… well.” A smile, sharp and sugar-sweet. “I’m a grown man now, love. Their opinion doesn’t control me anymore. And if they dare say anything against you, they’ll be dealing with me.”
That shut Harry up.
The heat in Draco’s gaze, the steel under his calm—that was enough to make Harry’s nerves settle a little. He still didn’t love the idea of strolling into Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy’s ancestral lair with bedhead and trauma in tow, but… he wouldn’t be doing it alone.
He nodded, hand still in Draco’s, and when they stepped out of the car, it was together.
Notes:
And the award for Actor Of The Year goes to: *drum roll* Draco Malfoy!
Because how are you gonna tell me that he talks about the killer as a completely separate entity and literally helps the Aurors catch himself? And no, he's not schizophrenic or psychotic or delusional or has some form of personality disorder, multiple personalities etc. He just messes with people like that.The award for Simp If The Year goes to: *more drum rolls* HARRY POTTER! Because be so for real man, get a grip.
Chapter 17
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
When they reached the grand, towering doors of Malfoy Manor—those intimidating slabs of ancient magic and ancestral pride—Harry Potter wanted nothing more than to bolt.
Every self-preserving instinct he had was screaming at him to run, to turn on his heel and apparate to the moon if necessary. Who in their right mind willingly walked into the house where they’d once been tortured? Who followed their boyfriend into the lair of Lucius bloody Malfoy without at least a hip flask of liquid courage?
But then, as if summoned by Harry’s escalating internal panic, the doors opened.
And there they were.
Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Real, flesh and bone. Not just figments of war memory or gossip-riddled headlines.
They looked older than he remembered. The fine lines on Narcissa’s porcelain face were new, etched like delicate ink strokes. Lucius’s blond hair, though still perfectly maintained, had lost some of its luster. Their expressions were exactly what Harry expected—icy, regal, pureblood to the marrow. If surprise crossed their faces at the sight of Harry Potter hand-in-hand with their only son, they masked it behind generations of practiced neutrality.
Still, Harry could feel their eyes like a pair of hexes. Especially when they dropped to the point where his and Draco’s hands were intertwined.
Maybe he could still apparate. He’d just need a five-second head start and—
Draco squeezed his hand.
A grounding, firm, you’re-not-alone kind of squeeze. And just like that, Harry stayed.
Lucius was the first to speak, his voice smooth as ever, but dipped in that familiar venom. “Draco. It’s been some time since you visited.” His pale gaze flicked to Harry like a knife. “And you brought Potter. How… unexpected.”
Harry tried not to wince. He turned his head to Draco, who stood tall, composed, eyes steeled.
“We came to use the library,” Draco said. His tone was flat, a brush of frost in the otherwise warm manor air. “We’re looking for information.”
Lucius studied them both like he was appraising cursed artifacts, and Harry could almost see the tension radiating between father and son. Cold war, room temperature battlefield. Even he could tell this relationship had cracked in places that might never heal.
Then, Narcissa stepped forward. Still graceful, still poised. But when her eyes landed on Draco, something soft bloomed in her expression. Warmth, real and shimmering under the aristocratic mask. She stepped forward with outstretched arms.
And for the first time since they arrived, Draco smiled.
It wasn’t the devil-may-care smirk he wore in public. It was small, reserved, almost boyish. He walked into her embrace and they murmured something to each other in French—gentle, affectionate syllables that floated just out of Harry’s understanding.
When Narcissa pulled away, she turned to him.
Harry froze like a bloody deer in the wandlight.
But then she smiled.
Not big. Not exaggerated. But enough to make Harry's lungs stutter.
“Mr. Potter,” she said, her voice a velvet ribbon. “Welcome.”
Harry scrambled to respond, nearly tripping over his own name in his hurry to sound polite and not like he wanted to die. “Thank you. Um—thank you for having me.”
Narcissa nodded graciously, then turned back toward the interior hall.
“Come in,” she said, simply. “It’s cold out.”
And just like that, they were invited in.
Harry’s grip on Draco’s hand had gone white-knuckle tight, but Draco didn’t seem to mind. He leaned in just slightly, whispering close to his ear.
“Breathe, Harry.”
Easier said than done when you’re walking into Malfoy Manor with your boyfriend’s parents ahead of you and a library full of possible answers—or horrors—waiting inside.
But he did.
He took a breath.
And together, they stepped into the manor that Harry had once sworn he’d never return to again—hand in hand.
The corridors of Malfoy Manor were all hushed grandeur and whispered intimidation. Every gilded frame on the wall, every polished banister and elaborately carved doorway reeked of legacy and old money. The kind of wealth that didn’t just speak—it dictated. It was a house designed to remind you exactly where you stood in the world. And Harry—well, he’d once stood here shackled and bruised.
Now, he was walking in freely. Holding Draco’s hand.
The irony wasn’t lost on him.
His eyes wandered, soaking in what he hadn’t been allowed to see the last time. Back then, he’d been focused on surviving. Now, his gaze paused on the high ceilings, the cascading tapestries, the quiet clink of distant porcelain as house-elves worked behind glamour-screened walls. His feet slowed just slightly when they passed a set of double doors with carved serpents wrapped around the handles.
The drawing room.
His chest clenched, eyes dragging across the floor he remembered too well. The scene ghosted back—Lucius’s wand, Bellatrix’s shriek, Draco’s face staring down at him with unreadable eyes. The lie that saved his life.
Why had Draco lied?
He’d asked himself that question so many times back then. Was it fear? Desperation? A flicker of conscience? Or had it been more… had it been recognition? Had Draco looked at his beaten face, seen beyond the swelling and grime, and remembered?
Harry allowed himself the thought. Just for a moment.
Maybe—maybe—Draco had seen not just the war-torn fugitive in front of him, but the boy he’d once kissed breathless behind the Quidditch stands. The boy he’d sent scribbled notes to in Transfiguration class. The boy he’d broken things off with not because he stopped caring, but because war had twisted everything out of shape.
But that was fifteen years ago. A different lifetime. A different them.
Now they were here, together, not in secret but out loud. They shared beds instead of broom cupboards, exchanged kisses in the daylight, not under a cloak of darkness and guilt.
Harry exhaled and shoved the memories aside.
His gaze returned to the present—the hallway, the manor, the man at his side. And then, the image that snuck up on him: a tiny Draco, barely three feet tall, running around these very halls. Chasing house-elves, hiding behind curtains too large for his little limbs, laughter echoing in corridors that hadn’t heard it in years. A soft, domestic memory that didn’t belong to him—but that he could almost see.
The mental image tugged a rare smile from him.
Draco noticed, naturally. The way he always did.
“What?” he asked, voice low and curious, leaning closer. “You look like you're planning something.”
Harry shook his head, smile lingering. “Just thinking I wish I’d met you earlier. Seen you as a kid. An innocent little pureblood prince.”
Draco arched a brow, clearly trying to maintain composure. “Innocent, Potter?”
“I said as a kid,” Harry quipped, nudging his shoulder playfully.
Draco made a thoughtful sound, but he was smirking. And Merlin help the world, he looked like he was two seconds from pinning Harry to the nearest wall.
He didn’t, though. Barely.
Harry saw the exact moment Draco wrestled every rogue, feral cell of arousal back under control. The casual swallow. The twitch in his jaw. The eyes that flicked down, then back up.
Then, as if summoned, Narcissa’s voice drifted down the corridor, melodic and poised. “The sitting room is ready. I’ve asked for tea.”
And just like that, the moment was tucked away.
Draco gently tugged on Harry’s hand and led him the rest of the way. The sitting room was exactly what Harry expected—delicate, vintage, utterly expensive. Cushioned chairs that looked older than Dumbledore, an ornate tea set with golden trim already arranged by the fire, and Narcissa standing near the mantle like some renaissance portrait brought to life.
She greeted them with that same reserved grace. And Harry… well, Harry didn’t feel entirely like an intruder anymore.
Because Draco’s hand was still in his.
And this time, he wasn’t sneaking in.
At least at first, that is.
Oh, fuck, this was tense.
Harry had faced dragons, Death Eaters, and literal resurrections of Dark Lords. He’d walked into dungeons, led raids, survived wars, and once knocked out a troll at age eleven. But nothing—nothing—could compare to the quiet, heavy, spine-prickling discomfort of sipping tea in the Malfoy Manor sitting room while Lucius Malfoy’s gaze carved holes through his skull.
The clink of fine china was the only sound for what felt like years, broken only by Narcissa’s measured, deceptively light tone, “Draco, are you still working at that… company?”
Harry could feel Draco stiffen a little beside him. He didn’t look at his mother—didn’t need to.
“Yes,” he replied, smooth but cool. “The company’s expanding. We’re hybridizing to cater to both magical and non-magical markets.”
That was all it took.
Lucius let out a derisive, pointed scoff. Like he’d tasted something foul and decided to spit it across the room instead.
“I still don’t understand,” Lucius began, voice low and sharp like an old curse. “Why you subjugate yourself to living like a Muggle. Working in a Muggle tech company. Surrounding yourself with their species. Driving around in those tin cans instead of apparating or using the Floo.” He paused, his lip curling.“Barely using magic at all.”
And Harry saw it—just the faintest twitch in Draco’s jaw. But his voice stayed calm.
“Those ‘tin cans’ cost more than all the antiques in this room,” he said with a raised brow. “And I own several.”
Lucius’s scowl deepened. Narcissa tried to soothe it with something like logic. “We simply don’t understand, darling. Why complicate your life? You could live here comfortably. You could take over one of our companies—become president. Instead you’ve spent fifteen years building something from the ground. Like a commoner.”
Draco let out a slow exhale, his patience thinning at the edges. “I’m not asking you to understand,” he said, not unkindly. “Just respect my choices.”
Oh, but Lucius wasn’t going to let that slide.
“And now you bring Harry Potter into our home,” Lucius said, voice rising just enough to demand attention. “Acting indecent in front of us—”
“You haven’t seen indecent yet,” Draco muttered under his breath.
Harry heard it. Narcissa definitely heard it. And Lucius sure as hell heard it.
Lucius straightened in his chair like someone had just insulted his ancestral wand. “What did you say?”
And Draco—gods bless him—opened his mouth to say it again louder.
Harry slapped a hand over his boyfriend’s mouth so fast it was practically a reflex.
“Draco,” he said, as calmly as he could while suppressing a grimace, “surely you have your reasons for… all your choices.”
The way Draco’s eyes glinted at him said he was far too amused for a man about to commit verbal arson.
And then—fucking hell—Draco licked his hand.
On purpose.
Harry’s face contorted in a scandalized snarl as he yanked his hand back, wiping it furiously on his trousers. “You’re disgusting,” he hissed.
“You knew that going in, love,” Draco said, all smug satisfaction and devilish tilt of his head, now safely seated again and pretending to be the picture of pure decorum.
Harry glanced back at the Malfoys, who both looked like they were struggling between horror and disbelief. He straightened up, cleared his throat, and somehow managed a tight smile that screamed, kill me now.
“Lovely tea, by the way,” he said.
Narcissa, bless her, chuckled quietly behind her cup. Lucius’s eye twitched.
Narcissa had never looked more regal… or more terrifying.
With the same elegant poise she used to host galas and end conversations with a single glance, she told Draco to take Harry to the library. Lucius, halfway through another subtle sneer, tried to interject—only to be silenced with a look that promised divine retribution if he so much as breathed wrong.
Harry watched the silent exchange with something between awe and terror.
Note to self, he thought as they left the room, never get on Narcissa Malfoy’s bad side. Ever.
Then the doors shut behind them and it was just him and Draco again, walking down a quieter hall—past polished floors, long windows, and portraits that seemed to study him a little too intently.
And then Draco opened the door.
Harry’s breath caught.
The Malfoy library wasn’t a room—it was a cathedral to knowledge. Vaulted ceilings arched like Gothic chapels, endless rows of bookcases, spiral staircases curling into upper tiers, enchanted lanterns floating gently between shelves. The scent of old pages, ink, and magic filled the air.
“Bloody hell,” Harry whispered, stepping inside, stunned.
But before he could take another step—Draco was on him.
A hand wrapped around his wrist, tugged him back, and in one swift, possessive motion he was pinned to the nearest oak door, Draco’s mouth crashing against his.
Harry gasped into the kiss, startled, but it didn’t matter. The heat of it—the way Draco’s lips claimed him, tasted him, teased the very soul out of him—had Harry melting on the spot.
He tried to protest, mumbled something about Lucius and Narcissa and how this was very much not the time, but then Draco’s tongue slid along the roof of his mouth and his knees nearly buckled.
Gods, the echo.
The sounds bounced off the stone, off the books, off the carved cornices. Every breath, every sigh, every hungry wet sound of lips against lips rang like the walls were delighting in their indiscretion.
After what felt like an eternity—and still, not nearly enough—they broke apart. Panting. Lips swollen. Eyes glazed. And Harry… Harry was practically floating.
Draco leaned in again.
“No,” Harry whispered, voice shaky. “No, your parents are outside—”
Draco kissed his ear.
“I don’t care,” he murmured, hot breath sending a full-body shiver down Harry’s spine.
Harry groaned, pushing at his chest weakly, “I care, you menace—”
Draco sighed like a man denied the world’s greatest pleasure, stepping back only half an inch. “Fine,” he muttered. “But I am claiming you the moment we’re back home. No more interruptions. No Auror business. No Weasleys. Just you. Mine.”
Harry, cheeks flushed and heart pounding, laughed under his breath, “Yeah? I’ll be looking forward to it.”
And with that breathless little exchange still simmering in the air, they finally turned to the shelves—two fools in love, in a haunted mansion, hunting for clues about a serial killer.
Honestly, it was almost romantic.
The next few hours passed in a haze of dust, parchment, and heavy tomes that looked like they'd personally witnessed the rise and fall of empires. Harry had long since shed his coat and jumper, sleeves rolled up, hair a mess, a smudge of ink across his jaw like a warpaint he hadn’t noticed. Draco had dragged half the section on magical anatomy down from the upper shelves, and together they’d set up shop in the middle of the massive floor, surrounded by towers of forgotten knowledge.
The Malfoy library was obscene. Towering shelves of leather-bound volumes stretched up so high that the ceiling all but disappeared into a painted sky. Some books opened with a sigh like they were waking from a century-long nap. Others disintegrated at the touch, crumbling into ancient dust that stung Harry’s eyes and made him sneeze violently into the silence more than once.
“This is worse than the time Umbridge made us read Defensive Magical Theory,” Harry muttered darkly, flipping through yet another volume with no illustrations and font small enough to qualify as microscopic.
“Blasphemy,” Draco said lazily from where he was sprawled across the floor, propped up on his elbows between Harry’s legs, reading something bound in dragonhide and smug superiority. “You cannot compare dry academic literature to a woman who had an actual torture kink and a love affair with the colour pink.”
“Fair,” Harry grumbled. “But she might’ve been less exhausting than this bloody chapter on harmonic spell resonance.”
Still, despite the migraines threatening to split his skull and the way his back ached from hunching over hours of pure theory, Harry couldn’t deny it—he was learning. And not just the half-truths taught in school or the sanitized versions that the Ministry allowed to circulate. This was real, primal knowledge. The kind that smelled of ink, blood, and roots.
From what he could gather, magic—true magic—wasn’t just something you cast. It was alive. A bond between nature and spirit, granted to humans only after they proved worthy to the elemental forces that shaped the world. It was how magical cores were born. Not just random gifts, but the result of deep, ancient contracts forged between humanity and the earth itself.
But that connection had frayed over time.
The more humans tried to control magic, to institutionalize it, to shove it into standardized curricula and Ministry regulations, the weaker that bond became. Most wizards today wielded only the echo of that original power. And those who still felt it—who could see it—were treated as anomalies, eccentrics… or threats.
Harry ran a hand down his face, exhaling for what felt like the hundredth time. The killer… wasn’t just powerful. They were connected—to something older, deeper, and infinitely more terrifying. They weren’t using dark magic. They were using true magic, the kind that didn’t leave marks because it never needed wands or spells to begin with.
Draco, who had by now shifted so his back was resting against Harry’s chest, looked up from his notes. “Alright,” he said, voice a lazy purr, “what’s with all the sighing, Potter? If I didn’t know better, I’d think I wasn’t satisfying you anymore.”
Harry let out a soft huff of laughter, fingers absently carding through Draco’s hair. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Undeniably,” Draco agreed, “but also correct. What’s bothering you?”
Harry hesitated for a moment, then finally admitted, “I think we’ve massively underestimated the killer. This isn’t someone casting Unforgivables for fun. They’re using ancient, forgotten techniques—stuff that predates wandlore and Hogwarts combined. I didn’t even know this kind of magic existed, and now we’re chasing someone who’s mastered it like it’s second nature.”
Draco was quiet for a moment, letting that sink in.
Then, softly, he murmured, “Good. Let them be terrifying.”
Harry blinked down at him. “Excuse me?”
Draco tilted his head back again to meet Harry’s gaze, his expression calm, sharp, and just a little unhinged. “Because then it’ll feel really satisfying when we catch them anyway.”
Harry stared into Draco's eyes—and there it was again. That flash.
Barely a second. A shuttering of light, a flicker of absence. Gone before it could be questioned. But Harry had seen it. That haunting, godless stillness in Draco's gaze. He didn’t know what to call it. It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t anger. It was a kind of emptiness that made his chest clench and his instincts recoil. Cold. Detached. A look that had no business living in Draco’s face. Not his Draco.
It rattled something deep inside him every time. Like brushing against something that wasn’t supposed to be there. Something… unnatural.
And it wasn’t the first time.
Harry had known Draco in more lifetimes than one. The bratty rival in pressed robes. The boy with a quivering wand and a face full of fear. The angry teenager who broke his heart in the haze of a war they never chose. The man who reappeared years later, impossibly different, impossibly the same. But this Draco—the one who smiled and laughed and kissed him slow in the mornings and held him steady during crime scenes—this version of Draco didn’t match that flicker in his eyes.
And Harry… didn’t know what to do with that.
It wasn’t just a secret. It felt like a chasm. Like Draco had built a wall inside himself and locked something in behind it. Something that looked back at Harry through those pale eyes every so often when Draco didn’t know he was being watched.
But he pushed it down. Again.
Because that was Draco. The man who brought him coffee every morning and rolled his eyes with too much affection. The one who built pillow forts and kissed his bruises and murmured encouragement into his neck when the case had driven him to the edge of madness.
And gods, Harry didn’t want to lose that.
He didn’t want to think about what it meant that Draco could lie so easily. Or that maybe—just maybe—Draco had mastered the art of pretending so well he could fool even him. That maybe Harry wasn’t seeing the whole picture. Maybe he was clinging to a beautiful illusion because it felt real. Because Draco looked at him like he was the only person who mattered. Like he would move heaven and earth, just for Harry.
And wasn’t that terrifying? How even his doubts bowed to Draco’s smile?
So when Draco tilted his head, that familiar softness painting his face—the smile he never showed anyone else—Harry let it win.
Let it erase everything.
Let it silence the sirens blaring in his head.
He leaned in, gently, reverently, pressing a kiss to the corner of Draco’s mouth like a prayer. Like a promise. Maybe like a goodbye.
“Don’t lie to me,” Harry wanted to say.
But instead, all he whispered was, “Don’t go.”
And he didn't even know what he meant by it.
It wasn’t until the sun had shifted halfway across the sky, filtering honey-gold light through the tall arched windows, that Harry realized he couldn’t feel his legs. At all.
His back hurt. His arse was numb. His knees were stiff in that I’ve been in this exact position too long kind of way, and if he didn’t stretch soon, he might actually commit a crime.
Across the room, Draco sat like some smug ancient prince on a velvet throne, one leg crossed, a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a thick tome in the other, eyes gliding across the page with infuriating grace. His expression was serene. Peaceful. Like he hadn’t been stuck in a dust-covered crypt of magical academia for hours on end.
Harry wanted to throw something at him. Maybe a sandwich. Maybe a chair.
Instead, he rolled his eyes and groaned as he stood, stretching long and slow until his spine popped like a firecracker. The large plate of sandwiches Narcissa had kindly sent was now half-devoured and sitting atop a pile of even more parchment. Ink stains painted his hands and he had about three quills sticking out of his hair like some tragic wizarding cactus.
He gave Draco another dirty look—one the blond completely ignored in favor of sipping his tea like an aristocratic little shit—and wandered toward the shelves again.
Maybe they'd been going at this wrong. Books were helpful, sure, but sometimes the right book didn’t scream at you from the shelf. Sometimes it just… whispered. Tugged.
And that’s what he felt now.
A pull. A quiet, wordless hum in his gut, like the same instinct that had told him where the next Horcrux was hiding. That near-mystical, primal sense that said, Go there. Look again.
He stepped closer to a row of ancient texts bound in leathers faded gray and green with time, their spines all but blending together like the bark of old trees. His fingers drifted along them slowly, reverently, until one book caught him.
It didn’t shine. It didn’t glow. It didn’t even look different.
But something in it made his breath catch.
His fingers curled around the spine and pulled.
The cover was stiff with age, the title pressed in gold so faded he almost missed it—but when he read the words, a chill rolled down his spine.
Soul Magic.
Harry’s heart stopped.
He hadn’t seen that phrase since the war. Since Dumbledore’s worn-out mutterings about Horcruxes and splintered spirits. Since the days he’d lain awake wondering how many pieces of himself still belonged to Voldemort.
But this book—this wasn’t about Horcruxes.
He flipped it open, hands trembling just slightly, and what greeted him wasn’t mention of splitting or anchoring or ritualistic violence. It was something else entirely.
Soul orbs. Soul bonding. Core resonance. Memory imprinting. Extraction and containment.
Harry’s breath left him in a slow exhale.
“Draco,” he said, his voice low and taut.
Across the room, Draco looked up. Saw the look on Harry’s face. Closed his book without question.
Harry didn’t need to explain. Draco was already walking over.
The hand on Harry’s shoulder was steady. Grounding. The kind of touch that whispered, I’m not letting go.
Harry let himself lean into it—just enough to acknowledge the comfort—then looked back down at the page, lips parting on a breath as he began to read. Draco’s voice had been soft, but sure. Go ahead. I’m here.
So he read.
Not the kind of reading that’s passive or clinical. No—this felt like peeling back layers of skin. Like lifting a veil off something ancient and raw. His voice was quiet, a murmur meant only for the two of them.
“Souls… not divine, not god-given, not gifts to be judged or condemned—just ours. Something intrinsically human, older than wands and rituals. Our essence. Our memory. Our being.”
He turned the page. The parchment creaked beneath his fingertips.
“It says… even before we had magic, we had souls. It's because we had souls that magic recognized us. That nature allowed us to bond to it. Magic didn’t choose us out of favor—it resonated with the permanence of what we already were.”
He paused, swallowing hard.
“When cores began appearing in people—when magic began to live inside us—it didn’t stay separate. It fused. Blended. Soul and core, life force and magic… bound.”
Draco’s fingers tightened, just slightly, at his shoulder. Harry’s heart thudded.
He kept reading.
“And that’s when they started experimenting. When they realized that life force could be transferred. Not just extended, taken. That souls could be extracted, preserved, trapped…”
His voice dropped.
“Soul orbs were created not as vessels of memory or sacredness—but as weapons. As tools of immortality. They thought if they drank enough life, devoured enough souls, they’d live forever.”
Another page.
“But they didn’t count on one thing… once a soul fuses with a core, pulling it out is like… like tearing skin from bone. It rips the magic out too. Leaves nothing behind. Just a husk.”
He let the final words hang in the air. His throat felt tight.
“It’s a death worse than death. Painful. Absolute. Nothing remains—not even echo.”
Silence.
The kind that makes time stretch. That fills the room with things unspoken.
Harry’s eyes flicked up to Draco.
He didn’t need to say it. The connection had been made.
Whoever was doing this—whoever was harvesting life force, draining cores, leaving the bodies twisted and empty—they weren’t just using obscure, lost magic.
They were using soul magic.
And they were good at it.
Harry whispered, “This is what they’re doing, isn’t it?”
Draco’s eyes were sharp and distant, like they were already five steps ahead, threading every clue together in that brilliant, infuriating brain of his. But his voice was soft.
“Yes.”
Then, lower, “And if they’ve figured out how to do this without killing themselves in the process… then we’re not just chasing a killer.”
He looked at Harry—really looked at him.
“We’re chasing a god complex.”
Somewhere between decoding forbidden magic and theorizing death by soul-severance, they’d ended up back on that chair. The armchair that was far too luxurious to be morally correct. Draco had claimed it early on, naturally, sprawling like some Victorian prince, but now he sat with Harry slung across his lap like a particularly annoyed cat—limbs everywhere, head hanging slightly off one side, legs thrown over the armrest in complete disregard for posture or dignity. Draco, for his part, looked like he was absolutely thriving.
Harry, however, was frowning—that deep, broody furrow of the brow that usually meant the world was one dumb sentence away from getting hexed.
He muttered darkly, voice low but sharp, “They were all destroyed. Every last one of them. Declared illegal, dangerous, wiped out of existence by the Magical Authority in the 1800s. There's not even instructions in this book—just vague descriptions and warnings.”
He flipped the page with more force than necessary.
“No diagrams, no incantations, no structure layouts—nothing useful. If someone’s still making these things, then how the fuck are they doing it? Where are they learning it from? Pulling it out of their arse?! Because there’s no way someone just stumbles into soul engineering during their gap year.”
Draco, warm behind him, hummed thoughtfully—and suspiciously.
Harry kept going. “We’re not dealing with just a killer, we’re dealing with someone who has knowledge that's meant to be extinct. Knowledge that should've gone up in smoke the moment soul orbs were banned. I mean, look at this—"
He was cut off.
Not by logic.
Not by Draco’s occasional philosophical tangents.
But by laughter.
That quiet, knowing little chuckle that rumbled through Draco’s chest and vibrated right into Harry’s back.
“What,” Harry asked flatly, “are you laughing at?”
Draco smirked against his temple and tightened his grip subtly around Harry’s waist, anchoring him in place. “You,” he said smoothly, pulling out his phone. “Just admiring my very angry, very sexy boyfriend solving arcane magical mysteries like it's a personal grudge match.”
Harry turned his head—and saw it.
The gallery. The gallery.
Photo after photo of him: sulking over books, glaring at old texts like they insulted his lineage, squinting in deep concentration with hair messier than ever and parchment clinging to his sleeves like static. One photo caught him mid-yawn. Another had him mouthing words with his brows pulled so tightly together it was practically a migraine in real time.
“Draco,” he said slowly, “are those sneaky pictures of me?”
“Mmm,” Draco said noncommittally, as if it wasn’t damning enough.
“You’ve been spying on me—while I’m working—instead of helping me decode soul-weaponry?!”
“I am helping,” Draco said, all honey and crime. “I’m preserving vital evidence. Of how adorable you look when you're about to commit arson.”
Harry launched himself at the phone.
And missed.
Because of course he did.
The bastard had reflexes like a fucking Niffler on caffeine. Draco kept the phone out of reach with infuriating ease, and Harry—despite trying to get his hands on it—definitely got his hands all over him instead.
Chest. Shoulders. Thighs. Hipbones. Draco wasn't even trying to hide his Cheshire-cat grin anymore.
“Unbelievable,” Harry growled. “You’re such a—”
“—a doting partner?” Draco supplied.
“—a jerk,” Harry corrected, glaring.
“You love it.”
“I tolerate it.”
Harry huffed and made one last attempt to roll off his lap—only for Draco’s hands to suddenly lock down around his waist and drag him back in, making Harry yelp in surprise.
“Oi! Let go!”
Draco leaned in, brushing his lips along the edge of Harry’s ear. “Not a chance. You're warm.”
“Where—” Harry flinched, “where the hell do you think you’re touching?!”
Draco blinked innocently. “I thought I was grounding your magical core.”
Harry narrowed his eyes, breath hitching when those hands didn’t immediately retreat. “You’re grounded something, alright.”
Draco laughed lowly, dragging his lips along Harry’s jaw. “C’mon, love, don’t be mad. You were sulking. I was distracting you.”
“From ancient soul-devouring death magic?”
Draco shrugged. “Seemed appropriate.”
Harry groaned, burying his face in Draco’s neck with a muttered, “You’re the worst.”
But he didn’t get up.
Didn’t try to move again.
Because even with forbidden magic and death hanging over their heads, Draco Malfoy had managed to make the end of the world feel... bearable. Cozy, even.
And that, Harry thought grimly, might be the most dangerous thing of all.
Eventually, Draco closed the book perched on his lap and let out a breath that sounded almost like relief. “Let’s go home,” he said, his voice low and deliberate.
Harry didn’t hesitate. “Thank Merlin.”
He’d had enough of ancient pureblood libraries to last a lifetime. The smell of dusty parchment and centuries-old ink clung to him like a second skin, and if he read another word about magical cores or soul transmutation, he was going to transmute himself into the nearest wall.
As they made their way back toward the main hall, Narcissa intercepted them with the grace of someone who never had to chase anything in her life. She smiled gently, her poise as sharp as ever. “It’s New Year’s in a few hours. You should stay,” she said, almost like a request, though her eyes softened the moment they landed on Draco. She wanted them to stay.
Lucius, of course, looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. His eyes were locked on Draco’s hand, still wrapped securely and unapologetically around Harry’s waist, as though it were some personal affront to his sense of order.
Draco’s phone buzzed—just at the perfect moment, loud in the hush of inherited tension—and Harry saw Lucius flinch like it was a Muggle bomb rather than a harmless notification. Draco didn't even glance at the screen before saying, “We’ve already got plans, but I’ll write soon.”
Narcissa stepped forward and pulled Draco into a hug, whispering something into his ear that made his shoulders tense, then fall just slightly. “Don’t disappear again,” she said, just loud enough for Harry to catch. Then she kissed her son’s cheek, like the past fifteen years hadn’t been lost between them.
When she turned to Harry, he stiffened out of instinct. But her smile was calm, knowing, and it somehow cracked through the layer of defensiveness wrapped tight around him. She stepped closer, and before he could react, she hugged him too.
“Take care of my son,” she said quietly. Her voice didn’t plead—it commanded, yet carried a quiet trust that settled heavy in Harry’s chest.
He mumbled something that was probably supposed to be a promise.
Then they were in the car again, and for a long while, the only sounds were the hum of the engine and the low hiss of tires over asphalt. Exhaustion hung between them, but Harry didn’t let go of Draco’s hand. Neither of them spoke of soul magic or murders or complicated family legacies. Instead, they talked about how Grimmauld Place might be cursed to always smell a bit like wet dog, whether or not Nabu could pull off red robes, and if Ron would absolutely murder them for missing another check-in.
Somewhere between complaining about Lucius and laughing about Narcissa’s subtle death stare, Harry thought it: at least we have her blessing. And that was more than he ever expected.
Lucius, on the other hand... well, Draco had simply scoffed and said, “I don’t give a damn about my father’s wishes.”
Harry laughed—because how could he not—but deep down, he couldn’t ignore the flatness in Draco’s voice, the lack of anger, or warmth, or anything at all. Just... detachment. And that scared him a little.
But there was one thing that still lingered in the air, heavy and undeniable: Narcissa had shown them kindness. Harry couldn't help but notice how much that moment had meant. As much as Lucius’ scowl had practically cut through the air like a physical thing, Narcissa’s soft embrace, the whispered words of care and caution, had wrapped around Harry like a warm blanket. Her words still rang in his ears: Take care of my son.
It didn’t fix everything, but it certainly made him feel lighter.
When Draco had said goodbye to them, Harry caught that little glimpse of something—something behind Draco’s carefully guarded expression. Lucius was the same as ever, stubborn, stiff, and cold, but Narcissa—Narcissa was different. Harry wasn’t sure how to feel about it, but the way she had looked at him, that smile, the unspoken acceptance in it, made him think that maybe, just maybe, they would be okay.
Back at Grimmauld, Draco pulled into the drive with a little sigh, like the house was already calling to him. “It feels different here,” he said. “The magic. Familiar.” And it was. Harry could feel it too. There was something in the air—denser, warmer, heavier with memory. Draco belonged to the house by blood, technically, but it had always been Harry’s by inheritance.
And maybe that was the thing—neither of them had earned this place, but both had been claimed by it.
Draco’s arms wrapped around Harry from behind the moment they stepped into the threshold. The air shimmered faintly with that same quiet pull Harry had come to associate with magic—his, Draco’s, and the house’s. And in that moment, Harry realized he didn’t need the house’s blessing either.
He just needed this. Draco’s warmth against his back. The hush of magic brushing his skin. The quiet intimacy of being chosen.
It wasn’t grand or loud or overwhelming.
It was real.
It was theirs.
Draco had gone off to shower first, steam fogging the edges of the bathroom mirror, leaving Harry with the soft echoes of water behind the door and a room that still hummed with the aftertaste of old magic.
Harry sat on the edge of their bed for a moment, staring at the stack of books they'd borrowed from the Malfoy library—half of them filled with information older than Hogwarts itself. He reached over and carefully placed them in his work bag. No doubt he'd need to go over them again during the next department meeting. Maybe ask the Unspeakables to double-check a few things. Maybe see if Ashley or the wardbreaker could make more sense of some of the soul-theory diagrams.
With that done, he wandered into his studio, flipping on the light and rifling through drawers in search of a few half-finished notes on the core-drain theory. But as he pulled open the bottom drawer of the cabinet—one he normally kept locked with a protective ward—something caught his eye. Something he hadn’t seen in years.
A wand.
Draco's wand.
The very one Harry had disarmed him of during the war. Slim, elegant, still with that faint, foreign woodsy scent to it. Forgotten. Tucked away and nearly lost beneath a pile of old files, spare parchment, and a single cracked sneakoscope. He reached for it slowly, brushing his fingers along the grain. It felt... familiar. Almost too much.
Even now, after everything, it hummed lightly in his hand. Like recognition.
Harry remembered Ollivander’s words. “The wand chooses the wizard,” sure, but also, “The wand learns loyalty.” And this one had once learned his.
But it wasn’t his. Not truly. Not originally.
And yet Draco had never asked for it back. Hadn’t even mentioned it. These days, he barely used a wand at all—saying he preferred the Muggle way, the quiet simplicity of tech and routine. The few times Harry had seen him use magic, it was wandless for small things—light charms, heating spells—or with a completely different wand altogether. He must've gotten a new one, of course. But what about this one? The one Harry had used for weeks after the Manor. The one that had saved his life more than once. The one that still pulsed in his palm.
He slid it into his pocket, fingers lingering longer than necessary.
Then the water stopped. The pipes groaned. A door creaked open.
Harry turned just in time to see Draco step out, barefoot, pajama-clad, towel draped around his shoulders, drying his hair with the kind of lazy elegance only Draco Malfoy could pull off. His sleeves were rolled up, and Harry’s gaze involuntarily dropped to the ink spiraling down his arm—swirls of celestial and geometric patterns woven through with ancient symbols.
But if Harry stared long enough, focused just a little too hard, he swore he could still make out the faded outline of the Dark Mark beneath it all.
That ghost never really left, did it?
“Harry?” Draco’s voice was soft—drowsy, curious, with that faint rasp that came after warm water and a quiet mind. “You okay?”
Harry blinked, snapping out of it. “Yeah,” he said quickly. “Just… thinking.”
Draco’s brows drew together slightly, but then he crossed the space between them and pressed a kiss to Harry’s temple. Warm. Familiar. Steadying.
“Come downstairs with me,” Draco said quietly. “I’ll make dinner. Nothing fancy. But it’s New Year’s… we should celebrate it. Just us.”
And just like that, the weight of war wands and old ghosts slipped back into Harry’s pocket.
He smiled, even if a little tight. “Yeah. Alright. Let’s go.”
Dinner wasn’t fancy, but it was perfect.
Harry sat on the kitchen counter, legs swinging gently like some overgrown child, chin in hand, watching Draco move through the kitchen like he’d done it a hundred times before. Which—honestly—he probably had. He was precise, fast, and infuriatingly graceful about it, reseasoning leftovers with a flick of his wrist and stirring with purpose like he was back at a potion’s bench, only this time the end result didn’t stink or threaten to explode—it just smelled like home.
“Pass me the paprika,” Draco had said at one point, leaning in with expectant eyes and zero patience.
Harry, who had been too busy admiring the roll of his sleeves and the slight sway of his hips, had blinked and handed him cumin instead. Draco had raised an eyebrow but taken it with a smirk and a kiss to Harry’s cheek anyway.
That was the pattern. Every few minutes: “Chop this.” “Rinse that.” “Taste this.” Followed by: a stolen kiss to his temple, the tip of his nose, the corner of his lips. Like he couldn’t help himself.
Harry hadn’t cooked much since joining the Aurors. It wasn’t that he couldn’t—the Dursleys had made sure he knew his way around a kitchen before he even knew the word childhood. But with all the stress and late shifts, premade meals and whatever was closest at the café became his norm. Hermione had nagged him. Ginny too, on occasion. But change had only come when Draco stepped back into his life… wearing a damn apron like it was part of his soul and feeding him like he was something worth nurturing.
They’d eaten shoulder to shoulder, heads brushing as they laughed at nothing, forks tapping plates and bodies gently leaning together in shared warmth. And afterward, with sleeves rolled and sleeves damp, they washed the dishes like something out of an old domestic fantasy—together, teasing, bumping elbows, both too stubborn to let the other do it alone.
Later, wrapped in the quiet calm of the evening, they climbed to the balcony on the second floor—their room now, though it still surprised Harry sometimes to think of it that way. The world outside was hushed and waiting, as if the sky itself was holding its breath.
Draco returned from inside carrying two mugs and his cardigan draped over one arm. He handed Harry the hot chocolate, rich and steaming, then wrapped the cardigan around Harry’s shoulders with a practiced gentleness that made Harry’s chest ache. He didn’t say a word about how soft Harry looked bundled up in his clothes. He didn’t have to.
They stood in silence, shoulder to shoulder, sipping, breathing. Waiting.
One minute to midnight.
Harry shifted his weight, fingers curling into the wool at his shoulder. He’d almost forgotten, caught up in comfort and calm. But the weight of it sat in his pocket, quiet and steady and waiting for this moment.
“Draco,” Harry said softly.
Draco turned to him, that half-smile already tugging at his lips.
Harry reached out and took his hand, palm up.
Then, without a word, he pulled the wand from his pocket and laid it across Draco’s open hand.
The air shifted. Draco stared at it like it had appeared out of thin air. His eyes flicked back to Harry’s, questions swirling in silver.
“Never thanked you,” Harry said, voice low. “For back then. Not just the lie. The wand… If it weren’t for it—if it weren’t for you—I wouldn’t be here.”
Thirty seconds.
Draco didn’t say anything. Just stared at the wand like it was a piece of history. A fragment of a memory he’d buried too deep. His fingers curled around it, slow and reverent, like the weight of it might tip him over.
Ten seconds.
Harry watched him, uncertain for the first time in a long while. But then Draco met his gaze. And something broke through. Something soft. Something raw.
Five seconds.
Draco pulled him closer, breath brushing against his ear. “You’re wrong,” he whispered. “You saved me.” A pause. “I love you.”
And as the clock struck midnight, and the sky erupted in streaks of fire and gold, their lips met—slow, deep, sure.
Two survivors. Two men reborn. Welcoming a new year.
A new beginning.
Together.
Notes:
Loving the way Harry only ever has self-preservation when it comes to meeting the in-laws
Chapter 18
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
New Year's was spent in a whirlwind of warmth, laughter, and everything Harry never thought he’d have but somehow did now—peace.
It began just the way he’d always imagined lazy holidays should: tangled up in bedsheets, buried beneath a mountain of blankets, and pressed chest-to-back with Draco’s arms wrapped snug around him. Harry had stubbornly refused to move, and for once, the world didn’t demand that he did. His bones had never felt so relaxed. His heart never so full.
Eventually, though, the grumble of his stomach and the smug teasing from the blond beside him forced him out of bed and into the kitchen. Draco had expected to cook again—he even had the nerve to call Harry “his spoiled little war hero”—but Harry wasn’t having it. His honor was at stake. He was not just some brooding, criminal-catching, punch-first-ask-later brawler who needed constant pampering. So he cooked. Scrambled eggs and toast. Simple. Burnt around the edges. He was out of practice, okay. But his. And Draco had smiled—an actual proud smile, damn him—and praised it like it was gourmet.
It only got better from there.
They spent the day visiting Harry’s people… which, by extension, were now Draco’s people too, something Harry still wasn’t used to saying out loud. Ron and Hermione welcomed them with familiar ease—Ron even clapped Draco on the shoulder like they hadn’t hated each other’s guts for most of their youth, and Hermione beamed with a kind of smug approval that said, finally, someone else who can keep Harry from self-destructing.
Dean and Seamus introduced them to their overexcited, furry monster of a puppy who immediately jumped all over Draco like he was a new chew toy. Harry may or may not have taken a dozen photos.
Then there was Luna—soft-spoken, dreamy-eyed Luna—who floated into the conversation like moonlight and then casually reminded him that of course she and Draco were related. “Our family is quite extensive,” she’d said while pulling out an old photo album that had Harry blinking back surprise. The resemblance was... alarming. Draco hadn’t denied it. Just muttered something about “I told you we weren't lying” and moved on like he hadn’t just been handed a secret twin.
Harry hated how effortlessly charming Draco was. How everyone—everyone—welcomed him like he’d always been there. But that hatred evaporated the moment they got to the Burrow and Molly Weasley pulled Draco into a suffocating hug, kissed his cheek, and declared him too thin for a man with such sharp cheekbones. Arthur, bless him, had looked more fascinated by Draco’s experience with Muggle cars than anything else, and Draco, ever the composed socialite, nodded through it all. But Harry saw it. The way Draco's ears went pink. The way his eyes darted, overwhelmed. The way he softened, like he wasn’t used to being mothered, but maybe… just maybe, he liked it.
They even video-called Ginny, who was somewhere in Spain prepping for her next match. She waved at them, told Harry his hair still looked like a bird’s nest, and offered consolation services if any problems ever arose between them. Harry rolled his eyes, and Draco? He just winked.
The real surprise, though, had been Andromeda.
Harry had been nervous about that one. Draco hadn’t seen his aunt in well… ever. And with how complicated family lines could be, he wasn’t sure how the visit would go. But Andromeda had opened the door, taken one look at Draco, and immediately hugged him like the years hadn’t passed. No bitterness. No questions. Just a “You look too much like your mother for me to stay mad,” and that was it.
Then Teddy came barreling into the room, spotted Draco, and decided he was the coolest adult ever within thirty seconds flat. Draco had gone wide-eyed as the teenager fist bumped him, already calling him “Uncle Draco” like it was obvious. Harry stood frozen in betrayal while Teddy dragged Draco off to show him his favorite videogames. Traitor, he’d whispered under his breath. But he couldn’t stop smiling.
And finally—because it felt only right to end the day where so much had begun—they went to Hogwarts.
The castle was quiet. Winter had blanketed the grounds in snow, and the halls echoed with a soft, almost reverent stillness. They didn’t talk much as they wandered. Just held hands. Let memories surface and fade. Hogwarts had been the beginning and the battleground. A place where so much had been lost… and where maybe, in some strange, poetic twist of fate, they’d found each other again.
New Year’s had arrived not with fanfare, but with quiet contentment. And as they stood in front of the Great Lake, wind cold and breaths warm, Harry glanced sideways at Draco.
And for the first time, really believed they might just have a future.
Neville had greeted them with dirt-smudged hands and the biggest grin Harry had seen all day, dragging them into the greenhouse like proud parents do with photo albums. Harry had always known Neville had a knack for Herbology, but this? This was next level. The air was rich with earthy scents—lavender, mint, gillyweed, something that smelled suspiciously like smoke—and every surface seemed to hum with green life.
Neville handed Harry a bundle of fresh, calming herbs—“for when the world feels like too much,” he’d said—and Harry, bless him, genuinely believed he’d found his forever-best-friend. Neville hadn’t teased. Hadn’t raised a single brow at Draco Malfoy trailing behind like he belonged there. Not even when Draco complimented the greenhouse’s temperature regulation spells.
But then—oh, but then—Neville reached under the table and handed Draco a more tightly-wrapped bundle, whispering, “Just in case you two want something a little…extra. Natural aphrodisiacs. All organic.”
Harry, ever graceful, let out a shriek so undignified it startled a nearby mandrake, which immediately let out a baby screech of its own. In the span of five seconds, Harry tripped, knocked over a pot, fell against a table, and sent three jars flying. One exploded in a puff of pollen. Another opened to reveal a small, very aggressive vine that latched onto his ankle.
Neville looked absolutely mortified. Draco looked smug. Harry, tangled in sentient flora, declared betrayal and war all in the same breath.
The next stop was Professor McGonagall’s office—where, surely, Harry expected a reprieve from the chaos.
Wrong.
She wasn’t surprised to see him. She never was. Harry always made a point to visit each New Year, and McGonagall always received him with tea, that perfectly controlled smile, and stories of how the current crop of Gryffindors made her want to retire. But when Draco stepped in behind him, she paused. Just a twitch at the corner of her mouth. Not quite a frown. Not quite a smirk.
“Mr. Malfoy,” she said, cool and polite.
“Professor,” Draco replied, voice even softer, more respectful than Harry had ever heard it.
Then, as if the silence hadn’t been charged at all, McGonagall motioned toward the sitting area and offered them tea and shortbread biscuits, as if it was perfectly normal for her to be entertaining the two most dramatic ex-enemies in Hogwarts history.
What Harry hadn’t expected—what Harry could never have prepared for—was McGonagall calmly turning to Draco after a sip of tea and saying, “Do keep an eye on him, won’t you? He has a habit of taking the entire world on his shoulders.”
Draco, hand wrapped around Harry’s under the table, squeezed gently. And with a voice that carried no irony, no flirtation—just something deep and grave—said, “I swear on my life.”
Harry, spoon halfway to his mouth, nearly inhaled his tea. His ears burned. His face lit up like a cursed lantern. He would never recover.
McGonagall just smiled, pleased. Harry was betrayed. Again.
And Draco?
Draco just leaned a little closer and whispered, “You’re worth protecting, Potter.”
Harry considered setting himself on fire for dramatic effect. But instead, he bit into a biscuit and plotted revenge.
Their last stop of the day had been Hagrid’s hut, nestled at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, smoke curling gently from the crooked chimney, and Fang’s familiar bark echoing through the clearing. As soon as the front door creaked open and Hagrid’s massive form filled the frame, Harry was wrapped in a hug so tight he swore he heard his ribs threaten mutiny. Hagrid greeted him with that booming voice of his, one hand already dusting flour from his apron, the other holding a half-iced cake with “Happee New Year Harree” scrawled in thick green icing.
Every visit with Hagrid felt like coming home.
But when the half-giant spotted Draco standing just behind Harry, shoulders back, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, an odd hush fell over the hut. The warmth didn’t vanish—it just... paused.
Harry cleared his throat, offered a sheepish smile. “So… er, bit of a long story. But Draco and I… reunited. After fifteen years.”
Draco gave a small nod, polite and calm, but it didn’t stop Harry from nervously shifting on his feet, ready to intercept anything thrown their way—verbally or otherwise. But Hagrid, bless his enormous, tender heart, just stared for a beat longer before a massive grin broke across his face.
“Well, I'll be…” he muttered, then immediately lunged forward and bear-hugged Draco Malfoy.
Harry howled.
Tall, elegant, regal Draco made a strangled sound as he was hoisted several feet off the ground like a toddler’s doll. His feet kicked once. Twice. And then gave up.
When Hagrid finally set him down, Draco straightened his coat with as much dignity as a man who’d just been manhandled by a half-giant could muster. No sneers, no snide comments—just a quiet scoff and a very composed, “You’ve been missed as well.” Then he extended a hand, a genuine smile gracing his lips. “And I do apologize. For… everything. From before.”
Hagrid blinked, clearly not expecting that, but took the offered hand and shook it with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with his earlier tackle. “Blimey,” he said, tearing up just a little. “Never imagined yeh two of all people—but I suppose life’s always had a way of surprising me.”
He offered to bring them in, muttering about a “new batch of homemade turnip fudge” and “firewhisky cocoa,” but Harry—who valued his life, his digestive system, and Draco’s unspoken horror—quickly interjected.
“Actually—we’ve got one last stop. More plans. But thank you, Hagrid.”
Draco just nodded, clearly suppressing either a smirk or a scream, and let Harry drag him gently back toward the path.
Before they left, Hagrid knelt and hugged Harry again—softer this time, filled with the same warmth he’d given the first time they met. “You take care now, yeh hear me? Come visit soon.”
Harry smiled, voice a little thick. “Promise.”
They walked back toward the apparition point in silence, the lights from Hogwarts flickering behind them like a memory. When they finally made it home to Grimmauld Place, the air was quieter, a little heavier—but undeniably peaceful.
Harry knew without a doubt—no matter how chaotic, uncertain, or cursed the year ahead would be—he wasn’t going into it alone.
The next morning, life slammed back into routine like a tidal wave. The warm cocoon of New Year bliss popped like a soap bubble as Harry dragged himself out of bed, already dreading the backlog of reports, interrogation logs, and cursed object inventories waiting at the office. He’d meant to slip out quietly, let Draco sleep in as promised—after all, Draco didn’t have to be in the office until later that afternoon.
But, of course, Draco Malfoy had other ideas.
One sleepy rub of his eyes, a lazy murmur of “You leaving already?”, and suddenly he was sitting up, yawning like a cat and tossing the sheets aside. Harry, already halfway into his shirt, turned with furrowed brows. “Go back to sleep,” he tried. “You don’t have to be up yet.”
Draco just rolled his shoulders, stood, and replied with a smug little grin, “Give me ten minutes. I’ll drive.”
Harry didn’t even get to argue.
Ten minutes later—fifteen if he was honest—Draco emerged freshly showered, dressed in a sleek charcoal coat that billowed just enough to be dramatic, leather bag slung over his shoulder like a CEO on vacation. And apparently, he’d made a detour because by the time they pulled up to the Ministry, he had an entire tray of takeaway coffees in hand.
Harry blinked. “Why exactly are you—?”
But before he could finish, Draco leaned over, kissed the tip of his nose, and said smoothly, “Get out. You’ve got justice to serve, or whatever it is you do.”
Harry was still processing that when Draco climbed out too, holding the tray of coffee like a prized artifact and stretching out a hand toward him, palm open. Harry hesitated. Just for a second. But like a damn magnet, his fingers found Draco’s anyway.
Inside the Ministry, Carl at security blinked hard when he saw them walk in together. “Morning, Potter—good break?” he asked, voice polite and curious. But then his eyes darted to Draco. And lingered. And widened.
Harry could almost hear the gears turning.
The lift didn’t help. It was worse. Harry stood tense, ears burning, knowing full well that every single person inside was staring. He tried to pull his hand free—casual, discreet—but Draco just tightened his hold, lacing their fingers together shamelessly and smiling at the lift doors like he was doing absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.
By the time they reached the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Harry was ready to combust.
He rounded on Draco the moment they stepped into the Auror bullpen. “What the hell was all that for?” he hissed, trying not to trip over his own embarrassment.
Draco ignored him.
Instead, he placed the tray of coffees down on Harry’s desk, adjusted the sleeves of his coat, and pulled a file out of his leather bag.
“What’s this?” Harry asked, wary.
Draco handed it to him. “A detailed summary of everything we found at the manor. On soul theory, soul orbs, their history, magical cores. You’ll need it eventually for the case log.”
Harry blinked. Then flipped through the pages. Neat, annotated, color-coded. Merlin, Draco had included footnotes.
“You… organized this?” he asked, like the concept itself was foreign.
Draco looked smug. “Of course. I may be many things, but inefficient isn’t one of them.”
Harry’s heart swelled so fast he thought he might pass out.
And then the bastard turned around and, in a voice loud enough to echo down the entire corridor, announced, “Also—I brought coffee for the whole department. Happy New Year.”
A chorus of “Malfoy, you legend!”, “Ooh, flat whites!”, and even “Bloody hell, he’s a keeper, Potter!” rose like a wave.
Harry’s jaw dropped.
His heart exploded.
Draco, the smug little shit, just winked and whispered as he passed him on the way out, “I told you I wanted to make a good impression, darling.”
Harry sat at his desk, stunned, clutching the folder in one hand and a coffee in the other as the Aurors around him sang Draco’s praises.
And damn it all if he wasn’t smiling like a lovesick fool the whole damn time.
Draco Malfoy, Merlin bless his obsessive-compulsive, detail-obsessed soul, might as well have earned himself an entire month of kisses, cuddles, back rubs, and whatever sinful dessert Harry could bake—if he ever bothered to learn. Because the moment Harry handed over that soul magic report to his team, all hell broke loose. The productive kind of hell, which in an Auror office, was rarer than a peaceful Monday morning.
Ashley and Zola had immediately gone into research overdrive. Books were flying, keyboards clacking, magical databases humming. They even started compiling an annotated index of obscure magical texts faster than Harry could say “ancient soul theory.”
Nabu had clapped him on the back with the kind of force that would’ve floored a lesser man, declaring, “This is exactly why you’re our Commander, boss. Sharp instincts. Clear head. Brilliant follow-through.” Harry had been too stunned to correct him, especially when Chris chimed in quietly from his desk with a reverent murmur about “adding three more candles to the altar.”
Harry wasn’t even going to ask what altar that was.
Even Amy—stoic, eternally unimpressed Amy—gave him a slow, thoughtful nod and the faintest twitch of her left eyebrow. It was her version of a standing ovation, and Harry nearly teared up. He almost felt like a competent adult.
Of course, Ron had caught on immediately. The moment Draco handed him the file, Ron’s eyes had narrowed with the kind of smug grin only a best friend and brother-in-arms could wear. “I’m taking this to my grave,” he’d whispered with conspiratorial glee, already knowing damn well Draco had done the lion’s share of the work.
“I found the book!” Harry hissed.
“And Malfoy wrote the report,” Ron said, already sliding away before Harry could retort. “Let me know when you propose, yeah?”
To top it all off, Robards—old, grizzled, war-scarred Robards, who had never smiled a day in his life—actually praised him. Said, “This is promising work, Potter. We’ll bring in the Unspeakables for deeper analysis. Keep up the momentum.”
Praise. From Robards.
Harry had stood there blinking like he’d been hexed.
So yeah. He was going to kiss Draco senseless the moment he got home. He was going to drag him into bed, wrap him up in the softest blanket, and maybe even tell him—just maybe—how impossibly grateful he was.
And next time Draco offered to handle paperwork?
Harry was going to say yes so fast, even his own quill would cry from abandonment.
Sadly—tragically, even—Harry was yanked out of his post-boyfriend-appreciation daydream and slammed straight back into reality. A reality that apparently didn’t give a single damn that it was the start of a new year and he was still emotionally jetlagged from both surviving the holidays and dating Draco Malfoy.
Because no. Criminals don’t take breaks. Not for holidays. Not for full moons. Not even for Mercury in retrograde. They just kept on dueling illegally in basements like that was a totally normal thing to do on a weekday.
Robards had stormed into the office like he’d personally been wronged by the universe, barked out the intel: a tip from one of their confidential informants said a major match was going down tonight in one of the underground dueling rings they’d been tracking for months. It was the break they’d been waiting for—live, in progress, no delay, all hands on deck. Happy New Bloody Year.
Harry barely had time to finish his coffee before being dragged into the strategy meeting in a different conference room, the whiteboard already filled with scribbles, arrows, and magically floating blueprints.
The plan:
Amy and Chris would infiltrate the crowd, blending in as enthusiastic onlookers ready to place bets and clap like morons. Their job was to surveil, identify threats, and be ready to jump in if things went sideways.
Nabu—built like a tank, with the combat skills to back it up—was posing as a participant. He already looked like he ate curse-breakers for breakfast, so no one would bat an eye.
Ashley, their tech queen, was staying behind to control the building’s magical security systems remotely, mapping their movement and feeding them real-time updates through enchanted comms. She’d basically be the voice of God in their ears.
Ron and Harry were going for the real prize: the organizers. The assholes running the show, coordinating the fighters, taking the bets, and raking in the galleons. Their job was to find and arrest the leaders, then coordinate the takedown from the inside.
Meanwhile, other teams would secure all exits and backdoors like a magical SWAT team, making sure nobody slipped out once the signal was given.
Ron had cracked a grin while loading up his wand holster, snorting, “Nothing like arresting a bunch of dueling degenerates to really lift the post-holiday blues, huh?”
Harry just groaned, already mentally kissing goodbye his evening plans of curling up with Draco and pretending the outside world didn’t exist.
But duty called.
And if Harry had to wade through illegal curses and bloodthirsty spectators tonight... then someone was definitely giving him a massage afterward. Preferably shirtless. Preferably named Draco.
And so it began.
Night cloaked the city in its usual glamour-laced filth, and the club pulsed with bass-heavy music and the kind of bad decisions you could smell in the air. The intel had been solid—the underground duel was scheduled in the basement of this place, tucked beneath flashing lights, sticky floors, and the shrieks of patrons too far gone to notice anything off.
Typical. Criminals weren’t just unoriginal—they were fucking lazy.
Harry and Ron waited in the alley as Nabu stepped forward first, all confidence and that charming grin that could disarm a dementor. He barely had to mutter a few lines about being "invited" before the bouncer nodded and let him through. The man was built like a professional beater and looked like he could flatten anyone who challenged him—perfect bait.
They waited for a few other "spectators" to slip in—men in cloaks, women in fur and stiletto boots, a few hooded loners with too many rings on their fingers—before Amy and Chris followed. They blended effortlessly, already murmuring into the comms about the setup inside. Ashley, her voice calm and clipped through the channel, gave Harry and Ron the cue to move.
Harry rolled his shoulders, looked at Ron. One sharp nod. Time to dive in.
The club above was hell on earth—too loud, too crowded, too sticky. Lights flashed red and blue like it thought it was a crime scene before the crime. It reeked of sweat, spilt alcohol, and desperation. Every surface glistened with either grime or glitter, and Harry found himself dodging elbows and stray bodies like it was a battlefield. Someone ground up against him, and he shot them a look that could peel paint. Another hand tried something and Harry just growled and moved faster.
Ron looked like he wanted to set himself on fire. His face had that distinct “I’m married and I know Hermione would murder me” look. Poor bastard. Between the strobe lights and groping strangers, the man looked ready to curse the whole building down.
Harry wasn’t faring much better. He distracted himself, naturally—what would Draco do if he found him here?
No context. Just Harry, sweating, moving through this club like he belonged. Would Draco raise a brow and stalk over like some villainous heir, grab him by the wrist, pull him into a corner, and hiss his name with that low dangerous tone he used only in the dark? Or would he press up behind him, lips to his ear, asking him if he thought he could get away with this kind of thing without consequences?
Gods. Either version sounded divine.
But no—Draco was sophisticated, poised. He belonged in silk sheets and five-star lounges, not beer-soaked floors and cheap neon. He played the charming Muggle businessman in public: polished, well-spoken, devastatingly polite. He didn’t dance in clubs. He didn’t do clubs. He had no reason to be here. And besides—Draco didn’t need attention from anyone. Not when he made it clear that Harry was his whole damn world.
Ashley’s voice crackled in his ear, yanking him out of the fantasy.
"Right at the next hallway, then down. Storage room’s behind the third door. Leads to the basement."
“Copy,” Ron murmured. They slipped past another round of dancers, weaving through bodies without looking like they were on a mission. Harry’s Auror instincts were sharp—don’t make eye contact, don’t break pace, don’t act like a threat.
And then—
Blonde. Pale. Silver eyes.
Harry froze.
Everything around him blurred. The crowd, the music, the pounding bass—all of it fell away as his heart thudded once, twice, like it was trying to punch through his ribs.
That face.
It couldn’t be.
No. No, Draco was supposed to be at work. He said he had meetings. He dropped him off.
So what the fuck was he doing here?
“Harry?” Ron whispered, his voice tense. “What’s wrong?”
Harry blinked, forced his breath back into his lungs. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Just—thought I saw someone. Let’s go.”
He didn’t look again. Couldn’t. If he was wrong, he’d feel like a paranoid idiot. And if he was right—
He wasn’t ready to know why Draco Malfoy would be here.
Not tonight.
Not like this.
The storage room smelled like wet cardboard and betrayal.
Ron looked around with the same enthusiasm he reserved for Ministry paperwork and said dryly, “What now? Pull on a mop and hope there’s a secret trapdoor? Maybe say ‘Open Sesame’ in Parseltongue?”
Harry raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Feel free to start. Maybe the mop responds to sarcasm.”
Ashley’s voice crackled through the comms, clearly done with both of them. “If you two are quite finished, try knocking around the walls. Diagon Alley style. That’s the best guess I’ve got unless one of you packed a magical map for criminal nightclubs.”
Ron grumbled but obeyed, muttering about how Aurors should get hazard pay for “unspecified wall molestation.” Harry joined him, pressing and knocking at random until, after a well-aimed push on a brick with a faded rune etched into it, the wall shifted with a low grinding noise.
A hidden staircase appeared behind it.
“Well,” Ron said, “points for tradition. Should we start praying this doesn’t lead to a ritual altar where they’re skinning people alive?”
“Only if you go first,” Harry replied, trying to sound nonchalant even though his heart wasn’t in the banter tonight. Not after what he thought he saw. Or who.
Ron scoffed. “You’re the team leader.”
“You’re the team Gryffindor who said last week I needed to learn to delegate more.”
“Bastard.”
Harry gave a tight smile. “You love me.”
Ron rolled his eyes and went down first, wand in hand, muttering under his breath the entire way.
Luckily for them, there were no ritual sacrifices waiting in the shadows. No corpses strung up. Just the muffled roar of a crowd—and a sharp thud that sounded an awful lot like someone hitting the floor hard.
The match had started.
Ron suddenly stopped in front of Harry on the steps, causing him to nearly crash into his back.
“What?” Harry asked.
Ron didn’t respond. He just pointed.
To a metal ladder, bolted to the side wall, half-hidden by the shadowed corner of the stairwell. They shared a look—equal parts curiosity and that reckless thrill they both pretended they’d grown out of.
Harry nodded.
Up they climbed.
The ladder led not to the surface, but to a platform tucked above the main ring. It shouldn’t have existed—not with the floor plan they had, not with the muggle club overhead—but magic had never been one for obeying blueprints.
The room they emerged into was small, tight, almost claustrophobic. But it overlooked everything.
Below them stretched a makeshift arena, lit by spells and crackling torches. Spectators stood shoulder-to-shoulder in raised seating, screaming and cheering at the bloodsport unfolding in the ring. Two duelists were circling each other with lethal intent, magic flashing from their wands like lightning bolts.
But that wasn’t what Harry focused on.
There was a door on the far side of the platform. A simple door, magically warded from the look of it. Probably soundproofed too.
Harry narrowed his eyes.
That was where the organizers were. No question. Somewhere behind that door, the ones responsible for this whole operation were watching the chaos unfold.
And he was going to blow their world wide open.
Over a decade on the force had taught Harry Potter a lot of things. How to stay calm in a hostage negotiation. How to chase a dark wizard across rooftops in the pouring rain. How to tell when someone was lying just by the twitch of their lip or the way their fingers tapped on their wand. And—most usefully tonight—how to pick a magical lock so quietly that even the door didn’t realize it had been breached.
“Alohomora won’t cut it,” was practically Auror 101. Half the criminals they went after had reinforced their wards to laugh in the face of that spell. But Harry had long ago mastered the subtle art of using layered countercharms, focusing on the emotional resonance embedded into a lock’s protections. It was practically intimate. Like whispering the right thing to a sleeping beast to get it to roll over without waking.
Nabu once joked that if the Auror gig ever went south, Harry would make a hell of a professional thief. “You’ve already got the tragic backstory and the lock-picking skills, Potter. All you need is the black turtleneck and a grappling hook.”
But tonight, Harry wasn’t thinking clearly enough to take pride in his silent, surgical unlocking of the magically warded door in front of them. His hands moved on instinct. It was muscle memory and gut feeling. Not logic. Not precision.
Because his mind—that damn reckless, traitorous thing—was still spiraling around what he thought he’d seen upstairs.
That platinum blond hair. The flash of pale skin under the strobe lights. Those unmistakable silver eyes. He’d seen them almost every day for the last six months, etched them into his bones like scripture. He knew them.
But no. It couldn’t be.
Draco was at work this afternoon. He had texted him—Harry, boardroom meeting from hell. Save me with coffee later?—and Harry had sent back a stupid selfie with his feet on his desk and his wand glowing with boredom. Draco should be home by now. Probably curled up with his laptop and a whiskey in hand, cursing at some quarterly report.
There was no reason—no reason—for him to be in a club like this. Sitting that close to someone. That woman. Her face had been shadowed, but she was dressed to the nines. Tight dress. Glittering earrings. Practically in Draco’s lap.
Too close.
Harry’s jaw clenched.
He didn’t even notice when the door gave way with a soft click and swung open on silent hinges. Ron had to yank him by the sleeve before he walked right into the opening and gave them both away.
“What the hell is going on with you tonight?” Ron hissed, eyes darting around. “You’re off.”
Harry shook his head. “I’m fine.”
He wasn’t.
But that didn’t matter right now.
They had a job to do.
With synchronized wandwork, they cast quick disillusionment charms and a layer of muffling spells over their boots and sleeves. They slipped inside like shadows. Quiet. Cold. Focused.
The room was mostly empty—yet humming with secrets. A raised platform with floor-to-ceiling enchanted glass overlooked the arena below, offering a perfect view of the chaos and spectacle. The roar of the crowd was muted through the thick pane, but the flickering lights of dueling spells still cast a pulsing glow across the floor.
In the corner: stacks of money. No—bags of it. Galleons. Sickles. Muggle bills in wads thick enough to choke a dragon. Evidence of a thriving business that catered to both magical and non-magical clientele. This wasn’t some shabby underground ring. It was a full-blown empire.
And the mastermind was missing. For now.
Harry exchanged a look with Ron.
They’d have company soon. Probably the organizers, some security, maybe even a few VIPs looking to place bets or strike deals. They needed to be smart. Fast. Hit them before anyone realized the Ministry had slipped in.
Down below, Nabu stepped into the ring. Shoulders squared. Wand loose in his hand. His opponent was tall, wiry, grinning like he’d just snorted powdered basilisk fang.
The match was starting.
Harry took a breath and tried to shove the image of that blond head in the crowd from his thoughts.
But the seed of doubt had been planted. And it was growing. Twisting.
And somewhere under all the mission focus and Auror protocol and adrenaline—
His heart ached.
However, he didn't have time for that right now. He was on the job and his heartaches could wait.
The operation had been going suspiciously smooth—too smooth, if you asked Harry. But maybe that was just paranoia bleeding in through the cracks in his focus. Ashley’s voice crackled in through the comms, low but sure.
“All exterior teams in position. No movement. Amy and Chris are locked in. Crowd hasn’t clocked them. We’re green to go.”
Harry nodded even though she couldn’t see him. Ron shot him a look—game time—and Harry adjusted his grip on his wand, every muscle tuned to that cold, electric hum of imminent action.
And then the door creaked open.
They ducked into the shadows instantly—Ron behind an old cabinet, Harry pressed against the stone wall beside the panel window.
Voices spilled in like rotten oil—loud, brash, half-slurred laughter. Smoke followed, thick and cloying. The stench of alcohol, testosterone, and too much cologne clung to them like filth. The gang of men that stumbled inside looked like every bad gangster cliché come to life. Suits too tight or too loose. Gold chains, rings on every finger. One of them was wearing sunglasses indoors and reeked of so much Firewhisky Harry nearly gagged.
But it was the leader who made Harry narrow his eyes. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a bald head and a gold watch so ostentatious it could blind someone under the right lighting. He laughed like he owned the place, his voice grating and deep.
And then came her.
The woman.
Harry’s stomach sank. That was her. From the club floor. Tight red dress that shimmered under the ceiling lights, heels that could stab through bone, and a perfume so sharp it sliced the air. She clung to the man’s arm like she belonged there—head tilted, lips painted, smile honey-sweet and plastic as hell.
Harry recognized that expression. He’d seen it too many times.
It was a mask.
Fake interest, exaggerated laughter, eyes scanning the room when she thought no one noticed.
She was working. But for who? The bald man? Or someone else?
The group settled into the seats near the observation panel, loud and cocky, watching the ring below where Nabu was giving the performance of his life. Sweat gleamed on his temple as he dodged a particularly nasty hex. The crowd roared, and the men cheered.
“Who’s the new guy?” one asked, leaning forward.
Harry tensed. So did Ron. Please don’t say his real name.
“Dunno,” the boss replied. “But he’s got good form. Might keep him around.”
That was good. For now.
And then it hit—that smell.
It wasn’t just smoke. It was something chemical. Sharp. Illegal.
Harry’s eyes flicked back to the woman, who was pulling out a tiny velvet pouch and pouring powder into a small vial of shimmering green potion. She shook it casually—like it was just sugar in tea—then passed it off to one of the others, who guzzled it down like it was pumpkin juice.
Shit.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” Ron whispered under his breath, “or are they mixing potions and street drugs?”
Harry didn’t answer. Because yeah—this wasn’t just a fight club anymore. It was a full-scale black market operation.
Ashley’s voice came through, brittle now, all the calm professionalism stripped away.
“Chris and Amy are reporting more of those vials being passed around in the stands. Unmarked potions. Looks like some of the duelists are getting handed them too.”
As if on cue, the man facing Nabu in the ring popped something in his mouth. A second later, his back arched, magic crackled around his fingers, and he launched a spell that nearly took Nabu’s shoulder off.
Harry’s stomach dropped. They’re enhancing them. Juicing up duelists with who-knows-what. That’s why it’s been so hard to catch. They’re weaponizing magic with chemical enhancements.
This had gone from an illegal ring to a damn bio-magical threat.
Ron gave him a look—serious now. “We need to move.”
Fortunately for them the door was on their side. They were boxed in, and the only way out for the party of criminals ten feet away was through them.
Harry’s jaw clenched. “We wait for my signal. When I hex the window, jump in and disarm. Go for the leader and the girl. Ashley, tell Amy and Chris to engage. Nabu can handle himself.”
“Copy that.”
The pressure was building in Harry’s chest, the kind that told him something was going to go wrong. But they were out of time. One more pill, one more enhanced spell, and Nabu might not make it.
He met Ron’s eyes.
And nodded.
Oh, this was the part Harry lived for.
Sure, he’d write "protecting the innocent" on his Ministry evaluation reports and tell Ginny over lunch that he became an Auror to make a difference, and maybe that was true… in part. But there was another truth in him—one he didn’t say out loud. One that coiled in his gut like a serpent coiled around lightning.
He was built for this.
For chaos.
For violence.
For war.
The moment the glass shattered and the room exploded into curses and screams, that part of him—the one trained, hardened, and nearly broken by a decade of survival—woke up.
He moved like instinct, wand whipping through the air, each spell a punch, a calculated strike. No flashy sparks or overly complicated flourishes. His casting was tight, minimal, brutal. His stunners hit like trucks. His shields snapped into place so fast one of the men’s curses ricocheted right back into his jaw with a satisfying crack.
The girl had screamed when it started. The bald one had cursed louder. The others scrambled—panicked, pathetic—but not Harry. Never Harry. He was in his element.
One went down hard when Ron nailed him in the ribs with a Confringo hex, and then all hell broke loose. Below them, the ring erupted. Glass rained down like a storm of knives, and Harry heard the crowd scream. Someone below shouted, “Aurors! SCRAM!” and the panic spread like fire.
“I’ll get the runners!” Ron called, already vaulting over the banister to chase after the woman and a bastard making a break for it.
Harry didn’t stop him.
Because that left him alone with the bald ringleader and another thug. And the bastard actually had the gall to smirk like he thought he stood a chance.
Good. Let him try.
Harry rolled his shoulders once, breathed in through his nose, and let the leash off.
The spells flew.
The ringleader was a heavy hitter—he didn’t fight pretty, but he fought mean. Dark spells. Illegal ones. Harry recognized a few. A cutting spell, modified to maim, not kill. A hex that could crush cartilage. Another that almost took out the window frame behind him.
But Harry moved through them like water, ducking, spinning, counter-cursing with terrifying efficiency. He let the energy surge. Let the need rise. He hadn't let himself go like this in years.
The second guy went down hard—hit with a silent disarming spell that slammed him against the wall like a ragdoll. Out cold. One down.
The bald man snarled. “You Ministry fucks think you can just waltz in—”
Harry didn’t even let him finish. He was already moving.
“Expulso.”
The ground exploded beneath the man's feet. The bastard fell backwards, hit the edge of a table and screamed, but still clutched his wand. Blood poured from his forehead. Still fighting.
Good. Give me an excuse.
The spells collided midair, both their shields humming with pressure. The man charged, wand raised high—predictable.
Harry stepped into him.
“Expelliarmus!” he shouted, point-blank.
The wand ripped from the man’s hand and slammed into the ceiling. Before he could even react, Harry punched him—hard. Right in the jaw.
The crunch was satisfying.
The man slumped to the floor, out cold or maybe just too dazed to move. Either way, he was done.
Harry stood there, panting. Blood on his cheek—someone else’s. Smoke in the air. The whole ring below was chaos. Ashley’s voice barked orders through his comm. Amy was yelling for reinforcements. Nabu was still dodging that berserker fighter.
But Harry—Harry was alive.
Heart racing. Magic buzzing in his bones like lightning in a cage.
And fuck if he didn’t feel more like himself than he had in weeks.
He stepped over the unconscious bodies, looked down at the riot below, and raised his wand again.
Time to clean up the rest.
He shouldn’t have jumped.
But of course Harry bloody Potter did.
Like the reckless, adrenaline-chasing lunatic he was, he vaulted clean off the platform without a second thought. A featherlight spell pulsed around his boots, softening the landing so it barely made a sound—felt like walking on clouds.
Too bad the chaos below was anything but.
People were screaming, pushing past each other in a panicked stampede. The crowd had shattered like glass—runners fleeing toward exits, dodging hexes and stunners. Amy and Chris were a blur in the mess, eyes sharp and wands crackling, taking down potion dealers and drug smugglers with stunning precision. Every few seconds, a body would crumple under a full-body bind, or go rigid as a sleep charm took hold.
And still, more slipped through—only to be snatched by the Aurors stationed outside. A perfect trap.
They were going to need a lot of handcuffs. And sweet Merlin, the paperwork would be hell. A whole night of interrogations, evidence logs, testimonies, and official statements. Harry could already see the pile mounting on his desk.
But right now? He didn’t give a flying fuck.
Because Nabu was still in the center ring, and he was losing.
Harry swore under his breath and bolted. He reached the edge of the platform, leapt, and with another softening spell landed just beside the fighting circle. Nabu was struggling, sweat soaking his collar, his stance faltering with each dodge. His opponent—that hulking, frenzied brute of a man—was clearly jacked up on something unnatural. His movements were erratic but fast, hits packing the kind of strength that cracked stone and snapped bones.
Harry didn’t hesitate. He flicked his wrist mid-sprint, summoning a glowing blue shield just in time to deflect a curse meant to tear Nabu in half. The spell fizzled against the barrier in a flash of sparks.
Nabu turned, panting, the corner of his mouth bloodied—but he still grinned.
More of a grimace, really, but the bastard wore charisma like a second skin.
“You’re late,” Nabu wheezed.
Harry rolled his eyes and grabbed his arm, yanking him up. “You’re welcome, princess.”
No time for more. Another bolt of green light shot their way, and both men dove to the side—just as the ring’s metal pole exploded with a hiss, leaving a trail of smoke and glowing embers.
Nabu groaned. “Pretty sure that’s against the rules.”
Harry barked a laugh. “Mate, the guy’s off his tits. I don’t think he remembers what rules are.”
Their opponent wasn’t just strong—he was a machine. Tall as a doorframe, built like a mountain. Veins bulging from under his skin, eyes wild and unfocused, and his magic flaring uncontrolled, sharp and volatile. Every step he took crackled against the floor like it wanted to shatter.
But there were two of them now. And Harry wasn’t above playing dirty.
They went in together—flanking, feinting, harrying him from both sides. One distracted while the other struck. Nabu swept low while Harry struck high. Hit. Retreat. Hit again.
Wear him down. Break his rhythm. Don’t let him breathe.
It was working.
Until the man roared.
Not a shout. Not a scream.
A roar—a primal, unholy sound that shattered what was left of the ring’s silence. It vibrated in Harry’s bones. Made his teeth rattle.
And then with one swipe—just one—he sent Nabu flying, crashing into the barrier with a sickening thud. Harry’s eyes widened—
“Shit—!”
The backhand caught him off-guard. Threw him halfway across the ring. He hit the mat hard, rolled, groaned—fuck—and reached instinctively for his wand.
It wasn’t there.
It had rolled out of reach, glinting mockingly from the far end of the ring.
Great.
Harry sat up slowly, ribs aching, breath wheezing out in broken gasps. The man was stalking toward him now, no wand, no spells—just brute force.
Okay.
Fine.
They were doing this the muggle way.
Harry cracked his neck and stood, fists curling.
He’d been bullied. Beaten. Tossed around like a ragdoll for years before he even knew what a wand was. Before spells. Before magic. He’d learned how to take a hit, how to duck, how to kick knees and later on how to punch throats and survive.
He’d grown up a punching bag.
But not anymore.
Now, he was Harry Fucking Potter.
And he was really, really good at letting loose.
The fight was brutal.
Raw, visceral, teeth-rattling kind of brutal—the sort of fight that left you aching for days and grinning like a lunatic. And Harry? He needed this. Needed the pain, the burn in his lungs, the thrum in his veins, the sting of skin splitting on knuckles. It grounded him.
The guy he was fighting? Built like a troll on steroids. Probably had biceps thicker than his skull. Every hit was a wrecking ball. When one finally connected, it sent Harry skidding across the floor like a ragdoll, bones rattling like maracas in his body. It hurt. Merlin, it hurt.
But Harry was fast. Freakishly fast. Not just with movement, but with his mind.
And that was his edge.
While the brute was swinging like a cave-dwelling gorilla, Harry was observing. Watching how he moved. Where he leaned. Where he didn’t. And it wasn’t until he got body-slammed into the floor like a sack of potatoes that he realized—
The left leg.
The bastard wouldn’t put too much weight on it.
Harry barely rolled out of the way before a fist came down where his head had just been, cracking the stone floor. He scrambled up, swift and fluid, adrenaline pushing him through the ache in his ribs. He heard glass shatter in his pocket—his glasses. Great. As if his vision wasn’t already half-blind with sweat and blood.
He really needed to listen to Hermione and get those bloody contacts.
Didn’t matter now.
Harry dodged again—just a breath away from getting tackled—and spun behind the man. Quick, silent, calculated. He wound up and slammed his foot into the brute’s right leg first, baiting a shift in weight, and then—bam—targeted the left with everything he had.
He heard the crack.
The man screamed and staggered, balance gone.
And that was all Harry needed.
He took two running steps, leapt at the barrier wall, used it like a springboard, and launched himself knee-first into the guy’s face.
The impact echoed.
The man dropped like a felled tree, heavy and hard, crashing to the floor with a groan and then stillness.
Unconscious.
Harry hit the ground beside him, panting, heart pounding, chest burning with effort—but he was smiling.
It wasn’t just victory. It was release.
He sat there for a second, catching his breath, then muttered to no one in particular, “Still got it.”
His knuckles were bruised. His ribs ached. He probably had a few new scars to add to the collection.
But he’d won.
And damn, it felt good.
Notes:
So yeah, Harry can be pretty badass. There's a reason why he's top auror. Maybe a little broken too
Chapter 19
Notes:
I'm back...
So I was on a trip and just came back and literally came back sick but I just couldn't put this off for longer or I'll miss the plot too
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The aftermath was always the messiest part.
Outside, it was pandemonium in slow motion. The screaming had quieted, replaced by sirens, flurries of spellwork, shouting of orders, and the low murmurs of the injured. Aurors swarmed the place like bees kicked from a hive, buzzing with reports and detainment procedures. Stretchers floated past, Healers barked out instructions, and Harry—soaked in sweat, blood, and dirt—just stood there for a moment, watching it all unfold like he wasn’t a part of it.
He saw Nabu being levitated toward a nearby emergency med unit. His face was swollen and bruised, arm tucked in a sling, but his smirk was still there, defiant even in pain. Harry moved toward him, gripping his own ribs with a wince.
“Take care of yourself,” Harry muttered as he passed, tapping the side of the stretcher. “We’ll come visit later.”
Nabu gave him a lazy two-finger salute before being floated off.
Amy and Chris were busy handing off the ones they’d bagged—mainly potion dealers and black market pushers. Their faces were all the same: cocky, sweaty, and nervous now that the high had worn off. Chris shot Harry a thumbs-up, while Amy, sharp as ever, was already hounding an Auror about evidence chains.
Then came Ron, striding up with half the organizer crew in custody. All of them cuffed, restrained, one of them looking like he’d tried to bite someone.
“She got away,” Ron muttered with a tight jaw. “The girl. We’re putting trackers out now.”
Harry barely heard him. The adrenaline was draining fast, leaving him with nothing but aches and sharp jabs of pain in places he didn’t even know were injured. But then—
He saw it.
The tattoo.
On the arm of the bald organizer.
The Dark Mark.
Harry froze. His eyes locked on the man’s, and the bastard—seeing him—smirked. Not smug. Not victorious. Knowing.
Then he disappeared with a snap of Apparition, escorted back to the Ministry.
But Harry was still stuck there, brain grinding against the storm in his gut.
Why now?
Why him?
Why was that woman the first thing that came to mind?
She didn’t bear the mark. Not visibly. But something about her. Something cold, sharp, calculating. The way she moved. Smiled. Didn't fit.
He didn’t have time to spiral.
“Oi,” Ron barked, slapping a hand on his shoulder—and Harry nearly screamed from the sudden burn of pain.
“Shit—sorry, mate,” Ron winced. “You’re definitely cracked somewhere. Go get looked at before I owl Hermione.”
Harry gave a tired half-glare. Ron raised a brow, using that tone. The one that said 'Don’t make me be responsible for you, I already have a wife and a kid on the way.'
Harry relented with a groan and hobbled off toward the med tent, muttering under his breath.
This was far from over.
And his gut was telling him—the woman wasn’t just another player in the game.
She was part of the hand dealing the cards.
He didn’t even make it two steps inside the house before the exhaustion hit him like a curse.
Grimmauld Place was silent, soaked in shadows, the kind of quiet that makes you feel like you’re trespassing in your own home. Harry winced as he shrugged off his jacket with one arm, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor. His dislocated shoulder was wrapped in a sling, his ribs screamed with every breath, and his hands—bloody, bruised, broken skin across the knuckles—were the evidence of a night that had been far too long and far too much.
Robards had all but growled at him to go the hell home, a rare act of mercy from the man who’d once sent him into a werewolf den on his birthday. He said Harry looked like he’d picked a fight with the Hogwarts Express and then lost. “Don’t step foot in the Ministry again tonight, Potter. Or I’ll hex your legs off myself.”
Harry hadn’t argued. Not because he agreed, but because for once, the thought of home—of Draco—sounded better than the victory high of a job well done.
But now, standing in the living room, bruised and bone-tired, he wasn’t sure what to feel.
The club.
That flash of pale blonde hair, silver eyes under dim lights, the woman too close to be casual.
No. No, that wasn’t him.
He refused to spiral. Draco was probably back in his flat, or busy, or— But no. That wasn't fair. Harry trusted him. He did. He had to.
Dragging his feet upstairs, every step a stab to his ribs, all Harry wanted was to pass out face-first into the bed and forget everything for just a few blissful unconscious hours.
But then he opened the door—
—and froze.
There, leaning against the headboard like some picture of serenity, was Draco. Pajamas rumpled, legs stretched out, one hand flipping a page in a book. The soft golden light of the bedside lamp gave his hair a halo, his eyes lifting lazily—until they locked onto Harry.
The book was down in an instant.
“Merlin, Harry—” Draco’s voice dropped, not angry, not even exasperated. Just concerned. Quietly wrecked.
He stood up slowly, gaze dragging across Harry’s face, his sling, the gauze taped across his cheek. And then he was there—right there—cupping the uninjured side of his jaw, leaning in to press a kiss to Harry’s forehead.
“What,” he murmured against skin, “am I going to do with you?”
Harry didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Because the tension melted out of him with that single touch. His brain, which had been tormenting itself with flashes of a club and a woman’s hand on Draco’s arm, finally shut up.
It wasn’t him. Couldn’t be.
Because this was real.
And Draco was here.
Still, Harry grumbled half-heartedly when Draco ushered him to the bathroom. “I just wanna sleep,” he muttered.
“Sleep covered in blood and alley muck? On the sheets I just changed this morning?” Draco said, horrified. “Absolutely not.”
So Harry let himself be manhandled like a ragdoll—stripped, guided into the tub, bathed like he was made of glass. Draco’s expression grew darker with every bruise and cut revealed, his fingers tentative but reverent. He dried him carefully, muttering soft, scolding nonsense under his breath, then dressed him in loose pajamas, brushing Harry’s teeth like it was the most normal thing in the world while Harry complained like a brat and melted like butter.
“You’re ridiculous,” Harry mumbled sleepily.
“And you’re a disaster,” Draco shot back, brushing his hair out of his eyes with a faint smile. “Luckily, I happen to love pampering disasters.”
Harry didn’t argue again.
They climbed into bed, Draco pulling the blankets over them and shifting just close enough to tuck Harry into his side—without putting pressure on anything sore or broken. The warmth spread between them like a spell, slow and encompassing.
No questions. No lies. No ghosts between them tonight.
Just soft breathing.
And sleep.
Together.
Morning arrived with far too much sunlight and not nearly enough sense.
Harry, bruised and bandaged like a war survivor, was already trying to tug on his shirt with one good arm when Draco stumbled out of bed, bleary-eyed and immediately unimpressed.
“You are not serious,” Draco said, voice still raspy from sleep but laced with judgment so sharp it could skin a basilisk. “You are not going to work today.”
Harry had the audacity to look sheepish but determined. “I am.”
“You’re an idiot.”
Harry huffed. “I’m fine.”
“You’re in a sling, Potter,” Draco snapped, marching over to yank the shirt out of his hand. “A sling. As in, your shoulder was dislocated and popped back in place less than twelve hours ago. You look like you went ten rounds with a troll and lost seven.”
“Yeah, but I won three,” Harry said with a cheeky grin, and Draco looked moments away from cursing him into unconsciousness.
“You might’ve defeated Voldemort at seventeen, but that doesn’t make you Superman.”
That stopped Harry, brows shooting up with a grin. “You know Superman?”
Draco rolled his eyes so hard they almost levitated. “I probably know more about muggle pop culture than you do. Honestly, it’s embarrassing.”
Harry just laughed and let Draco manhandle him into the bathroom. He sat quietly while Draco bathed him with clinical precision and relentless sass, grumbling the whole time about Aurors with death wishes and brainless Gryffindors who think sleep is for the weak. It was oddly nostalgic. Comforting. A reminder of old schooldays when Draco had always had something to say—usually snide, often clever, and always Harry-focused.
The difference now was in the way Draco toweled him off like he was a priceless artifact, in the way his fingers lingered at every bruise with something almost like reverence. In the way Harry didn’t resist, letting himself be pampered even as he smirked and tossed back quips to provoke more complaints—just to hear Draco talk.
Because Draco was talking a lot. Ranting. Muttering. Venting. The way he used to, back in Hogwarts—when he was a storm in human skin, prideful and prickly and so alive. And Harry, battered and half-functioning, had never felt more certain: the boy he used to watch from across classrooms and corridors was still there. The same sharp tongue. The same intensity. Just polished now, refined. Like someone had taken that wild child and dressed him up in expensive suits and good manners.
His wild child.
The ride to the Ministry was more of the same—Draco dressed in his usual flawless three-piece, hands on the wheel like he owned London, ranting about the Ministry's labor laws and Harry’s nonexistent self-preservation instincts while Harry just... stared.
God, he looked good when he was annoyed.
Somewhere between the red light on Charing Cross and Draco gesturing furiously about ligament strain and pain potions, Harry found himself smiling like an idiot. There’s no way, he thought, no bloody way Draco could ever betray me. The figure he saw at the club last night? Definitely a trick of the light. A coincidence. A glitch in his sleep-deprived brain.
The Draco next to him now, still talking, still fussing, still driving like the road belonged to him—this Draco was real. This Draco was his.
When they pulled up to the Ministry, Draco gave him one last chance.
“You can still call in sick, you know. Pretend to be a functioning human tomorrow.”
Harry just leaned over, kissed the knuckles of his hand, and murmured, “I’ll be fine. Lunch together later?”
Draco stared at him. Melted, despite himself.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered, flicked Harry’s forehead, and pressed a kiss to his temple. “Fine. Come to LUXOR later. Don’t die in the meantime.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry said, grinning, and walked into the Ministry with a swagger that only slightly disguised the limp.
The Department of Magical Law Enforcement looked like it had been ransacked by a very disorganized, very festive band of pixies. The Christmas decorations were still half-hanging from every surface like drunk party guests who overstayed their welcome. Fairy lights blinked unevenly. Tinsel was caught in the fan. And the sheer volume of paperwork looked like it had reached breeding age and multiplied overnight.
And then there were the people. So many people. The aftermath of last night’s operation had vomited its consequences all over the Auror department. Suspects were being corralled into various corners, some cuffed, some just sulking, others loudly demanding a lawyer or yelling about their "rights." Some were already being processed for release or bail. But the air was thick with tension, caffeine, and post-adrenaline exhaustion.
Harry limped his way to his desk and spotted Ron slumped over his own like a very large, very defeated tomato. He gave him a little poke in the temple, and Ron jerked up like he’d just been cursed, eyes wild, hair sticking out at every angle, and yelling something about “the reports” and “interrogation protocols.”
Harry, very helpfully, laughed.
“Oh,” Ron groaned, recognizing him. “It’s you. Why are you here? You're literally half-mummified.” He gestured vaguely at the sling.
Harry smirked, wincing slightly as he sat down. “Came to rescue your sorry arse. You look like death, mate. Not even the charming kind.”
Ron grumbled something about managing just fine, and Harry didn’t have the heart to point out he’d fallen asleep with a quill stuck to his cheek.
Apparently, they’d already processed the majority of the suspects. Some had been released or were waiting for bail review. Others—particularly those caught selling illegal potions and drugs—were facing a less cozy future.
When Harry asked about the organizers and the mystery woman, Ron rubbed his face like he wanted to peel it off and start over.
“Organizers are in holding,” he said, voice muffled. “All being processed. Pretty clear they’re gonna get trialed. Illegal dueling, potion trafficking, drug mixing—there’s enough on them to buy a decade of Azkaban vacation time.”
“And the woman?”
Ron sighed. “Put out a notice. No leads yet. She’s vanished.”
Harry frowned, something uneasy curling in his gut again. The image of her leaning close to that man still itched at the back of his brain.
Ron looked like he was about to pass out again, so Harry stood, walked around the desk, and pulled him to his feet by the collar. “Go. Break room. Coffee. Now.”
“I hate how strong you are even with a dislocated arm,” Ron muttered, shuffling off like a kicked puppy.
Harry dropped into his seat and exhaled, glancing at the towering mountain of parchment waiting for him.
“Well,” he muttered, “guess this is what I get for not dying.”
The first file he opened had already been stained by someone’s tears. Hopefully not Ron’s.
Time to get to work.
An hour in, Harry had built a modest little graveyard of completed paperwork at the corner of his desk. Unfortunately, the towering beast of incomplete forms looked completely unfazed—as if mocking him for even trying. Typical. He’d resigned himself to a long, brain-numbing morning when the door slammed open like it owed someone money.
Zola stormed in like a whirlwind—lab coat flaring behind her like a battle banner, curls defying gravity, and glasses hanging from one ear. Her eyes were wild with sleepless obsession. She looked like she’d just sprinted from a week-long argument with the laws of magical physics.
Harry blinked. “Zola? What the hell—?”
She slapped a file down on his desk hard enough to shake his mug. “I found something.”
That got his attention. “Found what?” he asked, already opening the file as she started speaking in rapid-fire logic.
“After your last report on the soul magic and the soul orbs,” she began, pacing now, gesturing so violently the curls in her hair bounced with every word, “I kept digging. I knew something didn’t sit right. And then I found this.”
She pointed furiously to a diagram inside the file—an annotated magical anatomy sketch covered in notes, graphs, and what looked like coffee stains.
Zola’s voice dropped lower, more urgent. “The orb doesn’t just drain magic like we thought. It drains life force. First. That’s the key. The soul—what we call the soul—is directly connected to the magical core. But the orb drains the soul first. The life. Which means the core gets left to shrivel after, once there’s nothing left to power it.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the contents. “So the mummification... it’s from the life force being ripped out first?”
“Exactly!” she said, jabbing her finger toward the page. “And because of that—because the body dies before the magic’s even touched—there’s a delay in the signs of death. Rigor mortis, decay, magical feedback... all of it’s off. Way off.”
Harry’s mind was already racing. “So the time of death…”
“Wrong,” Zola confirmed, glasses sliding down her nose. “By at least a day. All of them. All the victims died before we thought. The soul was ripped out first, but the bodies only started decaying later, which threw off all of our calculations.”
He sat back in his chair, stunned for a second.
That changed everything.
It meant every alibi that previously checked out might not. Witness testimonies tied to time of death? Flawed. Surveillance timestamps? Misleading. The entire timeline of the case—the rhythm and logic they’d clung to—was off.
Harry muttered, “We’ve been looking at this all wrong.”
Zola nodded fiercely. “It’s a full rewrite. The killer’s been working with a delay we didn’t account for. They’ve had a full day more with the bodies before we even realized a crime happened.”
Harry stood, snapping the file shut with a quiet, decisive thud. His blood was humming again—not the cold, adrenaline-drunk rush of last night’s raid, but the sharp edge of a puzzle snapping into a new, terrifying shape.
He looked at her. “Zola, you’re a bloody genius. Thank you.”
She grinned—equal parts proud and manic. “Sleep is for the weak.”
He chuckled, grabbed the file, and left his desk, heading straight to the conference room. The case boards were still up—maps, strings, photos, timelines—all based on a timeline that was now officially useless.
He started rearranging. Sliding pins. Tearing down sticky notes. Adding new sheets.
A new timeline. A new perspective. A new phase of the hunt.
The killer thought they were ahead of them.
They wouldn’t be for long.
Ron walked in with coffee like a war-weary soldier coming back from the front lines—mug clutched like a lifeline, eyes half-lidded, steps slow enough to count as dragging. He stopped in the doorway, took one long look at Harry practically vibrating in front of the updated case boards, and just sighed.
“Y’know,” Ron began, setting the coffee down and leaning against the doorframe, “at this rate, your ribs are gonna heal all crooked and cursed. You’ll be a permanent weather predictor.”
Harry didn’t even look back, just grumbled something about progress like the obsessed gremlin he was.
Ron rubbed his face. “Mate.”
Harry sighed, finally stepping back from the board. “What?”
“The bald git from last night. Head organizer. He asked for you.”
That got Harry to turn, attention now sharpened like a blade. “Why?”
Ron shrugged like he wished he knew. “Beats me. Maybe he likes your face. Just... be careful. I trust you. But don’t let him pull you in. Guys like that? They’re good at sniffing out your sore spots. They want to get under your skin.”
Harry gave a lopsided grin. “When have I ever done anything rash?”
Ron didn’t even blink. “You punched a suspect because he insulted your shirt.”
“He insulted my jumper. The one Molly knitted for me.”
“And you broke his nose. With one hand. In front of his lawyer.”
Harry didn’t even look the least bit sorry. “Still not taking it back.”
Ron gave a tired smile. “Just don’t make me come down there and clean up your mess again, alright?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Harry waved him off, already heading toward the holding cells.
The corridor to the cells was cold, quiet, and far too familiar. The auror on guard gave him a small nod as he passed, and then he saw him—the bald bastard from last night. Same gold watch, same nasty grin, and sure enough, when his sleeve shifted just a bit, the unmistakable shadow of the Dark Mark lingered like a ghost on his skin.
He grinned wider when he saw Harry, voice coiling around his name like smoke. “Harry Potter. The golden boy himself.”
Harry didn’t flinch. “You asked to see me. Speak.”
The man walked up to the barrier, leaning in, casual and smug. “Still so sharp, aren't you? You must get off on it—being everyone's little hero. Running around in your robes, pretending like the world isn’t still rotting from the inside out.”
Harry stared. Blank face. No reaction. Years of interrogations had taught him the power of silence. The man scoffed when his words didn't land, adjusted his stance, and tried a new tactic.
“You know, I was there. When everything fell apart. When your little moment of glory blinded the rest of us. And you know what I realized? You didn’t win. You just created chaos. We scattered, sure. Hid. Rebuilt. Waited.”
Harry tilted his head slightly, eyes still unreadable. “Sounds like a you problem.”
The man’s smile dropped—but only for a second. Then it was back, sharper. Meaner.
“You act like you've got everything figured out,” he said. “But you don’t even know who you’ve got at your side. Tell me, Potter—how well do you know the people closest to you? Really?”
Harry’s jaw ticked, barely.
The man didn’t stop. “That boy you keep dragging into your orbit—Malfoy. Ex-Death Eater, branded and sworn. The son of Lucius himself. Maybe you’ve forgotten. But some of us haven’t.”
“Draco was a kid,” Harry said, calm but cold. “And he was a victim. He didn’t have a choice.”
“No one ever has a choice, Potter,” the man replied, stepping just a bit closer to the barrier, voice low now, conspiratorial. “But that’s what makes it fun, isn’t it? Thinking we’re all just good little soldiers forced into war. What if he wasn’t? What if he liked it?”
Harry’s fingers curled against his palm.
“What if all that polish and charm is just a better disguise? What if he grew into the monster he was always meant to be?”
Harry’s voice was a blade. “You don’t know him.”
The man smirked. “Don’t I?”
Silence buzzed in the cell like electricity before a storm. Harry stood still, eyes locked with the man’s. And deep down, he knew this was a test—a trap, laced in old trauma and newer doubts.
But he also knew Draco. Not the boy in the war, not the name in the paper—but Draco now. The one who smiled softly when he thought no one saw, who nagged about sleep and pampered Harry like he was something breakable. The one who carried guilt in his spine like a weight and still stood straight.
The one who chose him.
Harry leaned forward, calm and collected, eyes deadly still.
“Nice try. But I don’t break that easy.”
He turned and walked away, ignoring the man's chuckle behind him. It lingered—but it didn't sink.
Not today.
Outside, Ron was already leaning against the wall, coffee in one hand and the kind of look only a best friend could wear—quiet, knowing, and just a little bit exasperated. He didn’t say anything at first, just let Harry come to him, shoulder tense, mouth drawn tight.
Harry didn’t need prompting. He offered a tired smile and mumbled, “He just wanted to mess with me.”
Ron scoffed into his cup. “They always do. Bloody criminals act like we’re their emotional support punching bags.”
Harry huffed a half-laugh, but it didn’t stick. His mind was still tangled in knots. He knew—knew—the man had only said those things to shake him. To throw doubt into his head like a poison and see how fast it spread. But that image from last night kept creeping in like a shadow at the back of his mind.
Blonde hair. Grey eyes. That little smirk. The woman dressed to kill, sitting too damn close. The way the lighting hit just right, and for a moment, Harry had been so sure.
He tried to shove the thought aside. No. Don’t be stupid. That wasn’t Draco. Couldn’t be. He had no reason to be there, no place in a club like that. Harry wanted to laugh at himself for even entertaining the idea.
But the way the man had said it. The way he leaned in like he knew something—
Harry’s phone buzzed.
He looked down, heart half-ready to start galloping. But it wasn’t an emergency. It wasn’t work. It was a message from Draco.
Lunch reminder. I swear, Harry, if I find out you're doing anything more than paperwork and release statements, you’re sleeping on the bloody sofa. Don’t test me. 😘
Harry barked a laugh before he could stop himself.
Ron raised an eyebrow. “Tell me he didn’t just text you in full husband-mode.”
Harry flashed his phone.
Ron read the message and groaned. “I’ve lost you. I’ve properly lost you to a corporate blonde in tailored suits and overpriced shoes.”
Harry elbowed him. “Don’t be dramatic.”
Ron rolled his eyes but smiled anyway. “Fine. But if he ever starts color-coding your wardrobe or forces you to exfoliate, I’m staging an intervention.”
Harry just shook his head, smiling down at the message one more time. Yeah. He trusted Draco. Whatever he saw last night—it wasn’t him. And even if it was... he had to believe there was a reason. Had to believe in the man who made him feel steady again. Who nagged him like an old wife and still tucked him into bed with kisses like they were sacred.
“C’mon,” he said, nudging Ron. “Let’s go get buried alive by that paperwork.”
Ron groaned. “Do I have to?”
Harry grinned. “Yes. Because if I’m suffering, so are you.”
Together, they walked back toward their desks, ready to drown in reports, spell logs, and signatures. The case was far from over—but at least for now, Harry still had something solid to hold onto.
At lunchtime, Harry arrived at LUXOR with a surprisingly composed air—so unlike the stormy, blazing arrival of previous days. Today, he looked relaxed, almost unruffled. The receptionist, Angela, still flinched at the sight of him—he’d clearly been too intense on earlier visits when he’d barged in looking for Draco with all the fury of a man on a mission. But now, he summoned his most charming, front-page smile, and calmly asked for Draco.
Angela’s hand hesitated over the security panel. Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second before she swiped her ID, and the little glass doors slid open with an almost apologetic whirr. “Thank you,” Harry murmured, voice light, as he stepped toward the lift and pressed the thirteenth button with a quiet determination.
Inside the lift, he could almost feel a hundred eyes tracking him. The memory of his last explosive entrance—of stomping straight into Draco’s office, raw anger fueling his every step—lingered in his mind like an old scar. Today, though, he was determined to keep it cool. He even greeted the secretary at the floor’s end, a polite nod and a friendly smile replacing the usual furtive glances of avoidance.
Before stepping in, Harry paused. He glanced down at his clothes, pulling his jacket tighter over his injured arm. He ran his fingers through his hair in a vain attempt at control—even though he knew his unruly mop was beyond saving today—but that small gesture betrayed a hint of a teenage crush. Nervous energy mingled with anticipation.
When Harry finally pushed open the door to Draco’s office, his breath nearly caught. There, bathed in the soft glow of the winter afternoon sun streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, was Draco. He sat behind his desk calmly, surrounded by an aura of effortless authority. Papers and documents lay neatly arranged, his computer monitor flickering with the latest numbers. Draco’s suit jacket, draped nonchalantly over the back of his chair, left him wearing only his crisp shirt, grey vest, and those infamous sleeve garters—an outfit that, despite its minimalism, somehow only amplified his charm.
Draco looked up from his work as if he had been expecting him all along, and the moment their eyes met, he offered that quintessential sweet, angelic smile—a look that managed to melt Harry’s remaining reservations. In that silent instant, amid the gentle hum of the office and the filtered light, Harry’s pounding heart seemed to whisper that maybe, just maybe, today was different. Today, he was ready—ready to leave behind the explosive entrances and the bitter memories, ready to embrace the calm that came with Draco’s soft gaze and welcoming smile.
Draco looked up with a half-smirk the moment Harry stepped into the room, voice laced with that effortless drawl that always made Harry’s stomach do something irrational. “Look at that, Potter. You’ve finally learned how to open doors like a civilized man. My staff might survive the day without a heart attack.”
Harry grumbled immediately, muttering something about "ungrateful prats" under his breath, but it only made Draco chuckle. That soft, low kind of laugh that always left Harry feeling strangely... full.
“Take a seat,” Draco said, eyes glancing back at his screen. “I’ll be done in a minute.”
Harry obeyed and sank into the sleek, plush sofa in the center of the office. He’d seen this space twice before, but both times had been during emotionally-charged whirlwind visits—anger-fueled and accusatory. Now, for the first time, he actually let himself see it.
The room was clean and sharp, minimalist in a way that echoed the rest of Draco’s carefully curated life. But there were pieces now that broke through the polished perfection, subtle traces of mess, of realness—of them.
The figurines on the shelf made Harry snort softly. They were from a cartoon he’d started watching one lazy afternoon, sprawled across Draco’s sofa, nursing a bruised rib and a pint of ice cream. He hadn’t expected Draco to join him. He certainly hadn’t expected him to stay. Or to remember. But there they were, lined up on the shelf—every character from season one.
Then there was the snow globe. A ridiculous little thing from their frantic, last-minute holiday shopping trip in late December. Harry had picked it up on a dare, claiming it was “the most tragically touristy thing” he’d ever seen. Draco had rolled his eyes but bought it anyway. And now it sat on his shelf like it belonged there.
But what truly caught him were the photos. Small Polaroids tucked between folders and files, barely framed. They weren’t posed. Most of them Harry didn’t even remember being taken. He was laughing in one, yawning in another, flipping pancakes in a third. His heart ached a little.
Draco had built a shrine out of moments Harry hadn’t even known he’d given him.
And Merlin, Harry was so stupidly, pathetically in love it hurt.
His gaze drifted, inevitably, to Draco. Still seated behind the desk, scrolling through spreadsheets and muttering about margins and numbers Harry couldn’t pretend to care about. This was the man he accused—accused—of murder. Of deception. This was the man he’d stormed in to interrogate like an enemy, when all this time he was...
Harry’s stomach turned.
His smile slipped.
Like a tidal wave crashing in, the memory of Zola’s voice echoed again. “The victims died earlier than we thought.”
The timeline shifted. Everything changed. The receipts. The restaurant alibi Draco had produced with such smooth confidence… what if they were dated for the wrong day? What if Draco had known exactly when the real time of death was supposed to be?
Harry’s chest tightened. The warmth from earlier soured. He watched Draco now with new eyes—scrutinizing instead of admiring. The way he focused, the ease in his movements… too easy? Too calm?
No. No, stop. He forced himself to breathe, to think.
But the seed of doubt had been planted—and doubt, once rooted, was merciless.
Just then, Draco groaned and leaned back, turning off his monitor with a flick. He stood and grabbed his suit jacket, dusting off the sleeves like he was preparing for something important.
“You ready, love?” he asked, tone light and familiar.
Harry blinked.
Draco was walking toward him, all soft smiles and clean lines, expecting Harry to get up and walk beside him like any other couple on any other lunch date. And Harry—heart pounding and throat dry—nodded, forcing a smile that felt too tight on his face.
“Yeah,” he said, voice barely steady. “Yeah, let’s go.”
He let Draco lead him out the door, a storm quietly brewing behind his eyes.
He had to know the truth.
Even if it broke him.
Notes:
Has nothing to do with this except that I wrote this chapter before leaving and I recently watched the new superman movie and gosh this hits different now that I've watched it. Go watch it if u haven't. it's just too good and David Corenswet is just so fine
Chapter 20
Notes:
I'm back...
So I was on a trip and just came back and literally came back sick but I just couldn't put this off for longer or I'll miss the plot too
Edit: this is the correct ch 20
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The lunch was a blur.
Harry tried to be present, tried to hold onto the fleeting moments of normalcy, but his thoughts were elsewhere—too far gone. As Draco's hand wrapped around his in the lobby, leading him through the busy space, the outside world felt distant. Draco’s presence was a comfort, but Harry couldn’t focus on anything but the nagging feeling that clung to him, refusing to let go.
The people around them were whispering, sneaking glances and exchanging furtive looks. Draco Malfoy, the elusive, composed Finance Director of LUXOR, was holding hands with a man—a cop. It should’ve been some kind of spectacle, Harry thought. It should’ve made him feel exposed, even uncomfortable. But it didn’t. The whispers, the stares—they were nothing compared to the storm swirling inside his head.
Instead of being self-conscious, Harry found himself staring at Draco, the man who had become an enigma in his life. The boy from Hogwarts who had been nothing but a shadow of a past he couldn’t shake. Was it really him all this time? Could he trust him? Harry’s mind gnawed at the thoughts, the what-ifs that had started to eat away at the edges of his certainty.
It wasn’t until Draco carefully helped him into the car, buckling him in with careful precision, that Harry snapped back to the present.
“What’s wrong?” Draco’s voice was soft, genuine. His eyes were filled with concern, and that little furrow in his brow—the same one that always appeared whenever Harry had a moment of hesitation, made his heart ache. He felt guilty. He should’ve been able to shake this off. Why was he doubting Draco?
“Just tired,” Harry muttered, forcing a smile he knew wasn’t convincing. But Draco seemed to buy it, kissing his forehead and giving him that faint, reassuring smile that made Harry feel simultaneously safe and guilty.
“You should’ve stayed home like I told you this morning,” Draco said, his voice still warm and caring despite the slight reprimand in it. Harry managed a cheeky grin, but it was hollow. As the car started moving, his mind drifted back into its labyrinth of doubt and fear.
Throughout lunch, Harry could hardly keep his attention on the conversation. Draco would talk about work, or the little things he was dealing with at LUXOR, and Harry would nod, try to make the right sounds of agreement, but it was like a distant hum in the background. His thoughts kept drifting back to the case. The questions. The fear.
It was too much.
He was losing himself in the storm inside his mind. Draco had proven time and time again that he cared—deeply, unmistakably. He’d shown Harry that he was here, that he wanted to be with him. But... But Harry couldn’t let go of the nagging doubt. He couldn’t stop wondering about the things that didn’t make sense. The things that still felt off.
The club. The woman. The coldness in Draco’s eyes when faced with the deaths. The eerie connection between the time of death and the victims’ bodies. Why was Draco so… calm?
Was it really Draco at the club that night? Was it him, or was it just some trick of his mind? Why? Why would he be there, and why would he be with her? Harry clenched his jaw, trying to shake off the thoughts, but they only seemed to intensify with every second he spent in Draco’s company. What was Draco hiding?
He wanted to trust him. He should trust him. But Harry’s mind was a labyrinth of shadows now, and no matter how much he tried to reach the center of it, the walls just kept shifting.
Draco deserved better than this.
As they finished their lunch and Draco offered another of his quiet smiles, Harry forced himself to meet his eyes. He wanted so badly to believe that this was real, that everything had fallen into place. That Draco was Draco—the one who loved him, the one who fought for him, the one who helped him in ways he couldn’t even describe.
But now, Harry was afraid that if he didn’t figure this out, he might lose him.
And worse? He might never be able to forgive himself.
So, with a heavy heart and a stomach full of unease, Harry stepped out of the restaurant with Draco by his side, knowing the fight within himself was only just beginning.
Draco had driven him back to the Ministry but just like before, Harry's mind was somewhere else.
Draco’s hand hovered over the gear shift, unmoving. His other arm rested loosely on the steering wheel, but his whole body was turned toward Harry now—his gaze sharper, heavier than usual. “What’s wrong?” he asked, and the way he said it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a demand cloaked in concern. Like he knew. Like he could feel something unraveling just under Harry’s skin.
Harry’s head turned, slowly, and met those storm-grey eyes.
It was like staring into everything he didn’t want to question. Those eyes—Merlin, those eyes—could tease, could taunt, could darken into ice when provoked. But with him? They were soft. Unsteady. Worried. And it gutted him.
Because if Draco was lying to him... if those eyes were the eyes of a killer... then what the hell did that make Harry?
His whole life had been driven by instinct—by morality carved out of war, by a need to protect, to know, to see through lies. But here he was, teetering at the edge of a truth he wasn’t sure he could survive. How could he? When the very idea of Draco being the killer ripped through the foundation of everything he believed in?
But gods, he wanted to believe. So desperately.
It wasn’t just about trust anymore—it was about need. Harry needed Draco to be innocent the way lungs needed air. Because the alternative meant that Harry, the Auror, the one who was supposed to see through the darkest of lies, had fallen for the very monster he was hunting.
And wasn’t that poetic? The boy who lived, who defeated Voldemort, who spent years rebuilding a broken world... falling for the man who might be tearing it apart from within.
Harry’s breath caught.
He leaned forward.
And he kissed him.
Soft. Long. Slow. Like he was imprinting the memory onto his soul, like he needed this kiss to last forever—because maybe it had to. It was the kind of kiss that said, “If this is the end, let me have this.”
When they pulled apart, their foreheads remained pressed together. Harry’s voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.
“I’m fine.”
It was a lie.
It tasted like one in his mouth. Burned like one in his throat. But he said it anyway. Because he had to. Because he wasn’t ready to let go yet. Because he needed more time to be sure.
He pulled back, opened the car door with his good arm, and stepped out into the crisp air outside the Ministry.
Didn’t look back.
Didn’t see Draco watching him like he wanted to follow, like he knew Harry was slipping just out of reach.
Because right now? Harry had a job to do.
And if Draco really was the man behind all of this...
Then Harry was going to have to make the hardest choice of his life.
But not yet.
Not today.
Today, he’d pretend a little longer.
It was honestly absurd how hard Harry had fallen.
Not even a full year had passed since Draco reappeared in his life—like a ghost turned flesh, all sharp suits and sharper words—and already, Harry was drowning in him. Drowning willingly, pathetically, stupidly. Fifteen years since they last laid eyes on each other, sixteen since the first time Draco shattered him without ever raising his wand.
And still, somehow, no one had ever come close to making him feel the way Draco did in those short, stolen months of their youth.
It had started slow, like the world didn’t quite notice. Late in fifth year—after the Department of Mysteries, after Nagini, after the grief wrapped in prophecies—when Harry felt like the walls were closing in and the Boy Who Lived was starting to unravel. And in the middle of that collapse, Draco appeared. Not as an enemy, not as a rival, but as something else. Something softer. A flinch behind a smirk. A long glance held too long. A whisper in the dark that said: I see you too.
Harry never quite knew how it started. One day he was arguing in the corridor, and the next they were side by side in the Astronomy Tower, heads tilted against each other, watching snow fall in silence. Their days were full of sneers and snarls—familiar and practiced—but their nights? Gods, their nights were something out of another life. Snogging behind shelves in the library. Fingers tangling in each other’s hair in the shadows of castle alcoves. Quiet laughter, tired smiles, secret smiles, the kind that left warmth pressed into his chest for hours after.
They didn’t talk about what it meant. They didn’t dare.
Because in the daylight, they were still Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. Opposites. Enemies. Cursed to orbit each other but never touch.
And then—like all the best disasters—Draco ended it. Without words. Without warning.
He just... vanished.
No more notes. No more glances. No more midnight meetings or whispered goodnights. And Harry, already falling apart from the burden of war and prophecy and loss, felt it like a blade between his ribs. A betrayal too quiet to scream over, too personal to share.
He obsessed. Of course he did. Spent most of sixth year watching doorways, praying for owl post that never came, tracing footsteps through the castle like a ghost-chaser. It wasn’t until the end—until Dumbledore and the Tower and the Mark—that it all made sense.
And by then, it was too late.
So when Draco walked back into his life all those years later—cool and composed and still somehow his—Harry didn’t stand a bloody chance. He fell. Harder, faster, deeper. He told himself he was older now. Smarter. He could handle it. He could control it.
But the truth was: Draco had always been a wildfire in a neat uniform. And Harry? Harry had always been a boy with a match in his hand and no sense of self-preservation.
And now that he had him again—really had him—it terrified him to his bones. Because losing him once had left scars Harry still traced with shaky fingers in the dark.
Losing him again?
Harry wasn’t sure he’d survive it.
Of course it scared him.
Because how do you survive losing the same person twice?
Once had nearly torn him apart back then, when he was a confused sixteen-year-old, half-boy, half-wartime weapon, clinging to the only warmth he could find in the middle of sleepless nights and prophecy-laced panic. And now—now, after rebuilding, after pretending to move on, after dating people who never knew him the way Draco did—he was right back here. Teetering.
Draco Malfoy had always been the exception to the rules Harry built for himself. He was danger wrapped in charm, grief behind a glass smile, fire disguised as frost. And Merlin, Harry had always been drawn to fire.
Fifteen years hadn’t changed that.
It should’ve faded. It should’ve dulled with time. But no—Draco came back into his life and it was immediate. Like a spell that had never broken, only gone dormant, and was now singing in his blood again, stronger than before. And it wasn’t teenage sneaking or quiet snogging in broom closets anymore.
Now it was toothbrushes side by side. His shampoo in Harry’s shower. His cologne on Harry’s pillow. It was Draco, half-asleep and shirtless, lecturing him about his caffeine intake while helping him into a sling. It was Draco texting threats about sleeping on the sofa if he overworked himself. Draco, humming under his breath while chopping vegetables. Draco, the softness and steel of him, the bite in his humor, the warmth in his hands.
Harry wasn’t in love. No, that was far too soft a word for what this was.
He was fucked.
Because now, every second of doubt felt like betrayal. Every suspicion—a wedge being driven into something Harry had only just gotten the courage to name again. The thought that maybe Draco had been lying, had been hiding something, burned. But worse than that was the realization that even if it were true...
He didn’t know what he’d do.
Could he really turn him in? Could he watch the man he loved—still loved after all these years—be dragged away? Tried? Imprisoned? Could he survive being right, if being right meant being alone again?
And gods, he wanted to be wrong so badly it made his chest ache.
But that seed of doubt was there now. Twisting. Blooming. And Draco—Draco was too clever, too composed. There were holes in his story now that Harry couldn’t ignore.
Still, all he could think was: Not again.
Please, not again.
Because Harry could fight dark wizards. He could duel criminals and face monsters and dive into burning buildings without blinking.
But watching Draco walk away from him again?
He wasn’t sure he’d come back from that a second time.
The moment Harry stepped back into the Auror Department, his mind still fogged with thoughts of Draco, he was yanked out of his spiral by the chaos. Papers flying, Aurors running back and forth, shouting over one another, the smell of stale coffee and panic sharp in the air.
He barely took a step in before Ron spotted him from across the room—red-faced, hair sticking up in wild tufts like someone had tried to yank it out, eyes wide with the kind of adrenaline-laced urgency that only meant one thing: trouble.
“Harry,” Ron barked, practically storming over, “we’ve got something. Big.”
Harry blinked, brows furrowed. “What kind of something? And what the hell’s going on?”
“They think…” Ron paused, looked around as if even saying it too loud might make it real, “they think we might’ve caught the killer.”
Harry went still. His entire body locked up, heart slamming once in his chest before falling dead quiet. His mouth barely managed a breathless, “What?”
And then, as if fate were cruel and theatrical, Robards shouted from the corridor, “Potter, Weasley, conference room. Now.”
Harry didn’t get to protest. Ron grabbed him by the sleeve of his good arm and practically dragged him in. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just a lead—it was a storm, and they were already at the center of it.
The conference room was pandemonium. Chris was pacing so much the floor might've started showing wear. Ashley typed like she was trying to hack into the Department of Mysteries, Zola had papers spread in every direction, organizing lab results with methodical urgency, and Amy? Amy was tapping her quill against the table so fast the rhythm started to get under everyone’s skin.
Nabu, still in St. Mungo’s, had been sending encrypted notes from his hospital bed—because even broken ribs didn’t stop Auror instincts.
And then Robards cleared his throat and the room fell silent.
“I hope you’ve all got some caffeine in your system,” he began gruffly, “because this is going to blow your socks off.”
He grabbed a thick file from the stack in front of him and opened it, holding up a grainy photo. It was her.
“The woman from last night. The one who slipped out during the raid.” His voice dropped. “We’ve identified her.”
He handed the photo to Ashley, who clicked a key and brought up a much clearer image on the projector screen.
Name: Celeste Rowle
Age: 29
Known aliases: C.R., Raven, Salma Reyes
Status: At-large
Blood Status: Pureblood
Affiliation: Former Slytherin, unregistered international apparator
Family: Daughter of Thaddeus Rowle, high-ranking Death Eater
“Rowle?” Harry echoed, his mouth dry. “As in—?”
“Yeah,” Ron answered grimly. “That Rowle.”
Robards went on. “Thaddeus Rowle was presumed dead shortly after the Battle of Hogwarts. Turns out he wasn’t. He slipped past us. Laid low. But he died last year. Unsolved. Cause of death matched our earliest victims: magically desiccated, core depleted. We didn’t connect it back then. But now…”
He gestured to Zola, who handed Harry a thin folder. Inside were photographs—grisly ones. A flat raided by Aurors. Walls covered in scribbles, curse maps, newspaper clippings. A box of dark artifacts.
And photos.
Photos of Harry.
Some looked like they’d been taken from rooftops. Others were cut from the Prophet, or torn from magazines. One of them—Merlin—was from a patrol two months ago. A candid from this year.
“There’s more,” Zola said, her voice tense. “We found an album. Full of photos of former Death Eaters. Some already confirmed victims. Others we now have reason to believe are being stalked. And a notebook… with information on Thomas Avery’s company, security details, layout schematics. Timelines.”
Ron let out a breath. “She planned every hit. This wasn’t random.”
Robards nodded grimly. “Which makes her not just a suspect. She's a primary. Likely the killer. Or at the very least, working with the killer.”
Then, silence. Until Robards turned to Harry.
And his face—Merlin—Harry knew that look. The one he gave right before shoving you off a cliff you didn’t know you were standing on.
“There’s one more thing,” he said slowly, measured. “In the box we found at her flat... There were dozens of photos of you, Potter. Taken from a distance. Different locations. Across the span of months. Someone’s been watching you.”
The silence was suffocating now.
Robards looked Harry dead in the eye.
“She’s been tracking your movements. Either she’s obsessed… or she sees you as part of the game. Either way—”
“She’s not just another name,” Harry finished for him, voice low. “She’s making this personal.”
And Harry, despite the weight pressing on his ribs and the sting of betrayal nipping at the edges of his thoughts, felt that itch again. The one he hated. The one that came when something dark started to make sense.
Something told him—this wasn’t over. This was just the start.
But another part of him—gods, finally—felt like it could breathe again.
The weight that had been sitting on his chest, twisting tighter with every glance, every doubt, every late-night whisper in the back of his head… it lifted. Not just because they might’ve cracked the case. Not just because the pieces were finally snapping into place. But because it meant all those terrifying, gut-wrenching doubts about Draco had been nothing but shadows cast by paranoia.
Draco wasn’t the killer.
Draco wasn’t the killer.
Harry hadn’t even realized how hard he’d been holding his breath, how close he’d come to breaking under the pressure of loving someone who might not be who he claimed to be. But now? Now he could exhale.
Thank Merlin.
As soon as the meeting ended, Robards had them all buzzing like bees on fire. Strategies, patrol assignments, Auror tracking teams, international alerts—Celeste Rowle was now their top target, and they were coming down like a storm.
And even with only one fully functional arm, even with his ribs still aching and his body half taped together, Harry threw himself into it. He couldn’t help it. He was wired, dialed in, his instincts alive in a way they hadn’t been in ages. The hunt was on. He was back.
And for once, this wasn’t about proving anything to the Ministry or to the press or to some faceless villain hiding behind shadows.
This was about Draco.
This was about freedom—to love him, without fear. To go home to him, unafraid. To not have to look over his shoulder, or dissect every glance, or spiral into self-doubt every time Draco smiled just a little too softly.
Harry wanted to see him. Needed to.
He was aching to run his fingers through that ridiculous platinum hair, to feel Draco's sharp little kisses on his cheek and hear that dry, condescending lilt that somehow made him feel more loved than any I love you ever had.
It burned in his chest—this insane, overwhelming desire to get this done so he could go back to that man who had every reason to walk away but instead stayed. Who bathed him and dressed him and kissed his bruises and made him feel safe in a way Harry never thought he’d earn.
The case had a name now. A face. A motive.
Harry didn’t just want to solve it—he was going to bury it. Chase Celeste Rowle to the edges of the earth if he had to.
Because he’d been wrong. Because Draco wasn’t a monster.
Because now Harry could finally fight without the fear that he’d have to turn around and see him at the center of it all.
And gods, that made him feel like he could fly.
Down in central London, perched high above the chaos of the world he no longer truly belonged to, Draco Malfoy sat behind his pristine desk on the thirteenth floor of LUXOR’s headquarters. The sunlight filtered in through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting gold onto the immaculate silver-greys and blacks of his office. The documents in front of him—stock reports, overseas transactions, budget analyses—blurred together into one incomprehensible wall of text. For the first time in fifteen years, the language of the Muggle world felt foreign on his tongue.
Because his mind? It was elsewhere.
On him.
His precious, infuriating, heartbreakingly earnest little Auror boyfriend. Gods, Harry had been distracted today. Off his game. Distant. Tense. And deliciously suspicious.
Draco’s lips curled, slow and deliberate, as he leaned back into his chair—the leather creaking just slightly beneath him. He steepled his fingers in front of his lips and stared blankly toward the skyline, his grey eyes gleaming with a touch of something darker.
Had he caught on?
Harry, clever as ever. That brain of his worked like a wandless spell—dangerous and stunning when it got going. Draco hadn’t fallen for a fool. No, he’d fallen for the man who’d clawed his way out of the rubble of a war and remade himself in his own image. The top Auror candidate, the tragic hero, the moral compass of post-war Britain.
His. Harry was his.
And Draco had gone to such… intoxicating lengths to make this vile little world safer for him. Cleaner. Sharper. Worthy.
But maybe, just maybe, he’d left too many clues. A breadcrumb trail here. A symbolic gesture there. Just subtle enough to be brushed off—but Harry wasn't the type to let patterns go unnoticed, not forever. And Draco adored that about him. That fiery little scowl when a new lead dropped into his lap. That glimmer of obsession in his eyes. The desperation to understand what no one else could.
Merlin, it thrilled him.
Draco tilted his head back with a soft hum. Harry’s emotions were painted all over his face, even when he thought he was hiding them. He always had been an open book. Back in school, Draco had mistaken it for naïveté. But now? It was rawness. Honesty. A vulnerability that called to him like a siren.
Then—rrrnnng. The burner phone buzzed, sharp and shrill against the wood of his drawer.
Draco’s expression didn’t change. He pulled it out with one hand, thumbed it on, and brought it to his ear.
“Hello?” came the ragged voice of a woman, breathless and panicked. “It’s me—Celeste. They’re closing in, they almost had me—I had to run, I barely got out—Merlin, I need help, you have to help me—”
He let her babble. It went on and on. She was disintegrating. Fear bleeding through every syllable. How tedious.
He waited until she inhaled sharply again, clearly building up to another burst of desperation, before cutting through her panic with calm, clipped efficiency.
“Old Aldwych Tube Station,” he said. “Tonight. Twenty-one hundred sharp. Don’t be late.”
And just like that, he hung up.
No goodbye. No reassurances. No promises.
He placed the burner back in the drawer, clicked it shut, and exhaled slowly.
Then, his hand moved to his personal phone—a match to Harry's. He woke the screen, and there it was: the lock screen photo from Christmas. Harry, in an Weasley knitted jumper, smiling brighter than a sunrise, pressing a kiss to Draco’s cheek while Draco, for once, grinned.
His heart gave a small, ridiculous flutter. The kind that made him feel sick with how human it was.
He traced Harry’s cheek on the screen, then leaned back, eyes heavy-lidded and gleaming.
Yes.
He was doing this for him.
That night, after the usual clinks of glass and murmurs of farewells, Draco Malfoy left LUXOR like any ordinary businessman. He smiled—polished, pleasant, professional—as he passed by his coworkers. Even threw Angela, the ever-nervous receptionist, a wink that turned her cheeks pink and prompted the usual dreamy sighs. The golden boy of the finance world, the charming enigma in a three-piece suit, glided right out the front doors as though he had nothing heavier on his mind than a late dinner reservation.
But the moment he stepped into his car and closed the door behind him, the smile fell away. Vanished like smoke. His grey eyes turned to ice, and the gentle tilt of his lips flattened into an unfeeling line. He drove in silence through the sleeping arteries of London, until the glitter of the city faded behind older buildings and darker streets.
Old Aldwych Tube Station. Long abandoned. Forgotten by most.
He parked, exited, and strode into the shadowed station like a man stepping onto a stage. The familiar scent of dust, piss, and mildew was thick in the air. Inside, she was waiting.
Celeste.
The woman stood hunched beneath a heavy winter coat two sizes too large, a baseball cap shoved low over bleached eyebrows, a scarf wound around her chin. Her hands trembled at her sides, and even through the darkness Draco could see her bloodshot eyes, darting wildly—panic-stricken. She was nothing but a shadow of the girl who used to flirt with the idea of vengeance like it was poetry.
When she saw him, her face lit up. Hope bled into her features as she rushed toward him, arms slightly outstretched like a child reaching for a parent.
“Draco—” she breathed, but he took one step back, eyes colder than the London winter.
She froze.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, voice trembling. Then the dam broke. “They—they raided it, last night. The duel ring. They saw me, Draco. With Mark. With the potions. With the drugs. You have to help me—they’ll come for me. I need you. You’ve always helped me—you care, right? You’re not like the others—”
Her words spilled faster, unhinged. She reached again, her fingers trembling mid-air, desperate to touch him, to anchor herself to anything.
He stepped back again. Still no raised voice. Just cold, razor-sharp precision in every syllable.
“Don’t touch me.”
She flinched like he’d struck her.
“Filth like you shouldn’t speak of me like that,” he said, voice still calm, almost gentle, which somehow made it worse. “You crawl through the gutters. You sell poison. And now you want salvation?”
Her breath hitched, and she wrapped her arms around herself, staring like she’d been betrayed by a god.
“Why are you saying this?” she whispered. “After last night—at the club—what you said about us. You said we’d run away. You said we’d make it big. That we’d be together. That you’d be there for me.”
Draco didn’t blink. Didn’t twitch. Only looked at her with cold disdain, and let out a slow, elegant scoff.
“How foolish. You actually believed that?”
She backed away, confusion warping into full horror.
“There’s only one person I plan to spend my life with,” he said, stepping forward now, the gleam in his eye turning something darker. “And you’re not even a footnote in the story.”
“No,” she muttered, shaking her head. “No, you—”
She didn’t get to finish. Her limbs stopped listening to her.
Draco's wand had been drawn so fast, so subtly, she hadn’t noticed it—just felt it, as her knees locked and her jaw slackened. A full-body petrification that left her still standing, eyes wide in terror. Only her mind still raced, trapped behind the frozen glass of her body.
He reached into her purse with gloved hands and carefully retrieved the vials of potion—one by one, examining them in the faint light.
“Tsk,” he said quietly. “I told you to be discreet. You never were good at following instructions.”
She couldn’t cry. Couldn’t scream. Her body was stone.
He stepped closer, face unreadable until the faintest, cruelest smile touched his lips again—like the bloom of frost on a windowpane.
And in a low, indulgent voice, he whispered, “Now. Be a good little rat… and take them all.”
Harry arrived home late that night, the kind of late where even the city seemed to whisper instead of roar. His fingers pressing in the passcode clicked quietly in the door of Draco’s penthouse, the familiar scent of sandalwood, leather, and citrus greeting him like a secret he’d forgotten he shared.
Draco had texted him earlier—said he’d stopped by his flat to grab some work documents and would stay there tonight—but apparently that plan hadn’t lasted. Because there he was.
A miracle in human form.
Bathed in the soft golden glow of a nearby lamp and the glimmering strands of half-forgotten Christmas lights still wrapped around the banister, Draco Malfoy sat curled on the oversized sofa, legs folded, a book in hand, and loose silk pajamas hanging delicately around an exposed collar. His hair was slightly damp, clinging to his temples in wisps of gold. He looked like he’d been sculpted out of serenity itself.
Harry didn’t speak. He just padded across the room, coat half-open and sling awkwardly shifting at his side, and collapsed wordlessly onto the sofa—his head finding its home in Draco’s lap like it belonged there and nowhere else.
Without missing a beat, Draco’s fingers threaded through his unruly hair, blunt nails scraping in slow, soothing strokes along his scalp.
“How was your day?” Draco asked softly.
Harry didn’t answer at first. Just sighed—a deep, soul-tired thing—and turned his face into Draco’s stomach, breathing in the scent of freshly washed fabric and the man who had unknowingly taken over his entire universe. “Worn to the bone,” he mumbled. “But we’ve nearly got her. It’s almost over.”
His voice was muffled in the fabric of Draco’s shirt, but the exhaustion was clear in every word. The relief. The silent apology.
He inhaled again and exhaled into warmth and cotton and safety. His muscles slowly uncoiled. Draco kept scratching his scalp, gentle and rhythmic like he was coaxing sleep from under Harry’s skin.
And then, barely louder than a breath, Harry said his name.
“Draco…”
The hum in response vibrated through Draco’s chest and down into Harry’s cheek.
“I love you,” Harry whispered into his stomach.
Silence.
Draco’s fingers stilled.
Harry’s breath caught.
It was like time paused just long enough for panic to creep in and whisper, What if it’s too soon? What if you’ve made a mistake? What if he doesn’t—
But then Draco’s eyes met his.
And soft didn’t even begin to describe the way they looked at him. They weren’t wide with surprise or heavy with guilt or cold with confusion. They just… softened. Like the weight of the world melted out of them and only Harry remained.
He leaned down, so close their noses brushed, so close Harry could feel the ghost of his breath, and whispered back, “I love you too.”
It wasn’t rushed or grandiose or wrapped in dramatics. It was just the truth.
And the kiss that followed was nothing short of devastating.
It was a thank-you. A sorry. A yes. A promise.
Harry sat up slowly, carefully, wincing as his bruised ribs twinged, but he didn’t stop. He climbed into Draco’s lap like he needed to be closer, like kissing him from across the couch wasn’t enough anymore, wasn’t fair, wasn’t real.
Draco’s arms settled around him, cold fingers sliding under Harry’s shirt, hands moving gently over bruised ribs, like he wanted to heal them with touch alone. Harry melted against him, lips still pressed to his, pouring every emotion he couldn’t voice into the kiss.
He’d been wrong to doubt him.
This man—this impossible, brilliant, maddening man—was his. And Harry had never been more certain that, whatever darkness was left in this world, he’d crawl through every inch of it just to protect this warmth.
The kiss deepened slowly, like warm honey sliding down a spoon. Harry’s fingers curled into Draco’s shirt, tugging him closer despite the dull throb radiating from his ribs. Draco kissed him back, but there was a tension behind it—like a storm barely held at bay.
Harry tried to chase it. Pressed in harder. Shifted in his lap with intention that couldn’t be mistaken. His hand wandered down, pulling Draco’s waist flush against him, his body already speaking in need, his breath already catching in the rhythm of desire.
But Draco pulled back—not all the way, not cruelly. Just enough.
His hand cupped Harry’s cheek, thumb brushing along the edge of a bruise.
“Harry,” he whispered, “you’re injured.”
“I don’t care,” Harry breathed, trying to kiss him again, lips trailing to his jaw. “I just want you. Now.”
“And I want you, too. Gods, I always want you.” Draco’s voice was thick, warm, dangerously close to unraveling. But he tilted Harry’s chin up, made him look at him. “But not like this. Not when you're still bleeding under the bandages.”
Harry groaned, frustrated, head dropping onto Draco’s shoulder. “You’re such a prude.”
Draco huffed a laugh against Harry’s temple. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re hot when you’re bossy.”
“And you’re insatiable when you’re hurt.”
“Because you take such good care of me,” Harry muttered, teasing, nipping at Draco’s throat. But Draco just exhaled slowly, holding him steady.
“Be patient,” he whispered. “Just this once. Let me take care of you, properly.”
Harry stilled at the tone.
Because it wasn’t commanding. It wasn’t even a plea.
It was... tender.
And that cut deeper than anything.
So Harry leaned in again—but softer this time. Slower. He kissed Draco like he was memorizing his lips all over again. Like the need hadn’t left, just… shifted. Warmed. Ached.
They moved together in silence, Harry’s weight cradled in Draco’s lap, legs tangled, arms wrapped gently around him like he might break. Draco ran his fingers along Harry’s spine beneath his shirt, careful to avoid every angry mark, every bruise.
And then he lay them down on the couch.
Not to do anything more.
Just to be.
Harry curled into Draco’s side, forehead against his neck, breathing in the scent of soap and citrus and safety.
Draco pressed a kiss to the crown of his head.
And Harry whispered, “Fine. I’ll wait.”
Draco smiled, one hand tracing lazy shapes against his shoulder.
“I’m worth the wait,” he said.
Harry huffed a laugh, already half-asleep in the curve of him.
“You better be.”
Even half-asleep, with the warmth of Draco’s body lulling him into something soft and fragile, Harry whispered the one question that had lived in his chest like a scar for fifteen years.
“Why did you break my heart?”
It wasn’t accusatory. It wasn’t angry. It was quiet, nearly childlike—like a boy who just wanted to understand why the world had taken something beautiful from him before it had a chance to bloom.
Draco exhaled slowly, the kind of sigh that sounded like it had been buried in his lungs for too long. His arm curled tighter beneath Harry’s head, acting as a pillow and anchor all at once, while his free hand returned to its rhythmic stroking through Harry’s hair.
“I was lost,” he said softly, voice raw in the hush of the room. “That last month of the summer before sixth year, he came to the Manor. Voldemort. With the others. My parents opened the doors and… that was it. My home stopped being a home.”
Harry’s lashes fluttered, but he didn’t speak. Draco’s tone had shifted, hollow and flat like the memory drained the color out of him.
“They trained me like a soldier,” he continued. “Not in noble duels or spells we’d read in textbooks—but cruelty. Pain. Obedience. And every night, I’d sit by the window and reread your letters. You always talked so much in them. Told me about silly things—the twins’ latest prank, or Ron nearly blowing up the shed—and I held onto every word like it was a lifeline.”
A bitter smile curled on Draco’s lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“You kept me human, Harry. You made me feel when everything else was trying to rip it out of me. But that started to become dangerous. They watched me. Tested me. And then one night, they branded me.”
Harry’s breath caught, even though he knew this part of the story. His eyes dropped down to Draco’s arm—now a tapestry of elegant ink, symbols and flowers and winding runes masking what once lay beneath.
“I looked at that mark,” Draco said, following Harry’s gaze, “and all I could think about was you. And how filthy I’d become. How I couldn’t ever let you near me again. You were light, Harry. And I was... already drowning.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, jaw tightening.
“I wanted to hold on. Gods, I did. But it got too painful. Being near you. Seeing your smile. Knowing that every second I spent in your orbit made me want something I could never have. Something I didn’t deserve. So I stopped answering your owls. Stopped meeting you. I thought if I ripped it off like a bandage, it would hurt less.”
Harry didn’t speak. His throat was thick, his chest a little tight, but he waited.
“When Voldemort died and you testified for me,” Draco whispered, “I couldn’t even look at you. I felt like a shadow of myself. Like I’d been scraped raw and left empty. I wasn’t proud of who I was. I couldn’t bear to see the man you once... might’ve loved... and realize how far I’d fallen.”
Harry’s hand moved gently over his chest, curling into the fabric of his shirt.
“So I left,” Draco said. “I ran from the ruins of everything I’d been taught. I escaped to the Muggle world. I studied. I listened. I rebuilt. I wanted to understand your world. Your people. The things you found beautiful. And I fell in love with all of it—not just because it fascinated me. But because it reminded me of you.”
He tilted his head just slightly to meet Harry’s eyes again, his own swimming with emotion.
“I didn’t become the man I am today in spite of you, Harry. I became him because of you. Every step I’ve taken—every choice I’ve made—was because I wanted to be someone worthy of you.”
Harry’s eyes stung. His fingers, trembling slightly, reached for Draco’s and held tight.
“It’s always been you,” Draco said, voice breaking around the truth like it had waited a decade and a half to be spoken. “Even back then. Even when I pushed you away. It’s always—only—been you.”
Harry knew—deep in his bones, down to the center of his very soul—that after hearing those words, there would never be anything truer than this.
This man. This maddening, brilliant, broken, rebuilt man who had once torn his heart in two and somehow, years later, had sewn it back together with gentler hands. He was it. The full stop at the end of every question Harry had ever asked himself about love.
He was stuck here, beautifully and irrevocably stuck, with Draco Malfoy wrapped around him like a promise he had no intention of breaking. And he didn’t want to. Because nothing—no one—could replace the space Draco had carved out in his life, claimed, and refused to let go of. A hollow that no other lover, no fleeting flirtation or almost-relationship, had ever truly touched. It had always been his. His mark. His name written in the margins of Harry’s life even when he wasn’t around to say it aloud.
Nothing Draco had done, no choices, no silence, no scars—not even the ones branded under ink—could ever change that. Not now. Not when Harry saw him as he was: all steel and softness, the storm and the shelter.
He pulled himself closer, curling into the space where Draco’s chest met his, cheek against his shoulder. His voice was soft—more breath than sound—but heavy with certainty when he said, “It’s the same for me.”
Draco stilled. Harry could feel it in the way his heart stuttered beneath his ribs, like it had been waiting a lifetime to hear that. Harry leaned up, just enough to meet his gaze.
“It might’ve taken me fifteen years,” he whispered, “but I know it now. I finally know. You’re it, Draco. You’re mine. For good.”
For a long moment, there was silence—just the sound of the city beyond the window, the faint hum of the heater, and their shared breath in the dim light of the Christmas bulbs. Then Draco let out a quiet, choked laugh. He held Harry tighter, buried his face in his hair, and whispered, “Merlin, don’t tempt me.”
Harry smirked, wicked and warm against his chest. “Why not?”
Draco groaned dramatically. “Because you’re injured. And I’m trying to be responsible.”
“You are responsible,” Harry murmured, “but you’re also mine. That comes first.”
Draco looked down at him then, gray eyes full of so much love it almost hurt to look back. “You’re a menace.”
“And you,” Harry said, lips brushing his collarbone, “love it.”
Draco just hummed in agreement, holding him so close it felt like their hearts were syncing. Because they were. They always had been. And now, finally, they both knew it.
It took five days.
Five long, quiet, unnerving days after that night before Celeste Rowle’s body was found in the bowels of an abandoned tube station. It had been the end everyone had felt coming but no one dared to speak out loud. The official cause of death: overdose. Intentional, final, and oh so very convenient.
They found no other magical traces at the scene—no struggle, no lingering presence, nothing but her. The file was almost too clean, and that was what bothered Harry the most. Not a speck of dust out of place. But the evidence was there: the fractured soul orb in one of her rented flats, the scribbled maps of building schematics where the bodies were found, the photos, the obsessions… the proof was overwhelming, airtight. Celeste Rowle had been the Serpent’s Shadow.
Ron leaned back in his chair, stretching with a groan as he muttered, “Didn’t think Rowle would off herself. Guess some do still prefer death over Azkaban.”
Harry didn’t respond at first, just finished scribbling the final section of the report—the last case summary, the close file notes. A few more signatures and it would be over. Done. A sealed chapter in a long, exhausting book.
“I'm just glad it's over,” he murmured. “We can finally put this behind us.”
“Yeah,” Ron exhaled. “And maybe cut back from five cups of coffee a morning to, I dunno, two?”
Harry huffed a laugh just as Robards’ voice thundered through the room. One sharp clap—he didn’t need more—and the entire Auror department snapped their heads up.
“With this case officially closing, and because you lot somehow didn’t get yourselves killed,” Robards growled, still scowling like he hated every form of human joy, “we’re having a department dinner tonight. Show up. Or don’t. I won’t miss you.”
Despite his tone, the room erupted in cheers.
Harry chuckled under his breath, still finishing up the last of the forms, when the hyenas—his team—descended like moths to a flame. Or, more accurately, like chaos goblins with no sense of personal space.
Ashley was grinning like a cat who stole the cream. “That’s it. We’re done. Case closed. Finally.”
Zola fist-pumped in the air, glasses slightly crooked as always. “Free food! Free booze! Robards is blessing us.”
Nabu, freshly discharged and walking like someone still sore from a hospital bed, elbowed Harry with a wink. “You have to bring your boyfriend. He did help, after all. Can’t leave out the rich muggle prince.”
Chris made exaggerated kissy noises. Zola fake-swooned and wiped an imaginary tear from her cheek. “Young love. So beautiful.”
Ron—traitor—chimed in, “Oi, if Hermione wasn’t halfway to giving birth and threatening murder over spilled tea, I’d drag her in too.”
Harry slapped both palms on the desk hard enough to startle two interns nearby.
“Back. To. Work. Or I will personally assign you each every unfiled form left in the records room.”
They all groaned dramatically and shuffled off with mock protests and more kissy sounds.
But deep down, behind the scowl he wore to survive his team’s teasing, Harry was already unlocking his phone. His fingers hovered just a second before typing out a message.
Dinner tonight. Dept celebration. You in?
He didn’t even need to sign it. Draco would know. He always did.
Notes:
Has nothing to do with this except that I wrote this chapter before leaving and I recently watched the new superman movie and gosh this hits different now that I've watched it. Go watch it if u haven't. it's just too good and David Corenswet is just so fine
Edit: Imma keep the superman comment cuz it's superman. But yeah sorry for the mess up. I'm tired and sick
Chapter 21
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
That evening, the private dining room of the wizard-owned Japanese restaurant buzzed with laughter, clinking chopsticks, and the unmistakable high of a department that had finally cracked the case that haunted them for months. The room glowed with enchanted paper lanterns that floated midair, drifting lazily in soft hues of gold and red. Somewhere in the background, shamisen music blended with the bubbling of hot pot broth and the occasional bark of someone trying—and failing—to pour sake the proper way.
Harry had arrived with the rest of the crew, looking mildly cornered by his own victory. As commander Auror and head of the task force, he'd been unceremoniously shoved into the "honor seat" beside Robards—his boss, mentor, and living embodiment of a thundercloud in human form. Normally, Harry would’ve wormed his way out of it, choosing instead the noisy, inappropriate company of his teammates. But tonight was about rank, and duty, and the price of catching monsters. So here he was, back straight, drink in hand, enduring the political silence of sitting next to a man who scowled like it was his default facial setting.
Worse yet, there was an empty seat.
Right between him and Ron.
An empty seat that every single person in the department had clearly decided not to touch—as if marked by Merlin himself. The absence screamed louder than any toast, and it didn’t take long for Zola to speak what everyone was thinking.
“Oi, Potter!” she called from a few seats down, a piece of tempura in one hand and her wine glass in the other. “Where’s the infamous corporate boyfriend of yours? Don’t tell me you locked him up again because you're greedy."
From beside her, Nabu grinned, practically vibrating. “Unfair, mate. You can’t hoard the hot one for yourself. We at least deserve a little eye candy after months of looking at each other’s faces.”
Ashley leaned in, eyes sharp with amusement. “He helped crack the case, Potter. The least we can do is clap politely and pretend not to stare.”
Harry was about to snap back something halfway witty—maybe even charming, if he was lucky—but of course Robards had to chime in.
“Yes, well,” he muttered without even looking up from his plate. “Malfoy was quite helpful. Could’ve extended an invite.”
Now, whether that was sarcasm or genuine acknowledgment was anyone’s guess. Robards didn’t do tone. His resting expression was somewhere between "bored executioner" and "retired war general who never quite left the battlefield."
Harry sighed, cheeks just barely warming. “I did invite him,” he muttered, stabbing at a piece of tuna sashimi with more violence than necessary. “He said he might come. Probably caught in a meeting or forgot. He’s busy.”
And for a second, the doubt crept in. Maybe Draco had forgotten. Or maybe Harry had misread the casual I’ll see what I can do in the text earlier. After all, Draco was a finance director, not some intern with open evenings.
“Leave him alone,” Ron said suddenly, and Harry turned to him with the warmth of a man ready to kiss his best mate square on the mouth.
Until Ron added with a smug grin, “We get Harry all to ourselves for once. It’s a miracle he’s not texting Draco right now under the table.”
The betrayal stung deep. The urge to hurl a chopstick? Stronger.
Before he could retaliate with words or weaponized wasabi, Robards clapped his hands once, sharp and efficient. “Let’s begin.”
The next few dishes were being served, drinks refilled—and then the doors opened.
And in walked Draco Malfoy.
Composed. Elegant. Dressed in one of those cursed three-piece suits that made every button seem like a declaration of war against Harry’s focus. Slate-grey with subtle silver threading that caught the lantern light like a spell. His blond hair was neatly slicked back, a sharp contrast to the casual waves Harry was used to seeing in their shared mornings. And yet... his eyes scanned the room until they landed on Harry. And softened.
“Apologies for the delay,” Draco said, voice smooth, effortlessly confident. “A meeting ran late.”
And just like that, the temperature in the room shifted. The table visibly swooned.
Chris looked like he might start clapping. Zola let out an audible “oh my gods.” Ashley whispered something that made Amy cover her mouth in a shriek of secondhand delight. Nabu just blinked slowly, processing the full weight of Draco Malfoy in three-piece bespoke suit mode.
Harry wanted to sink through the floor.
He could feel the eyes. On him. On Draco. On the empty seat that was no longer empty.
The amount of dignity Harry was going to lose tonight? Astronomical.
But then Draco reached him, offered a brief nod to Robards with just the right amount of professionalism, and slid into the seat beside Harry like he belonged there.
Which, apparently, he did.
Draco turned to Harry with the tiniest smirk and whispered low enough that only he could hear, “Miss me?”
Harry exhaled through his nose, fighting a smile, and grumbled, “You're lucky you're hot.”
Draco simply raised his glass. “To justice.”
And with that, the dinner truly began.
Halfway through the warm buzz of dinner—soy sauce, grilled eel, and sake working their magic—Nabu, eyes glassy and cheeks just barely flushed, leaned forward with the solemn curiosity of a man tipsy on fermented rice and professional gossip.
“So…” he began, cutting through the laughter and casual teasing. “What’s it like? Officially dating our commander?”
A hush swept over the table. A grin bloomed on Nabu's face. Zola actually squeaked. Ashley sat straighter with predatory interest. Chris practically leaned across the table, hands clasped like he was about to hear the secrets of the universe. Robards? Somehow managed to keep chewing like he wasn’t listening at all, which obviously meant he was listening.
Harry froze, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. His eyes narrowed at Nabu with the sharp promise of vengeance. Preferably involving training dummies and stunning spells.
But Draco—because of course it was Draco—merely smiled that infuriating, angelic smile. The one that could make a serial killer look like a charming tea guest.
“There’s never a dull day with Harry,” he said smoothly, voice dripping with fondness and wicked amusement.
The table exploded.
“OHHHHHHH!”
“Say it again, say it again!”
“Kissy noises! KISSY NOISES!”
Zola actually banged her chopsticks on the table like a drumline, and Ashley faked swooning onto Amy's shoulder while she giggled and whispered, “That was the cutest thing I’ve ever heard and I hate him for it.”
Harry shot Draco a look. A look. The kind that could strip paint off walls. But Draco? Still sipping his sake, utterly unaffected. Bastard.
Chris chimed in next, grinning. “Look, I’ve been here a little over a year, right? And I swear, I thought I was hallucinating the first time I saw Potter leave work on time. I was like—am I dead? Did I get cursed?”
Harry pointed his chopsticks at him. “I’m not that much of a workaholic.”
Every single person at the table gave him the same look. The “be serious” look. Unified, silent judgment. A department-wide intervention in the form of synchronized eyebrows.
Even Ron, traitor of traitors, jumped in. “Mate. You once made us stay past midnight on Christmas Eve because you didn’t want to leave an open case over the holidays.”
“It was a triple-theft case across three boroughs!” Harry snapped.
“It was three misplaced cauldrons,” Ron deadpanned. “One of which was in your office, because you forgot to file the return slip.”
Harry shoved an entire piece of tuna into his mouth and sulked.
Zola smirked and raised her glass. “Also, you hated your ministry phone so much you never used it. Then one day—bam—Commander Potter walks in texting and smiling like a teenager. All day. I nearly hexed myself just to check if I was dreaming.”
She turned to Draco with a sly smile. “Was that you? Did you break him?”
Draco’s lips twitched with amusement. “He kept storming into my office whenever he needed something. Said it was faster than calling. But he was scaring the staff. I had to find a less dramatic option.”
Harry huffed. “I wasn’t scaring anyone.”
Draco tilted his head, still calm, still smiling. “Angela still flinches when she sees you.”
“She’s jumpy!” Harry argued.
“She hid behind the front desk once.”
“I WASN’T EVEN MAD THAT TIME!”
The laughter at the table reached a new high, and Draco leaned just a little closer, lowering his voice just for Harry.
“I like the dramatic entrances,” he murmured, brushing a finger over the back of Harry’s hand under the table. “They remind me I’m still wanted.”
Harry’s glare faltered.
And then he turned pink.
Dammit. The worst part? He was still wanted. And these bastards at the table? They knew it.
Zola smirked. “Okay but I’m still shipping you two. What’s the ship name? Drarry? Potfoy? Malpot?”
Chris gasped. “Spicy Commander and the Executive Blond.”
“Auror Brat and the CEO Tamer,” Nabu added, unashamed.
Harry stood up.
“I swear to Merlin if this dinner doesn’t end soon I’m throwing someone in for public intoxication.”
But his lips were twitching. And Draco was still smiling beside him.
And damn if that wasn’t the most loved Harry had ever felt in a room full of lunatics.
Draco’s phone dinged—a soft chime that should’ve gone unnoticed in the symphony of laughter and clinking chopsticks, but of course it didn’t.
Ashley’s hawk eyes zeroed in like a Seeker on a snitch. She gasped, squealed, squealed, and clutched Amy’s shoulder with a death grip. “Oh my Godric, his phone case matches Harry’s!”
Amy didn’t flinch. Just tilted her head toward the phone and gave a single solemn nod. In Amy-language, that was the equivalent of popping confetti.
Harry’s soul left his body.
He instantly, instinctively, yanked his phone from the table and shoved it into his jacket pocket. Too late. Draco was already casually flipping his own over for all to see.
A white cat. Big eyes, squishy face, ridiculous and adorable. It was the exact same one Harry carried around, but in black, like a secret shame.
Draco just smiled. Unbothered. Unapologetic. “It was a Christmas present,” he said with a faint shrug. “Didn’t expect Harry to be this cute, but he’s full of surprises.”
Harry let out a strangled sound.
Squeals erupted again from every direction. Nabu practically slid off his seat from the emotional whiplash. Zola looked like she might start planning a wedding slideshow right then and there. Even Chris looked moments away from pulling out a quill and drawing hearts in the dessert menu.
Harry prayed for death. Or lightning. Or a rogue dinner curse.
But Ron? Ronald bloody Weasley, the man who had sworn a lifetime oath of solidarity and sabotage? He just gagged loudly.
“Ugh, just get married already,” he groaned.
The others cheered in agreement. Toasted, even. Like this was a Quidditch victory and not Harry’s slow, public unraveling.
Harry stared daggers at Ron. “You are dead to me.”
Draco, because he was the devil incarnate wearing fine wool and smugness, leaned his chin on his palm. His eyes sparkled with mischief and something softer, deeper beneath it.
And then—casually, like he was commenting on the weather—he said, “Should we?”
Silence.
No—vacuum.
Time froze.
Even the neighboring tables had turned around, forks halfway to mouths, wide-eyed and holding their breath. Robards, not even blinking, just muttered, “About time you settled down, Potter,” around a mouthful of tempura.
The entire restaurant exploded.
Screaming. Screeching. Clapping.
Chris was pounding the table. Nabu was sobbing. Zola was on her feet screaming, “YES, KING, PROPOSE RIGHT NOW!” Ashley had pulled out her phone and was already taking a video.
And Harry?
Harry was halfway under the damn table.
Draco just sipped his tea, eyes never leaving him, a wicked little smile on his lips.
Harry was never surviving another dinner with his coworkers and this demon of a man in the same room again.
And gods help him...
...he didn’t even hate the idea.
After everyone had finally calmed down—well, as much as an overfed, half-drunk Auror department could actually calm down—it was time for the speeches.
Robards stood, gruff as ever, holding his sake cup like it was a goblet of firewhisky. He cleared his throat once, and the room obeyed with the silence of trained soldiers… or maybe just terrified subordinates.
“Ahem. Right,” he grumbled, as though praising them physically hurt. “Job well done. The Serpent’s Shadow case was one hell of a bastard. You lot pulled through. With teamwork. Dedication. Stubbornness. And… possibly caffeine abuse.”
There were a few scattered laughs.
He nodded once, the closest he’d ever come to a smile. “And I suppose I should also thank Mr. Malfoy—” he said it like he’d swallowed something mildly poisonous, “—for accepting to consult with us. Not every day we work with a civilian and it doesn’t end in a lawsuit. Department owes you one.”
Draco inclined his head politely, but his hand casually slid over to squeeze Harry’s knee under the table. It was grounding, soft, warm—and Harry hated just how much that little touch could make him want to melt.
Then the table started chanting Harry’s name.
“Speech! Speech! Speech!” Zola was leading the charge, of course.
Harry groaned. “Seriously?”
“You led the bloody case,” Chris called. “Own it.”
Robards just raised an eyebrow. “You heard them, Potter.”
Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Draco’s hand squeezed again. Subtle. Comforting. Encouraging.
So he stood.
And as the eyes of his team—his team—fell on him, a rare thing settled in his chest. Pride. Not the kind that came from being a hero. Not from fame or surviving impossible things.
But from doing the job. Leading a team. Solving a case. Bringing justice.
“I’m not great at speeches,” Harry started, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I guess I just want to say… thanks. For putting up with me. For sticking through this insane case. For trusting me. Every one of you was key to closing it. I couldn’t have done it without this team.”
A round of cheers. Someone threw a dumpling. Harry suspected it was Nabu.
But then, Robards cleared his throat again—that one, the serious one. And everyone knew something else was coming.
“I’ve got one more announcement,” he said, and his voice was lower now. Serious. “This case will be my last as Head of the Department.”
The table gasped. Someone—Zola, again—choked on her drink.
“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Robards scowled. “It was coming. I’ve been threatening to retire for the last three years.”
The room was dead silent.
“And since I do intend to vanish into a nice quiet cottage and never hear another murder case in my life…” He turned, clapped Harry once on the shoulder, and finished with: “It should be obvious who’ll take over.”
Harry blinked.
The silence stretched.
“Potter will be taking over as Head Auror.”
More gasps. A few cheers. Ron hooted.
Harry’s jaw was somewhere on the table. Draco just leaned toward him, eyes full of quiet pride, and murmured against his ear, “Well, Head Auror Potter. Guess I really have to start calling you ‘sir’ now.”
Harry decided then and there: he might survive another team dinner after all. But only if Draco kept that promise.
After dinner, Harry had insisted—loudly and repeatedly—that he could walk just fine. That his legs were working perfectly, thank you very much. Reality, however, had a very different opinion. He was more or less draped across Draco like a clingy scarf, face flushed from too much sake, giggling at absolutely nothing as they stumbled their way back into Grimmauld Place.
Draco rolled his eyes in that particular way that only came with loving someone you simultaneously wanted to kiss and throttle. “What am I supposed to do with you, Potter?” he muttered, catching Harry’s elbow just in time to stop him from crashing directly into the entryway wall.
Harry beamed up at him. “Obviously,” he declared with the exaggerated seriousness of the thoroughly drunk, “you should just keep me. Forever.”
A huff of laughter escaped Draco before he could help it. “Oh, should I now?”
Harry nodded with a dramatic slowness, the kind that clearly meant yes and also he thought he might be floating.
“Well,” Draco said, “can’t argue with that kind of logic.” And with one smooth motion, he scooped Harry up into his arms.
Normally, this would’ve been met with a dramatic tantrum, something about dignity and being a grown man and put me down, Malfoy. But tonight? Tonight Harry was all laughter and starry eyes, swinging his legs like he was in the middle of a fashion shoot, arms wrapping around Draco’s neck with zero shame. “You smell so good,” he mumbled into Draco’s collar. “What kind of office worker has biceps like these?” He gave Draco’s arm a solid poke, right above the sleeve garter.
Draco sighed long and suffering. “Because of drunk boyfriends like you,” he said, climbing the stairs, “who insist on flying without a broom and poking people who are carrying their full body weight.”
“This is flying,” Harry whispered, grinning, “but better. ‘Cause you smell nice.”
Draco didn’t dignify that with a response. He just shook his head and carried Harry into the bedroom, easing him down gently onto the mattress. He slipped Harry’s jacket off with practiced care, then rolled his own shoulders out of his own coat. The tie came next—undone with a single tug—and then he ran a hand through his hair with a tired sigh.
That’s when he felt it—arms sliding around him from behind, tentative but stubborn, and then the warm press of a face burying itself between his shoulder blades.
He froze.
Then—slowly, carefully—he turned just enough to see Harry clinging to him like the world might end if he let go. His glasses were askew, his eyes half-lidded with sleep, but that smile… soft and dopey and filled with so much damn affection Draco could barely breathe.
“Hi,” Harry mumbled against his shirt.
Draco exhaled. “Hi.”
And in that moment, with the moonlight brushing over the windows and the scent of sake lingering faintly in the air, he realized he’d carry this boy—this man—anywhere. Forever.
What followed was a war—a full-on, battle-hardened siege—and Draco was losing.
Trying to get Harry Potter into bed without ravishing him first was, apparently, the greatest test of Draco Malfoy’s restraint to date. And considering the fact that Draco had spent half his life pretending he wasn’t desperately in love with the golden boy of the wizarding world, that was saying something.
Harry was a menace. A clingy, giggly, determined menace with wandering hands and lips that wouldn’t stay where Draco could manage them. Every time Draco tried to tuck him into bed like the responsible partner he was desperately attempting to be, Harry snuck his hand somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t be, or tugged Draco down by his collar with a wicked little grin and said something that could not be repeated in polite company. Or any company. Or at all.
And gods, if Draco didn’t want to give in. His body was betraying him at every turn. Every breath of broom polish, leather, grass, and Harry's soft little please sent lightning through his spine. But he wasn’t just some bastard anymore. He had rules. One, actually. Just one—don’t touch him when he’s drunk. Consent was the one line Draco refused to blur, even if Harry was actively trying to seduce him with the subtlety of a blunt axe and the charm of a sleep-deprived siren.
So Draco kissed him instead. Again. And again. Gentle kisses. Slow kisses. Kisses that were all comfort and no chaos, hands cupping his flushed face while Harry pouted and whimpered and tried to climb into his lap like some oversized, emotionally unhinged cat.
“No, love,” Draco murmured, pressing his forehead against Harry’s and nudging his nose softly. “Not tonight.”
“But I want you,” Harry mumbled against his jaw, voice petulant and hazy. “Now.”
Draco chuckled, low and pained, and thumbed the soft spot behind Harry’s ear. “And you’ll still want me tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.” He kissed him again. “But I need you to remember it, yeah?”
Harry huffed, sulking like a child denied dessert. “You’re so annoyingly responsible.”
“I know. Tragic, really.” Draco grabbed the blanket from the foot of the bed, draped it over them both, and manhandled Harry until his head was pillowed perfectly against Draco’s chest.
“I could arrest you for being a tease,” Harry muttered, already halfway to sleep.
“I’d like to see you try,” Draco murmured, threading his fingers through wild black hair.
And as Harry’s breathing slowed and his grip on Draco’s shirt relaxed, Draco exhaled. He pressed a kiss to the top of that ridiculous head, wrapped both arms around him, and whispered into the dark—
“I can wait. For you? I’ll always wait.”
The coming weeks fell into a rhythm Harry had once convinced himself he’d never get to have.
The Serpent’s Shadow case, now officially closed, became just another thick file in the department archives—one packed with witness testimonies, photographs, lab results, and a long, scrawled note at the bottom of Celeste Rowle’s profile that read “Deceased. Cause of death: overdose. Case closed.” The clean-up was bureaucratic hell, yes, but for once, Harry didn’t mind it. Because at the end of every mind-numbing form, every signed page, and every piece of logged evidence, he could leave the Ministry at a decent hour, walk through his front door, and find Draco—usually barefoot, sleeves rolled up, tie undone just enough to be sinful and familiar.
It became routine. A life.
And the Auror Department? Well, they took notice. They noticed when their grumpy, caffeine-fueled commander suddenly started taking his breaks. When he declined overtime in favor of lunch with Ron and Hermione. When he came in on Monday actually rested for once. When his collar was crooked, or worse, marked—and how he didn’t even bother hiding it half the time.
Zola was the worst. She’d whistle low every time Harry passed her desk with a fresh bite on his throat like he’d walked in carrying a neon sign that read “Good night, yeah?” Chris pretended to choke on air every time he limped. Even Amy gave him an approving nod once—and that woman had the emotional range of a brick.
Harry bore it with the grace of a man who no longer gave a single damn.
Because, well... it was worth it. Every teasing smile, every knowing nudge from his team, every snickered whisper behind his back. Because he got home to that. To someone who made even his worst days tolerable. To someone who didn’t flinch from the shadows of his job but knew exactly how to pull him out of them.
Even Draco changed. Started working more human hours, leaving the office before sundown, cooking dinner with him or ordering takeout when neither could be bothered. They started hitting the gym together too. Bonding, Draco called it. Showing off, Harry would mutter under his breath, especially whenever Draco’s trousers clung a bit too well, and people at the gym turned their heads like synchronized swimmers.
Harry had tried, really, to ignore it. But then he remembered how Ginny had once smirked at him and said, “He’s got a nice arse, I’ll give him that,” and Harry had nearly choked on his mimosa.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
And, maybe, he didn’t like how many other people seemed to have noticed too.
Harry knew Draco worked out—had known even before they'd started dating.
It was impossible not to notice. The first time they met again after fifteen years, Harry had registered the change instantly. Gone was the pale, rail-thin, haughty teenager who wore arrogance like armor and weighed less than a school trunk. Instead, standing across from him had been a man—taller, broader, solid—with a sharp tailored suit that clung to all the places that told Harry he’d filled out very, very well.
There were no hollow cheeks anymore, no bones jutting out where they shouldn't. Draco Malfoy looked healthy—which was already hard enough to wrap his head around—but he also looked… capable. Comfortable in his skin. A little smug, a lot handsome, and altogether dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with dark magic.
Draco once told him that he’d started working out as a form of post-war therapy. Said it helped channel the pressure when he started at the company, juggling impossible deadlines and a shattered reputation. What began as stress relief slowly became routine, and then—after Harry came crashing back into his life—it became necessary.
“You do realize,” Draco had drawled once while stretching his arms over his head in a way that was definitely premeditated murder, “that I only keep this body because you keep passing out on your desk like a sack of rocks. Carrying you around is a bloody full-body workout.”
Harry had turned red up to his ears, but didn't deny it.
Because okay, yes, Harry worked out too. And yes, he might be a bit of a gym freak. But that was mostly because of the job. As an Auror, it was basically mandatory—between chasing criminals, dodging hexes, and occasionally wrestling some deranged ex-Death Eater into submission, being in top physical shape was not just a lifestyle. It was a survival tactic.
He liked to say it was in his blood, too. The stories about James at Hogwarts—how he was a Quidditch star and ran morning laps for fun—only confirmed that Harry had inherited the jock gene. He’d even shown Draco some old albums once, ones he'd been given by members of the Order, filled with faded pictures of his parents and the Marauders.
And of course Draco, the menace, had raised a brow and said, “Your dad was hot.” Then proceeded to give Harry one of those looks before adding, “At least now I know you'll age like fine wine.”
Harry had nearly flung the album at him.
But there was another reason behind Harry’s dedication to staying fit—one more personal than fitness goals or Auror requirements. A reason he rarely spoke about.
He’d grown up malnourished. Spent his childhood being fed scraps, watching his cousin eat full plates while he picked at a dry piece of toast. So when he finally escaped the Dursleys, when he finally had access to real food without fear or shame, it was jarring. At first, he’d barely touched it. Hesitated with every bite. Waited for the slap, the glare, the punishment.
It took Ron and Hermione weeks to convince him it was okay. That he was allowed to eat. That he deserved to.
And once he got over it? Oh, he ate. Ate until he was full, and then worked it all off until he felt light again. It became a cycle. A new kind of control.
So yeah. He was a gym rat. A slightly traumatized, protein-shake-loving gym rat with a boyfriend whose idea of flirting was bench-pressing their relationship dynamic.
Sue him.
Draco though went quiet every time Harry brought up his past—the real past. Not the war. Not the battles. Not even the mark on Draco's own forearm, long hidden beneath tattoos and time. No, it was the childhood Harry rarely talked about that made Draco’s jaw clench and his throat lock up. Because every word—casual or not—was a punch to the gut.
He knew the stories. Everyone did, in the vague, sanitized way the public had packaged them: “The Boy Who Lived, mistreated by Muggles.” As if that phrase could even begin to encompass what Harry had been through. But now Draco had heard it. Felt it in the way Harry flinched at loud doors slamming. Seen it in the way he rationed food the first month they'd moved in together, like he didn’t quite believe it was his fridge. Watched it in the way he instinctively curled into himself when someone raised their voice—even Draco, on rare frustrated days.
And it made Draco burn.
He’d seen how bad Harry’s nightmares could get. Everyone who fought in the war carried ghosts—they all had their nights. Draco had his own, and Harry knew exactly what to do for those. He'd light a low spell on the bedside table, touch his back, whisper quiet truths into his skin like they were spells to ward off the dark.
But the other nights—the ones when Harry woke up screaming about the cupboard under the stairs, begging Petunia not to take his books away, sobbing apologies for things that weren’t his fault at all—those left Draco gutted.
Because how do you protect someone from a past that already happened? How do you fight ghosts that wore cardigans and brought in the mail like model citizens?
Sometimes Harry would wake up panting, confused, lost between dreams. Eyes glazed, sweat dripping, muttering things Draco didn’t have context for—things like “I didn’t mean to burn the toast, I swear,” or “Don’t lock me in, please don’t lock me in—”
And Draco would just wrap his arms around him from behind. Pull him in. Press their foreheads together. Stroke his hair and whisper, over and over again: “You’re safe. You’re home. No one can hurt you here. I’ve got you.”
He’d stay up the rest of the night sometimes, just watching Harry sleep once he’d settled. Tracing the curve of his jaw, the scar that had faded with time but never disappeared, the slight furrow in his brow even in rest. And his chest would ache. Not from guilt, for once, but from something quieter. Softer. The deep and inescapable need to protect him—not from dark wizards or curses or nightmares—but from himself.
Because the truth was… even though Draco had grown up under Lucius Malfoy, even though he'd been punished with cold indifference and sharp disappointment, he had never known the kind of neglect Harry did.
And it left him feeling helpless.
So he did what he could. Made the flat feel like home. Left the lights on in the hallway because Harry hated waking up to darkness. Labeled the pantry because he noticed Harry relaxed more when everything was organized. Sat with him while he ate, watched him closely, made sure he finished his plate and smiled afterwards.
Draco didn't know how to fix the damage others had carved into the man he loved.
But if he had to spend the rest of his life undoing it, word by word, touch by touch, kiss by kiss—then so be it. Because Harry Potter had spent his entire childhood surviving people who should’ve loved him.
And Draco Malfoy?
He was going to love him right.
It was supposed to be just another gym day.
Harry had been finishing up his third set at the shoulder press machine, wiping sweat off his brow, eyes casually drifting across the room in that way people do when they’re pretending not to look for someone in particular. Of course, he was watching Draco. Always did, really. Hard not to when your boyfriend was stretching near a mirror, wearing that ridiculous black tank top and those fitted joggers that left nothing to the imagination.
Harry took a swig from his bottle, chewing on the edge of the cap, pretending not to stare when Draco walked up to the pull-up bar. He adjusted his gloves, bounced a little on his heels, and jumped up to grab the bar, body arching up with ease, the muscles in his back and arms flexing with every lift. Harry's eyes darkened a bit. Damn.
Yeah, the view was… nice.
Until it wasn’t.
Because that was when he noticed him. Tall, smug, some smug little twat with too-perfect hair and no sense of shame, standing a few meters off, practically undressing Draco with his eyes. And Draco, being Draco, hadn’t noticed—or was ignoring it on purpose. Either way, Harry’s jaw clenched.
He tried to go back to his reps. He really did. Except his hand slipped mid-rep and the bar slammed down with a clang loud enough to startle the girl on the next machine.
“You okay?” she asked, blinking at him.
“Yep,” Harry said, tone tight as he offered a stiff smile and stood up like nothing had just happened—even though his pride had clearly taken a hit.
By the time he looked back up, Smug Bastard McTwinkface was talking to Draco.
Harry narrowed his eyes.
The man was standing a bit too close, his posture just a bit too casual, like he was trying to show off. Draco was clinging from the bar again, doing another round of pull-ups, probably aware, probably amused. His lips were quirking. That alone made Harry’s blood simmer.
So he moved.
Walked over, calm as ever, until he reached the bar. And then without a word—without so much as making eye contact with the other bloke—he grabbed the other handle, hauled himself up, and started doing pull-ups right across from Draco, eyes locked, bodies lifting in perfect sync.
Draco’s grin widened with every rep. His smirk said I know what you're doing, and I’m eating it up.
On the fourth lift, Draco leaned forward just enough to plant a quick, smug kiss right on Harry’s lips mid-air. Harry’s fingers tightened around the bar like a reflex, and he only barely stopped himself from slipping again.
The guy scoffed. Left.
Harry dropped to the floor and stretched like he hadn’t just been staking his claim in public. Draco landed beside him with a soft thud, towel over one shoulder, his tone obnoxiously light.
“So possessive,” he said, mock-sighing as he reached for his water bottle. “Didn’t know you were the jealous type.”
“I’m not,” Harry said quickly. Too quickly.
Draco raised a brow. “Mhm.”
Harry ran a hand through his hair, cheeks flushed from more than just exertion, trying not to look like he was sulking. Draco just stepped in close, body still radiating heat, and murmured near Harry’s ear with a voice that made his knees want to buckle.
“I only have eyes for you, darling.”
Then he kissed the corner of Harry’s mouth with maddening tenderness, patted his cheek, and added, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going for a smoke before I drag you into the showers and get us banned.”
And with that, he turned and walked off, hips swaying slightly as if he knew exactly what he was doing.
Harry stood there, dazed, flustered, and vaguely annoyed.
Because he did want to drag him into the showers.
And he did want to hex every single gym rat that so much as looked at Draco for longer than three seconds.
But mostly?
He just wanted to do another set of pull-ups next to that smug bastard—because, Merlin help him, he was addicted to the game.
The next time Harry had a nasty stumble with jealousy, it came dressed in sharp tuxedos, crystal champagne flutes, and an unholy number of forced smiles.
Draco’s company was throwing a lavish dinner party—some half formal, half smug celebration over a recent product launch. Harry had done his best. Really. He'd put on the damned suit (the one Draco insisted made him look "devourable"), tied his tie right on the third try, and repeated all the etiquette Hermione had drilled into him over the years like a last-minute crammer at NEWTs. He’d practiced his plastic smiles in the mirror and stuffed his inner gremlin into the deepest, darkest drawer of his soul for the night.
Because this wasn't about him. This was Draco’s night. His world. His rules. And Harry, whether he liked it or not, was here as Draco’s plus one—his handsome, brooding, utterly out-of-place plus one.
The ballroom was glittering, floors polished to a mirror, glasses clinking softly around chandeliers that probably cost more than all of Number Twelve. Harry felt eyes on them the moment they entered—Draco in his tailored three-piece, sleek and charming, and Harry next to him, trying to remember the difference between a wine glass and a water goblet.
It wasn’t that people recognized Harry Potter. Most didn’t. This was a mostly Muggle affair, and even those who did had no idea what to do with him beyond the occasional awkward whisper of “Is that really—?” before someone would shush them politely. No, it wasn’t fame tonight that bothered him. It was the way people looked at Draco.
He was flanked. Swarmed by polished executives, tech geniuses, financiers, and marketing sharks, all smiling with thin-lipped agendas and reaching for Draco’s approval like children around a piñata. Draco handled it all like a seasoned diplomat—cool, pleasant, that effortless charm of his tuned to the exact frequency of dominance and grace.
Harry would’ve been more impressed if he wasn’t slowly sinking into the carpet from secondhand social exhaustion.
Then came the chairman.
An older gentleman with kind eyes and warm hands, and a voice like aged oak. He clapped Draco on the shoulder like a proud father and turned to Harry with a smile that felt oddly sincere.
“Ah, so you’re the partner,” the man said, eyes glinting knowingly. “Draco’s told us very little, which means it must be serious.”
Harry flushed but nodded, shook his hand, made the appropriate noises.
What followed was... surprisingly fine. The chairman, he learned, had been the one to hire Draco thirteen years ago, had mentored him from scratch and guided him through the dizzying world of tech and corporate maneuvering. The man was Muggle, but his daughter was a witch, and that had sparked the desire to build something that blended both worlds. A bridge.
Draco, apparently, had been that bridge.
“Best man I’ve ever hired,” the chairman had said with a proud gleam in his eyes. “He’ll inherit part of the company when I retire, of course. Wouldn’t feel right leaving it without him.”
Harry had never been more proud. Or more relieved. For once, he wasn’t the one in the spotlight. For once, it was Draco who was being recognized for what he deserved.
Until he showed up.
The chairman’s son.
Taller than Harry. Just barely. Blond—though not nearly as lovely. Eyes like a sea storm, suit fitted like it was painted onto his damn body. He walked over casually, glass in hand, and the moment he spotted Draco, a wide grin cracked across his face.
“Well, if it isn’t the prodigy himself,” he said with a tone of easy warmth, stepping right into Draco’s space like he belonged there.
Draco turned with a soft laugh, not quite surprised. “Look who decided to show up for once.”
They clasped hands—no, gripped hands in that rich-boy, old-friend kind of way that spoke of too many late nights and inside jokes and maybe too much shared history.
The son’s eyes flicked to Harry for half a second before returning to Draco like he wasn’t worth more than a glance.
Harry's smile went brittle.
Shit.
Not again.
Harry hadn’t even bothered to catch the guy’s name properly. Daniel? David? Something smug and punchable that started with a D—just like douchebag. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. Because the only thing Harry could focus on was the way this so-called chairman’s son moved around Draco.
Too casually. Too familiar. Like they were old frat brothers sharing whiskey and secrets over pool tables, except this wasn't bloody Oxford and that guy clearly saw more in Draco than just a friendly “mate.” Harry could smell it a mile away—the undercurrent of interest in the way he smiled, how he ignored Harry’s hand on Draco’s waist like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t matter.
The whole group laughed at something the chairman said, and Harry smiled politely, eyes not leaving the back of that man’s head like he was trying to set it on fire with sheer will. His chest was a coil of tension and possessiveness. He was doing so well tonight. Playing the role. Wearing the suit. Being the boyfriend with class and restraint.
And then that jackass leaned in, gave Draco a punch to the shoulder—the kind only old friends or shameless flirts used—and asked, “Step out for a smoke?”
Draco's eyes flicked to Harry, and for a second—just a second—they glinted with amusement. Oh, the bastard knew. He felt Harry stiffen under his hand. And he still had the audacity to accept. Just like that, he peeled away, striding off toward the balcony with that insufferable little smirk tugging at the edge of his lips, side by side with the human equivalent of a smug Labrador.
Harry's jaw clenched so tight it ached.
Beside him, the chairman let out a sigh, more father than executive now.
“I just wish Daniel”—ha, Harry had been right—“had grown up more like Draco. He’s always been a bit… spoiled, I suppose. My fault, really. Didn’t quite know how to handle him after we found out about his sister. We panicked a bit—none of us knew anything about magic, and the world felt like it had turned upside down. Sent him off to boarding schools and abroad to try and ground him, but…”
The man’s voice was soft with regret now. “Draco, though… he’s always been different. Polite, brilliant, grounded. Had a mind for numbers like I’ve never seen. When I learned he was magical too… well, I knew I’d found someone special. Took him in. Treated him as one of our own. But even after all these years, he’s always kept just enough distance. Like he’s part of the family but still… not quite.”
Harry’s heart softened just a touch at the man’s words. The regret in them. The unspoken wish that things had turned out differently. He felt for the chairman. Really, he did.
But none of that mattered when his heart was burning with something primal and cold and loud: He had missed fifteen years of Draco’s life.
Fifteen years where Draco had built something—carved out a space in the Muggle world, wrapped himself in new habits, new friends, new laughter. And Harry hadn’t been a part of any of it.
That realization was a knife. One he swallowed down with a sip of champagne, watching the balcony door as shadows moved behind it. They were talking. Laughing.
Harry made up his mind right then and there.
He was done playing the well-behaved guest. Done just hovering at the edges of Draco’s world.
If Draco had spent fifteen years building this life, then Harry was going to plant himself right into the middle of it—and make damn sure no one else mistook Draco Malfoy for being available.
Not again. Not ever.
The night air on the balcony was cool and crisp, but it did little to calm the fire simmering in Harry’s chest. He stepped outside, footsteps silent on the stone, eyes fixed on the figure leaning lazily against the railing.
Draco stood there in his usual composed elegance, cigarette between two fingers, lips parted in a faint smirk as Daniel—yes, definitely Daniel—laughed far too loudly next to him. Like they were sharing some private joke. Like he had a right to be anywhere near Draco in the first place.
Harry’s hands curled into fists at his sides, but he didn’t run. He didn’t shout. He walked—slow, deliberate—toward them.
Draco noticed him first, of course. His pale eyes met Harry’s with an unreadable look, that knowing little glint behind them, like he was silently saying, go on, then… show me what you’re made of.
Daniel, on the other hand, clearly didn’t have that kind of self-preservation. “Hey,” he chuckled, eyes flicking lazily over to Harry. “We were in the middle of a conversation, mate. Bit rude to interrupt, don’t you think?”
Harry didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even breathe. He simply stepped right up to Draco, gaze locked with his like there wasn’t a single other person in the world. Then, wordlessly, he reached for the cigarette, plucked it from Draco’s fingers, and dropped it onto the ground.
His shoe crushed it with a sharp squelch of embers and ash.
Daniel scoffed, utterly unimpressed. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he said, straightening. “Draco doesn’t need some—”
That was as far as he got before Harry turned to him, eyes hard, sharp, glowing with that righteous fire he'd once used to stare down Death Eaters. His voice was calm—deadly calm.
“Don’t tell me what Draco appreciates,” Harry said coolly. “You wouldn’t know the first thing about it.”
The weight behind those words shut Daniel up more effectively than any hex ever could.
Then Harry turned back to Draco, who still hadn’t moved, still hadn’t said a word. But there was the smallest twitch in the corners of his mouth—a smile barely held back. Amused. Pleased.
Harry reached for his wrist. Not rough. Not possessive. Just firm. Certain. Draco didn’t resist. Not even close. He let himself be pulled from the balcony, casting one last smirk over his shoulder toward Daniel—smug, victorious, and oh-so-unbothered.
Inside, the crowd blurred around them, music and chatter distant, forgettable. Draco leaned in, lips brushing the shell of Harry’s ear as they walked.
“Well,” he murmured with a grin, “someone’s in a mood tonight.”
Harry didn’t respond. His jaw was tight, eyes forward.
But Draco? Draco was thrilled.
Because Harry Potter didn’t just get jealous.
He claimed.
And it looked so, so good on him.
Mid-spring bloomed around the Ministry of Magic like a quiet hush of promise. The kind of promise that whispered change—an end to one chapter and the unsure beginning of another. For Harry Potter, it should’ve been a moment of unburdened pride. A fresh title, a room full of respect, and the people he loved most gathered under one roof to celebrate his rise as Head Auror.
But of course, nothing ever went easy with him. Not even his own damn ceremony.
For weeks, the Serpent’s Shadow case had consumed his department. Front-page coverage, speculative editorials, half-baked conspiracy theories—it had all snowballed. Even after Celeste Rowle’s overdose, even with the evidence screaming guilt, Harry’s gut still tugged at loose threads. It all fit together too neatly, too conveniently. It was over, everyone said.
But that voice in the back of his mind wasn’t so sure. Was it really over?
He didn’t have the luxury of doubt, not today. Not when he sat in the Ministry’s largest auditorium, in full formal robes, his back straight on the ceremonial stage beside Robards and the rest of the brass. Not when Kingsley Shacklebolt, who had led the Ministry through a war and a decade of recovery, stood at the podium giving a speech in his honor. Not when the crowd before him was full of faces that had stood by him since the war.
Ron was front row, radiating secondhand pride like a bonfire. Hermione, hand on her rounded belly, glowed with every ounce of warmth he didn’t deserve. Their team—Ashley misty-eyed, Amy impassive but unmistakably present, Zola grinning like she’d won a bet, Chris looking like he’d die happy on the spot, and Nabu giving a casual wink—filled the row beside them like a wall of loyalty.
Further back, Andromeda sat with Teddy, who, despite all teenage resistance, had managed a blazer over his hoodie. Molly, Arthur, Ginny, and most of the old crew packed the seats behind, each of them reminders of everything Harry had built since the war.
And then there was Draco.
Crisp charcoal suit, every inch the professional, his tie sharp and pressed against a dark shirt, pale hair combed back. He sat beside Hermione with one leg crossed over the other, posture relaxed but gaze locked on Harry. Always watching. That confidence that still left Harry short of breath, like he was being held in place by something invisible and tangible all at once.
It should’ve made him feel powerful.
Instead, it made him nervous.
Harry’s hand twitched in his lap. He bit back a smile. He could already hear Draco’s voice later—teasing, smug, proud. He couldn’t wait to go home and—
And then the door creaked open near the back of the auditorium. A man slipped in, late enough to be polite about it. Slim, dressed in sleek blue with a loosened collar, like he was trying too hard not to try at all. The kind of man that screamed upper-tier Ministry or mid-level PR poison.
He scanned the seats, and to Harry’s horror, he was looking for an empty one. The problem—the only other empty seat was right next to Draco. And he sat there.
Of course he did.
The man slid into the vacant seat beside him and leaned over with a grin, offering a hand. Draco—ever the gentleman—took it with a polite nod and a matching smile.
Something inside Harry snapped. It wasn’t loud, but it was distinct. Like a stick cracking beneath a boot in a too-quiet forest.
That smile. That handshake. That lean in their shoulders. It was just a bit too comfortable. Too familiar.
Harry’s jaw locked. His eyes narrowed as Kingsley’s voice faded into a distant echo. His fingers curled into his robes. He told himself it was nothing. That it was just some Ministry type or one of Draco’s coworkers—someone who didn’t even matter.
But all he could see was the way the guy looked at Draco. Like he wanted something.
And Harry? Harry hadn’t spent fifteen years aching for this man, surviving war and trauma and nearly losing him again just to sit here and let some random tosser flirt with his boyfriend at his own ceremony.
No. Absolutely not.
The universe could go shove its comedy act somewhere else.
Draco turned slightly, eyes flicking up toward the stage again—just in time to catch Harry’s glare. And that’s when he did it.
That infuriating little twitch of his lips. The one that was barely a smirk.
He knew.
And now? Oh, now Harry wasn’t thinking about speeches or promotions or even the little knot in his gut about the Rowle case.
He was thinking about exactly how quickly he could wrap this up… and claim what was his.
The moment the ceremony ended, robes swirling like some righteous storm, Harry moved through the crowd with one singular objective: find his man and stake his claim. The applause was still fading into polite chatter, the room now transformed into a sleek banquet hall adorned with floating lanterns and shimmering banners, but none of it registered. Not the food, not the decor, not the gushing congratulations—just Draco.
Every well-wisher who stepped into Harry’s path was met with a professional nod and a half-muttered “One moment, sorry—just need to… yes, later, absolutely,” as he politely bulldozed his way across the floor.
And then he saw him.
Draco—his Draco—stood near the tall arched windows, champagne in hand, suit sharp as sin, hair like spun moonlight. And standing far too close beside him was that guy.
That blue-shirted, smug-grinning, too-comfortable, definitely flirting guy. Probably with some tragically poetic name like August or Julian or some other nonsense that sounded like bad poetry and smelled like cheap cologne. He was laughing—laughing—at something Draco said, and then his hand dared to touch Draco’s arm.
That was it. Game over.
Harry’s boots stomped against the marble with all the grace of a charging hippogriff. He closed the space in record time, wrapped a firm arm around Draco’s waist, and ignored the subtle twitch of surprise in Draco’s brow. That was the kind of grip that said, mine. That was the kind of grip that warned, don’t touch what you can’t afford.
Draco turned toward him, cool and collected, lips quirking upward in that way that always made Harry’s stomach tighten. “Congratulations, Head Auror,” he murmured in that sultry cadence, like every syllable was laced with mischief and challenge.
Harry didn’t answer with words. He leaned up, arm still tight around Draco’s waist, and kissed his cheek. Soft. Sweet. Claiming.
And just like that, Draco's eyes flicked with recognition. He saw exactly what Harry was doing. And oh, he was enjoying this.
Then came the cherry on top—Harry’s best puppy-eyed, who-me? expression as he turned to the other man. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said with a smile too sharp to be sweet. “Didn’t see you there. I’m Harry. Draco’s partner.”
He said it like a fact. Like gravity.
The guy blinked, obviously thrown, scrambling a bit to introduce himself—Jason? Jackson? Whatever. He stammered something about working in journalism and helping LUXOR promote in the magical market.
“Ah,” Harry nodded, still smiling like a wolf in sheep’s robes. “That’s nice. Sounds like you two know each other well.”
“Oh, yes,” the man said, clearly eager to explain, “we’ve worked closely on the hybrid initiative. Draco’s brilliant—always knows exactly how to approach both worlds. It’s been… enlightening.”
Harry gave a soft hum, eyes flicking between the guy’s hand—still hovering near Draco’s arm—and Draco’s smugly composed face.
“Well,” Harry said, tone dipped in honey and daggers, “just remember. He only takes interviews in the mornings—before our gym sessions. Gets a bit… worn out after.”
The man flushed. Draco nearly choked on his champagne, covering it with a well-placed cough.
And Harry? He smiled. Wide. Vicious. Satisfied.
Point made.
The guy—Jackson, with his perfect hair and self-satisfied smirk—was proving to be more stubborn than Harry had anticipated. Persistent in that polite, charming, too-familiar way that made Harry want to hex the floor from under him.
He'd already dealt with the gym creeps, the over-eager waiters at restaurants, and the odd Ministry intern who clearly couldn’t tell when someone was very obviously taken. But this? This was crossing a line.
Harry James Potter didn’t just throw down the gauntlet. He took it, set it on fire, and slammed it down like a declaration of war. Because when it came to Draco Malfoy? He wasn’t playing nice. Not when some pretty-faced reporter thought he could just slide in with slick words and magazine-cover charm and take up space that wasn’t his to claim.
Jackson stood there, smiling like he had any right, saying how he and Draco had “become closer” over the past year—thanks to LUXOR’s big hybridization shift and all the joint magical-muggle promotions. He spoke like they were coworkers turned confidants, maybe even something more.
Draco, of course, had an arm around Harry’s shoulder now. But he wasn’t exactly shutting it down either. Just giving that polite workplace chuckle and saying things like, “I’m just a finance director, I don’t know why they keep asking me to do promotional shoots.”
Harry almost scoffed out loud. Oh, please. He knew Draco. Knew the way he angled his face when cameras were around. Knew the confidence he wore like cologne. Draco might act modest, but he wasn’t oblivious to how good he looked in a suit—or a damn gym tank for that matter.
So why was he still humouring this man?
That was it.
Harry’s patience snapped clean in half.
He stepped forward, voice deceptively casual, sharp with meaning. “You know what? You’re absolutely right.”
Both Jackson and Draco turned to him, a little surprised.
Harry smiled, one of those crooked, dangerous little grins that meant trouble. “Draco is brilliant. Handsome. Ridiculously competent. And that’s exactly why,” he said, pulling a velvet box from the inside pocket of his robes, “today, in front of our friends, our family, and every damn important person in this room…”
He dropped to one knee.
“…I’d like to make something official.”
The gasp rippled through the banquet hall like a spell gone off. Conversations stilled. Heads turned. Plates hovered mid-air. Zola let out something between a squeal and a shriek. Ashley dropped her champagne flute. Even Amy blinked—twice.
Draco’s eyes went wide. His mouth opened slightly, lips parted in shock, brows lifting just a touch as if he couldn’t believe this was happening.
Harry looked up at him, still smiling, softly now, because all the fire in his chest was cooling into something fierce and devoted and painfully real.
“Draco Malfoy,” he said, voice steady, “will you marry me?”
For a second, the world stood completely still. Not even a heartbeat between them.
Then Draco huffed the tiniest laugh, dazed and breathless and a little stunned. “You—what—Merlin, Harry—”
“Take your time,” Harry smirked, though the tremor in his hand holding the box betrayed how fast his heart was racing.
Draco stared at him like he’d never seen him before. Like he was trying to memorize him all over again. And then he smiled—that rare, dazzling, unguarded smile that made Harry feel like he was the only one in the room.
“Yes,” Draco breathed, eyes shining.
The applause came so fast Harry barely had time to stand before Draco pulled him up and into a kiss. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t polite. It was a claim. And Harry kissed him back like he’d never let go.
When they pulled apart, the room erupted around them. Flashbulbs popped. Teddy whooped. Ron looked vaguely traumatised. Hermione was sobbing into her napkin. Robards cursed under his breath and muttered something about finally. And Jackson?
Jackson had already vanished like smoke.
Harry couldn’t care less.
He had everything he needed—right in his arms.
The door to Grimmauld Place had barely shut behind them when Draco’s hand found Harry’s waist again, his touch so familiar yet charged with something deeper, heavier. The kind of hunger that came from years of want, tempered by the weight of a velvet box now nestled in Harry’s pocket.
They didn’t speak. Words would’ve only slowed them down. They were past words.
Harry made it barely two steps into the living room when he felt Draco’s body press against his back, the sharp edges of that three-piece suit brushing against the fabric of his Auror robes. Arms wrapped around his middle, slow, possessive, fingertips ghosting over the clasp of his robes before dragging downward. Draco’s chin rested on his shoulder as he whispered, voice honeyed and low, “Still want to make that scene worth it?”
Harry didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
He just tilted his head to the side, giving Draco full access to the curve of his neck—and Draco took it without hesitation, pressing a kiss to the base of Harry’s jaw, slow and soft, then trailing downward with teeth just grazing skin.
The buttons on Harry’s robes came undone one by one, each click echoing in the quiet of the room. Draco didn’t rush. He never did. He undressed Harry like he was unwrapping something sacred, like every layer peeled back was a new secret he’d been aching to get to again.
Harry stood there and let himself be handled—let himself fall into it.
Because with Draco, it wasn’t about dominance or surrender. It was about knowing. Draco knew his body like a language. Knew where to press. Where to kiss. Where to hold just a little tighter.
When the robes slipped off and pooled at Harry’s feet, Draco finally stepped around him. Their eyes met, and it hit Harry again—how utterly wrecked he was for this man.
The ring on Draco’s hand caught the firelight as he reached forward to tug Harry’s undershirt over his head. “Head Auror Potter,” he said, mocking reverence in his voice, “stripping in the parlour. What will the neighbours think?”
Harry huffed a breath of laughter, lips parting to answer—but Draco caught him mid-sentence, crashing their mouths together in a kiss that stole his reply and replaced it with heat.
Tongues clashed. Teeth scraped. It was messy, it was real—and it was everything they’d spent fifteen years pretending they didn’t still crave.
Draco backed him toward the sofa, undoing his own tie with one hand and pushing Harry down with the other. Harry landed with a soft grunt, and before he could say something smug, Draco knelt between his legs, hands on Harry’s thighs, thumbs pressing into the meat of them.
“You have no idea,” Draco murmured, looking up through his lashes, “how long I’ve wanted to own you like this again.”
Harry’s breath stuttered, chest rising fast now, his fingers twitching against the sofa’s edge.
“Then take me,” he said, hoarse, “and prove it.”
And Draco did.
Not all at once.
Not quickly.
But with the kind of reverence that made Harry feel like he was being memorized all over again. Every inch, every sound, every shiver.
By the time they made it upstairs to the bedroom, they were half-dressed and fully undone. Clothes trailed behind them like breadcrumbs and teeth marks already painted Harry’s skin like constellations. The bed creaked under them as Draco pressed him down, framed his face in his hands, and whispered—
“I’ll marry you. Again and again. As many times as it takes for you to never forget you’re mine.”
And that night, Harry didn’t forget.
Not with the way Draco touched him.
Not with the way Draco held him—after.
And definitely not with the way that ring caught the moonlight on Draco’s hand, warm and glowing, resting on Harry’s chest like a brand.
Harry barely had time to adjust before Draco straddled his hips, palms braced on either side of his head, the mattress dipping beneath the weight of every unsaid promise between them. Draco stared down at him, pupils blown wide, tie hanging loose from his open collar, shirt wrinkled and half untucked. The kind of wrecked that made him look even prettier.
And Merlin, Harry wanted to ruin him further.
But not yet.
Draco leaned down, breath brushing Harry’s lips, and whispered, “Hands. Headboard.”
Harry didn’t argue. He never did—not when Draco used that voice. Not when he looked at him like that, like he could see every unspoken thought behind Harry’s eyes. He reached up and gripped the headboard like it might keep him from floating off the bed. Spoiler alert: it wouldn’t.
Draco smiled like he knew that, then kissed him again—long, slow, unhurried. A kiss that promised filth but delivered reverence. Worship. Adoration disguised as dominance. Harry’s hips bucked but Draco didn’t move. Just stayed where he was, grinding down slowly, teasing friction through too many layers, just to hear Harry’s breath hitch.
“Draco—”
“Shhh,” he cooed, fingers sliding down Harry’s ribs, skin to skin now. “You’ll get what you want. Let me enjoy this.”
Enjoy he did.
He undressed Harry like unwrapping a wand he already knew the magic of—familiar and still electrifying. Draco traced his fingers down the line of Harry’s hip, followed it with his mouth, left wet kisses and bites that bloomed red across freckled skin. When he pulled Harry’s boxers down, it wasn’t with urgency—it was with ceremony.
And then he paused. Looked up from between Harry’s legs, eyes burning with heat and that familiar Malfoy smugness, and said, “You still keeping your hands where I told you to?”
Harry’s knuckles were white against the wood of the headboard.
“Fuck yes,” he breathed.
Draco laughed softly. “Good boy.”
And then he went down on him.
No mercy.
No pretense.
Just need—years of it, tongue and lips and teeth working together with surgical precision. Harry had long since stopped trying to hold back the noises. His hips stuttered, his thighs trembled, and still Draco kept going like a man starved.
When he finally pulled off, mouth glistening, eyes gleaming, Harry was trembling.
“You’re going to kill me,” he panted.
“No,” Draco whispered, crawling back up to kiss the corner of his mouth, “I’m going to marry you.”
Then he pressed their foreheads together and finally—finally—lined up their bodies, and Harry felt him. The press, the stretch, the burn. They locked eyes the whole way through.
Not a single word passed between them.
None were needed.
Draco rolled his hips—slow, maddening—and Harry gritted out his name, fingers tightening against the headboard again, like if he let go he might fall apart entirely.
It was slow. It was deep. It was filthy, and soft, and intimate in a way that made Harry's chest ache worse than anything else. Every thrust was deliberate, every sound a shared secret. They moved like they’d done this for years—because they had, in some lifetime or another.
And when Harry finally shattered, it wasn’t with a scream or a growl—it was a whimper.
Because Draco kissed him through it.
Because Draco held him through it.
Because Draco never stopped looking at him like Harry was every reason he’d clawed his way back from the edge of the world.
They came undone together, and when it was over, neither of them moved for a long, long time. Just the sound of breath, skin on skin, and the ring on Draco’s finger pressed against Harry’s chest like a promise.
It started simple.
Saturday morning. Grimmauld Place wrapped in lazy golden sunlight and the scent of freshly brewed coffee. Harry stood barefoot in the kitchen, shirtless in nothing but low-slung joggers, his hair even messier than usual, blinking blearily at the toaster like it had personally offended him.
Draco walked in—button-down open, sleeves rolled, ring glinting on his finger—and leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed, lips already twitching.
“You look like a Muggle sitcom dad.”
Harry didn’t even turn. “You look like someone who’s about to get hit with a slice of toast.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Harry dared.
Draco caught it mid-air with reflexes born of war and weekly yoga. Took a bite just to rub it in.
And that, your honor, is how they ended up tangled on the kitchen floor twenty minutes later—because Draco made the mistake of licking marmalade off his thumb in a way that should be illegal in or out of the bedroom, and Harry decided peace was overrated.
Midday found them in the garden, pretending they were productive.
Draco lounged on a chair under the cherry tree with a book in hand—something boring about economic policy and magical legislation—while Harry sat in the grass nearby, shirt abandoned, glasses askew, and attempting to wrangle the weeds like they’d insulted his mother.
“You’re doing it wrong,” Draco called, not looking up.
“I’m literally pulling them out.”
“Yes. Wrong.”
“You know, for someone not helping—”
“I’m helping your ego,” Draco replied smoothly, flipping a page. “If I did it, I’d make it look too easy.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “You’re unbearable.”
“And you’re in love with me. Sucks to be you.”
It didn’t. It really didn’t.
Especially not when they ended up sun-drowsy, sprawled out together in the grass, Draco’s head pillowed on Harry’s stomach, his fingers lazily tracing patterns up Harry’s ribs, both too warm and content to care about anything else.
But domesticity has a timer.
And by evening, the storm had shifted.
The ring glinted in candlelight.
Dinner had long since been cleared. Wine half-finished. Music soft and slow in the background. Harry leaned back in his chair, watching Draco pace toward the fireplace in fitted slacks and no shirt, hair damp from a shower, skin still flushed from warmth and wine and... something else.
“Merlin,” Harry muttered, voice thick, “you really don’t believe in letting a man recover, do you?”
Draco turned, slowly. There was a glint in his eye that made Harry’s pulse skip.
“No,” he said, voice silk and sin, “I believe in making sure you remember why you put that ring on my finger.”
And just like that, Harry was up—chair shoved back, body answering before his mind could catch up.
They didn’t make it to the bedroom this time.
The living room rug bore witness. So did the sofa. And the windows, fogged from heat and breath and Harry’s back hitting the glass as Draco mouthed at his throat, one hand tangled in his hair and the other sliding down, down, down—
“You’re obsessed with me,” Harry panted against his lips.
Draco chuckled. “You proposed to me in front of the entire bloody ministry, Potter. Who’s obsessed with who?”
Touché.
But then Draco sank to his knees.
And Harry forgot how to speak.
Later—much, much later—they lay tangled in half-thrown blankets on the sofa, utterly wrecked and thoroughly pleased with themselves.
“Next weekend,” Harry murmured, “we’re actually doing laundry. And the paperwork. And cleaning.”
Draco, nestled against him, hummed sleepily. “Mhm. Of course. Very productive.”
Harry looked down at him, brushing hair from his forehead. “You’re not listening.”
“I’m dreaming of very productive things, actually.” His hand drifted downward suggestively.
“Merlin help me.”
Draco smirked, already half-asleep. “He won’t. You’re stuck with me now.”
Harry kissed the crown of his head, whispering, “Good.”
Because filthy or not, wild or peaceful, domestic or desperate—they were each other’s forever now.
Monday morning was a bitch.
After an entire weekend of being absolutely, deliciously ruined by his now fiancé across every room and surface in Grimmauld Place, Harry Potter had to wake up to the cruel reminder that he was, unfortunately, a fully functional adult now. Worse—an adult who had somehow agreed to lead an entire bloody department.
He groaned as if gravity had quadrupled its hold on him overnight. His limbs ached in that warm, rewarding kind of way, the soreness coiled deep in muscle and bone from too many hours of indulgence and not nearly enough sleep. Honestly, if being promoted meant fewer weekends like that, he might just turn in his badge and move to a cabin in the woods with Draco and a very aggressive ‘No Visitors’ sign.
But then—Harry rolled over, and the world went soft again. His cheek met warm, bare skin, his nose brushing against the faint line of collarbone, and without a thought, he slipped back into clingy mode. Arms wrapped tight around Draco’s torso, face buried in his chest, like the universe would implode if he let go. Draco, half-asleep and grumbling, groaned and instinctively pulled him closer, lips pressing lazily into Harry’s hair.
“Mmph. Morning. I still hate Mondays,” Draco muttered in that husky, sleep-soaked voice that made Harry’s brain melt into bliss.
“Don’t care,” Harry mumbled into his chest. “Wanna stay like this forever.”
Draco huffed, low and fond, then dragged his fingers through Harry’s messy hair, giving a gentle tug that made Harry look up with bleary eyes. A soft kiss landed right on his scar.
“You’ll never suffer again, I promise,” Draco said, solemn and sleepy. “Not while I’m around.”
Harry’s heart did something stupidly dramatic in his chest—he’d blame the post-engagement hormones if anyone asked. He was this close to saying ‘sod it’ to the Ministry and pulling Draco back under the covers when Draco chuckled and ruined everything with logic.
“Tempting. But even I can’t save you from Monday mornings, love.”
With a dramatic sigh, Draco rolled out of bed, grabbing his dressing gown and walking barefoot toward the ensuite. “Love you. But I’ve got an early meeting. I’m showering first.”
Harry grumbled, “We could shower together…”
“And be late? Again?” Draco raised a knowing brow, stepped in to kiss his cheek, and—betrayal of betrayals—still turned him down. “We never just shower. You know that.”
Damn that iron-clad restraint of his.
The bedroom still carried the scent of the weekend—sex, sleep, and lavender-scented laundry that never made it into drawers. Morning light filtered through the curtains in lazy gold, warming the tangled sheets and Harry’s stubborn refusal to get up.
Harry flopped back onto the mattress, dramatically burying his face in the nearest pillow—Draco’s, obviously. It smelled like heaven and expensive aftershave and sin. He smiled, breathing it in like a lovesick idiot, until—
bzzz
bzzz
Harry blinked. That wasn’t his phone. He looked over at Draco’s side table—nothing. Draco’s personal and work phone were both on the charging dock, silent.
The buzzing came again. Low. Muffled.
He followed the sound, eyes narrowing. It was coming from Draco’s work bag.
Curious—and okay, nosy—Harry crouched down and pulled open the zipper, fingers fishing until he found—
A phone.
But not one of Draco’s phones.
It was different. Sleek. Unmarked. No charms or spells of protection. Just matte black metal and a vibrating insistence that made Harry’s gut twist. A burner phone.
Unlocked.
A message hovered on the screen, plain as day.
Unknown Number:
Still no update? Thought we agreed—no surprises. You’re playing a dangerous game, Malfoy.
Harry stared.
And just like that, the softness of the morning bled away. His fiancé had a phone Harry didn’t know existed. A message Harry wasn’t meant to see.
And the worst part?
Draco had never said a word.
Notes:
Dun dun dun!
Welp a long silly chapter that ends in a cliffhanger. Who would've known!
Chapter 22
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Harry barely remembered the elevator ride up to his new office, let alone the congratulatory smiles and claps on the back he passed along the way. Everyone seemed to be in good spirits—his spirits, apparently—bubbling with joy over his promotion to Head Auror. But Harry wasn’t even there, not really.
He was still in his bedroom. Still staring at a burner phone in his hand. Still reading that message that hadn’t been meant for his eyes.
And worst of all—still tucking it quietly back into Draco’s bag and saying nothing.
He didn’t know why he didn’t ask. Maybe it was panic. Maybe it was the look on Draco’s face as he walked out of the bathroom, hair wet, shirt halfway buttoned, a soft hum on his lips as if the morning was just like any other. The way he made breakfast like a domestic god, kissed Harry on the corner of his mouth like it was the most natural thing in the world. The way he’d insisted on driving Harry to the Ministry, like always, like it was routine now. Like it was love.
And Harry—Harry hadn’t said a word.
Instead, he’d smiled. Tight-lipped. Hollow.
He kissed Draco goodbye and stepped out of the car like his soul was two seconds from shattering.
Because who the hell doubts their fiancé not even twenty-four hours after proposing?
The guilt had gnawed at him all morning like a starving beast. Maybe Draco had a reason for the phone. Maybe it was some work thing. Muggle business quirks. Something confidential. Hell, maybe it was nothing. But no matter how he tried to twist the logic into something palatable, it sounded bad. Felt worse. And every second that passed, the pull in Harry’s gut only dragged harder.
He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the knock at his office door. Or the click of it opening. Or the voice.
“Mate? You alive in there?”
It wasn’t until Ron snapped his fingers right in front of Harry’s face that he jerked in his seat and blinked back to reality.
“What?” Harry croaked.
Ron gave him a bemused look and flopped onto the visitor chair like he owned the place. “You alright? Still in post-proposal bliss? Or just trying to remember how paperwork works now that you’re the Big Boss?”
Harry ran a hand through his hair and tried to school his expression. “No, I’m fine. Just… tired.”
Ron snorted, and then—to Harry’s horror—pointed directly at his neck, wearing a look that was half amused, half horrified. “Mate. You’ve got a constellation of bite marks. Did you even sleep this weekend, or did Malfoy keep you hostage in your own house?”
Harry flushed and tugged his collar higher. “Shut up,” he muttered.
Ron laughed, eyes twinkling. “Look, I’m happy for you and all—but if this is what being engaged to Draco Malfoy does to a man, I’m officially warning Hermione.”
That got a real chuckle out of Harry. The first one all morning. The sound was shaky, sure, but real. He leaned back in his chair, something about Ron’s presence grounding him like nothing else could.
Ron’s teasing faded then, replaced by something softer. Sincere. He leaned forward and gave Harry’s shoulder a pat. “Seriously though. I’m happy for you. You deserve this—both the promotion and the person. It’s been a long time coming.”
Harry smiled. A little more real this time. “Thanks, Ron. Really.”
Maybe he was just overthinking it. Draco had been nothing but supportive, loving, open, consistent. Harry was letting years of paranoia and trauma mess with something good.
Everything was probably fine.
...Even if that gut feeling still tugged like a hook lodged behind his ribs, dragging him toward something he couldn’t quite see.
Not yet.
Harry was trying. Honestly, he was giving it his all.
The universe had finally tilted in his favor for once—he was Head Auror now, the department was quiet for the first time in what felt like years, the press had shifted their attention to other scandals, and the Serpent’s Shadow case was closed. Slammed shut. Filed. Done.
And yet…
The unease clung to him like dust on glass. You could wipe it off, but it always came back.
Still, he tried to focus on the good. Actively. Willed himself into the kind of peace everyone kept telling him he deserved.
At work, things had become routine in a way that was both satisfying and surreal. He was the boss now. Everyone deferred to him. Even Robards, now retired, had sent a dragonhide folder and a note saying: “Don’t cock it up, Potter.” Which, in Robards-speak, was practically a warm hug. He had more paperwork, more decisions to sign off on, but it was manageable. He even had a proper tea schedule now. Tea, for Merlin’s sake. Domesticity had claimed him.
Back home—wherever “home” meant on any given day—Harry relished every second with Draco.
Grimmauld Place had become more than just a space tied to Sirius’s memory. It was alive in a way Harry never expected. And disturbingly enough, it seemed to adore Draco. Like… actually adore him.
The first time the walls shifted to widen a doorway for Draco but not for Harry, he thought he was imagining things. Then the temperature of the master bathroom adjusted perfectly for Draco’s shower but left Harry’s lukewarm and sulky the next day. Once, the enchanted kettle spelled out "Mr. Malfoy, would you like your preferred tea?” in steam. Harry had stood there with his mouth open while Draco simply smirked and patted the wall like it was a beloved dog.
“The house likes it when I stroke it,” Draco said, smugly dragging his fingers along the bricks. “See? It purrs.”
“It purrs?”
And yes, it did. A low, magical hum followed him wherever he went, especially when he was smug, which, frankly, was 90% of the time.
Harry didn’t even have the energy to argue anymore.
Then there were the nights they spent at Draco’s penthouse, high above the Muggle bustle. A sleek, modern thing, all glass and chrome and sharp angles. Cold. Beautiful. Impersonal.
But Harry was changing that. Slowly.
It started with little things: a framed picture of Teddy and Andromeda on the console table. A throw blanket Hermione had gifted them draped over the sofa. A potted plant from Neville in the kitchen that refused to die despite Draco’s complete neglect. Harry started leaving his books around, his robes draped over chairs, his toothbrush beside Draco’s. The space softened.
It started to feel like theirs.
And when they collapsed on the couch after long days, curled up under blankets watching some Muggle detective drama on the telly, Harry thought, This is it. This is what peace is supposed to look like.
So why couldn’t he believe it?
Why couldn’t that damned voice in the back of his skull—the one that had kept him alive all those years, the one that whispered when something was off—just shut up?
He had everything he ever wanted. Love. A future. A home. A life.
And yet…
That one buzzing thought still refused to die.
The burner phone. The unanswered question. The silence where truth should have been.
Harry closed his eyes, sitting on the penthouse sofa with Draco’s head in his lap, the telly playing faintly in the background. His fingers combed absently through blonde hair, his heart aching with adoration and unease alike.
He wanted to trust Draco.
He needed to trust him.
But trust, he was learning, wasn’t a switch you flipped.
It was a choice you made. Over and over.
Even when the doubt clawed at your throat.
And tonight, Harry didn’t know if he could make that choice again.
Not until he found out what that damned phone was hiding.
Harry sat alone in the quiet hum of the penthouse, fingers idly twisting the ring on his finger—the one that had once made his heart feel like it could burst right out of his chest. Now it just felt… heavy. Like a promise he wasn’t sure he had the full truth to anchor in.
Draco had stepped out to smoke again.
Harry had heard the soft clink of the balcony door, the quiet shift in the air when Draco moved through the living room like a ghost. He always thought Draco looked cinematic when he smoked—shirt sleeves rolled, hair mussed from running his fingers through it, eyes distant and stormy like he was having a conversation with ghosts. Maybe he was.
But that was the thing. Draco didn’t use to smoke like this. Not when they first got together. Not even after they moved in together. And certainly not the way he was doing now—more frequently, more absently, like his hands needed something to do while his mind was pacing itself bloody.
Harry knew Draco smoked before. The signs had been there from the beginning—lingering ash under expensive cologne, the faint burn on his fingertips. But he’d always stopped before Harry arrived. Always. He said it was out of consideration.
Now though… now it was becoming a pattern.
It was subtle—too subtle for anyone else to notice, maybe. But Harry wasn’t anyone else. He was in love. Intimately familiar with every one of Draco’s habits, tells, and mannerisms. And something about the way he smoked now didn’t feel like a craving. It felt like an escape.
What are you running from, love? Harry thought, gaze drifting to the cracked door leading to the balcony, where wisps of smoke curled against the night air.
The stress of LUXOR’s hybridization process was real—Harry wasn’t blind to that. Draco was practically acting as the ambassador between two worlds, trying to keep magic discreet while integrating it into a Muggle corporation. That alone was enough to make anyone spiral. Add on the fact that Draco had always had a complicated relationship with stress—harboring it under layers of sarcasm, wit, and charm—and it made sense that he was smoking more.
But something about this didn’t feel like business pressure.
It felt… personal.
The phone. That damn burner phone was still festering in the back of Harry’s brain like an itch he couldn’t reach. It hadn’t rung again. At least not when he was around. And Draco hadn’t mentioned it. At all. Like it didn’t exist.
Which made Harry wonder: was he imagining things? Was he projecting? Was the years of paranoia and trauma making him sabotage his own peace?
Or was something actually wrong?
Harry rubbed a hand over his face and exhaled slowly, trying to push the gnawing suspicion back into its corner. But it was like trying to stuff smoke into a box—it kept slipping through the cracks, winding itself around his ribs and squeezing.
He’s hiding something.
But what?
He couldn’t shake the feeling that Draco was preparing for something. Some kind of contingency plan. Maybe something he didn’t think Harry could handle. Maybe something that went all the way back to the Serpent’s Shadow case, to Rowle, to whatever secrets they’d all missed while trying to move on.
Harry stared at the balcony door again.
If he asked—really asked—would Draco tell him the truth?
Or was this one of those things… where Draco smiled, kissed his temple, and lied to keep him safe?
Because if it was the latter, then Harry was already too late.
Draco made his way back inside like nothing in the world was wrong—like he hadn’t just been standing outside alone with a cigarette and God-knows-what thoughts circling his mind like vultures. He kicked his shoes off, loosened his tie with that practiced grace, and plopped himself down across the couch like he belonged there. Head on Harry’s lap, as if that spot had always been his. Maybe it had.
And Harry... gods, Harry was weak. Because the moment Draco's platinum hair landed on his thighs, his fingers moved on instinct—slipping into those silken strands and combing through them like it was second nature. Like it was a tether holding him to his sanity.
The movie playing was some late-night re-run, probably one of Draco's bizarre Muggle crime thrillers he loved making fun of. Harry couldn’t remember what it was even called. He barely saw the screen. His eyes kept wandering, drinking Draco in like it was the last time he'd get to.
The soft flicker of light from the telly caught on Draco’s face. There was that stupid perfect smile again—the one he got whenever he played with Harry's hand. And he was playing with it, letting his fingers trace over the ring again and again, like it was the most curious thing he’d ever held.
Harry’s chest clenched at the sight.
That ring—their rings—meant everything. Draco had insisted. Merlin, insisted. If Harry was going to "brand" him with silver, as he so dramatically put it, then Draco sure as hell was going to brand him back. And he had. Slipped the ring onto Harry’s finger with a rare kind of reverence, like he was signing a pact, not just agreeing to a proposal. He’d kissed it, too. Kissed Harry’s knuckles after the fact like he meant it, like it was a promise inked in blood and breath.
Harry had never felt so owned in his life—and never so safe because of it.
His gaze drifted again, now to Draco’s arm, laid lazily across his own stomach, sleeves rolled just enough to tease what lay beneath.
The tattoos were always there—softly inked over the mark that no longer burned, but still lingered like a shadow. Draco never talked about them, but Harry had watched them reveal themselves slowly, over the months. Each one was deliberate. Hidden beneath those crisp white shirts and double-breasted jackets like secrets only he was allowed to see.
There was something devastating about it. This perfect, polished man, hiding a tapestry of pain and rebellion just under his cuffs. A constant reminder that he had survived—that he hadn’t let it win. That he'd clawed his way out and chosen to live.
Harry’s hand slipped from Draco’s hair, drifted down the line of his jaw, and tilted his face up.
Draco’s grey eyes met his. Calm. Open. Curious.
Harry didn’t say a word.
He just leaned down and kissed him.
A kiss that said more than any accusation, any demand, any whispered question in the dark ever could.
It said I love you.
It said I see you.
It said even if there's something you're not telling me, I want to believe in you.
Draco blinked up at him when they pulled apart, dazed and breathless. “That was dramatic, even for you,” he murmured, lips twitching upward.
Harry just smiled and kissed him again, softer this time, burying every ache and worry deep under the warmth of Draco’s lips. His gut still twisted with the unanswered question. The phone still existed. The doubt still lingered.
But for now, he held onto the one thing he did know.
He wasn’t ready to let go of Draco Malfoy.
And gods help him if he ever had to.
It started with Harry pressing Draco down onto the couch, the movie forgotten, the soft flickering light casting golden shadows on Draco's cheekbones. That smug, knowing look was already spreading across his face, the kind that said, go on then, take what you want. Harry didn’t need permission. He already had it. Always had.
His fingers curled around Draco’s wrists, pinning them just above his head against the cushions. Draco arched slightly beneath him, just enough to brush their hips together, his breath catching but his smirk intact.
“You’re getting bold,” Draco murmured, voice like velvet laced in smoke. “Head Auror for less than a week and already throwing your weight around.”
Harry leaned in, their foreheads nearly touching. “I’m not throwing my weight,” he whispered, “I’m making sure my fiancé remembers exactly who he belongs to.”
Draco’s eyes darkened, hunger stirring in their depths. “Mm, possessive now, are we?” he purred, voice dropping low, predatory. “You know I love it when you act like you own me.”
Harry didn’t respond—not with words. His mouth met Draco’s in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and heat, rough and uncoordinated in the way only need could make it. Draco groaned against him, lips chasing as Harry pulled back just enough to breathe.
“You taste smug,” Harry muttered.
Draco grinned, flushed and wild-eyed. “Darling, I am smug. I’m the one making the Chosen One stutter when I talk about bending him over every surface in this house.”
Harry’s stomach flipped violently—desire and disbelief knotted together. “Merlin,” he muttered, half in warning, half in surrender.
“Oh don’t get bashful now,” Draco drawled, nipping at Harry’s jaw, his voice brushing against Harry’s ear like a sin in the making. “You’re the one who proposed in front of an entire room just because some reporter looked at me wrong. You practically howled.”
“I did not howl,” Harry hissed, even as his hands trembled against Draco’s skin.
Draco chuckled, low and obscene, the sound curling down Harry’s spine like black silk. “You did. And it was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
He leaned up, lips brushing the shell of Harry’s ear.
“So come on, Head Auror. Show me exactly how territorial you can be.”
That was it. That was the match tossed into the powder keg.
Harry lost whatever shred of composure he had left.
The air between them was thick with heat and pride and all the things neither of them would admit aloud in daylight. Harry straddled Draco’s hips now, his hands gripping the lapels of Draco’s shirt, like if he let go he might lose his damn mind. Their mouths were swollen from kissing, their breaths uneven, the room filled with the faint sound of the telly and the loud pounding of Harry’s heart.
“You like being beneath me?” Harry murmured, almost daring, though his voice cracked slightly at the edges. “Having me pin you down like this?”
Draco smirked, all lazy menace and lidded eyes. “You think you’re in control just because you’re on top?”
Harry blinked. And that second of hesitation? Draco seized it.
In a fluid, almost serpentine motion, Draco’s leg hooked behind Harry’s and twisted—one roll, one tight pull—and Harry was the one flat on his back, breath knocked out of him, wrists now pinned above his head with Draco looming over him like the sky about to split open in a storm.
“Let me remind you of something,” Draco whispered, mouth dragging along the curve of Harry’s throat. “I’ve had fifteen years to fantasize about how to break you down. You don’t think I know every button to push?”
Harry shuddered. “You’re a bastard.”
Draco chuckled darkly, his hands tracing slowly down Harry’s arms, keeping him still. “A bastard who has you shaking already, and I haven’t even touched you properly.”
He leaned down, breath hot against Harry’s ear.
“You’re not the Chosen One here, love. Not right now. You’re mine. And when I’m done, you’ll forget every spell you’ve ever learned, every title they ever gave you, and all you’ll remember is how it felt when I made you beg.”
Harry groaned, defiant and desperate all at once. “You talk too much.”
Draco tilted his head, lips brushing Harry’s again.
“And yet you’re still under me.”
The look in Draco’s eyes said he could spend all night teasing Harry with just his voice. And he probably would. His mouth was a weapon. His hands, unforgiving. His tongue, lethal.
And Harry? Oh, Harry was already trembling.
Not from fear. From the high that came with surrendering to the one person who could match him move for move, curse for curse, sin for sin.
The tie was the first to go. Draco loosened it with one sharp tug, like he couldn’t stand one more second of Harry looking so composed beneath him. The crisp lines of the Head Auror uniform, the pressed collar, that goddamn smug tilt of his chin—it all had to go.
“You dress like a man in control,” Draco murmured, voice rich with mockery and something deeper, more dangerous. “But I know what you sound like when you lose it. When you fall apart in my hands.”
Harry sucked in a breath as Draco’s fingers went to his buttons, deliberately slow. Each pop of fabric felt like a countdown to disaster. Harry hated how his hips were already twitching up for more contact, how his lips parted like he was halfway to panting.
“You love it,” Draco growled, biting lightly at Harry’s collarbone as he peeled the shirt open. “You love being unmade by me. You love that I can pull you apart with a few filthy words and a hand at your throat.”
Harry’s hands shot to Draco’s back, gripping at the taut muscles under his shirt. “Draco—fuck—”
“Oh no, you don’t get to curse yet,” Draco hissed, nipping down Harry’s ribs. “Not until I say so. Until then, you’re mine to play with.”
Harry arched. “I’m not some toy.”
Draco laughed, deep and low, the sound curling around Harry’s spine like smoke.
“Then why do you moan like one?” He bit Harry’s side, hard enough to bruise. “Why do you melt the second I pin you? Why do you tremble every time I whisper how wrecked you look under me?”
Harry bit his lip, trying not to give in—but Draco saw it. Saw the way Harry’s body betrayed him, how his legs shifted open, how his chest rose faster with every word.
Draco leaned down, lips grazing Harry’s ear.
“Say it. Tell me who you belong to.”
Harry turned his face, trying to resist, but that damned voice—that velvet threat—had him unraveling.
“You,” he whispered.
“Louder.”
“You.”
“Not good enough.” Draco’s hand ghosted over Harry’s waistband, and Harry bucked.
“You, Draco! Fucking you—you bastard—”
And just like that, Draco kissed him. Brutal. Possessive. With tongue and teeth and a hand pinning Harry’s jaw like he could devour him whole.
When he finally pulled back, Harry was wrecked. Red-cheeked, panting, eyes wild.
Draco smirked, the devil in tailored sleeves.
“Good boy.”
Draco’s smirk was pure sin. “Lie back. Hands above your head.”
Harry blinked at him, dazed. “What if I don’t?”
Draco raised a brow, slow and mocking. “Then I make you.” He leaned down, breath warm against Harry’s lips. “But I thought you liked it when I let you pretend you had a choice.”
Harry's hands flew up—fast. Automatically. Draco chuckled darkly. “There’s my good boy.”
He kissed Harry like it was a punishment. A deep, claiming kiss, all teeth and tongue and filthy dominance. His hands roamed Harry’s chest, nails scratching just enough to make Harry gasp and arch, aching for more.
“You don’t get to think tonight,” Draco whispered against his skin. “You’ve spent all day being the bloody Head Auror. You’ve had your control, your power, your medals and meetings.”
His lips ghosted Harry’s stomach—kisses that made his muscles clench and twitch.
“Now you’re mine. No titles. No defenses. Just this,” he palmed Harry through his trousers, and Harry moaned, back arching like a bow, “and how desperate I’m about to make you.”
Harry wanted to snap back, wanted to throw some biting retort—tell Draco to shut up and do something about it already—but then Draco undid his belt in one motion and bit at his hipbone, and every coherent thought just scattered like ash.
“Look at you,” Draco murmured, dragging his nails down Harry’s thighs, slow and deliberate. “You act so high and mighty during the day, but the second I get my hands on you, you’re shaking. Begging.”
“I’m not begging,” Harry managed, voice thin and wrecked.
Draco tilted his head, gaze razor-sharp. “No? Let’s change that.”
And then he went down on him—slow, thorough, merciless. A man on a mission. He didn’t let Harry look away. One hand wrapped around Harry’s thigh, pinning him down. The other snaked up, fingers threading through Harry’s hair, tugging until their eyes locked.
“You’re mine,” he murmured against skin. “Say it.”
Harry whimpered.
“Say. It.”
“Yours—yours, Draco—oh God—”
“Louder.”
And when he said it again, hoarse and honest and completely gone, Draco rewarded him.
Not just with pleasure—but with power. With ownership. With devotion so deep it melted Harry down to the bone.
And when it was over, when Harry was panting, spent, boneless and ruined, Draco kissed his ring finger—his own mark shining under candlelight—and whispered, “I’ll make you fall apart every night until you never doubt it again. You belong to me now, love. Mind, body, everything.”
And Harry?
He believed him.
Round two didn’t come gently.
Draco gave Harry just enough time to recover—barely—before he was on him again. There was a particular look Draco got when he was completely and utterly in control. It was smug, dangerous, and addicting. The kind of expression that made Harry’s heart skip and his knees give out, even when he was already flat on his back.
"You look like you're still thinking," Draco murmured, crawling up over him, fingers ghosting across Harry’s stomach—light, taunting. "Didn’t I say no thoughts?"
Harry’s breath caught. “Maybe I forgot.”
Draco’s eyes gleamed. “Then I’ll just have to remind you.”
He straddled Harry’s hips, one hand pressed firm against Harry’s chest, holding him down as he kissed him. Not sweet. Not tender. This was ownership—the kind that left you marked. The kind that told you exactly who you belonged to.
Draco kissed like he was unraveling Harry from the inside out. Each touch calculated. Each grind deliberate. When Harry bucked up, desperate for friction, Draco pushed him back down.
“Stay still,” he whispered against his ear. “You’ll take what I give you.”
“You’re a fucking menace,” Harry muttered, flushed, breathless.
Draco grinned. “And you’re in love with me.”
And then—oh, then—he reached down between them and touched him again, but slower this time. Like he had all the time in the world to wreck Harry all over again. And he did it with a calmness that was infuriating. His voice stayed perfectly even while Harry gasped and cursed and shook beneath him.
“This is what I wanted to see,” Draco said, watching Harry fall apart like it was a masterpiece painted just for him. “The Boy Who Lived, brought to his knees for me. You’re so fucking pretty like this. Ring on your finger. Mine in every way that matters.”
And Harry—high on pleasure, overwhelmed by the intensity—let himself go. No control. No defenses. Just the overwhelming bliss of being known and claimed by someone who made the entire world disappear.
Later, when they were collapsed together in a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs and gasping breaths, Draco traced Harry’s chest with lazy fingers.
“Think anyone would believe me if I told them how needy the great Head Auror gets when I touch him like this?”
Harry groaned, dragging a pillow over his face. “I will hex you.”
Draco laughed—smug, soft, satisfied. “Love you too, fiancé.”
And Harry, despite everything—his sore body, his overworked mind, and that damned burner phone still lingering in the corners of his thoughts—smiled into the pillow.
Because if he was going to be destroyed by anyone, he was glad it was Draco Malfoy.
After that day, Harry was desperate for an escape from his thoughts. Even if that meant sacrificing every ounce of stamina in his body
It started in the kitchen.
Of course it did.
They barely made it back from the gym—Harry’s hair still damp, shirt clinging to him, muscles sore from the workout and the goddamn mental weight of that burner phone haunting the back of his skull. His mind was noise. Static. The kind only Draco could cut through.
He didn’t even realize how bad he needed it until Draco pressed him against the fridge. Just one look. One swipe of a tongue across his own lip. One knowing smirk that said, I know you’re spiraling. Let me silence it.
And Harry caved.
“Draco—”
“Shh,” Draco said, his voice already dark silk and steel. “I know.”
He had Harry's shirt off in seconds, tossed somewhere between the fridge and the breakfast bar. Harry’s hands fumbled with Draco’s belt, needing more, needing less thinking and more touch.
Their mouths crashed—messy, desperate, no finesse—and Draco walked him backward like he owned the rhythm of the world.
“Table,” Draco growled. “Now.”
Harry obeyed. Or tried to. He half-jumped, half-collapsed onto the dining table, sending a pile of letters scattering across the floor.
“Oops,” Harry muttered, already breathless.
Draco shoved his thigh between Harry’s legs. “Fuck the mail.”
And they did.
Or nearly did—until Draco, fully shirtless now, looked at him with those wolfish eyes and said, “Living room. I want to fuck you somewhere prettier.”
Harry didn’t even laugh. He just ran.
The couch saw the next war. Clothes got left like a trail of surrendered defenses—shirt, jeans, socks, wand belt. The fireplace lit itself like the house knew the kind of ruin being summoned.
“Still thinking about something else?” Draco asked as he pinned Harry down, grinding into him slow, merciless. “Still got ghosts in your head?”
Harry’s fingers clawed at the cushions. “No. Fuck—no.”
“Good,” Draco said, leaning down to bite his neck—not gently. “Let me be the only thing in that pretty head, Harry. Let me burn it all out.”
The couch groaned under them, a rhythm building fast and filthy, and Harry wasn’t just trembling—he was begging, openly, breathlessly, surrendering himself to the one man who knew exactly how to drag the thoughts out of his skull one moan at a time.
And when they came—together, stars bursting behind their eyes—it was messy, overwhelming, holy in its release.
Harry gasped, buried in Draco’s shoulder, skin hot and slick.
And for the first time in days, his head was quiet.
Not a single ghost.
Not a single worry.
Just Draco.
The scent of sweat and sex and magic lingering in the air. The mark of belonging etched into the bite at his throat.
And the thought—clear and warm—that if the world ended tonight, he’d die whole.
Harry didn’t even have time to redress properly. His shirt was half-buttoned, his belt somewhere back on the kitchen counter, hair wild from Draco’s fingers, lips still swollen from being kissed stupid. He tried to walk straight, he really did—but Draco’s palm on his lower back kept guiding him forward like a lion leading its prey.
The library door creaked open, shadows swallowing them whole. Moonlight bled through the long windows, casting Draco’s silhouette like something unholy—half-devil, half-devotion.
“Up,” Draco murmured, tugging Harry by the waistband of his trousers until his back hit one of the reinforced bookshelves with a soft thud.
Harry swallowed hard, already panting. “Draco—the portraits might hear.”
Draco tilted his head, that cruel smirk blooming across his lips. “Exactly.”
Then he dropped to his knees.
Harry’s mind blanked. He gripped the edge of the nearest shelf like it could anchor him to the bloody Earth while Draco unzipped his fly and murmured something sinful against his skin. Harry didn’t even hear it fully—just caught fragments:
Mine. Pretty thing. Always so good when you shut up and let me ruin you.
And oh, he did.
Harry tried not to whimper. He really did. But when those clever fingers dug into his thighs and that mouth did what only Draco Malfoy’s mouth could—he broke. Quietly, then not so quietly. One hand flying to Draco’s hair and the other slapping against the wood, trying not to knock over an entire shelf of cursed family grimoires.
When he came, biting down on a moan that still cracked through the silence, Draco stayed there—cruel, thorough, smug. And when he stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like some obscene gentleman, he leaned in and whispered, “That’s one chapter down, Head Auror. Want to try the desk next?”
Harry couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. But he nodded, dizzy and desperate.
And Draco laughed—low and dangerous.
“Good boy.”
The desk didn’t survive. That much was obvious.
Somewhere between Draco tossing Harry face-first over the mahogany surface, scattering decades of pureblood-obsessed parchments and slamming his hips flush to his arse, the desk gave a long crack of protest. But neither of them cared.
Harry couldn’t even remember how he got there. His legs were shaking, skin burning, mouth spilling nonsense in between curses and half-formed pleas. Draco was relentless. Sharp words and sharp hands. Fingers bruising his hips. Mouth ghosting over his spine.
“You know what your problem is, love?” Draco hissed, voice ragged but controlled. “You pretend to be in charge, but you love it when someone else takes the reins.”
Harry’s fingernails dug into the desk. “F–Fuck you.”
Draco leaned over him, chest to his back, one hand gripping his throat just hard enough to make Harry gasp. “Already am.”
By the time they stumbled down the corridor toward the bedroom, Harry’s knees were barely working. Draco was smug about it too, whispering in his ear the filthiest promises, biting down on his shoulder just to hear the way Harry groaned and pressed back against him.
They crashed through the bedroom door like a storm.
Draco didn’t wait—he spun Harry, lifted him by the thighs with ridiculous ease, and dropped him onto the bed like a prize he’d won after years of warfare. The sheets twisted. Their bodies tangled. And Draco finally slowed down.
This time it wasn’t about possession. It wasn’t about dominance. It was about worship.
Draco kissed every inch of Harry’s skin like it might disappear. Whispered things into his mouth he’d never dare say in daylight. Promises. Secrets. Apologies that didn’t sound like apologies at all.
And Harry—bare and flushed and trembling beneath him—took all of it. Every word. Every thrust. Every I love you that sounded more like a vow than a confession.
They came together this time. Eyes locked. Fingertips digging into each other like anchors. Chests pressed so tight it felt like their ribs were trying to align into one skeleton.
After, Draco didn’t speak. He just pulled Harry close, one arm under his neck, the other dragging the duvet over them like armor.
And Harry?
Harry let go of every doubt.
Because in that bed, in that house, wrapped up in arms that once belonged to an enemy and now belonged to him—
He finally felt safe.
Harry lay there, limbs heavy, lungs still catching up to the breathless storm they’d just weathered. His muscles hummed with lazy ache, sweat cooling against his skin as Draco’s fingers dragged soft, lazy circles across his chest. The room was dim, soaked in the warmth of twilight and the scent of sex, sheets tangled and kicked halfway to the floor.
He should’ve been content. He should’ve been riding the high like he always did after they crashed together like that, limbs tangled, mouths hungry, the world forgotten. And yet—
The thought came crawling.
Like a shadow slipping under the door, silent but suffocating.
Silvia.
Eli.
Their names, their faces. Gone. Dead.
The timing. The moments. The pattern.
Harry hadn’t thought much of it at first. A tragic coincidence. But lately? Lately the coincidences were stacking up too neatly. Too close. And both had happened after reuniting with Draco—after Harry had been seen with him, kissed by him, claimed by him.
And both times Draco had been there.
The buzz in his head soured. That post-orgasmic haze—once thick and delicious—began to thin into dread. His heart wasn’t racing anymore. It was pounding.
He turned his head slightly, just enough to look at Draco, who lay beside him with one hand resting over his stomach, completely at ease. Serene. Soft in the corners, kissed pink and golden by the setting sun.
Gods, Harry didn’t want to ask.
But he couldn’t stop himself.
His voice cracked through the quiet, raw and low and trembling. “Draco…”
A pause.
Draco blinked lazily, head turning toward him with a hum. “Mm?”
Harry stared at him, the words stuck in his throat. Then, finally—“The phone.”
The lazy comfort in Draco’s expression froze. Just a blink. Barely there. But Harry saw it.
And there it was.
The unraveling.
At first, Draco said nothing.
He just stared—eyes a shade too sharp for someone so recently sated—like he was calculating. Measuring. Deciding how far Harry would dare to dig.
And Harry, still bare, still tangled in sheets and scattered nerves, did dig. He couldn’t help it. He’d come this far, and the silence was driving him mad.
“I saw the phone,” Harry said quietly, almost shamefully. “In your bag. It—it was buzzing. I thought it was yours. But then I saw the screen. A message popped up and I—I know I shouldn’t have looked, but I did. And now I have to ask… what the hell’s going on, Draco?”
The air shifted. Warm turned tense.
Draco didn’t react at first. Just let out a breath—low and tired. And Harry’s stomach twisted.
“I was hoping not to get you involved,” Draco finally murmured, his voice dipped in resignation. “You’ve been so overwhelmed with the case and the promotion. I didn’t want to throw more at you.”
Harry narrowed his eyes, the twinge of betrayal clinging to his ribs. “What didn’t you want to throw at me?”
Draco turned onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “My father,” he said after a long beat. “Or more precisely… one of his old friends. A Ministry affiliate. Politician. Corrupt to the bone. He worked with Lucius back in the day, helped Death Eaters slip through cracks. He’s resurfaced, and now he’s blackmailing my father.”
Harry blinked. “Lucius asked you for help?”
Draco gave a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Apparently decades of emotional abuse still don’t make it easy to ignore your dying father groveling for help.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” Harry bit out, trying to stay calm. “Draco, that’s insanely dangerous. You're working undercover, aren’t you? Trying to trap him—on your own?”
“Don't act like you wouldn't do the same,” Draco said flatly, finally looking at him. “Besides, you were a little too busy suspecting I was the killer last time I checked. Forgive me if I didn’t find that environment very inviting for secret-sharing.”
Harry winced. That landed. Hard.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Okay. Fair. But still—you should’ve told me. We promised no more secrets, remember?”
Draco stared at him for a long moment. Then, without a word, slid closer, arms wrapping around Harry, tucking his head beneath his chin.
“I’m sorry,” Draco murmured against his hair. “I just wanted to protect you from it. That’s all.”
Harry melted a little. “That’s my line, you prat.”
Draco hummed and pressed a kiss to Harry’s forehead. “You’re head of the bloody Auror Department now, fiancé of the most charming man in London. You’re not supposed to relax.”
Harry chuckled faintly, but it didn’t quite mask the storm still brewing behind his eyes.
He knew Draco was telling the truth.
But something still felt… off.
The thread was still there. Tight. Waiting to be pulled.
And Merlin help them both when it finally snapped.
Notes:
So is Harry using sex as a coping mechanism? Totally. Is it healthy? Absolutely not. Both mentally AND physically tbh. How much longer is draco gonna manipulate the situation? Well... Let's just say we are about to find out
Chapter 23
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The next morning, Harry arrived at work like he was marching into battle—not a desk job.
He tossed open the Ministry’s doors, his jacket slung over one shoulder, wearing a white tee that stretched obscenely across his chest and arms—blame the gym. Or more accurately, blame Draco, that competitive little menace who had somehow turned Harry’s workout sessions into pre-marital warfare.
Summer was creeping in. The air was thick and humid, and the Auror robes were staying in the damn closet today. Harry looked nothing like a Ministry official and exactly like someone about to gut a dark wizard with his bare hands. Jeans low on his hips, combat boots scuffed from fieldwork, leather jacket tossed on the rack by the door. Totally unbothered.
Except, of course, he was very much bothered.
He barely sat down at his desk before Ron barreled in without knocking, plopping into the chair opposite him like he owned the place. Typical.
“Morning,” Ron said casually, folding his arms behind his head. “Now spill it.”
Harry blinked. “Spill what?”
Ron rolled his eyes. “Don’t play coy. You’ve been walking like you just lost a duel to a centaur for two weeks, and half the department’s placing bets on how long you and Malfoy last before one of you combusts. I know everything’s peachy in Draco-land, but maybe you’re… overdoing it?”
Harry groaned and dropped his face into his hands. “You’re insufferable.”
“You’re limping,” Ron shot back. “And moody. That’s the real red flag. So talk.”
Harry sighed, dragging his palms down his face and slumping back in his chair. “It’s not Draco. Or not exactly. I mean, it’s—ugh, fuck—he’s involved in something.”
That made Ron sit up straighter.
“What kind of something?” he asked, tone shifting instantly from teasing to alert.
Harry gave a quick rundown—finding the burner phone, the strange message, confronting Draco, and the explanation about Lucius and the corrupt politician from the old days.
Ron listened in silence, frown deepening.
When Harry finished, he added, “He says he’s helping his father. Playing along with the bastard to get evidence and take him down quietly.”
Ron raised a brow. “And you believe him?”
“I want to,” Harry admitted. “He looked me in the eye and told me everything. He’s never lied to me before, not really. But—”
“But you’re Head Auror now, and you’ve got instincts.”
Harry nodded slowly. “And something still doesn’t sit right. I don’t know if it’s the case, the burner, the timing of… certain deaths—” he stopped himself. Silvia. Eli. Coincidences. “—or if it’s just me being paranoid.”
Ron leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You’re not being paranoid. You’re in love with a former Death Eater who now moonlights as a Muggle executive while half of wizarding London still wants your autograph. That’s a setup for disaster, mate.”
Harry chuckled hollowly.
“But,” Ron added, his voice steady, “I know you. You don’t doubt people unless you feel something’s wrong. So maybe you follow that gut. Quietly. No accusations, no full-out interrogation. Just… keep your eyes open.”
Harry stared at him.
Ron shrugged. “What? You’d do the same for me.”
The silence stretched for a second, then Harry smiled—worn but grateful. “You’re a good friend, you know that?”
Ron smirked. “I know. Now go do your job, Potter. Find the truth. But don’t lose him in the process, yeah?”
So Harry did exactly that and began doing some digging of his own. One would be surprised at how much access he has to Ministry archives now as Head Auror.
His name was Cassian Rowle.
Age: 61.
Pureblood.
Ex-member of the Wizengamot. Ministerial Advisor for International Magical Cooperation from 1985 to 1998.
A man with a perfectly polished smile and a family name soaked in blood.
A distant cousin of Thorfinn Rowle—but unlike the muscle-brained Death Eater, Cassian played the long game. He was clever, charismatic, influential. And corrupt to the bone.
After the war, while most of the obvious Death Eaters were dragged into the mud and shackled in Azkaban, Cassian Rowle slithered through the cracks. He hadn’t worn a mask. He hadn’t cast an Unforgivable. He hadn’t needed to.
He made deals. Bartered influence. Made evidence vanish and whispered promises into the right ears until no one could touch him. And now, years later, he was still playing puppeteer behind the scenes, pulling strings with manicured fingers and a smirk that reeked of impunity.
Harry had read through over a hundred files. One case after another: bribed officials, 'misplaced' evidence, sealed testimonies, all cases dismissed quietly—barely a whisper in the press.
But then came the kicker.
Thomas Avery.
The same Avery who’d been able to go undetected from their radar for months.
The same Avery who’d disappeared before they knew to bring him in.
The same Avery who Harry knew had died to the Serpent’s Shadow case.
There it was. The connection. The bastard had wiped Avery’s slate clean.
Harry’s hand clenched around the edge of his desk. If this guy had buried Avery’s sins, who else had he covered for? Who else had slipped through justice because Cassian bloody Rowle couldn’t stand to see his power threatened?
And more importantly—what exactly did he want with Draco?
Because this wasn’t about Lucius. No way. Lucius was old money and old news. Draco, though? Young, sharp, respected on both sides of the magical divide. The face of LUXOR. The perfect pawn.
No.
The perfect target.
Harry stood abruptly, knocking over a stack of files. He didn’t even care. His pulse thundered like war drums. He could practically feel the adrenaline in his bloodstream—the same heat that had fueled him when he faced Death Eaters, dementors, hell, even Voldemort.
Cassian Rowle wasn’t wearing a Dark Mark, but Harry could smell the rot under his skin.
And now?
Now he was going to find every skeleton this bastard had buried.
And he was going to burn them all.
Because no one—no one—got to play games with Draco Malfoy and walked away unscathed.
On the 13th floor of LUXOR’s central tower—glass walls, modern steel, and the ever-present hum of artificial light—Draco Malfoy sat in his sleek ergonomic chair with the grace of a prince and the expression of a man seconds away from arson.
The desk before him was a battlefield of contracts, magical reports, financial projections, press kits, and somewhere buried under it all… probably a lunch he’d forgotten to eat three hours ago. Again.
“Fucking charming,” he muttered, adjusting the sleeves of his silver-lined dress shirt as his eyes scanned another quarterly financial spell-adaptation report that made him want to gouge out his own spleen.
He was the goddamn Finance Director, not a glorified poster boy for the Magical Integration Department. And yet here he was: leading LUXOR’s hybridization with the wizarding world like some gilded show pony with a calculator.
The real joke?
He could’ve walked away. Could’ve quit. Could’ve tossed the whole corporate mask and hidden beneath old wards and even older grudges.
But he didn’t.
Because he had a plan.
And the center of that plan had a lightning scar, eyes too green for anyone's sanity, and a tendency to frown adorably when something didn’t add up.
Harry.
Sweet, golden-hearted, obsessively curious, emotionally repressed Harry.
Draco let out a long, quiet sigh as he leaned back, rubbing at the corners of his eyes with the pads of his fingers. He missed him. And not just the body—which, Merlin, was a miracle of stamina and temptation—but the way Harry’s eyes softened when he talked about Teddy, or the way he wrapped his whole body around Draco in his sleep like he was something to protect, not someone to be wary of.
Draco tilted his head toward the sprawling view of London behind the glass. His reflection stared back—flawless, calm, professional. A lie. Beneath it all, the real Draco Malfoy coiled like a serpent in the shadows of his own making.
He'd underestimated Harry’s instincts. That was his fault. He should’ve known that burner phone would spark something.
But perhaps... perhaps it was better this way.
A good lie always needed a grain of truth. And wasn’t it just poetic? He was being blackmailed. Sort of. That part wasn’t entirely fabricated. Cassian Rowle was dangerous. Just not for the reasons he told Harry.
No. The real threat was Harry’s bleeding, blinding, brilliant conviction. His need to do what’s right. To save everyone. Even people like Draco.
Draco knew it wouldn't be long before Harry dug deeper. Before the Auror in him connected dots Draco had so carefully spread apart.
But Draco wasn’t afraid.
He smiled as he ran a finger down the spine of a folder filled with Rowle’s dealings—ones Draco had kept meticulously recorded. Not for justice.
For leverage.
Everything was a piece in his game. Every move calculated. Every step closer to tying Harry to him in a way no spell, no contract, no ring could replicate.
He would bury Rowle. He would eliminate every lingering ghost of Harry’s past. And he would do it all while smiling like the perfect fiancé.
Because the world might think Harry Potter was untouchable.
But Draco knew better.
He had already wrapped himself around Harry’s soul. Slowly. Carefully. Irrevocably.
And he wasn't going to let anyone take that away.
Draco really, really thought the knock on his office door was Harry.
He was already half-smiling, half-plotting how he'd drag the man into his lap the moment he stepped in. Because Merlin, he needed the distraction. Needed to touch Harry, just to remind himself that all of this—the scheming, the lying, the half-truths dressed as romantic declarations—was for something. For him.
But the smile on his lips crumbled fast the moment the door opened… and in walked Pansy fucking Parkinson with Blaise Zabini trailing behind like sin wrapped in a silk tie.
“Oh look,” Pansy sing-songed, sweeping into the room like she owned it, “he really was expecting a visitor. Shame it’s just us and not your little Auror boy toy.”
Draco let out the most exhausted sigh of the week. “Merlin, Pans. Can’t you be insufferable after five p.m.?”
Blaise made a face of mock betrayal. “That’s how you greet your childhood best friends? We’ve been replaced by Potter again. You wound me.”
“You’ll live.” Draco scowled, already regretting not installing a locking charm on the door. “What the hell are you two doing back in London? Weren’t you still ruining Rome the last time I checked?”
Pansy flopped elegantly onto the leather sofa like she belonged there—because of course she did—crossed one leg over the other, and smirked at him. “Darling, Italy was fun, but we missed your cold sneers and emotional constipation. Plus,” she gestured dramatically to the air, “you’re engaged! I mean, it only took fifteen years and an emotionally repressed savior complex.”
Blaise leaned against the armrest, looking far too amused. “And to Harry Potter, of all people. Tell me, is it the trauma bond or the sex that’s got you so whipped?”
Draco made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a threat. “Why am I friends with either of you again?”
Pansy didn’t miss a beat. “Because we’ve seen you naked, cried with you in third year over Theo’s bad poetry, and helped you bury that one awful date in Marseille. You’re stuck with us, darling.”
Blaise added, smugly, “And because we know where all your bodies are buried. Metaphorically.”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “Only metaphorically?”
Pansy winked. “Depends on the day.”
He sighed again, dramatically this time, but the truth was—this was comforting in the most infuriating way. Pansy and Blaise brought a piece of his past with them. A sharp, glittering piece, but familiar all the same. And now, as they settled in and cracked open his emotional armor with every sarcastic jab, Draco felt that gnawing tension loosen, if only slightly.
Of course, he couldn’t let them get too comfortable.
“You’re both staying out of my business,” he said, walking over to pour himself a glass of scotch. “Don’t poke around Harry. Don’t drop hints. And for the love of everything sacred, don’t meddle.”
Pansy blinked innocently. “Meddle? Us?”
Blaise smirked. “No promises. But we are having dinner soon, yes?”
Draco groaned again, already regretting the inevitable chaos.
Because with these two in town?
Secrets had a way of crawling out. And Draco was sitting on far too many.
Draco glanced back at his desk with its mountain of unchecked documents, glowing screens, and a teetering stack of reports that practically screamed responsibility. He should’ve stayed. Should’ve buried himself in numbers and strategies and corporate bullshit. But the devil on his shoulder wore red lipstick and Italian leather, and the other one had the smuggest smirk in the hemisphere.
Dinner with the devils it was.
They walked through London like they owned it, because in a way—they always had. Pansy in sleek black, sharp as a blade. Blaise all effortless elegance and quiet menace. And Draco, of course, immaculate in a slate suit, expensive watch, and that kind of aura you couldn’t fake. One that said: I know secrets. I’ve seen blood. And I still drink my wine chilled.
Heads turned the moment they entered the restaurant. Muggle or not, their presence cracked through the room like thunder. No one could place them exactly, but they didn’t need to. They looked untouchable. Dangerous. Beautiful.
A maître d' with trembling fingers led them to a private room without a word, and the moment the door clicked shut, Pansy was already leaning forward like a predator scenting blood.
“So,” she purred, red lips curling with amusement, “we heard you’ve been playing nice with the Aurors again, darling. Even helped them solve a murder case?”
Draco hummed, pretending to scan the wine list, the corner of his mouth twitching up just enough. “Mm. Something like that.”
Blaise let out a laugh—smooth and mocking. “Imagine our shock when we found out you were helping law enforcement hunt down a killer. Practically chasing yourself. And the best part? You walked out the hero.”
Draco didn’t deny it. He didn’t need to. He simply flipped the menu over and said, far too calmly, “I offered them bait. They were hungry enough to bite.”
“Oh, I bet,” Pansy drawled, swirling her wine like she was stirring a cauldron. “But I wonder if it was really your intellect they were after... or if someone was too busy getting railed by the Savior of the Wizarding World to notice your trail.”
Draco looked up, lips parted in mock innocence. “Who, me?”
They all laughed.
Gods, he really had done it. Escaped suspicion, rewrote the narrative, and secured a fucking engagement ring from the man who used to chase him through castle corridors with curses on his tongue and fire in his eyes.
He hadn’t just gotten away with it.
He’d won.
And the best part?
No one—not even Harry—knew what he was still capable of.
After their meals had been served—plated like modern art and priced like black-market magic—the room dipped into that peculiar silence only true old friends shared: comfortable, deadly, and filled with layers of unspoken truths.
It was Draco who finally broke it, his fork swirling lazily through a bed of truffle risotto. “So,” he murmured, tone idle but eyes sharp, “how’d the thing I sent you for go?”
Neither Pansy nor Blaise blinked. Pansy took a delicate sip of wine, Blaise carved through his steak like it was nothing more than an errand.
“We found them,” Pansy said with her usual theatrical calm. “The little cockroaches. Death Eaters who slipped past justice after the war. Thought they could grow old in the countryside under false names and fake documents.” She shrugged one shoulder, casually elegant. “Not doing much running now, though.”
“We left them as a little present for you,” Blaise added, cutting into a rare slice of meat. “Wrapped in silence and waiting. Consider it an early engagement gift. You can visit when you’re ready. Italy’s lovely this time of year.”
Draco smiled around his fork, chewing slowly as that familiar warmth—dark, cold-blooded satisfaction—settled deep in his chest. He would take care of them himself. Tidy loose ends. He always did.
Then Blaise dropped the real question.
“So. You did go with the backup plan after all. Celeste Rowle, hmm?” he asked, tilting his head as he watched Draco over his glass. “Wasn’t she supposed to be Plan B? Only if things went south. If you got exposed.”
“And yet...” Pansy picked up, her eyes glittering, “you threw her into the fire anyway. Funny, considering the operation was going so perfectly. Unless something changed. Unless someone... got to you.”
Blaise gave a knowing smirk. “Could it be you rushed the timeline? Adjusted the plan? Because of your beloved Head Auror?”
Draco didn’t answer right away. He just dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin, the picture of poise. But that was the thing about Pansy and Blaise—they knew. They always had. The little monsters had watched him pine and sneer and ache for Potter all those years ago like it was some cursed affliction. And now they saw it again, only worse.
“I simply accelerated things,” Draco said eventually, tone deceptively calm. “My fiancé has a curious mind. It was only wise to throw him something he could catch before he got too close to something else.”
Pansy grinned, predatory. “Oh darling, don’t lie. You’re sabotaging yourself. What happened to the Draco Malfoy who burned evidence and planted bodies with no one the wiser? The one who could rewrite a crime scene better than Rita Skeeter rewrites history?”
Draco met her gaze, cool and unimpressed. “He fell in love. Try not to vomit.”
Blaise did snort, nearly choking on his wine. “Merlin’s tits. The irony. All those years pretending to hate him and now you’re out here committing war crimes and proposing in front of ministry officials.”
“Not war crimes,” Draco corrected primly. “Just highly selective justice.”
“Sure, Jan,” Pansy murmured, eyes narrowed and gleaming. “But tell me, when he finds out—and he will, love, it’s Potter—do you think he’ll still keep that ring on?”
Draco's fingers twitched against his fork. His jaw flexed just once.
“If he doesn't,” he said, quiet and sure, “then I’ll remind him why he put it there in the first place.”
And that was the thing.
Draco had never once cared if something was right. He only cared if it worked.
And Harry Potter?
He was going to work. One way or another.
As the evening wore on, their conversation remained casual—too casual, for what they were really talking about. Targets. Eliminations. Flight risks. Next names on their list to be “silenced.” All of it whispered over candlelight and fine wine like they were discussing stock portfolios or upcoming board votes.
No one would’ve guessed these three glittering creatures in designer clothes and groomed perfection were laying out a hit list between bites of seared duck and saffron risotto.
It had started with Draco, of course. He hadn’t meant to drag them into it—not at first. But trauma has a way of festering when left unchecked, and after the war, Draco had tried to bury his past in muggle concrete and mundanity. It hadn’t worked. His demons had followed him through every keypad door, every email, every board meeting.
And when he saw the filth of his past walking free—Death Eaters sipping wine at parties, war criminals tucked under political immunity, Aurors shaking hands with the very men they once dueled—Draco snapped.
If the Ministry wouldn’t serve justice, he would.
He hadn’t expected Pansy and Blaise to say yes when he told them. But they hadn’t even blinked. Of course they followed him. They always had.
“I still can’t get over how methodical you are when you’re pissed,” Pansy said, dainty fingers swirling her wine. “You seduced an entire corporation, Draco. And now you’re the heir of some senile muggle mogul who didn’t even realize he was signing over shares of his empire to a bloody Malfoy.”
“You know,” Blaise added with a slow grin, “I used to think you’d peak in school. Arrogant, manipulative, pretty as sin—but never the follow-through. But this,” he gestured vaguely around, “this is art. Cold, calculated vengeance wrapped in a three-piece suit.”
Draco rolled his eyes, half amused, half bored. “It wasn’t that hard. The chairman was sentimental. Loneliness makes men weak. All I did was offer a listening ear.”
“And a strategic seduction,” Pansy sing-songed, batting her lashes.
“Please,” Draco drawled, flicking a crumb off the table. “It wasn’t even about seduction. I barely touched the man.”
“Yet he left you part of the company,” Blaise mused, “and all of his tech patents. Either you’re being modest, or he had a massive daddy complex.”
“Or,” Draco said coolly, “he recognized loyalty when he saw it.”
They all knew it was bullshit, but no one said a word.
Pansy smirked, pulling her phone from her clutch and snapping a photo of their empty plates and intertwined hands under the table. Draco raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”
“Showing off,” she replied easily. “A life of luxury. My followers adore this aesthetic.”
“Followers,” Draco scoffed. “You mean your cover operation.”
“Well, yes,” she said, still scrolling. “But I am technically famous, you know. The muggles think I’m a fashion consultant. Or a trust fund heiress. Or something equally unoriginal.”
Blaise was already pulling out his own phone, angling it just right to catch the low candlelight hitting the amber in his drink. “Gotta keep up the model persona,” he said with a wink. “I have two shoots next week. They think I’m the ‘mysterious European face with a tragic past.’ They’d shit bricks if they knew the past involved poisoning a Belgian war criminal.”
Draco sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Merlin, I travel with circus animals.”
“And yet you’d be lost without us,” Pansy chimed.
She wasn’t wrong.
The devil’s dinner concluded with dessert and death plans. And beneath the glitter and giggles, blood had already been promised.
Draco should’ve known better. He really should’ve.
Back at LUXOR, he tried—tried—to stay focused on the quarterly reports and balance sheets spread across his desk, flipping through them while scribbling annotations in the margins. But his eyes kept drifting. Not to the numbers. Not to the graphs. No. To them.
Blaise and Pansy were lounging on his office sofa like they paid rent, scrolling through their phones, laughing under their breath, kicking their shoes off like they owned the damn place. His sanctuary, his office—currently occupied by two bored aristocratic menaces.
With the sharp bite of a sigh, Draco slammed his pen down and gave in to the inevitable. “Why are you two still here?”
Pansy, ever the embodiment of nonchalance, didn’t even glance up. “We haven’t seen you in almost a year. Is it so terrible we want to spend some time with our dear friend?” she drawled, distracted and very much insincere.
Draco arched a single, judgmental eyebrow. “You could at least pretend to sound like you mean that.”
Blaise chuckled, eyes still glued to his screen. “Your office is nice. Great couch. Lighting’s flattering.”
“You own a memory foam therapeutic bed with enchanted settings,” Draco snapped. “Go home to it. Sleep in luxury. Leave me alone.”
They didn’t budge. Not even a twitch. And that was it.
With the kind of elegant aggression only Draco Malfoy could pull off, he snapped the binder in his hands shut, tossed it onto the desk, and swept his laptop and papers into his leather bag. “Fine. I’m going home.”
What truly made it worse was the way they both stood without a word of protest and followed him out like loyal—if smug—goldendoodles. Too smug.
He was just about to turn around and hex their designer shoes off when he stopped dead in the hallway.
And forgot how to speak.
There, leaning casually against the wall like something straight out of a Muggle indie film poster, stood Harry. White tee straining slightly over his chest, his leather jacket draped effortlessly across his shoulders, hair a hopeless mess as always—and that smile. Soft, cheeky, utterly disarming.
Draco’s annoyance vanished like smoke. A breath left him without permission. He couldn’t help it; he smiled, eyes softening. “What are you doing here?”
Harry pushed off the wall and walked toward him, slipping an arm around Draco’s waist and leaning in to kiss his cheek, so casually, like it was nothing—like it didn’t send Draco’s pulse racing every damn time.
“Thought we could head home together tonight,” Harry murmured.
Draco would’ve melted right then and there… if not for the obnoxious clearing of a throat behind him.
He stiffened. Right. Them.
He heard Pansy’s smug silence before he even turned. And the moment Harry glanced over Draco’s shoulder and laid eyes on the pair, Draco saw it.
That flicker in Harry’s expression. That subtle twitch of his brow as recognition clicked.
“Parkinson and Zabini?” Harry blinked.
Pansy beamed like she’d just been crowned prom queen. “Oh good. You haven’t forgotten us. We were worried Draco had kept you locked up and all to himself.”
Blaise grinned, extending a hand. “Congratulations on the engagement, Potter. Or should I say... soon-to-be-Malfoy?”
Harry accepted the handshake slowly, still processing, eyes flicking from them to Draco like he wasn’t sure if this was a fever dream or just some weird alternate reality.
Draco sighed. Long, heavy, theatrical. “I should’ve seen this coming.”
Because now, now, the worlds were colliding. His past, his present—and gods help him—his two meddling best friends had just met the love of his life.
And the chaos was just beginning.
Somehow, somehow, instead of heading home like sane people, they’d ended up at a bar just down the street from LUXOR’s high-rise. And Draco—who'd very much been dreaming of a warm bed, soft lighting, and his fiancé’s bare chest as a pillow—was now slouched in a dimly lit booth with a sad little glass of soda in front of him, watching his personal hell play out in real time.
It was a Wednesday. A weekday, for Merlin’s sake. He should’ve been curled up with Harry, half-asleep in a tangle of limbs and smug satisfaction. Instead, here he was. Sober. Surrounded by chaos. Designated driver, because apparently, that was the role life had cast him in tonight.
And the worst part? The absolute worst part?
They were getting along.
Harry. Pansy. Blaise. Chatting. Laughing.
Draco eyed the group like he was watching an inter-house alliance forming over forbidden love. Or some sort of social apocalypse. Harry, bright-eyed and ever-curious, leaned slightly forward as he nursed his beer, gaze flicking between the other two with interest. “So... what have you two been doing all these years?”
That damn journalistic voice, the one he used when interrogating suspects and charming sources, was in full effect. Draco almost choked on his soda.
Pansy tilted her head, a coy smile on her lips, and answered smoothly, “Oh, you know, this and that. A little traveling, a little business. We laid low after the war ended. Europe was so… refreshing.”
Blaise, lounging like sin personified, added, “We figured England needed time to... adjust. And so did we. Rome had better wine anyway.”
Draco knew this story by heart. He also knew exactly what had really gone down during those first few years post-war—how Pansy and Blaise dipped into the underground, pulled strings, forged identities, and slowly built an empire of whispered connections and elegant ruthlessness. He’d run into them by accident—fatefully, he'd say now—on a business trip to Belgium five years after the dust of war had settled. One dinner, one too-honest conversation, and suddenly, their alliance was reforged like tempered steel. Sharp, unbreakable… and bent on retribution.
Of course, none of that was for Harry to know. Not yet.
Draco took a slow sip of his drink, trying to mask his rising irritation behind the fizz. He glanced at Harry—soft, golden, utterly gorgeous even in the shitty bar lighting—and fought the urge to pull him close, bite his lip until he melted, and drag him back home where he belonged.
Instead, he watched his fiancé—his sunshine, his Auror Commander—grin at Blaise’s dry wit and Pansy’s biting sarcasm like he’d known them forever. It was unnatural. It was terrifying.
And it was annoyingly adorable.
Draco groaned into his glass.
Because in what world did his best friends—two chaos agents wrapped in couture—and Harry Bloody Potter get along? They were laughing. There were inside jokes forming. Pansy was twirling her straw as she leaned toward Harry, whispering something that made his ears flush pink.
Draco nearly flipped the table.
Was it too much to ask for one peaceful, private night? Just him, his tragically irresistible fiancé, and the serenity of home? No unexpected reunions, no elaborate cover-ups, no clandestine murder partners third-wheeling his date night?
Apparently, yes.
Because in Draco’s world—his very specific, karma-laced, madness-infested world—nothing ever went according to plan.
And he was definitely going to seduce Harry the moment they got home just to remind everyone exactly who had claimed the Chosen One.
Between the clink of martini glasses and the low hum of conversation around them, Pansy tilted her glass toward Harry with a feline grin and casually let the bomb drop.
“So,” she purred, stirring her olive like it owed her money, “I heard you wrapped up that nasty little serial killer case. Closed and promoted all in one stroke—Head Auror, was it?” Her tone was mock-impressed, like she was handing out gold stars in detention. “Didn’t think that hero complex would survive into adulthood, but look at you. Still out here saving the world.”
Harry blinked, startled for half a second before he caught the smirk and snorted softly, half-laughing, half-wincing. “Thanks... I think?” His words slurred just slightly. The martinis were starting to do their thing. “Not sure if that’s a compliment or a diagnosis.”
Draco didn’t look at Pansy. He didn’t need to look at her. His gaze was on Harry, dissecting every twitch of that expressive face—the way his smile tilted, crooked and tired. Not fake, exactly, but off. And when Harry nodded his thanks again, it was with that distant, hollow undertone that Draco recognized too well.
Still doubting.
Of course he was. That relentless, obsessive little voice in Harry’s head wasn’t satisfied. Even with a closed case, even with Celeste Rowle’s overdose tied in a bow and handed to the press as justice served, Harry was still turning it over in his mind like a cursed artifact.
Draco grinned into his soda.
Adorable.
It was a look he knew intimately—that subtle grimace that said “I followed the evidence, but it led to a dead end that still stinks of lies.” That quiet defiance, the unwillingness to let go even when the world had told him the case was over. Even now, with half a martini in him and good company around, Harry looked like he was trying to fit a puzzle piece that almost fit but wouldn't quite click into place.
And gods, it was sexy.
A life with Harry Potter would never be calm. Never be boring. But that was the point, wasn’t it?
Draco’s gaze flicked across the table—and caught Blaise already watching him.
Smug bastard. That unreadable half-smile curled on his lips, eyes flicking meaningfully between Draco and Harry with all the subtlety of a Slytherin in confession. You’re enjoying this far too much, it said. And you’re dangerously close to slipping.
Draco met that look with one of his own. Cool, elegant, a little feral around the edges. Let me burn, then. He’s worth the fire.
Because Harry, with his messy morals and wounded pride and dangerous mind, had always been the most irresistible temptation. Not just because he was a challenge. Not just because he was smart or brave or so damn pretty when he was suspicious—but because Harry looked at monsters and still tried to understand them.
Even when the monster was in his bed.
Draco tipped his glass slightly in Blaise’s direction in a silent toast. Blaise chuckled under his breath.
Across from them, Harry rubbed the back of his neck and leaned forward again, asking Pansy some question about how long she’d been living abroad. Distracting himself. Trying not to think too hard. Trying to drown the itch in conversation and half a drink.
But Draco knew better.
Harry Potter didn’t let go of threads. He unraveled them.
And that was fine.
Because Draco was already wrapped around him.
And if Harry ever pulled hard enough to get to the truth—well. Some people played Russian roulette for the thrill.
Draco loaded the chamber himself.
The night had stretched long enough, and Draco had finally had enough.
He didn't even let Harry finish tipping the beer bottle before he plucked it straight from his hand. The pout he got in return nearly cracked his will, but then Harry started giggling again, his words slurring into soft babble about how unfair Draco was and how he missed him so much at work. Draco rolled his eyes and mumbled, "Merlin, you’re a menace when you're drunk."
Outside the bar, Harry was deadweight and giggles, practically melting against him as Draco hauled him toward the car. His feet stumbled on nothing and he clung to Draco like an overgrown koala.
"More alcohol?" Harry hiccupped, eyes glassy, grinning up at him with all the self-control of a toddler.
"No more anything," Draco muttered, managing to unlock the passenger door with one hand and hoist the gangly man into the seat with the other. Buckling him in was a feat of wizardry in itself, not because it was hard but because Harry wouldn't stop talking. Something about how he missed Draco at work, how he should just quit and join him in the Auror department so they could snog during breaks.
Draco just huffed, leaned down, kissed his forehead, and whispered, “We’ll be home soon, you ridiculous man,” before gently shutting the door.
And when he turned, of course they were there.
Pansy and Blaise, still a little flushed but smug as ever, leaned against the wall of the bar with matching we told you so smirks.
“I never thought I’d see the day,” Blaise drawled, eyes glinting, “where Draco Malfoy was this down bad.”
“It’s disgusting,” Pansy said sweetly, fanning herself with her clutch. “But also, I suppose it’s comforting to know you won’t die alone and bitter. You’ve got Potter to feed you soup in your old age now.”
Draco scoffed, dragging a hand down his face. “You two orchestrated this entire bloody reunion and now you’re hovering over me like concerned aunts. Get a grip.”
Blaise shrugged, tone deceptively light. “We’re just testing the waters. Seeing if this ‘dating the enemy’ thing is going to blow up in your face.”
“And don’t forget,” Pansy added, her voice turning serious beneath the satin edge, “you’re still playing with fire. You might’ve planted the perfect scapegoat and led the Auror department in circles, but Potter’s not stupid. He’s getting closer, isn’t he? Still sniffing around?”
Draco didn’t respond immediately. He just lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and stared at the smoke curling into the night sky.
When Pansy kept pressing—“What happens when he figures it out? What if he’s not as in love with you as you think?”—Draco’s eyes narrowed.
“He is,” he said, voice cold and final. “And if not, I’ll make him. He’ll fall so irrevocably, so hopelessly in love, he won’t even remember life before me.”
A beat of silence.
Then Pansy sighed, arms crossed, expression shadowed by rare sincerity. “Just... be careful, Draco. If this goes south, it’s not just heartbreak on the line. It’s Azkaban.”
“And I don’t look good in grey,” Blaise added, more gently.
Draco didn’t answer right away. He watched the last ember of his cigarette burn down, flicked the butt onto the concrete, and ground it out beneath his polished shoe.
“I’ve made it this far,” he said at last, voice quiet. “I’m not letting go now.”
Pansy and Blaise shared a look, then nodded. No more lectures. Not tonight.
They said their goodbyes and melted into the darkness, leaving Draco standing alone by the car.
He slid into the driver’s seat and looked over.
Harry was curled into the seat like a cat, one hand still loosely clutching the hem of his shirt, lips parted slightly, fast asleep with the kind of peace Draco had never known himself.
Draco stared for a long moment.
Mine.
The word echoed in his skull like a vow. Twisted and tender.
Then he started the engine and drove them home—his eyes on the road, his hand resting lightly on Harry’s thigh, like even in sleep, he needed to anchor them both.
Notes:
Unhinged Draco does things to me. Completely alters my brain chemistry
And yes of course I had to bring Pansy and Blaise back to be part of all of this. They wouldn't be the silver trio if they didn't. Let them be wild
Chapter 24
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It was one of those rare, quiet afternoons that felt like borrowed time—slow and warm in the way that made you forget chaos existed. The Weasleys' living room smelled faintly of cinnamon and fresh parchment, the familiar, cozy scent of a home always brimming with books and baked goods.
Harry was lounging comfortably on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, head tilted toward Ron who sat in his usual armchair—sipping from a mug and looking a little too proud of his expanding domestic life. The telly hummed lazily in the background, playing some muggle documentary that neither of them were actually paying attention to.
In the distance, from the kitchen, came the soft clatter of dishes and the occasional murmur of conversation between Hermione and Draco—two of the most type-A individuals in Harry’s life, miraculously finding common ground over side dishes and potion-safe cookware.
“I still can’t believe you convinced Malfoy to help Hermione cook,” Ron said, grinning.
Harry snorted. “He’s surprisingly decent in the kitchen. And he actually likes Hermione.”
“Well, she’s a saint, so,” Ron muttered, then smiled again, the kind of smile that softened his entire face. “She’s doing brilliant, you know. Pregnancy suits her.”
Harry looked over, eyes warm. “She does look happy.”
“She is. Mostly.” Ron shrugged, then leaned forward a little, elbows resting on his knees. “The morning sickness hit her a bit late. But other than that? She's strong. Still bosses me around with those annotated lists of hers—just now she uses them to plan baby room colors and feeding schedules.”
Harry laughed, his gaze distant for a moment. “You’re going to be a great dad.”
“Yeah?” Ron asked, quieter this time, uncertainty flickering across his face.
Harry looked at him fully. “Yeah. You’ve got the biggest heart of anyone I know. You’d throw yourself in front of a dragon for the people you love. That’s already more than half the job.”
Ron chuckled sheepishly, running a hand through his hair. “What if I drop it? Or hold it wrong? What if I sneeze and it goes flying?”
“You’re not going to yeet the baby across the room, Ron,” Harry deadpanned, lips twitching into a smirk. “That’s not how physics—or babies—work.”
“Yeet?”
“Muggle slang. I’ll teach you later.”
Ron shook his head, still laughing. “Thanks, mate.”
“Always,” Harry said, meaning it. “You’ve got me, Hermione’s parents, the entire Weasley army—and Draco’s shockingly good with kids, somehow. I swear it’s the posh voice. Babies love being lied to by someone who sounds like they’re judging their diaper brand.”
Ron wheezed. “Merlin, you’re so in love with him it’s gross.”
Harry turned pink, shoulders shrinking a little into his tee like a turtle. “Shut up.”
“So,” Ron leaned forward, eyes glittering. “Wedding plans?”
Harry groaned softly, a hand running over his face. “We’ve… talked about it. A bit.”
“And?”
“A winter wedding sounds nice,” Harry mumbled, cheeks still pink. “Something small. Cozy. Maybe at Hogwarts if we can wrangle it. Or the coast. Somewhere cold. Somewhere ours.”
Ron gave him a long, meaningful look. “Sounds perfect.”
Harry smiled shyly. “It will be. If I can ever pin that man down long enough to get him to agree on cake flavors.”
From the kitchen came a crash, followed by Hermione’s exasperated, “Draco, the spatula was on the left!”
Harry and Ron shared a look before bursting into laughter.
“Domestic bliss,” Harry said, breathless.
“Poor bloke doesn’t know what he’s in for,” Ron said, grinning.
Harry leaned back, a quiet, soft look settling in his eyes. “Neither do I. But I can’t wait to find out.”
The television murmured on in the background, voices low, clipped, casual. Harry and Ron were sprawled across the living room in that comfortable, familiar way only childhood friends could master—Harry tucked against the armrest of the sofa, Ron in the worn leather armchair, his legs thrown over one side as he absentmindedly tossed a stress ball between his hands.
The conversation between them had drifted from upcoming plans to family, then circled back to work, as it always did. Even with the Serpent’s Shadow case wrapped up and closed, the Ministry never truly slept, and neither did its top Aurors. Harry leaned back, stretching his spine as the conversation turned.
“So,” Ron said, voice dropping in pitch as he leaned in, “how’s the Cassian Rowle thing going?”
Harry’s breath caught just a little. He rubbed at the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact. “Still nothing solid,” he muttered. “I’ve found more links, more cases that stink of interference, and a few judges with suspiciously clean ledgers after ruling in his favor. But nothing I can take to trial. It’s all circumstantial.”
Ron’s face twisted in sympathy. “That bastard’s been greasing palms for decades. Knows how to stay untouchable.”
“Yeah.” Harry sighed again, this one heavier. “But he’s dirty. I know he is. Too many coincidences, too many monsters walking free. He’s behind it, I’m sure. And I swear, Ron, I’m gonna find a way to take him down.”
Ron gave a slow nod, voice full of conviction. “We’ll get him. We always do.”
It was almost a comfort—almost.
Ron flicked the remote and the channel shifted. The screen showed a crisp-suited anchor under the bold letters: International News.
They both fell quiet as the report began.
“Two men were found dead in Rome this morning, bringing the international death toll to four,” the anchor said. “Authorities report that the victims were killed in strikingly similar fashions, though so far there have been no suspects, and no confirmed links between the victims. Previous bodies were discovered in Sicily and Berlin. Interpol is working closely with local and international authorities to determine if this is the work of a coordinated killer or an isolated pattern of violence…”
Ron let out a low whistle. “Damn. Glad our serial killer’s behind us.”
Harry’s lips pressed into a line. His eyes never left the screen. Rome. Sicily. Berlin.
A coincidence? Or—
Ron’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Didn’t Draco have a business trip to Rome a few weeks back?”
Harry’s eyes flicked toward him. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
And that was when the kitchen door swung open, and in walked Draco and Hermione, the scent of roasted garlic and herbs wafting in with them.
“Lunch is ready,” Hermione said brightly, setting down a tray of plates with one hand pressed to her rounded stomach.
Draco was behind her, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his expression softening the moment he saw Harry on the couch. “Merlin, I’m starving,” he said, brushing past Ron to press a quick kiss to Harry’s temple before reaching for the remote and lowering the volume on the TV. “Come on, love. Hermione went all out.”
Harry blinked, the tension in his spine refusing to melt even as Draco smiled at him.
He stood slowly, forcing a small smile of his own.
Because the reporter’s voice still echoed faintly in his mind.
Four bodies. No suspects. International reach.
And Draco had been in Rome.
No. Stop. Don't do this again, he told himself.
He shook off the chill creeping down his back and followed Draco into the dining room.
But the puzzle pieces…
They were starting to hum.
A few more weeks passed, and life, on the surface, settled into a rhythm so soft it felt like velvet—smooth, luxurious, and dangerously easy to sink into.
Harry still worked like he was chasing the clock, head bent over files that blurred into each other and coffee mugs that seemed bottomless. Draco, as always, matched his pace. In public, they were London’s power couple—magic and Muggle, press and whispers, silver and lightning. But behind closed doors, in the quiet, in the soft morning light or the clingy evenings, they had become something else entirely.
Home, for them, was fluid. Every two weeks, they shifted like tides—from the haunted comfort of Grimmauld Place, where ancient wards whispered through the walls and magic curled through every floorboard, to the sleek, modern sanctuary of Draco’s penthouse. At Grimmauld, they let themselves be wizards. They floated cutlery across rooms, lit fireplaces with a flick, and allowed the ancestral pride of the Black home to cradle them. Even the house had continued to favor Draco, offering him warm floorboards and perfectly timed towel spells. Harry pretended not to be jealous.
In the penthouse, things slowed. There were no elves, no magic chandeliers—just the hum of the refrigerator and the smell of expensive coffee beans. Harry still couldn’t figure out the coffee machine, not that he ever tried too hard; Draco always ended up making it for him anyway, muttering under his breath and kissing his forehead. There, it was quiet. Simple. Human.
Tuesday dinners turned into lazy weekend outings. Homemade meals greeted whoever came home first, with Draco having surprisingly sharpened his cooking skills beyond what Harry thought his pampered upbringing allowed. Friday nights were sacred for movie marathons. Harry had finally learned to appreciate Muggle film soundtracks; Draco had developed an unexpected obsession with horror movies. Cuddles were mandatory. Sex was... gods, it was still enough to make Harry’s knees buckle in the shower thinking about it.
It was perfect.
It should be perfect.
And yet—Harry couldn’t shake the gnawing weight pressing at the base of his skull.
No new deaths had been reported since Rome, but the silence wasn’t comfort—it was ominous. And Harry kept the news channel on like a damn lifeline, volume low, waiting for the shoe to drop.
He was still hunting Cassian Rowle too, working double shifts, weaving his suspicions through whispers in the Ministry and evidence that felt like smoke between his fingers. He was getting close—closer than anyone should, probably. But even then, it never felt like enough.
Some nights, he’d lie awake with Draco curled into his side, their legs tangled under too many blankets, and stare at the ceiling. He’d watch the way Draco breathed, lips slightly parted, face relaxed in sleep. Peaceful. Beautiful.
And Harry would be crushed by it.
Crushed by the weight of how much he loved him.
Crushed by the nightmare of what might happen if—if all of his instincts turned out to be right. If Cassian Rowle wasn’t the only monster in the room. If one day, he had to look into those grey eyes he adored more than anything and choose.
Choose between the man he loved and everything he’d built his life around—justice, law, the ideals he bled for in a war he still couldn’t forget.
Because that damn voice in his head—the one that never lied—kept whispering that it might already be too late.
That Draco might be the one he should’ve never let in.
And the truly terrifying part?
Harry wasn’t sure he’d be able to let him go, even if he had to.
It was a quiet morning in the Auror Office, or as quiet as mornings got when the wizarding world refused to behave. Harry was elbows-deep in a robbery file when a knock tapped at his door.
“Come in,” he called, distracted but polite.
Ron stepped inside with a casual nod—followed by two sharply dressed men in fitted suits, long coats still dusted with travel. Foreign. They had that air about them—seasoned, tired, but too composed to show it.
Harry stood, instincts sharpening immediately.
“Commander,” Ron said, his expression unreadable, “these two are here for you.”
The taller man extended a hand. “Inspector Henrik Vollen, European Department of International Magical Law Enforcement, Paris division.”
The other followed, shorter, with steel-rimmed glasses and a clipped tone. “Agent Matteo D’Onofrio. Same department, Rome office. We’re following up on an ongoing investigation. We were hoping to speak with you directly.”
Harry glanced at Ron, who only gave a small shrug and the faintest raise of his brow—your circus, mate. With a small sigh, Harry nodded and motioned toward the chairs in front of his desk.
“Take a seat. Ron, mind bringing them some tea?” he asked.
“Sure thing,” Ron said, stepping out, though he gave Harry a lingering look. Be careful was written all over it.
Once the door closed, Harry leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers over his stomach. “So, what’s this about?”
Inspector Vollen pulled out a small enchanted briefcase, which unfolded into a slim file with several sealed documents. “We’re investigating a series of murders across European territories—Italy, Germany, France, and one recent case in Belgium. We believe the killer may be the same individual.”
Harry’s eyes flicked up. “I’ve read some international reports. Four bodies, right?”
D’Onofrio shook his head slowly. “That’s what the press was told. It’s how we wanted it—for now. In truth, there are at least ten victims over the span of a decade. Possibly more. Some of the deaths were ruled accidental, others unsolved disappearances. But the signature... it’s too distinct.”
Harry leaned forward, tension tightening between his shoulders. “And what makes you think your case has anything to do with ours? The British serial killer case was closed months ago. Celeste Rowle overdosed while on the run. We had confession letters, a pattern, and evidence.”
Henrik Vollen gave him a long look. “That’s exactly why we’re here. We've reviewed what was publicly released, and—respectfully—we believe you were misled. Or rather, someone wanted you to be misled.”
Harry’s jaw clenched.
“We’re not here to undermine your case, Commander,” D’Onofrio added quickly. “But there are... overlapping patterns. Forensics we’ve gathered suggest magical interference combined with muggle tools—tools that the average dark wizard wouldn’t bother with.”
That made Harry’s blood chill. Dark magic mixed with muggle tech.
Before he could respond, Ron came back into the room carrying a tray with three cups. “Here we are. One sugar for you,” he muttered to Harry as he set it down. Then he looked between the detectives, his smile polite, but wary. “Hope you like Earl Grey.”
“Merci,” Vollen said, taking his tea.
Harry swirled his own cup but didn’t drink. “So what exactly are you asking for?”
Matteo folded his hands on the desk. “Access to the closed case files from the British serial killer investigation. Particularly any physical evidence. And we’d like to request a review of your autopsy reports—if your Ministry allows it.”
“And you think what?” Harry asked, voice low. “That Rowle didn’t do it? That the killer is still out there?”
Vollen didn’t blink. “We think Rowle was set up.”
That was the moment Harry’s stomach officially dropped.
Ron cursed under his breath, and Harry’s hands curled tightly around the cup in front of him.
He knew. He fucking knew this wasn’t over.
And now... the vultures were circling. Only this time, they weren’t here to help him solve the case—they were going to tear it open, rip it apart.
And Draco...
Draco was at the center of it all.
The game was no longer local.
And Harry wasn’t sure if he was the hunter—or the bait.
Harry spent the entire day cloistered in his office, the lights dim, the blinds half-drawn, with case files sprawled out like scars across the table. Vollen and D’Onofrio sat across from him, each with a different stack of reports, maps, and crime scene photographs, their accents sharp but their focus sharper. They were precise men—men who didn’t waste time or words. Harry respected that. He needed it.
Because the moment he laid eyes on the old Serpent’s Shadow files again, the ground beneath him began to shift.
He hadn’t seen the documents in months. Not since they closed the case. Not since Celeste Rowle’s body was found cold and limp with a bottle of Draught of Peace still clutched in her hand. The suicide note. The confessions. The fingerprints. It had all fit—neatly enough to feel suspicious now. Too clean.
And there it was again—the sketch.
A curling mass of lines and jagged energy, drawn in ink with a kind of reluctant reverence. Draco had made it after looking into the residual magic that lingered on one of the earliest victims. He’d said the Sight had shown him something twisted—magic bent into shapes it was never meant to take. Distorted, ancient, wrong.
Back then, Harry had assumed it was Celeste’s doing.
Now… he wasn’t so sure.
He stared at the symbol like it might blink back at him. The longer he looked, the more it felt like it moved. Like it had weight. Something about it tugged at the edges of his magic, like a memory he never lived.
D’Onofrio picked up the wardbreaker report without ceremony and flipped through it. “This ends inconclusive,” he muttered. “Didn’t follow up?”
Harry didn’t look up. “We found a body the next day. Thought it was the end of the line.”
“Hm,” Vollen murmured. No judgment. Just calculation. “Might we take a copy? Our analysts have seen a few marks like this before. Could be a shared thread.”
Harry nodded. Distracted. That sigil—it wouldn’t leave him. It had the same energy as… something old. Ancient magic. Possibly ritualistic. Definitely intentional.
“Commander,” Vollen added, standing and straightening his coat, “we know this might be a lot to resurface. But we appreciate your cooperation. The more eyes on this, the better.”
“We're happy to coordinate with British Aurors,” D’Onofrio added. “We’re not here to step on toes. Just… find answers. The right ones.”
“Of course,” Harry said, voice perfectly composed. Head Auror mask firmly in place. “Anything that helps.”
But before they left, Vollen paused at the door. “One more thing,” he said. “All our victims—every one of them—had ties to the Death Eaters. Some were active during the war. Others enabled them after. Quietly. Legally.”
D’Onofrio finished the thought, “They weren’t innocent. But they didn’t deserve this.”
Then they were gone.
And Harry was left alone, bathed in late-afternoon sunlight that bled orange across the case files like dried blood. The office was too quiet now. Too still.
He looked back at the sketch again.
Celeste Rowle never understood dark sigils. That had been one of the inconsistencies he’d buried deep, too tired to question. Too in love. Too willing to believe.
Now, it echoed like a scream in his mind.
And the man who had drawn that symbol with steady, graceful hands?
He slept beside Harry every night.
Kissed his scars. Wore his ring.
Said he loved him.
Harry stared at the mark one last time.
He lied to me, a voice whispered.
And worse—
I let him.
Harry didn’t even register the soft light glowing in the living room, or the figure waiting in the silence like a statue cast from bone and moonlight. Not until he crossed the threshold and stopped cold.
Draco was there. Sitting. Silent.
Back straight, hands steepled in front of him, coat still on like he hadn’t decided whether he was coming or going. The shadows curved around him, like they recognized their own.
Harry froze in place, soaked in the day’s weight, coat still clinging to his skin. Their eyes met, and for a second—for a second—he could almost pretend everything was fine.
Except it wasn’t. Gods, it wasn’t.
The room didn’t smell like dinner or warmth or home. It smelled sterile. Clean. Like no one had moved all evening. Like Draco had been waiting, thinking, plotting.
But he’d waited.
That was the part that shattered Harry most.
He should’ve yelled. Should’ve demanded answers or confessions or tears. But his throat locked up the moment he saw Draco’s face—blank, cold, composed in that terrifying way Harry had seen a few times before. That expressionless nothingness that had made him wonder, back then, if Draco Malfoy had ever been human to begin with.
And yet… his eyes. Those goddamn eyes. They betrayed him. They always did.
Because the second they met Harry’s, something flickered. Something cracked. Like Draco was a mirror, and the truth was trying to punch its way out from behind the glass.
Harry took one step forward.
It still felt like trying to wade through water with lungs full of stone.
How many corpses had they buried under this house of theirs? How many lies had Harry mistaken for silk? Draco loved him—Harry didn’t doubt that. But what if this—this whole thing—was built on love twisted so tightly it turned into obsession? Protection turned into possession? What if every kiss had been laced with guilt?
What if Harry had let himself drown in it anyway?
He crossed the space slowly, not sure if he was about to scream or collapse. And Draco just watched him. No flinch. No smile. No lie ready on his tongue this time.
Just… waiting.
Harry dropped into his lap like gravity had claimed him.
He kissed him like it was the last thing he’d ever be allowed to do. Like his mouth could ask the questions his voice was too broken to form. Like he could find an answer in the way Draco held him—tight, instinctive, desperate.
And Draco—Draco kissed back like it was confession and punishment rolled into one. His hands found Harry’s waist, curled there like they belonged, and then Harry bit down on his lip—hard. The copper taste of blood hit them both, and Draco didn’t even flinch.
Maybe he deserved it.
Harry pulled back, just enough to breathe, but his forehead stayed pressed against Draco’s. His fists were curled in the fabric of Draco’s shirt like he didn’t trust himself to let go.
“I don’t want this to be true,” he whispered. Voice cracked. Barely a breath. “Don’t make it true.”
Draco said nothing.
His silence was louder than any confession.
Harry closed his eyes. Let the pain rise and crash like a wave against his ribs. He could feel Draco’s heartbeat under his palms. It was steady. Anchored. Like a man who had already made his choice long ago.
And Harry?
He chose, too.
He kissed him again.
Because if he was going to burn, it might as well be in the arms of the fire.
Harry let himself fall.
Let the weight of doubt, heartbreak, and aching lust crush him down into the sheets with Draco’s mouth on his throat, his hands leaving ghost marks wherever they touched. His body was trembling—but not from pleasure alone.
Because somewhere in that blur of skin and breath and friction, the truth kept clawing up his spine like ice. Every kiss Draco pressed to his collarbone felt like a signature. Every moan he dragged from Harry’s lips felt like evidence. Like confession.
And still, Harry arched into him.
Draco moved like he owned him. Like he knew every soft spot, every place to touch that made Harry forget his name—forget the case files, the timelines, the sigils, the blood. Gods, there’d been so much blood, hadn’t there?
And Draco had been there. Every time.
Harry’s fingers dug into his back, desperate, almost bruising.
“Draco,” he gasped, voice hoarse, choked by everything he wasn’t saying.
Draco didn’t stop. Just whispered his name like a spell, over and over again, each time more tender. More loving. As if the sound alone could shatter the doubt clawing at Harry’s chest. As if it could erase the way Harry's mind kept screaming:
It’s him.
It’s him.
It’s been him all along.
But Harry couldn’t bear it—not yet. Not when Draco’s body pressed against his like salvation. Not when the heat, the stretch, the ache of it all blurred everything into nothing. Pain and pleasure danced on a razor's edge, and Harry let it cut him open—willingly. Needing it.
Because the only thing worse than loving a murderer…
…was letting go of him.
His nails scraped across Draco’s spine as their rhythm deepened. Fast. Desperate. Like they were both trying to outrun something they couldn’t name.
And maybe they were.
Draco kissed him, slow and unrelenting, swallowing every broken sound Harry made. His hand tangled in Harry’s hair, grounding him, owning him.
“You’re mine,” Draco whispered, breath hot against his cheek. “No matter what.”
Harry didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
His body betrayed him—arching, gasping, giving in—because in this moment, he didn’t know if he was being made love to or claimed. If he was holding onto Draco, or if Draco had already swallowed him whole.
When release finally hit him, it wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft.
It was a collapse. A sobbing, shaking surrender into Draco’s chest as tears welled without permission, silent and burning.
Draco held him through it. Kissed his forehead. Whispered how much he loved him.
And Harry?
He clung to him like a coward.
Because if he let go—he wasn’t sure if he’d ever recover.
The office was quiet—too quiet.
Morning sunlight streamed through the high windows like everything was normal, like the world outside hadn't tilted beneath Harry’s feet. But he couldn’t feel the warmth. Not when every breath felt borrowed. Stolen from a life that might not even be his anymore.
He sat at his desk, elbows on the polished wood, hands cradling his head like he could somehow keep it from splitting in two. But the war inside him was loud. Deafening.
He’d spent his entire life chasing monsters. Watching good men bleed trying to cage evil. And now?
What if the monster wore his lover’s skin?
What if every kiss, every sigh, every whispered "I love you" had been carved from the same tongue that whispered a spell before every execution?
And gods, the worst part—the real sickness in his stomach—was that Harry didn’t even care that Draco had killed.
Not really.
Not in the black-and-white way he should.
Because this wasn’t about the law anymore. It wasn’t even about the bodies piling up from Berlin to Sicily. It was about him. Harry fucking Potter. The boy who survived. The man who stood for something.
And how that man was now compromised.
Tainted by love.
Twisted by the way Draco said his name like a prayer. By the way he looked at him like Harry was the only thing worth saving in this world gone mad.
What would people say if they knew? If the press found out the savior of the wizarding world was sharing a bed with a serial killer?
Would they call him foolish?
Would they call him corrupted?
Or would they just look at him with that same pitying, horrified look they used to reserve for Sirius?
He clenched his jaw so hard it ached.
His fingers found the sketch again—the sigil that never made sense, the one Draco had claimed to see in the contorted remains of murdered magic. He stared at it like it might suddenly whisper the answers to him. But all it did was stare back, sharp and coiled like a serpent, coiling tighter around his conscience.
How long had he known?
How long had his heart screamed and his logic ignored it?
And if he kept ignoring it… if he let Draco hold him again, if he kissed him one more time, would that make him an accomplice? A traitor to everything he swore he’d protect?
He wanted to scream.
But all he could do was sit there. Drowning in silence. Drowning in guilt.
Because somewhere, deep down—where honesty lived, sharp and merciless—he knew the truth.
If it came down to justice or Draco…
He wasn’t sure who he’d choose.
And that terrified him more than anything.
The knock shattered the silence like glass.
Harry blinked, sitting rigid behind his desk, mind a thousand miles deep in the storm of doubt and aching dread. He didn’t even have time to say “come in” before the door opened and Vollen stepped in, followed closely by D’Onofrio.
He should’ve known. Of course it was them.
The last two people he wanted to see right now. But Harry Potter had a mask to wear. A name to live up to. And a department watching him.
So he stood. Straight-backed. Chin up. Every part of him playing the role of Head Auror even when all he wanted to do was collapse into the floor and disappear.
“Detectives,” he said evenly. “Morning.”
They returned the greeting, but Harry’s eyes were already scanning them. The tension. The clipped movements. The way Vollen kept fiddling with the folder in his hand, and D’Onofrio’s jaw tightened every few seconds like he was holding something in.
Urgency. Concealed, but bleeding out of them like steam from a cracked kettle.
Harry had gotten good at noticing things. Too good. And sometimes he hated it.
He sat back down, fingers laced together over his desk. “What is it?”
The detectives exchanged a brief look. Then D’Onofrio exhaled, shoulders stiff. “We think we’ve cracked it.”
Harry stilled. His blood, his breath, his thoughts—all frozen.
“The pattern?” he asked, slow and cautious. The one from the wardbreaker report. The one Draco had claimed to see.
Vollen nodded. “The basework was already in the report. Whoever designed this was brilliant—borderline obsessive. It’s a layered spell signature embedded into residual ward fractures. Most people wouldn’t have caught it.”
“But you did,” Harry said, already feeling something cold settle in his stomach.
“It took time,” D’Onofrio added. “And resources. But yes. It’s a traceable network. A sort of mirrored arcane structure. Whoever this is, they’ve been activating it remotely. Tampering with protections, covering their magical tracks.”
Harry’s voice came out rougher than he wanted. “Where?”
They looked at him, both hesitant now.
“If you cracked the pattern, then you must’ve found the source node,” Harry pushed. “Where is it?”
Vollen pulled out a piece of enchanted parchment, ink still glowing with fresh coordinates. He passed it over the desk with a grim face.
Harry stared at the location. His heart punched against his ribs.
He didn't really recognize it but he wasn't expecting any less from a genius serial killer.
A storm of emotions passed through him in a blink. Fury. Fear. Denial. But there was no time to let any of it show.
He stood.
Grabbed his jacket.
Strapped his wand back onto his belt.
Then met their eyes, voice sharp with resolve, “What the hell are we waiting for?”
Because if Draco Malfoy was hiding something in that fucking house—
Harry was done pretending he didn’t want to know.
Notes:
I think this is the most selfish I've ever written Harry. I mena I did say this was not a romcom and things would get twisted. But I guess this was in a way the break and fall of Harry Potter as he was once known. The way he slowly begins to disregard human lives for the one he loves and what that in itself represents for him. Going from a hero that wished to save as many lives as possible to literally not caring about that and instead being so wrapped around Draco that he only cares about how it intoxicated him to the point he breaks character entirely. It stopped being about the victims and more about Harry and the way he started putting Draco and his relationship with Draco above said victims.
One could argue it is morally wrong what is happening to him. Literally it is. Hence the TAGS. But it think that's the point of this story in a way. The way that even heroes can turn into villains when something or someone pushes them with enough force. And of Harry, a character who literally represented justice and goodness and the hero everyone looked up to, slowly crumbling into nothing but someone so obsessed and intoxicated by someone who's equally as obsessed and intoxicated as him, tot he point he is willing to through away his principles, the foundations if who others had made him to be... Yeah.
Also the way that both Harry and Draco use sex as a coping mechanism to avoid talking shit out. Yeah. Not healthy but I really wanted to try it out. So that's why the sex scenes sort of build up towards the end.
Is it wrong? Absolutely. But it happens. And tbh I was wanting to write something like this for a while. Hehe :D
AGAIN, this does NOT reflect any aspect of my persona or morality. It's just an idea I wanted to play with in FICTION.
There is one more chapter left of this plus a little epilogue. Enjoy.
Chapter 25
Notes:
So this is it my fellow gays and hoes and non-binary bros. The end. And it's long.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
They arrived at the edge of the city, where the buildings thinned and the skyline turned jagged and unfinished. The structure before them stood like a scar on the landscape—weather-worn concrete, windows long shattered, steel skeleton exposed in places like old bone. Harry stared at it through the windshield, his breath caught somewhere between memory and dread.
The wind outside carried the faint scent of rust and ash.
His mind drifted—to another time, another place. That building under construction, the chase, the thief he nearly lost on the upper floor. He remembered the way the world tilted beneath him, how close he’d come to falling… and then Draco. Out of nowhere. No warning. Just a flash of a spell at the last second, saving him away from the drop. He’d chalked it up to instinct, coincidence, maybe even Draco’s ridiculous sixth sense when it came to him. Back then, he believed it. Wanted to believe it. Draco had said he’d followed him out of worry, said he hadn’t liked the idea of Harry going out on that raid with his terrible natural magnet for trouble.
Now, standing in front of another abandoned building, Harry wondered what was true anymore. Had Draco been following him then… or just the trail of a loose end?
He shook the thought away like dust off his robes.
He stepped out of the car. Vollen and D’Onofrio followed in silence.
The building was already being cordoned off by ministry enforcement, yellow charm-tape crackling around the front entrance, faint runes buzzing in the air to ward off curious Muggles.
Harry didn’t wait for clearance.
He walked straight in.
It was dead quiet inside. Smelled of mildew, damp concrete, and something faintly metallic. The walls were graffitied, the floor littered with debris, old cables, broken tools, and forgotten crates. It was a ghost of utility, never completed and already decaying. Nothing suggested it was more than a forgotten construction shell.
Except the pull.
He felt it in his chest. In the marrow of his bones. Something magnetic, something wrong. Something familiar.
Vollen’s voice cut through the stillness, “Leads to the basement.”
Harry didn’t hesitate.
The stairs creaked beneath his boots. The descent was suffocating—one level below and the air turned colder. More stagnant. It wasn’t dark, but dim in a way that clung to the skin. And when he reached the bottom, his steps faltered.
There, in the middle of the concrete floor, under a single naked bulb, sat a chair.
It was bolted down—restraints hanging from its arms, worn leather cracking under the light. And in the far corner of the room, like it had been deliberately placed out of reach, was a table. An old, dust-covered computer sat on top of it, its cord twisting into a tangle near the floor.
Harry’s heartbeat roared in his ears. He stepped toward it, his wand raised for light. Vollen and D’Onofrio exchanged a glance behind him, murmuring under their breath.
“Why would a computer be here?”
“Looks Muggle. But who would—?”
Harry tuned them out.
He grabbed a pair of gloves from his coat pocket, slipped them on. His fingers hovered above the keyboard, and then with a breath, he powered it on.
It beeped once. Then the password screen lit up.
His eyes narrowed.
“Any idea what it could be?” Vollen asked.
Harry didn’t answer.
His gut churned, that same pull now morphing into dread. His hands moved on their own.
His birthday.
Access denied.
The day they reunited after fifteen years.
Access denied.
The day they kissed in fifth year, finally stopped pretending they weren’t obsessed.
Access denied.
D’Onofrio stepped closer. “We have experts for this kind of thing. We can bring—”
But Harry’s fingers were already moving again. He barely even knew why, only that he felt it.
The date of the trial.
The day he stood in court and swore Draco Malfoy didn’t deserve Azkaban. That he believed in second chances.
Sixteen years ago.
He hit Enter.
The computer whirred.
The screen unlocked.
A silent gasp fell from Vollen.
Harry said nothing.
He just stared.
And the soft light from the monitor reflected back in his eyes like it had just cracked the world in half.
The computer's fan groaned faintly as the desktop loaded, the icons stark against the black background. No games. No documents titled “confession” or folders labeled “murder.” Just… simplicity.
Harry’s lips pressed into a tight line. Vollen muttered something about forwarding it to the tech department, but he wasn’t listening.
He clicked through the files.
And then he saw them.
Not many—five, maybe six—tucked neatly in a folder named something innocent, forgettable. Just labeled “Render A” and “Structural D.” It was almost laughable. If you didn’t know what to look for, you'd think it was just some architect’s boring project folder. But Harry had seen these before. At Draco’s flat, on Christmas morning when Harry had just finished taking a shower and Draco was working on something he'd assumed were last minute reports, legs tucked beneath him, screen glowing blue across his face.
These weren’t just files.
These were his.
Design apps. Blueprint models. Structural simulations. Advanced, elegant. Efficient. All tied to one name.
Draco.
Harry clicked the first file.
A building sprang to life in three dimensions, rotating slowly on the screen. There was a soft whirr as it loaded, and beside it, a blueprint unfolded like digital parchment.
Harry’s mouth went dry.
He knew this building.
The warehouse. The one where they’d found Eli’s body strung up and bled out of magic. Where everything had started to unravel.
“Bloody hell…” Vollen’s voice was low, serious now. “We need to get this to Analysis, now. This—this is the killer’s base. Or at least, one of them.”
D’Onofrio reached for the computer, already calling over an evidence team.
But Harry wasn’t done.
His hand moved faster than his thoughts. He clicked again.
A web of red lines appeared over the blueprint—paths, corridors, beams maybe? No—too deliberate, too intentional. They mapped pressure points. Escape routes? Sight lines? Vulnerabilities?
He didn’t understand all the code or terminology, but he didn’t need to.
He felt it.
His whole chest twisted.
Every breath was a struggle, like his ribs had caved in. This wasn’t just a coincidence. This was strategy. Design. Someone had mapped that warehouse like it was a fucking art installation. And he’d seen Draco do that exact thing, sprawled on their bed with the same kind of laser focus, murmuring under his breath about load-bearing walls and vector compression like it was nothing.
Vollen was talking again. D’Onofrio was calling for the forensics team. Voices blurred.
But Harry—
Harry just stood there, frozen.
Because this was too much.
And he was the only one in this room who knew that the killer wasn’t some nameless monster in the dark.
He was the man Harry had kissed, had loved, had fucked like he was trying to rewrite their past just hours ago.
He was the man who’d held him after nightmares and whispered “you’re safe with me.”
And now?
Now every file, every pixel, every blueprint screamed his name in silence.
Draco.
And Harry didn’t know how to breathe.
Harry barely remembered how he made it out of that building. His feet moved but his brain lagged behind, each step like walking underwater with lead in his bones. The air outside slapped him, cold and biting, but it didn’t wake him—it just stung. The world spun slightly on its axis, the colors too sharp, the edges of sound too frayed. His wand-hand trembled.
Elastic, he thought. His whole body was strung tight like a violin string about to snap. One more push—one more breath out of place—and he’d shatter.
Vollen and D’Onofrio followed him out, their words dulled like they were talking through a fog. Sympathetic. Coldly efficient. Predictable. The way other Aurors always were when they weren’t the ones bleeding.
“We’ll coordinate with your team,” Vollen said. “The European Division has your back. Resources, clearance, analysts—anything you need.”
D’Onofrio nodded, his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “You’ll get to the bottom of this, Potter. I’m sure of it.”
Right. Sure.
Harry nodded, because that’s what was expected of him. Head Auror, after all. The title felt like a noose today. His jaw clenched until it ached.
And then the patronus tore through the static of his thoughts like lightning.
A Jack Russell terrier, silver and glowing, bounded up to him and burst into Ron’s voice, rough with urgency, “Harry—come back. Now. Ministry level three. Cassian Rowle just turned himself in.”
Harry blinked.
What?
Cassian Rowle. One of his main points of focus for the past few weeks. One of the corrupted politicians that have been letting criminals slither away. Dangerous, slippery, silent. He turned himself in?
Why now?
His gut twisted again, sharp and ugly. It was too easy. Nothing about this case had been straightforward—why the fuck would it start now?
Unless…
No. He shut that voice down, buried it deep under layers of denial.
But another voice slipped through anyway—low, silken, and painfully familiar.
“Coincidences don’t exist in our game, love.”
Draco’s words, from years ago. During a late-night meeting in the astronomy tower. Back when they were still teenagers. Back when Harry thought—
Don’t. Don’t go there.
He grabbed his wand tighter.
“Potter?” Vollen asked. “You good to Apparate?”
No. He wasn’t.
But he nodded anyway.
And with a crack, the world vanished, the abandoned building behind him, the evidence-laced laptop still glowing, and a truth he wasn’t ready to face snapping at his heels.
Harry apparated into the Ministry’s designated spot with a crack that echoed louder than it should’ve. The moment his boots hit the marble floor, he was moving—fast, purposeful, radiating fury beneath that controlled exterior. The atmosphere in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement shifted the second he stepped onto the floor.
Conversations halted mid-sentence. Heads turned. Papers stilled in midair.
Every auror, every clerk, every damn intern turned to look at him.
He could feel the weight of their stares—respect, curiosity, unease—all rolled into one. Their boss was here, and he was not happy. The rumors had already started to spread like fiendfyre: that the Serpent’s Shadow case wasn’t so neatly tied up after all. That something was coming. Something worse.
Harry didn’t slow down. His long strides carved a path straight through the open floor, robes billowing behind him like a stormcloud.
The British Aurors had been on edge since the two foreign officers arrived yesterday—agents with cool eyes and sharper tongues who had stirred waters that were already murky. But none of them knew what Harry knew. None of them carried the jagged, unbearable truth twisting like a knife in his gut.
He did.
He carried him.
Ron was already waiting outside Harry’s office, arms folded across his chest, back straight, the perfect picture of stoic readiness. But Harry caught the worry in his eyes instantly. Ron wasn’t just his second-in-command—he was his oldest friend. And Harry could tell he was holding back the urge to ask too many questions, to offer something that Harry didn’t have the space to accept right now.
“Where is he?” Harry asked, voice clipped, eyes already scanning past Ron like he could see straight through the concrete walls.
Ron didn’t waste time. “Interrogation Room Two.”
No fluff. No coddling. Just what Harry needed.
They walked together, boots tapping against the tile in sync, and just before they reached the door, Ron leaned in and murmured under his breath, “You alright?”
Harry’s answer came instantly. “Doesn’t matter.”
And it didn’t.
Because whether he was alright or not—Rowle was waiting.
And Harry had a job to do.
He pushed the door open.
Cassian Rowle sat cuffed to the steel table, hands folded neatly in front of him, an infuriatingly smug grin curling on his lips like he’d just won a bet only he knew was being played.
Harry’s stomach turned.
Rowle was exactly the kind of man Harry despised. Wealthy. Entitled. Unbothered by blood on his hands as long as it wasn’t visible on his silk cuffs. One of the many rotting limbs of the system Harry had spent his entire career trying to cleanse.
And yet here he was, sitting like a man who’d walked in on his own terms.
Harry stepped into the room, the door shutting behind him with a heavy click.
Harry didn’t move a muscle.
Cassian Rowle's voice slithered out of him like poisoned honey. “Ah, Commander Potter.”
The name coiled in the air between them, and Harry let it hang there like rot. He didn't return the greeting. Didn't blink. Just sat down, every movement deliberate, silent, his eyes cold and unreadable.
“What’s all this about?” he asked, voice low, restrained.
Rowle chuckled. Bastard sounded like he was enjoying himself, like this was sport.
Harry’s fingers curled slightly under the table. His wand was holstered, but his magic was already prickling beneath the surface, tension gathering in the air like a coiled storm. He hated men like Rowle. Men who thrived off the decay in the system. Men who never bled but left everyone else to die.
He wanted to hex the grin off that smug face. But now wasn’t the time for that. He needed to listen, no matter how much bile it brought up.
Draco.
That name flickered like a ghost in his thoughts. Draco had told him Rowle was blackmailing Lucius. That he’d been baiting him, trying to get enough proof to expose him. But now? Now Harry wasn’t sure if any of it was real—or if that, too, was part of the trap. A script Draco had written just well enough to keep Harry chasing after him instead of digging in the right places.
And yet... Rowle was still a known bastard.
That much Harry did know. The kind of man who made monsters invisible with just one signature. Human scum had walked free under his watch—people whose crimes made Harry’s skin crawl. He wasn’t innocent. That was undeniable.
But this? Him turning himself in? That was not typical.
Harry’s gaze sharpened. “I’ll ask you one more time—what’s this game you’re playing?”
Rowle's eyes slid to the glowing recording orb at the corner of the room. “I’ve got a condition.”
Harry's jaw clenched. “You’re not in a position to negotiate.”
The grin returned, oily and slow. “You’ll want this off the books. Unless, of course, you’d like the world knowing who your little boyfriend really is.”
Harry’s head snapped toward the recording device—then back to Rowle. No one called Draco out like that. No one dared. His heart dropped into his stomach, and rage flared hot under his skin. But his expression stayed neutral.
This wasn’t just bait. This was a move.
And Ron, good fucking man that he was, picked up on it. The recording light blinked twice, then shut off.
Rowle noticed. Of course he did. He leaned back with the ease of a man who thought he’d just won.
“Well then,” he drawled, his cuffed hands clinking against the metal table. “Where do we even begin, Potter?”
Harry didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
Because he was beginning too—beginning to realize that no matter how twisted this web was, no matter how deeply Draco was buried inside it… Rowle knew something real.
And it was going to cost Harry everything to drag it out of him.
Harry exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed tight over his chest like armor. His voice, when it came, was clipped and cold, each name a bullet fired into the silence.
“Mulciber. Jugson. Avery. Nott. Mason. All walked. All dirty.”
Rowle tilted his head slightly, mock curiosity flickering behind hooded lids. Harry continued anyway.
“And every time one of them dodged conviction… your vault got a little fatter. New property in Switzerland. A winery in France. And what was it last year—oh, right, a private island in the Hebrides?”
Rowle’s grin curled at the edges, like a cat presented with a toy mouse. He didn’t deny it. He just blinked slowly and said, “So I suppose you started looking into me because someone told you to.”
Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His glare was enough.
But Rowle wasn’t finished.
His grin twisted into something darker, something filthier, stretching across his face like a rip in skin. “You found the burner phone, didn’t you?”
Harry didn’t blink.
Didn’t twitch.
Didn’t flinch.
But that was answer enough.
Rowle laughed.
It started low in his throat and quickly unspooled into something sharp and maniacal. The sound bounced off the walls, far too loud for such a confined room. It was wrong, theatrical and unhinged, like some grotesque parody of a man unraveling.
It reminded Harry—uncomfortably—of a Muggle movie Draco had made him watch a few months ago. The villain, a chalk-faced lunatic in custody, had pulled this exact same shit: laughing like the world was a joke only he understood, goading the hero, poking at every exposed nerve until something snapped.
Harry's hands tightened into fists beneath the table. He was trying very, very hard not to reenact that scene and bash Rowle’s head into the metal just like in the film.
Eventually, the laughter died into breathless chuckles. Rowle wiped tears from his face with his cuffed hands and smirked.
“So tell me, Potter…” he said, voice syrupy and sly, “just how deep in are you for Malfoy? Must be pretty damn far, if you’re letting yourself get played this badly.”
Harry didn’t move.
Rowle leaned forward, smile growing. "Is Malfoy really that good in bed?"
The table shook violently as Harry’s restraint shattered.
There was a crack—flesh meeting steel—and Rowle’s face slammed forward, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot.
He groaned, but even as blood started trickling from his nose, the bastard still smiled.
“Temper, temper,” he wheezed. “You might want to keep that in check. Head Aurors aren’t supposed to go ‘round smashing suspects’ faces in.”
Harry loomed over him, eyes blazing. “Stop playing. Tell me what you know.”
Rowle licked blood from his lip, eyes gleaming with something between malice and delight.
“Oh, I’ll talk,” he whispered. “But you better brace yourself, Potter. Because the real story? It’s uglier than anything you’re ready to hear.”
Rowle leaned back in his chair, blood drying on his upper lip, eyes gleaming with a twisted kind of reverence, as if he were delivering scripture rather than filth.
"Justice isn’t real, Potter. Fairness? That’s a bedtime story people like to believe in so they don’t slit their own throats in the morning. Look at you. Orphaned before you could walk, dumped on a doorstep like garbage. Raised by pigs in a cage. Beaten. Starved. Lied to. Then, poof—saved by magic and tossed headfirst into a world that expected you to die a hero’s death before you even had pubes. They called it destiny. I call it a sick fucking joke."
Harry's jaw clenched. He said nothing. He didn’t need to. Every nerve in his body was pulling taut like a bowstring ready to snap.
Rowle went on, voice dark and slow, like poison dripping into water.
“You were doubted. Mocked. Paraded around like a puppet while they wrote trash about you in the Prophet. Lost everyone who ever cared about you—Sirius, Dumbledore, Lupin, Tonks, Fred—and for what? So you could grow up and become the Ministry’s well-trained dog? Still sniffing out monsters for the same system that fed you to them?”
Harry’s fists curled in his lap so tightly his knuckles turned white. He couldn't let himself lose it. Not again.
Even without the recording charms active, there were limits. He was already skirting the edge.
“Get to the point,” he said coldly.
Rowle chuckled again, slow and satisfied. “Touched a nerve, did I?”
He leaned forward, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “What did Malfoy tell you when you found the burner phone?”
Harry said nothing.
Rowle raised a brow. “Did he tell you it was nothing? Maybe a work phone? Did he spin some story about being in over his head, poor little Draco trying to play hero with the big bad politician? Did he say he was forced into contact with me?”
Silence. But the tightening of Harry’s shoulders, the twitch in his jaw, said more than any words could.
Rowle grinned wider.
“Well… some of that might even be true. The thing is… he contacted me. First. With a proposal.”
Harry’s stomach dropped, though his face didn’t show it.
Rowle went on, voice oily. “And it was a good one, I’ll admit. Very tempting. No wonder he’s doing so well out there in the Muggle world—your man’s a businessman at heart. Knows how to talk, how to spin words like gold. If he wanted to, he could sell snow to a bloody Yeti.”
Harry’s voice came low and hard. “He told me you were giving Lucius Malfoy trouble.”
That made Rowle burst into laughter again, louder this time, deranged. “That’s what he told you? Merlin’s balls, he is good. No, Potter. For a while, I thought I was dealing with Lucius too. The old man’s voice, his signature, the attitude—it was convincing. But it wasn’t him.”
Rowle leaned in close, his breath disgusting. “Turned out, his son wears the Malfoy name better than the man ever did.”
Harry stared at him, heart pounding. No words this time.
Rowle smiled.
“Your Draco? He’s been puppeteering his father’s name for a while now. Reached out under Lucius’s alias, slipped into the right circles, made the right offers. And when I realized who I was really talking to…” Rowle shrugged. “Well. I didn’t mind. Draco might’ve been the better deal all along.”
And just like that, the whole room tilted sideways.
Harry’s thoughts were running, spiraling. Was it true? Could it be? Did Draco use Lucius’s name? Why would he do that? What game was he playing?
But above the storm in his skull, one truth hit like a hammer.
Draco had lied.
Or at the very least, kept the most important part of the truth buried deep beneath that pretty, careful façade.
And now Harry was left staring at a cracked version of the man he thought he was beginning to understand.
“You still think you’re the one chasing the monster, Potter?” Rowle’s grin stretched, eyes sharp like broken glass. “Because I think the monster’s been in your bed this whole time.”
Harry leaned forward, his voice tight with restraint. "What did he offer you, Rowle?"
Cassian Rowle grinned. That infuriating, smug little twitch of the lips like he knew exactly what buttons to press. His cuffs clinked softly as he adjusted in his seat, spine relaxed like this was just afternoon tea, not an interrogation that could end his life as he knew it.
"Nothing too exotic," he said casually, voice syrup-slow. "Just a few business deals. A respectable cut of some foreign investments. And money, of course." His smile widened, baring teeth. "Always money. He was willing to pay handsomely for... well, names. And now and then, he’d toss in a request—let a suspect walk, bury a charge, delay a hearing. Little things."
Harry’s fingers curled into fists.
"You didn’t wonder why?"
"Oh, I did," Rowle answered, shrugging as far as the magical cuffs would allow. "It shocked me. Wasn’t expecting that the prodigal Malfoy—the boy who ran from his legacy and tucked himself away in Muggle obscurity—would come crawling back into the shadows of politics. Thought he was done with all of us."
His tone shifted slightly, almost admiring.
"But he wasn’t just spending his vaults dry in some penthouse. No, Potter. Your fiancé’s been growing those vaults—faster, smarter, and dirtier than Lucius ever could. The Muggle world taught him a few things. And he's been putting them to good use."
A pause. Then, with the kind of chill that slid into Harry’s spine like a knife, Rowle said, "It took me a while to see what he was actually doing. At first, it was just names. Then those names started disappearing. Reappearing again... in headlines. On the obituaries. Always some freak accident or tragic twist."
He leaned in, voice low now, the edge of something sharp threading his words.
"I thought—hell, maybe they had it coming. Maybe your boy was just cleaning house. But then the case picked up. The killings. The press. The rumors of a murderer obsessed with you, Potter. And suddenly—"
He snapped his fingers.
"—you bring Malfoy in from the cold. He’s on your team. In your house. Warming your bed. A year later, you're engaged. And the bodies haven’t stopped. They’ve just changed countries."
Harry’s face was stone. His heart, not so much.
"And then," Rowle said, leaning forward, voice silk and rot, "my niece—Don't mind we're distant relatives. I've always seen her as family." His condescending tone told Harry otherwise but he digressed. Rowle was willing to keep up appearances. "Poor Celeste. Tragic, really. Junkie, yeah. But not suicidal, not like that. A little too convenient, don’t you think? The killer’s identified, goes on the run, and oh—dies by her own hand just before you get to her. Case closed. Tidy bow on a bloody mess."
He leaned back again, cuffs clinking like punctuation.
"Celeste was clever with her potions, I’ll give her that. Good at managing distribution. But this? These murders? The staging, the timing, the psychological flair? She wasn’t capable of that kind of artistry."
A pause. Then a smirk.
"But Draco Malfoy? Oh, he’s more than capable."
Harry couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even breathe properly. His lungs felt stitched shut, his throat dry, like he’d swallowed dust and betrayal and couldn’t cough it back up. His stomach twisted violently, bile threatening. He didn’t let it show. Couldn’t afford to—not here, not now, not in front of someone as gleefully deranged as Rowle.
Still, part of him screamed. No. Not Draco.
Not the man who kissed his scars like sacred things. Not the man who whispered promises in bed and made Harry believe, for the first time in years, that maybe he wasn’t broken beyond repair.
But another part—the colder, crueler, quieter part—whispered truths he’d been trying to drown for months. That same voice that had first murmured warnings in his ear the moment Draco reappeared in his life. A voice that knew the difference between fantasy and reality. That knew trauma and genius rarely bred anything gentle. That knew Draco Malfoy was too good, too smooth, too fucking perfect to be real.
The voice wasn’t whispering anymore. It was roaring.
The inconsistencies.
The gaps in memory.
The stories that didn’t add up but were always smoothed over by a kiss, a touch, a promise.
And the basement. Fuck.
The moment in the basement came crashing back—blueprints, models, password-protected files. Calculated architecture masquerading as clutter. He saw it now for what it was: a workshop for something inhuman.
He forced himself to stay steady, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. He stared down Rowle, who was still lounging like this was a damn fireside chat.
"Why?" Harry asked, voice hollow. "Why turn yourself in now?"
Rowle gave a theatrical shrug. "Because, my boy, it’s a fucking masterpiece."
He chuckled, that same deranged edge to his laugh. "Do you have any idea how poetic this is? You—Harry Potter—the beacon of justice, the golden boy who lived, who rebuilt his world on truth and moral integrity... you ended up crawling into bed with the very embodiment of everything you swore to destroy."
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming.
"I mean... isn’t that just too delicious not to share?"
Harry’s pulse pounded. Behind the fury and nausea, something else was festering—something raw and hideous and personal.
But Rowle wasn’t done.
"Don’t feel too bad, though," he added, almost sweetly. "Draco really does love you. That’s the twist, innit? He loves you so much it curdled into something monstrous. Twisted. Obsessive."
Rowle’s smile sharpened like broken glass.
"That’s why he deviated from the mission. Started targeting people he wasn’t originally after. Started gutting all those pretty little suitors who got too close to you. Even the harmless ones. Especially the harmless ones."
Harry's vision blurred for a second. He gripped the edge of the table like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality.
"And you know what’s funny?" Rowle’s smile faded then. Just a flicker—but it was there. Real, human fear slipping through the cracks. "I thought I was safe. I thought I was useful. I was the one feeding him names, shielding him with favors and intel."
He leaned in, voice dropping, no longer amused.
"But I was wrong. I saw it too late. I crossed a line. Maybe I got sloppy. Maybe he just got bored. I don’t know. But I know this..." He swallowed.
"I’m safer in this fucking cell than I ever was out there."
And for the first time since the interrogation began, Harry believed him.
Ron stood the second Harry stepped out, shoulders tense, mouth opening with a quick, "You alright, mate?"—but the look Harry gave him killed the question on his tongue. It wasn’t rage. Wasn’t even grief. It was something colder. Like the aftermath of an explosion frozen in time. Harry didn't say a word.
Just walked past him with a haunted sort of purpose and made a beeline for his office.
Ron followed, hesitated in the doorway. “Harry—”
“I need time.”
That was all.
Then the door slammed shut.
Inside, Harry lost it. His hands shook as he yanked drawers open, parchment scattering, ink smudging. Files thudded to the floor as he ripped through them, dragging the entire case back to life. The Serpent’s Shadow. His case. His failure.
The photographs. The victims.
Their bodies were twisted in agony, magic drained until nothing was left. Their eyes screamed even in death. Their faces were carved into expressions of horror that Harry had never been able to forget.
And now he knew why.
The notes. The taunts. The elegance of every kill. He’d thought it was a signature. A style.
He hadn’t realized it was a message.
He slammed his palm on the desk, sending a cup of tea flying. Then his fingers brushed it again.
The sketch.
The damn sigil they’d all dismissed. Everyone had seen it—investigators, curse-breakers, experts in ancient runes—and no one had deciphered it. Just some stylized icon, they'd said. A brand. An ego mark.
Harry stared at it now.
No. It wasn’t just squiggles.
The lines twisted, curled, folded into themselves like something alive. His heart pounded louder. Louder.
There. Fuck.
A snake.
And it was coiled into a pattern—an M, nestled inside a D.
D. M.
His hand clenched the paper. For a second, he thought he might actually be sick. His knees nearly buckled, but the fury that surged up from his gut kept him standing.
He’d kissed the lips that had whispered death into the ears of his victims.
He’d held the hands that carved this very symbol into the skin of the dead.
Draco had handed him the truth.
Over and over and over.
And Harry—fucking idiot, blind, desperate Harry—had chosen to trust the illusion instead.
No more.
He snatched his jacket, threw it on, and stormed out of the office like a man possessed.
“Where are you going?” Ron called, trailing behind.
Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
He had blood in his mouth and fire in his chest.
He needed answers.
And he was done waiting for them to come to him.
Angela barely had time to look up before Harry’s presence consumed the front of the lobby like a stormfront.
“Where is he?” His voice was low, but sharp enough to cut glass.
The receptionist jumped to her feet, wide-eyed. “M-Mr. Potter! Draco—Mr. Malfoy—he hasn’t come in today—”
BANG.
His hand slammed the marble counter. The platinum ring Draco had given him clanked against the surface, heavy as guilt, louder than thunder.
He stared at it. It felt like a shackle now. But he couldn’t bring himself to take it off.
Angela froze, looking like she might cry.
He blinked, forced a breath through his nose, and muttered, “Sorry.”
Then he was gone.
A crack of Apparition later and he was inside Grimmauld Place, kicking the door open before it had even finished unlocking. The house, with its creaky floors and brooding shadows, gave him nothing but silence.
“Draco!” he called, though he already knew.
He stormed from room to room. Kitchen, study, the hidden alcove behind the library—nothing. Nothing but absence.
And then the bedroom.
That damn bedroom.
His steps faltered. His breath caught.
The swing chair in the corner creaked ever so slightly, swaying from a breeze that didn’t exist. And there they were.
The plushies.
The ridiculous dragon cow hybrid and its equally absurd dragon goat cousin. Stuffed and stitched and slightly scorched on one edge from a spell gone wrong—Harry’s doing, of course. They’d been there for months now. Permanent residents. A symbol of whatever the hell they’d become.
His hands clenched into fists at his sides. He could feel the stupefy charms hitting his chest again and again, like memories refusing to stay buried. He didn't linger.
He was gone again.
The flat smelled like Draco.
Clean. Remnants of tobacco. A hint of bergamot and that expensive aftershave he swore he didn’t like but wore anyway because Harry had once said it made him smell like danger in a three-piece suit.
Harry didn’t call out this time. He didn’t need to.
Because the moment he stepped in, he saw it.
The coffee table. Centered like an offering. A single USB drive.
It might as well have been a knife.
No note. No goodbye. Not even a smudge of ink or a flourish of Draco’s dramatics. Just that cold, deliberate little device.
Harry stared at it.
Then he moved.
He plugged it into the television with shaking fingers, sat down on the sofa they’d once tangled on in the half-light, and waited.
The screen lit up.
And Draco’s face filled it.
Smiling.
Not the charming work smile. Not the amused smirk.
No. This one was soft. Intimate. A smile meant only for him.
“Hey, love,” Draco’s voice came through, warm, almost cheerful.
Like he wasn’t a ghost already haunting Harry’s every step.
Harry didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Draco blinked slowly, leaned into the camera a little, and said, “If you’re watching this… I guess it’s all come undone.”
Of course he said that.
Harry wanted to lunge forward and punch that unfairly perfect face right through the screen. The nerve—the absolute fucking gall—to still smile like that. Like his heart wasn’t shattering on a loop in 1080p.
And yet, he didn’t move.
Didn’t even blink.
He just sat there, fists tight in his lap, chest rising and falling like he was drowning above water.
Then Draco’s voice—calm, soft, reverent—cut through the static of Harry’s fury.
“After you watch this, I need you to know… nothing that has happened—and nothing that will happen—will ever change one thing: I love you.”
Harry’s mouth tightened, jaw clenching so hard it ached.
“That was never a lie, Harry. Never. I’ve loved you since we were fifteen—since the first time we snuck off to that stupid disused classroom in the North Tower and nearly got caught because we couldn’t keep our bloody hands to ourselves.”
A flicker of a smirk crossed Draco’s lips in the video. A real one, painted with nostalgia.
“I loved you in secret. In stolen glances across the Great Hall. In the way you’d grab my wrist in the dark and pull me behind a tapestry like the world might end if we didn’t kiss right that second. I’ve loved you more than I’ve ever loved anything. You were my breath of fresh air, Harry. My sanctuary.”
Harry’s hands loosened. Barely.
Because it was true.
Because the knot in his throat was tightening now. Tangling like barbed wire.
He took a shaky breath, choked on it, and muttered, “You absolute idiot…”
Even if it was just a recording.
And then Draco’s smile dimmed a little—still soft, but tinged with something haunted.
“I guess… I should start at the beginning.”
Harry straightened.
“It was the last week of summer before sixth year. We’d been dating since the second semester of fifth. And every second I had with you felt like being let in on a secret no one else was allowed to know. You were—hell, are—everything I couldn’t be. Brave, reckless, stupidly good, and infuriatingly selfless.
“I was already halfway in love with you when the mark came.”
Harry’s stomach twisted.
That was it. That was the moment. He knew it—had always known there was more to Draco pulling away. He’d just never imagined how deep the scar ran.
“It happened in an instant. One moment, I was my mother’s son, still deluding myself that maybe I could be more than what I was raised to be… and the next, I was his.”
Draco stared at the camera for a beat, unreadable.
“From that point on, I felt tainted. Like everything about me had been corrupted, cursed, and... I couldn’t let you near it. Near me.
“You were this… this idiot, constantly throwing yourself into fire to protect people. And I—well, I’d just agreed to burn for the wrong side. So I broke up with you.”
There was a pause.
Draco’s smile returned, but this one was ghosted with pain. Not sad. Resigned.
“I told myself it was mercy. That if I cut you off cleanly, you’d forget me. That you’d find someone who wasn’t branded with darkness. Someone who deserved you.”
Harry’s chest was caving in. His fingers dug into the sofa. He wanted to scream. To tear the television apart. To go back in time and shake that sixteen-year-old boy until he believed that love didn’t care about scars.
But he didn’t move.
Because Draco’s eyes on the screen—eyes not meeting his, but so heartbreakingly familiar—were still talking. Still trying to explain the tragedy they both lived through.
“I’ve spent fifteen years trying to be better, Harry. And every step of the way, you were still there. In my head. In my ribs. In every decision I made, wondering if it was something you’d be proud of.
“But I could never let go. Not of you. Not really.”
And there it was.
The truth.
The unbearable, bone-deep truth.
He never stopped loving him.
Harry dragged a hand down his face, biting back a curse. The tears stung at the edge of his vision, hot and angry.
Draco’s face softened again.
“I’m not telling you this for forgiveness. I know what I’ve done. What I’m doing. I just… you deserve to know why I did what I did.”
The screen flickered slightly. The video wasn’t over.
But Harry already knew: this was only the beginning.
And fuck, was he not ready for what came next.
Draco’s voice dipped lower as the recording continued, rough around the edges, like gravel under silk. That smile was gone now—just a flicker of memory, replaced by something heavier. Regret.
“I’ve seen things, Harry. Heard things. Felt things that no one should. Not at seventeen. Not ever.”
The camera shook slightly, like he’d moved to run a hand through his hair but changed his mind halfway. There was a beat of silence, and then—
“I'm not naive enough to think I’m the only one scarred by the war. Hell, I’m sure your nightmares could swallow mine whole and still come back for seconds. But fuck—” He laughed bitterly. “I spent too much time breathing the same air as Voldemort… too much time under that twisted stare of Aunt Bellatrix, too many nights flinching from sounds that didn’t come. And each time, I thought I could just—keep going. Keep pretending. Be strong.”
He leaned forward slightly. The light caught under his eyes, and Harry could see the darkness clinging there—old, buried, unhealed.
“But then… that moment,” he said, voice thin, frayed. “That moment I saw Hagrid carrying you—your body. Limp. Your eyes shut. I thought…” Draco’s jaw clenched hard, and Harry could see the shimmer threatening his composure even on the screen. “I thought I was going to fall apart right there. I wanted to scream. Run to you. Grab you and shake you and kiss you back to life. Anything. Anything to not be left behind.”
Harry’s hands trembled on his knees. He didn’t blink. Couldn’t.
“But I didn’t move.” Draco exhaled like he was exorcising a demon. “I stood there. Paralyzed. Watched it all, stuck in my skin, too damn scared to fall to pieces. And then you came back. Of course you did. You always do.”
Harry’s throat burned. He remembered that day. The smoke. The sounds. The ache of coming back from the brink. He never once imagined Draco had seen him.
“And it hit me,” Draco whispered, “right then—if you ever left me for real, I’d never survive it. Not really. Not the kind of surviving that means living.”
The video cut slightly as if edited, a harsh skip of static before Draco reappeared, calmer now but more distant.
“When you testified at my trial…” He paused, something fond and broken in his smirk. “I nearly lost it. I wanted to run up and kiss you like a man possessed. But that mark on my arm—it was still there. The stares. The pity. The judgment. I couldn’t… I couldn’t bear the idea of tainting you again. Not with me. Not with everything I’d done, everything I was.”
Harry whispered to the screen, “You idiot.”
But Draco just kept going.
“And that day,” he said, his voice turning cold with clarity, “I understood something else too. Life isn’t fair. You saved me from Azkaban. But it only took one man—you—saying the right words to absolve people like me. Like him.”
His face darkened.
“My father should never have walked free, Harry. You know that. But a handful of honey-dipped sentences from the Boy Who Lived, and boom—even Lucius Malfoy gets a second chance. And he’s not the only one. I watched Death Eaters and monsters and Ministry snakes slither their way into freedom. Into power.”
The venom in his tone didn’t hide the disgust—didn’t hide how much it tore him apart.
“And you—” he said, gaze drilling into the lens, “You still had to keep chasing them. Arresting them. Only to have them waltz out of court with a smirk and a handshake. How many times did they make you watch that happen, Harry? Huh?”
Harry’s chest tightened. He remembered too many.
“I couldn’t live with that,” Draco continued, voice quieter now, but more dangerous for it. “I couldn’t watch it. So I left. Walked away. From everything. From you. Because if I stayed… I’d either rot from the inside out or burn the whole thing down.”
A sharp breath.
“I didn’t think back then that I’d ever come back.”
The screen dimmed for a second. Static pulsed at the edges of the image, like the confession itself was short-circuiting the memory.
“But here I am,” Draco murmured. “Fifteen years later. And I’m still yours.”
Harry swore, punching the side of the couch in frustration.
Still yours.
The words echoed like a curse, like a prayer, like a collar.
He didn’t know whether he wanted to scream or sob. But one thing was certain—whatever came next, Harry wasn’t walking away. Not without burning through every last answer Draco had left to give.
Draco gave a small smile through the screen—a fragile thing dressed up in bravado—and let out a laugh that held no humor, just tiredness and venom soaked in regret.
"I bet you’ve got a hundred questions, Potter,” he drawled, the old nickname slipping from his lips like muscle memory. “Probably kicking yourself for walking straight into the lion’s den.”
He leaned closer to the camera, the shadows under his eyes making him look older than he should. Worn. Haunted.
“But fuck it,” he whispered, tone dipping into something darker. “I wasn’t ever gonna let go of you, was I? Not then. Not now. You're mine.”
Harry’s chest clenched.
“Only you get to hear this,” Draco continued, his voice low and sure. “Only you. Because no one else deserves it. Not the Ministry. Not your darling Order. Just you.”
His expression softened—not with guilt, but with a kind of dangerous reverence. A worship that bordered on blasphemy.
“You weren’t just the Chosen One to me. You were it. My light. My salvation. My reason for waking up, and if it came to it—my reason to die.”
Harry swallowed hard. He could feel that ache blooming in his chest again, hot and bitter. The same ache Draco always left behind.
“Fifteen years ago,” Draco said, gaze unfocused now, lost somewhere far behind the lens, “when I walked away, I didn’t walk toward anything. I wandered. Numb. Grey. Like someone had scraped the color off the world. You had no idea, did you? That the only thing that kept me breathing were the memories of us. You, sneaking into the dungeons. Me, hexing the door shut. Your bloody cold hands under my shirt.” He laughed again, softer this time. “I think I would’ve died, if not for those.”
He paused. The silence felt deliberate.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have given me a second chance,” Draco said finally, voice cracking ever so slightly. “Shouldn’t have testified for me after the war. Maybe you thought you were saving me. But all you did was give me time. And time... it rots you, Harry.”
Harry’s hands dug into the cushion beside him. His knuckles were white.
“Because that love I had? It didn’t fade. It festered. It grew. And with no one to hold it in check, it twisted. Everything I am now... everything I became... it’s because I couldn’t let go of you.”
Draco blinked slowly.
“We were kids. All of us. Shoved into a war before we even knew how to be people. And when kids survive that kind of hell, there’s only two ways they end up.” He tilted his head slightly, studying Harry through the screen. “If they’ve got a support system, love, a family—they grow up to be heroes. Good. Whole. People like you.”
He didn’t say it like a compliment. He said it like a curse.
“But if they walk out alone... carrying all that guilt, shame, heartbreak—like me?” He shrugged. “They rot.”
Harry felt his breath catch. Because deep down, he knew that was true.
“I’m not sane,” Draco admitted. “Not anymore. I came out of the war alone. I was never sane, Harry. You just loved me too much to see it.
"And maybe I stopped wanting revenge a long time ago. Maybe it stopped being about me the moment I saw what kind of world we were letting slide. The kind where Death Eaters got away. Where murderers vanished. Where the Ministry buried its own sins under bureaucracy.”
His lips curled into a near-feral grin.
“So I decided I’d be the reckoning.”
A pause. He let it hang in the air like an executioner's blade.
“Pansy helped me track the bastards who fled the country. Blaise funded it. I taught myself how to manipulate Muggle systems, how to make magic invisible to the naked eye. I turned myself into the one thing I always swore I hated—because if I was gonna fight monsters, I had to become one too.”
And now, he wasn’t smiling.
Now, he just looked at him—that terrible, beautiful stare that once left Harry breathless behind locked classroom doors.
“I didn’t do this despite you, Harry,” Draco said softly. “I did it for you.”
The silence after that confession was deafening.
Harry didn’t even realize his hands had curled into fists until his knuckles cracked, white with pressure. His chest felt like it was caving in, each word from Draco hitting harder than the last.
“Fucking idiot,” Harry whispered at the screen, voice hoarse, shaking. “You absolute madman.”
But he didn’t look away.
Because he couldn’t.
Because this wasn’t just a confession.
It was a love letter written in blood and ashes.
Draco’s eyes on screen were too calm. Not smug, not proud—but resigned. Frighteningly so.
“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” he said, voice softer now, like they were lying in bed again and he was whispering against Harry’s skin. “But maybe I always knew you would. You always did see through my bullshit eventually.”
He looked down, fingers brushing over something out of frame. When he looked up again, his smile was smaller, fragile.
“I know what I’ve done. And I’m not going to beg for forgiveness. I don’t deserve it.” He swallowed. “But I needed you to know the truth. The real truth. Because you’re the only person who’s ever looked at me and seen me. Not the Malfoy name. Not the war. Just… me.”
Harry blinked rapidly, trying to stay grounded, but the room was spinning.
Draco leaned in closer to the camera now. His voice dropped, almost conspiratorial. “I know you’re going to come for me. You’re already halfway there, aren’t you?”
That damn smirk tugged at his lips again—painful, beautiful.
“I want you to. I need you to. Because if anyone’s going to end this, it has to be you. No one else. I don’t trust anyone else with the power to kill me… or save me.”
Harry’s breath hitched.
Draco exhaled a shaky breath, and this time, there was no performance behind it. Just honesty.
“I love you, Harry. Always have. Always will. And if that makes me more insane than all the bastards I’ve hunted down—well, so be it. I went to war for you. Now I’ll go to hell for you too.”
The screen flickered. Then faded to black.
Harry stared at it long after the last pixel died.
The air in the flat felt too still, like the world itself was holding its breath.
And Harry?
Harry Potter, war hero, savior, Head Auror—
He didn’t know if he wanted to kiss Draco or kill him.
But one thing was clear.
Draco had drawn the line in the sand. Blood and love and twisted justice behind him.
And Harry?
Harry was already crossing it.
Harry's pulse quickened. His hands trembled slightly as he pressed his palms against his knees, grounding himself on the edge of the armchair in the flat. His mind was a battlefield of chaos, every thought a grenade—his own voice arguing over what he should feel, who he should be.
The old Harry—the one from the war, the one who still saw things in black and white—he would’ve dragged Draco by the collar into a Ministry interrogation room, slammed his smug face into the cold steel table, and demanded answers with a wand to his throat. He would’ve shouted, “Was it worth it? All those bodies? All that blood?”
But that Harry was long buried under grief, silence, and… goddamn desire.
Because this version—the present, broken, aching version—had opened himself to Draco. He had laid himself bare in ways that no spell or curse could defend against. His arms, his bed, his godforsaken soul—Draco had slithered into all of them like a fucking vice.
He knew Draco’s body like scripture. Every scar. Every tremble in his hands when he lied. Every pause before he said I’m fine when he clearly wasn’t. Harry thought he knew him. And maybe that’s what burned the most. That knowing was now in question. That every kiss, every whispered promise, every shared look in the moonlight could have been a calculated maneuver in a game Harry never realized he was losing.
Merlin.
The press would eviscerate him if this ever got out.
Harry Potter, Head Auror, fucked and fell for Europe’s most elegant butcher. Slept in his bed. Drank his wine. Might’ve moaned his name while lying beside corpses.
Celeste Rowle... was she a scapegoat, or just another name on Draco’s beautifully crafted list of necessary evils? Had Draco helped her die... gently? Or had he smiled while watching the light leave her eyes?
And still. Still.
His chest ached.
Not just from betrayal. No—this wasn’t righteous fury.
This was heartbreak laced with obsession, with twisted longing.
Because out of the entire video, it wasn’t the confessions or the chilling lack of remorse that rattled Harry the most—it was that fucking I love you. Soft. Clear. Honest in a way only Draco could be when he wasn’t wearing a mask.
And Harry—traitorous, foolish, desperate Harry—believed him.
He hated himself for it. Hated that his blood surged hotter, not colder, that his body reacted as if Draco’s voice was still in his ear, whispering dark little promises as they tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. That his heart stuttered not in fear, but in remembrance.
His eyes locked on the USB connected to the TV. It felt... alive. Contaminated. Like it could twist his thoughts further, sink hooks into the few shreds of clarity he had left. Draco wanted him to watch it. To know. To chase him.
No one else.
No other Auror would get that satisfaction. That right.
If Draco wanted a predator to hunt him—he’d get the one who knew the exact rhythm of his breath in sleep.
Harry stood abruptly. Took the USB. Walked to the fireplace without pause. And as the flames curled around plastic and metal, melting truth into ash, he whispered under his breath, “You want me to play, Malfoy?
"Fine.
"But this is my hunt now. And you’re mine.”
Harry didn’t sleep. Couldn’t.
Three hours in, his eyes were bloodshot, shoulders locked, jaw clenched so tight it ached. The glow of the Auror Office’s private research chamber lit his face in stark flashes—screens, spell-lit projections, floating case files drifting past like ghosts.
Thirty-eight confirmed murders. And those were just the ones that left a trace.
All of them were scum. Death Eaters, war profiteers, corrupt officials, smug bastards who slipped through legal loopholes like rats in a sewer. People Harry had wanted to bring in over the years but was told to drop due to “insufficient evidence” or “conflicts of interest.” Names he hadn't spoken aloud in years because they'd been labeled untouchable.
But Draco—Draco fucking Malfoy—had touched them.
Unforgivingly.
Not always the same method. Some were poisonings. Some burned from the inside out. Two had been found split open, flesh peeled like petals. One was forced to relive their worst memory in a permanent loop until their mind collapsed entirely. A kind of dark magic Harry had only read about in forbidden sections of the Hogwarts library.
It wasn’t about the how, though. It was the why.
And it was always the same: they were filth. And Draco had appointed himself judge, jury, and executioner.
The soul orb and the magic siphoning methods from the Serpent’s Shadow case—that was new. Cleaner. More controlled. Draco had evolved. That thought didn’t comfort Harry—it terrified him.
Because this wasn’t someone lost in bloodlust.
This was precision and intent. As if he was experimenting to see which method of murder suited him best.
And yet…
Where is he?
Was he hiding? Running? Watching?
Harry's chest tightened. His mind betrayed him, showing flashes of soft blond hair falling over pale eyes, lips parted with something between a smirk and a plea, voice low as he said, “You always were the only one who saw me, Harry.”
“Stop,” Harry muttered to himself.
His hand curled into a fist against the table. He couldn’t let himself sink. Not now.
He refocused. Zoomed in on the sigil again. It stared back at him like a dare. The snake winding through the calligraphy of an M and a D. Insufferably Malfoy.
It wasn’t just a calling card.
It was a riddle.
Harry stared at it, chewing his lip, brain starting to tick. Draco wouldn’t be obvious. But he also wouldn’t resist leaving breadcrumbs. He wanted to be found. That damn video was proof enough.
So why the sigil?
Think, Potter.
A snake.
Not a Slytherin symbol—no. This wasn’t some Hogwarts ego trip.
A snake forming letters. M and D.
Obviously his initials. Malfoy. Draco.
Obvious. Too obvious.
Harry’s eyes flicked to the strokes of the symbol. The way the curve of the snake crossed the M—too decorative. Too specific. Something about it scratched at his memory. A book? A crest? A monogram?
And then—
click.
He slammed his palm against the table, voice cutting through the silence.
“Vaults.”
He remembered it now. The symbol wasn’t just art. It was etched on the walls of the underground bank Draco’s father had once owned properties through—an old pure-blood side-house that had holdings across Europe. Shell companies. Disguised vaults. Places even the Ministry had trouble mapping out because of how deep the magic went. All those midnight pillow talks were finally paying off for something other than aftercare. And fuck, Draco had been feeding him confessions this entire time.
Draco had access. Or worse—control.
Harry launched himself up from the chair. He started barking commands to the magical console, summoning old records, hidden vault locations, magical signatures tied to Malfoy properties. Only someone with top-level clearance could do this without being flagged. Good thing he was the fucking Head Auror.
Draco didn’t just want to be found.
He wanted to be hunted by someone worthy.
“Fine,” Harry growled under his breath.
His heart pounded like a war drum, his pulse in sync with the fire in his veins.
“You want me to chase you, Malfoy? I’ll play your game. But when I catch you…”
A slow, dark grin curled on his lips.
“You’d better be ready to beg.”
The map was a mess of red ink and furious scribbles—lines connecting vaults across cities, notes written in barely-legible shorthand, spells layered on parchment to trace magical pathways. But finally, after hours of obsessive analysis, it all pointed to one center. One inevitable, infuriating truth:
Malfoy Manor.
Harry stared at the glowing centerpoint on the enchanted parchment, jaw clenched so tight it felt like his teeth would crack. Of course. Of fucking course it was there. So on the nose it was practically begging to be dismissed.
Except... Draco never did anything without meaning.
It wasn’t just arrogance. It was strategy wrapped in elegance and then dipped in one final coat of fuck you.
“Why the hell would you go back there?” Harry muttered under his breath, pacing like a caged wolf. “That place is going to be the first on anyone’s list.”
Unless—
Unless this wasn’t about hiding.
This was about ending something.
And then the sigil caught his eye again, still burned into the magical copy of the samples Zola had managed to extract. It stared at him like it knew. Like it was laughing.
And suddenly, memory cracked open.
A flash—Hogwarts, sixth year.
Draco leaning against a corridor wall, twisting a ring on his finger. Harry had always been drawn to it, even when he wouldn’t admit he was watching him that closely. It had a snake curled into an intricate shape, head biting its own tail—forming the letter M. Not just for Malfoy. It was family. Legacy. Bloodline. A symbol of pure-blood continuity.
And now? That same symbol marked the dead.
It was no longer a sign of pride. It was a curse.
Harry staggered back a step as the puzzle snapped into place. The words from the video echoed in his mind:
“I came out of the war alone.”
“I was never sane, Harry. You just loved me too much to see it.”
Then he remembered what Cassian Rowle had said, with that smug little smirk—how Draco had outsmarted Lucius himself in business, how no one could say no to him when he really wanted something.
And suddenly it was blindingly clear.
Draco’s next victim—his final one—was Lucius Malfoy.
“Shit,” Harry breathed. “Shit.”
His heartbeat roared in his ears. 2:03 a.m.
He didn’t even grab his cloak.
No one else could know.
No protocol. No team. No fucking press vultures waiting for a headline about the tragically misguided Auror who fell for a murderer.
If this was the end of Draco’s crusade, Harry would be the one to stop it.
Or… watch it all come crashing down.
With a crack of displaced air and magic that rippled with fury, Harry apparated.
The cold sting of Wiltshire slammed into his lungs the moment he arrived.
Malfoy Manor loomed before him like a sleeping monster, its silhouette stretched across the moors, windows dark, the night air heavy and electric—like the world itself was holding its breath.
He didn’t knock. Didn’t pause.
Wand drawn, heart trembling, mind split between duty and desire, he slipped through the iron gates and into the shadows of the manor he’d once broken into in a war—and now entered again, chasing the boy he once loved, the man he could never quite let go.
Back in London, all hell was quietly breaking loose—but not the kind with Dark Marks or murderers. No, this was domestic chaos. The kind that made grown men panic like first-years in Snape’s dungeon.
Ron was going to be a dad.
And sweet Merlin, he was not ready.
He’d been on assignment when Ginny’s Patronus burst through the Ministry walls like a firework gone wrong.
“Hermione’s in labor. NOW.”
He hadn’t even replied. He just grabbed his wand and disapparated, leaving behind an entire crime scene, two confused juniors, and a cold coffee he hadn’t even sipped.
He arrived at St. Mungo’s like a thunderclap—red hair sticking up like he’d been hexed, auror robes rumpled and dusted with Merlin-knows-what, eyes wide enough to see the future. He stormed through the doors of the maternity wing, nearly knocking over a trainee Healer who yelped and dropped a clipboard.
Ron slammed his hands on the nurse’s desk.
“Hermione Granger—I mean—Weasley. Hermione Granger-Weasley—where is she? Did she—? Is she—?”
The nurse blinked at him, trying to figure out whether he was injured, intoxicated, or just a Weasley.
“Er—let me check the register…”
She flipped through enchanted parchment that shimmered slightly under her fingers and nodded.
“She’s currently in active labor, third floor, Room 14. Go left down that corridor and—”
Ron was already sprinting. Then backtracked two steps, skidded to a halt, turned with a flustered grin and shouted, “Wait—left where?!”
The nurse, now giggling behind her hand, pointed. “That left.”
“Right—left. Thanks!” he yelped before bolting again.
By the time he reached the hallway, he was panting, his lungs burning like he’d run a marathon uphill. Ginny was pacing outside the room, wringing her hands and muttering to herself like she was rehearsing a bloody Quidditch playbook.
He hadn’t seen her this jittery since her Harpies tryouts eleven years ago.
“Gin!” he choked out, still winded. “What’s—? How is—?”
“She’s in there. Still pushing. Shes been having contractions for hours. We knew you've been busy so we didn't want to bother you unless the baby was actually coming, but she went into labour a few minutes ago and well...” Ginny said, eyes darting toward the door. “She’s doing amazing, but hell, it’s Hermione—we both know she’s trying to outperform labor.”
That made Ron bark a breathless laugh, hands still shaking. His fingers twitched like they wanted to do something but had no idea what. Hex the hallway? Hug his sister? Faint?
“This is it,” he whispered. “I’m gonna be a dad… and I’m still wearing robes I haven’t washed since last Tuesday.”
Ginny gave him a once-over, nose wrinkling. “Last Tuesday? Ron, they’re stiff.”
“I know! But I was on that stakeout, and there was this bog—and then there was that hexed sewer—anyway!”
“You smell like cursed mushrooms and fear.”
He groaned and dragged his hand down his face. “Should I change?”
“Too late. You’re already branded into hospital memory like this.”
They both froze as a cry echoed faintly through the door.
Ron stopped breathing.
Ginny's eyes widened.
“Oh my God, was that—?”
Neither of them moved.
Then the door cracked open, and a Healer popped his head out, face flushed and grinning.
“She’s asking for you, Mr. Weasley.”
Ron blinked. “She—she wants me in there? Now?”
“Yes, now. You’re the dad, aren’t you?”
His knees almost buckled. “I think so?”
“Then act like it and get your arse inside,” Ginny snapped, smacking his shoulder, but her voice trembled too. “Go, Ron. Go meet your kid.”
And just like that, Ron nodded, swallowed hard, ran a hand through his wild hair, and stepped through the door, leaving behind ten years of fear, doubts, and dirty robes at the threshold.
He didn’t know what was waiting for him on the other side.
But Merlin help him, he’d face it—sweaty, disheveled, utterly in love.
The moment Harry crossed the threshold, the air shifted.
There was no tug at his magic. No warning pulse. No resistance from the ancestral wards that once strangled outsiders with suspicion. The Malfoy wards—generational, snobbish, deeply embedded in the bones of the manor—were down.
That alone was enough to make his stomach twist.
Harry paused just inside the entrance, the heavy door creaking shut behind him with a soft click. Cold seeped in from the stone floor beneath his boots, and for a moment, he stood perfectly still—listening.
Nothing.
No house-elf scurrying to take his cloak. No echo of footsteps from the upper floors. Just that deafening, unnatural silence. The manor wasn’t empty. No, something was here. Draco was here. But it wasn’t the same house Harry had visited during that strange, delicate New Year’s Eve. This house was mourning—or unraveling.
His fingers clenched tighter around his wand, knuckles white.
The corridor stretched before him, dark and decadent. The very same hallway where, sixteen years ago, he’d been dragged in bleeding and half-conscious, his name spat like a curse. That cold terror he thought he'd buried at the back of his mind suddenly clawed forward again, curling around his ribs.
And yet—he walked on.
He passed the grand staircase, marble cracked at the base. A long gouge split the bannister like it had been torn by raw magic. The further he went, the more chaos revealed itself.
A shattered vase lay in pieces across the floor—Delacour porcelain, if he remembered right. Irreplaceable.
A silk wall hanging had been burned through with magic—hexed black at the edges, the family crest charred into ruin.
One of the portraits was missing entirely. Just a smoking frame.
The trail of destruction twisted through the house like a tantrum from someone who had too much magic and not enough control. Someone whose pain could no longer be hidden behind tailored suits and calculated smirks.
Harry’s breath caught in his throat.
Draco.
Of course this was him. His kind of devastation wasn’t loud. It was artful. Personal. Each broken relic here had been left deliberately. A message. A scream. And Harry understood it perfectly.
He wasn’t just hunting a killer.
He was following the unraveling of a soul.
And that—that—is what scared him most.
Because every shattered object… every scorched tapestry… it wasn’t just destruction. It was an invitation.
One last game. One last glimpse into the truth behind the ice.
Follow me, Harry.
If you still think you know me—prove it.
He moved on, deeper into the manor, guided by the emotional carnage. His feet knew where to go even if his brain was screaming at him to stop. The East Wing. The place Lucius used as his private study. The place Harry was never allowed into during his last visit.
And now—he was being led there.
The air grew colder. He could taste the tension like metal on his tongue.
Whatever waited beyond those doors wasn’t just a confrontation.
It was a reckoning.
Harry stood motionless before the heavy doors of the East Wing study, his palm hovering inches from the iron handle, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a prayer.
The magic on the other side was so dense, so raw, it pressed against his skin like a heatwave—except it wasn’t hot. It wasn’t cold either. It was everything and nothing at once. It didn’t burn or freeze—it simply was. Like the weight of a storm before it strikes. Like the silence that follows an act of god.
And it was Draco.
But not the Draco he'd known in Hogwarts. Not even the one who’d leaned against his balcony on New Year’s Eve with a glass of cocoa and a complicated smile. This was Draco stripped of civility, of performance, of restraint.
This was Draco… true.
And it was terrifying.
Harry had faced Dark Lords, Death Eaters, cursed forests and corrupted souls, but nothing had ever made his magic recoil and flutter quite like this. He felt small. Not weak—but humble. Like he was standing at the edge of something ancient, something pure. Something that had been forgotten when wands were carved and schools were built.
“Even before we had magic, we had souls. It's because we had souls that magic recognized us. That nature allowed us to bond to it. Magic didn’t choose us out of favor—it resonated with the permanence of what we already were,” he remembered reading, buried in a book he'd found in the library in Malfoy Manor.
“When cores began appearing in people—when magic began to live inside us—it didn’t stay separate. It fused. Blended. Soul and core, life force and magic… bound.”
And maybe… maybe Draco had remembered that.
Or maybe he'd already known.
Harry swallowed hard. No wonder he rarely used magic anymore. He’d believed it—believed Draco had adapted to Muggle life out of necessity, habit, comfort. But now he saw it for what it was: camouflage. Because if anyone had seen the truth of the magic he held, they would have hunted him down and locked him away out of fear.
And Draco, clever, spiteful, broken Draco, had weaponized that invisibility.
This power Harry felt—pure, unjudged, magic—wasn’t dark. It wasn’t light. It was… true. Untamed. The kind of power that didn’t follow Ministry rules or wand movements or textbook classifications. It wasn’t about control.
It was about connection.
And Draco had connected.
Harry remembered Draco's voice, that night years ago when they'd lain tangled under moonlight in a stolen dorm bed, breath still shaky, skin flushed from pleasure and honesty, "You think power is just raw magic, Harry. But it's not. You wield your strength through feeling. Through love. Through rage. That's what makes you terrifying. That's what makes you real."
He hadn't understood it then. Had brushed it off as post-coital poetry.
But now… now, standing before this door, feeling the echo of Draco’s soul radiating like starlight from the other side—now he understood.
This was what Draco had become. And this was what Harry had been summoned to witness.
Not as an Auror.
Not as a lover.
Not even as a man betrayed.
But as the only person who might truly see him.
The air trembled.
The magic pulsed again—an invitation, or maybe a warning. A heartbeat without a body. Harry closed his eyes, hand still hovering.
Was he ready?
No. He never would be.
He curled his fingers around the door handle, lips parting with the weight of his decision.
Harry’s heart skipped—then stuttered, stalled, and damn near stopped as his fingers curled tighter around the cold brass handle. He hadn't turned it yet. Hadn’t pushed, hadn’t even dared to breathe too loud. The magic behind that door was suffocating, ancient, volatile—and so Draco. Unfiltered and raw. It pressed against Harry’s skin like icy wind under a shirt, chilling him to the bone, whispering secrets he didn’t want to hear.
But that wasn’t what truly terrified him.
No, what twisted his gut into a noose was this—the confrontation. The reckoning. The one moment he’d both craved and dreaded since the day he took Draco’s hand again and slid that silver ring on his finger. A ring that now felt too tight. Too heavy. It burned—not with heat, but a creeping, insidious cold, like frostbite over his pulse.
He glanced down at it. That little band had meant forever. Or at least a future. Now it mocked him. What the hell was he going to do?
Call it off?
Punch Draco?
Arrest him?
He should. Draco was a killer. A cold-blooded criminal. Everything Harry had sworn to hunt down, to lock away, to protect people from.
But Draco was also… everything. The man who knew how Harry took his tea without asking, who could tell when he was lying just by the twitch in his brow, who kissed him like he was the last beautiful thing in a crumbling world. The man he thought he'd grow old with.
Or so he’d let himself believe.
Then something caught his eye—a glint of light, tucked near a broken vase, half-buried in the dust and wreckage. A small crystal sphere. Innocent. Familiar. Almost nostalgic.
He bent down, picked it up.
It looked just like Neville’s Remembrall.
But this one… this one hummed. Whispered. Thrummed with a wrongness that tightened the back of Harry’s throat. His grip went numb. Crimson smoke bloomed inside the orb like blood in water, and Harry felt it—really felt it. Screams. Magic. Pain. Souls unraveling like thread.
He dropped it with a choked gasp.
A soul orb.
Merlin. It was real. It was right here. And unlike the broken one they'd found at Celeste's place, this one was still functional and contained far more damning evidence. Of course it was. The case. The victims. The drained cores. The book on soul magic. Everything had led here—Malfoy Manor. Draco had all of it at his fingertips.
He had brought Harry here, months ago, subtly guiding him to the damn book. Feeding him truths one bite at a time. Holding his hand as they walked the path Draco built for him, step by step, lie by lie.
And Harry—idiot Harry—had dragged him in as a consultant.
He’d let the killer into the case file, into the investigation, into his home—into his fucking heart.
The betrayal was a blade. Not sharp. Blunt and personal.
A scream shattered the thick silence.
Then a crash.
Rustling.
Behind the doors.
Harry’s heart didn’t skip this time—it leapt into his throat as instinct took over. Wand raised, jaw clenched, he shoved the doors open without a second thought.
Time for answers. And this time, Draco wasn't slipping out of them.
Harry didn’t really know what to think of the sight behind the door.
The study was a disaster. It looked like a tornado had passed through and carried the surname Malfoy with it. For a second, everything seemed to freeze in place, as if the room itself held its breath. His eyes zeroed in on the tableau before him, the pieces fitting together in a way that made his blood run cold.
Lucius Malfoy was on the floor, slumped against a shattered cabinet, his once-pristine robes torn, silver hair matted and wild, sweat clinging to his aristocratic face. He looked less like the formidable man Harry had once feared and more like prey—terrified, furious, cornered. And towering over him, wand in hand, stood Draco.
Harry’s chest tightened. Draco’s posture was deceptively calm, almost relaxed, but Harry saw the scorch marks on his clothes, the burns across the fabric where Lucius had landed a few curses. Yet Draco didn’t look rattled. He didn’t even look like he was fighting. His grip on the wand Harry had returned to him was loose, casual, as if it were no more than an accessory. Because Draco didn’t need it—not anymore.
Harry had to remind himself of every conversation, every theory, every piece of evidence they’d painstakingly collected. The killer had mastered powers that hadn’t been seen in centuries. A resonance with magic in its purest, rawest form. A dangerous, terrifying connection with the earth itself.
Draco had achieved it.
In the corner, Narcissa stood frozen, torn between horror and despair. Tears streamed silently down her cheeks, her hands trembling but unmoving, as though afraid even to breathe too loudly. She was unharmed—Harry noted that instantly—and he couldn’t decide if that meant Draco had spared her because of their bond… or if she simply wasn’t part of his plan. Draco had always loved her more, hadn’t he? Always shielded her from the world.
But did that matter anymore?
Harry’s thoughts spiraled. His fiancé. His lover. His killer.
No masks. No secrets. No lies. Draco stood revealed before him, the very man Harry had chased, had suspected, had loved. And he was about to watch him add another name to his bloodstained list.
Harry’s hands shook. His breath hitched. Could he stop this? Could he even want to?
Or was he already in too deep—drowning in Draco Malfoy?
Harry’s breath hitched, his chest rising and falling too fast, too shallow. His hands were trembling—not just from the sheer force of magic suffocating the room but from the fracture in his own reality. This was it. The face beneath the mask. No clever deflections, no smug consultant games, no late-night whispers in Harry’s bed convincing him it was all in his head. Just Draco.
And Draco wasn’t running. He wasn’t denying it. He stood there, framed in the carnage, his expression unreadable, as if he’d been waiting for Harry to walk in on this exact moment.
Lucius spat blood onto the rug, voice hoarse but venomous. “Your obsession has rotted you, boy. You think Potter will save you when he sees what you truly are? Look at him. He knows.”
Harry flinched, but his eyes never left Draco.
Narcissa’s voice cracked, low and pleading. “Draco, stop. Please. Not this.”
Draco tilted his head, silver eyes cold, but the corner of his mouth twitched with something almost soft—mocking, resigned, or maybe… daring Harry. His wand dangled carelessly at his side, yet the air around him thrummed with raw, coiled magic.
“Funny, isn’t it, Harry?” Draco finally spoke, his voice steady, almost casual, though the power rippling through the room made the chandelier above them groan in protest. “All those nights chasing a ghost, when the monster was sleeping in your bed.”
Harry’s heart wrenched. He wanted to scream, to curse him, to lunge forward and shake him until the truth fell out. But what truth? The orb in the other room had already damned him. Every thread tied back here. Draco hadn’t stumbled into this; he’d orchestrated it.
Harry’s voice broke before he could stop it. “Draco… tell me I’m wrong. Tell me this isn’t you.”
For a split second, something flickered in Draco’s face—pain, longing, guilt?—and then it was gone, buried beneath that Malfoy mask.
Lucius barked out a cruel laugh, bloodied teeth flashing. “He won’t. Because he can’t. He is what he is, Potter. And now so are you—tainted, fooled, broken.”
Draco’s gaze sharpened, and in that instant, Harry knew—if he didn’t move, Lucius Malfoy would not survive the next breath.
Harry’s hand twitched toward his wand. His chest screamed: Stop him. Arrest him. End this.
But his heart whispered: This is Draco. Yours.
And Harry, shaking, had to choose.
Draco chuckled coldly, his eyes having lost all that mirth that drove Harry crazy. He asked Harry if he'd seen the little video he left for him. Of course he had. The confession that Harry had been secretly yearning for all this time. Because maybe deep down he always knew that Draco held secrets. And perhaps deep down an ugly part of him, the one that always managed to sabotage himself, had known this was too good to be true. That Draco was too good to be true and he must have been the killer.
Even after everyone else had tried to convince him to have more faith in Draco—and Merlin, did Harry want to—he’d desired to believe in Draco more than anything in this world. So much so he had proposed to him and even dared imagine a future with him. But that tiny, annoying voice had never shut up. The one that always doubted. Harry had just shoved it to the back of his mind. And now it was screaming in his ear, telling him I told you so.
Because Draco had confessed not only his crimes, but also a deep and twisted love for him. And Harry didn’t know if he was scared or angry or if he had somehow managed to fall even deeper in love. And that terrified him more than anything.
His silence was an answer. Draco’s smile simply widened. He knew already. He knew everything about Harry. Harry didn’t even need to confess he’d not only watched it but had also thrown the most damning piece of evidence into the fire. Draco would know either way.
“You’ve always been predictable, my love,” Draco drawled, voice smooth but edged like a blade. “The way your eyes linger. The way your jaw tightens when you try not to believe what’s right in front of you. You burn the truth because you’d rather keep me than lose me. Even now—” his smile twisted, cruel and intimate, “—you’re still deciding whether you want to arrest me… or kiss me.”
Harry’s heart slammed against his ribs. He wanted to deny it, to spit something sharp back in Draco’s face, but his throat locked. Because Draco was right. He always had been.
Harry’s silence rang louder than any spell could. His heart slammed in his chest, trying to break free, trying to drown out the words that had already been burned into his memory.
Draco’s cold chuckle cut through the tension like glass scraping stone. His wand dangled between his fingers like an afterthought, but his power, that unearthly, raw hum of magic, filled the air until Harry’s lungs felt too tight.
“So,” Draco drawled, his eyes sharp, venomous, and yet lit with that feverish affection that made Harry’s stomach twist. “Did you enjoy it, dear? My little gift to you. I spent hours crafting the words. Honest words, for once. Don’t say I never gave you anything.”
Harry’s mouth was dry. That ugly little voice in the back of his skull screamed louder than ever—you knew, you always knew. He wanted to deny it, to claw it away, to shout at Draco until the illusion shattered and his fiancé—the man he had let into his home, into his bed, into his heart—wasn’t standing over his father with murder in his eyes.
But the truth stood before him, and the truth was beautiful and monstrous.
Draco tilted his head, studying Harry, lips curving with something between amusement and cruelty. “You’re not saying anything. But you don’t have to, do you? You already told me your answer when you threw the evidence into the fire.” His voice dipped lower, softer, intimate in a way that made Harry’s knees weaken. “You’d rather burn the truth than burn me.”
The words hit like a curse. Because they were true.
Harry’s wand hand twitched, useless, his entire body coiled with contradiction. He should act. He should stop this. Arrest Draco. End it before Lucius Malfoy’s life slipped away. But instead, all he could see was the man he had proposed to, the one who had kissed him like he was salvation, the one who whispered love into the dark when no one else was listening.
And Draco knew. Of course he knew. That smile of his widened, sharp and sure, like he was the one holding Harry’s soul in his hand—and maybe he always had been.
Harry’s wand hand dropped, heavy, useless.
And then Draco began laughing.
Not his usual laugh—the smooth, aristocratic lilt he wore in the boardroom, the polite one tailored for LUXOR’s board of directors. Not even the private one, low and warm, he gave Harry when they were tangled in sheets and whispered jokes under their breath. No—this laugh was wrong.
It bubbled up from somewhere raw and bottomless, starting low in his chest, then growing, stretching, cracking at the edges until it was nothing short of hysterical. Mad. Unrestrained.
Harry didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just stood there, rooted to the floor, as the man he’d built his entire future around—his anchor, his undoing, his almost salvation—splintered before his eyes.
Draco bent forward, laughter still spilling out of him, hands fisted in his own pale hair, wand tangling in the strands as though he didn’t even notice. Harry’s chest ached at the sight. It was Draco’s body in front of him, Draco’s voice, Draco’s face. But the man himself? He looked like a stranger. Like a ghost wearing Draco’s skin.
And yet it hurt—because Harry still knew him. And he could feel the break, deep and jagged, tearing both of them apart.
When Draco finally lifted his head, the laughter hadn’t stopped. His smile stretched wide, too wide, unnatural, his eyes alight with something unhinged—but wet. Shining with tears.
Something cracked inside Harry.
And then Draco asked, voice fractured but steady enough to strike true, “So this is real, then? The great Harry Potter…” His grin twisted, ugly and beautiful all at once. “…has fallen in love with a monster?”
Harry had to hold it in. He couldn’t shatter—not now. Not when his entire center of gravity was tilting, slipping, vanishing before his very eyes. Not when the killer he’d been chasing in the greatest, bloodiest game of chess of his career stood right there—still wearing Harry’s scent like a brand. Not when Draco’s smile was the stuff of nightmares, but his eyes… Merlin, his eyes were pleading.
And that’s when it clicked.
Azkaban. Harry could throw him there, watch him rot in the cold until the last ember of madness burned out. He could tear the engagement ring from those elegant, pale hands, strip Draco Malfoy from his life like a tumor. He could sever, cleanse, cauterize.
And none of it would matter.
Because Draco wasn’t just in his life—he’d rooted himself into Harry’s marrow, coiled vines around his ribcage, and bloomed in the hollows of his soul. Harry wasn’t just ensnared—he was owned. And the worst part was the truth he couldn’t outrun: Draco had him, completely. At his mercy.
And that was terrifying.
Draco was everything Harry had spent his life standing against. He was the monster in the shadows, the kind Harry had sworn to hunt down, the kind who killed and lied and deceived. He was the embodiment of every principle Harry had fought to protect—and he shattered them with a glance.
But Harry couldn’t make himself hate him. Not without loving him just as much.
So Harry stepped forward. He didn’t even realize he was moving until he was—drawn in, pulled toward the very darkness he’d sworn to banish. His eyes locked on Draco’s, never faltering. He didn’t know what he was doing, only that he had to close the distance.
Because sometimes light isn’t enough. Sometimes, you need to touch the fire to know you’re still alive.
Draco didn’t move when Harry closed the space between them—didn’t flinch, didn’t break eye contact. For a heartbeat, he almost looked human. Fragile. But then, as Harry’s hand twitched like it might reach for him, something cold and lethal cut through the room.
“Careful,” Draco murmured, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “You think you’re walking toward me, Potter, but you’re walking off a cliff.”
His smile sharpened into something wolfish, cruel, designed to slice Harry open. The plea in his eyes vanished like smoke, leaving only a predator’s gleam.
“You forget what I am,” Draco hissed, stepping forward now, closing the last sliver of air between them. Harry could feel his breath, warm and taunting. “I killed them, every single one. You’ve seen it—how precise, how merciless. Do you think that part of me simply disappears because you want it to?”
He leaned closer, lips ghosting Harry’s ear. “I could end you, right now. One curse, one slip of my hand. And I wouldn’t lose sleep over it. Not even a second.”
His fingers brushed Harry’s jaw, deceptively tender, before curling—threatening to grip, to bruise.
“You don’t love me, Potter,” Draco whispered, venom dripping like honey. “You love the illusion that you’re the one who can tame me. But monsters don’t get tamed. They devour.”
And then he smirked, cruelly beautiful, a man who knew he had already won.
“Tell me, hero—are you ready to be eaten alive?”
Harry let him talk. Let him threaten. Let him bare his teeth like the monster he so proudly proclaimed to be. But when Draco’s fingers pressed into his jaw, Harry snapped.
“Drop the act, Malfoy,” Harry growled, voice low and rough, his own hand slamming against Draco’s chest—not to shove him away, but to pin him there. “I know exactly what this is. You’re not warning me. You’re not scaring me. You’re giving me an out. One last chance to run back to being Saint Potter. The hero. The good little Auror.”
His eyes burned, unblinking, not giving Draco a single inch of retreat.
“But here’s the thing—you don’t get to make that choice for me anymore. You dragged me through this entire bloody maze. Every taunt. Every breadcrumb. Every corpse you left like a calling card. And now you think you can turn around and tell me to step back? Fuck that.”
Harry leaned in until their foreheads nearly touched, anger vibrating in every syllable.
“I’ve already made my choice. You’re mine, Malfoy. Killer or not. Monster or not. And if you think I’m going to let you slip through my fingers again, you’re even madder than I thought.”
For a moment, the silence cracked like lightning between them, thick with something dangerous.
“I lost you once,” Harry finished, voice steady, defiant. “Never again. Not even if it damns me.”
For one suspended second, it was just them. Two men staring down the abyss and refusing to look away. The silence was raw, merciless—yet in it was the truth neither could run from.
Draco’s lips parted, the faintest tremor betraying him. “You’re insane, Potter.” The words were mocking, but his eyes… gods, his eyes betrayed him. Wide, glistening, and utterly undone.
Harry gave a humorless laugh, forehead pressing harder against his. “Then we’re both mad. Because I’m not letting go. Not now. Not ever.”
And Draco—Draco let him. For the first time, no walls, no claws. Just two broken men tangled together, a tumor neither could cut out without killing the host. It was ugly, it was inevitable, and it was theirs.
But that fragile moment cracked in an instant.
“Avada—!”
Everything moved in fragments, as though the universe had taken a chisel to time itself.
The curse tore through the air—sickly green, jagged, merciless. Harry’s body moved before his brain could catch up, dragging Draco toward him, but not fast enough. The light clipped him, tearing through the air with a hiss that seemed to burn straight through Harry’s ears.
Draco gasped, body folding like a marionette with its strings cut.
“No!” Narcissa’s shriek was pure agony.
Lucius’s wand was still raised, his face twisted with fury and desperation—but Harry didn’t think, didn’t calculate. He reacted. His wand snapped out, his magic detonating in a blinding surge. Lucius was flung back like a rag doll, his head striking the wall with a sickening crack. Silence followed, heavy and absolute.
Harry fell to his knees, Draco’s weight collapsing into him, pale hair falling across his face. He didn’t even remember dropping his wand, but his arms were full of Draco, clutching him like the only tether keeping him from drowning.
The world shrank to a tunnel—Draco limp in his arms, his pale hair spilling across Harry’s shaking hands, his breath a ragged rasp.
“Draco—Draco, stay with me,” Harry begged, his voice breaking, his thumb pressing desperately against that too-cold cheek. “Don’t you dare—don’t you fucking dare leave me now.”
Blood thundered in his ears, but Harry didn’t notice. All he could feel was the weight in his arms, the truth they’d finally spoken hanging there like a cruel joke.
And as Narcissa fell to her knees beside them, sobbing, Harry pressed Draco tighter against his chest. He’d finally admitted he couldn’t let him go. And the universe—vindictive bastard that it was—had answered by trying to rip Draco from him anyway.
Notes:
And like that we've come to an end.
This journey started because I couldn't keep the ADHD under wraps after finishing ywwe. I have this other story that I really want to write centered around the house of Black and want to turn into a trilogy. The thing is that the first book is Draco centric and I felt that it would be too similar to ywwe. So instead I thought why not write this one first? Something significantly different from the previous story.
When planning and brainstorming for this story I knew from the get go I wanted something shorter. I mean, ywwe is 140 chapters long with an extra 20 chapters of side stories. I wanted this to stay controlled in under 30. More specifically between 20 and 25 chapters. Honestly everything started off great. I felt like a machine writing this until one day the fuel ran out and I got stuck in the last chapter. I think you can tell when that happens. There's a change in vibes in this chapters and even writing style. Yeah. That's the main reason why from chapter 19 or 20 onwards the posting was slow. Up until chapter 24 everything was already written and ready and to post but because chapter 25 was incomplete, internally it wouldn't allow me to continue posting. (Gotta love being neurodivergent). But I really wanted to finish this. So the moment an I got a lick of inspiration to write I did so. But it wasn't enough and it shows that I simply lost inspo to finish this story. For that, I'm sorry if the ending seems a little rushed.
However! I did have it in me to write a small epilogue to this. Don't ask me how I had it to write an entire epilogue and not a better ending for the main story. I have no idea. So this is not the definite end. There's ONE more chapter left.
Regarding the story I feel like I said most of what I wanted to say in the previous an since chapter 24 in a way felt more conclusive that this one and so I decided to give certain thoughts I had regarding the story itself. This chapter is mainly just there to tie a knot and the next epilogue chapter will be an attempt at wrapping up a few loose ends. With that being said. That'll you so much for sticking til the end.
Chapter 26
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
2 Years Later
A giggly boy came running into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. His red hair and freckles caught in the sunlight spilling through the tall windows, and everyone who saw him couldn’t help but grin. Aurors and clerks alike stepped aside as he sprinted, his little shoes tapping loudly against the polished floor, calling for his dad.
The boy pushed open the door to the Head Auror’s office, and Ron Weasley broke away from the mountain of parchment stacked in front of him. His tired eyes softened instantly when he saw his son barreling toward him. He opened his arms wide, and little Hugo launched himself straight into them with a delighted squeal.
Ron laughed, lifting the boy easily. “What are you doing here, mate?”
A voice answered from the doorway. “Someone forgot his lunch again.”
Ron turned and found Hermione leaning against the doorframe, her smile warm and patient. She lifted a lunchbox in her hand. “Hugo insisted on bringing it in person.”
Ron’s grin widened as he crossed the office to meet her, kissing her softly in thanks.
“Ew, nasty!” Hugo wrinkled his nose, making exaggerated gagging noises. For a two-year-old, he could be quite expressive.
That only earned him a relentless flurry of tickling and kisses from his father, sending the toddler into shrieking laughter. Hermione’s eyes softened as she watched them, and Ron met her gaze over Hugo’s head. With a wink, he lowered his son back onto the ground.
“Why don’t you go look for Auntie Amy or Uncle Nabu, hmm? See if they’ve got any sweets stashed away.”
The boy’s eyes lit up at the suggestion. “They always do!” He darted off without another word, vanishing into the hallway with the same reckless determination that defined his parents.
"At least we know he's got his priorities straight," Ron smiled as he saw their son literally latch onto Nabu's leg the moment he spotted him.
The office door shut behind them, and with a subtle flick of Ron’s wand, a silencing charm sealed the space. The warmth faded, leaving only the heavy quiet between them. Hermione smoothed her robes, her smile slipping away as she took a steadying breath.
“Any news?” she asked softly.
Ron sank into his chair, running a hand through his hair. “Not much,” he admitted. His voice carried that same weight it had for the past two years—the same weight it always carried whenever the subject came up.
Two years ago, on the very day Hugo had been born, Harry Potter had vanished. Vanished—and taken Draco Malfoy with him.
Lucius Malfoy’s body had been discovered in the ruins of his residence, lifeless after what appeared to have been a violent altercation. Only one witness had been there—Narcissa Malfoy. And she had refused to speak of it, to anyone.
Ron had been promoted to Head Auror in the weeks that followed, not because he wanted the position, but because the Ministry had needed someone they trusted to step into the role after Harry’s disappearance. Since then, Ron had been searching—chasing whispers, scraps of sightings, fading trails.
And every time, he came up empty-handed.
Hermione’s breath came out shaky, the way it always did whenever Harry’s name surfaced. How could it not? He had been their best friend, their family, and then one day he simply vanished without a trace. Ron slid his hand over hers, grounding her. It gnawed at him too—Harry wasn’t just a mate, he was his brother. And the night he disappeared had been the very same night Lucius Malfoy turned up dead. None of it made sense. At least, not the way they'd liked it to.
When Harry was first reported missing, Detectives Vollen and D’Onofrio had pulled in Aurors from the European Division, combing every inch of evidence. The conclusion they landed on had been brutal in its simplicity: the Serpent’s Shadow—the elusive killer who’d left a trail across the country—was almost certainly Draco Malfoy. Which meant Harry hadn’t just vanished. He’d vanished with him.
And yet, both men were gone. Lucius was dead. And the puzzle refused to fit together.
Things only worsened after Cassian Rowle. Barely a month after he’d turned himself in, he was found dead in his cell—no signs, no traces, nothing. It was as if someone had erased him out of existence. The department descended into chaos, whispers threading through the ranks that this wasn’t the work of a lone hand anymore. Too precise. Too deliberate. The serpent was cutting off its own tail, tying up every loose end before disappearing back into the dark.
Ron’s voice was low when he finally asked, “And Narcissa? How’s she holding up?”
Hermione exhaled, tired. “The same. After she was questioned and released, she hasn’t spoken a word. Not to the Aurors, not to me. She’s shut herself inside Malfoy Manor, as if she’s sealed the world out. I visit every week… she doesn’t push me away, and she likes having Hugo around, but—” Hermione’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “She still won’t speak.”
Ron leaned back, dragging a hand down his face. He couldn’t make sense of any of it. Harry, of all people. Why would he run off with Malfoy? Yes, they’d been engaged. Yes, Ron had never seen Harry so alive, so stupidly in love. But Harry wasn’t blind. He had to have known, had to have pieced together that Draco was the Serpent’s Shadow in the end.
And that left only one possibility.
Harry hadn’t been taken. He’d chosen. He’d gone with Malfoy willingly.
Ron’s throat tightened. He hated it, hated every piece of it. But what could he do? What could anyone do? All he could cling to now was one desperate, useless hope—that wherever Harry was, whoever he was with, he was safe.
Hermione still remembered that night in the hospital, the night after Hugo was born. She could still hear the soft, almost reverent voice shushing her baby as he gurgled in his basin beside her bed. The sound had woken her, and when she opened her eyes, her chest tightened at the sight: a figure standing over her newborn.
Panic surged first, sharp and immediate. Pain shot through her, but instincts, primal and unyielding, kicked in. She sat up, eyes wide, ready to defend, to protect. And then… shock.
Harry.
He smiled at her, the exhaustion etched into his features, the ghost of sleepless nights hovering under his eyes, and yet there was warmth there, something soft and grounding. “You did great,” he whispered. “Hugo… he’s perfect.”
Hermione blinked, confusion and relief mixing like fire and water. In her haze of pain and sleep, she hadn’t understood what was happening. Why was he there, in the middle of the night? Why did he look like a fragment of himself had been drained away?
Harry’s hand brushed over Hugo’s tiny cheek, gentle and reverent, grounding Hermione in the moment. “I… I just wanted to meet him,” he said quietly.
And then she laughed softly, the tension in her chest easing as gratitude mingled with the quiet awe of new life. She told him the baby’s name—Hugo—and added, without thinking, “Of course, you’ll be his godfather.”
The words hung in the air. Harry froze, eyes widening, lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. He simply reached out, fingers tracing the soft curve of Hugo’s face once more. “Thank you,” he whispered finally, voice hoarse and low.
Hermione noticed it then: the faint shadow behind his smile, a melancholy she didn’t dare ask about. But before she could, Harry’s gaze shifted to her, and he murmured, “It’s late. You need rest.”
She wanted to protest, wanted to ask him a hundred questions, wanted to know what haunted him so—but sleep wrapped around her like a velvet trap. The last thing she remembered was Harry’s gentle smile, his hand lingering on Hugo’s cheek, a silent promise, before darkness claimed her.
Hermione hasn’t seen him since. Harry simply disappeared after that night.
The only thing that assured her he was still alive out there somewhere were the gifts. For every special occasion in Hugo’s two years of life, something had always shown up on their doorstep. Clothes soft enough for a baby’s skin. Toys that made Hugo squeal with delight. Handwritten letters in Harry’s messy scrawl. They never failed to arrive.
Hugo’s six months. Christmas. New Year’s. His first birthday, then his second. Yule, Children’s Day, Easter, even Halloween—always a present, always a note. Each one carried the warmth of Harry’s love, and each one reminded her of the gaping hole his absence left behind.
It filled Hermione with so much hope, and at the same time, it pained her. Harry was supposed to be there too, laughing at Hugo’s first clumsy steps, catching him before he toppled. He was supposed to be the godfather in more than just name. But he wasn’t. And it killed Hermione not to know how he was. Was he safe? Was he eating properly? Sleeping at all?
The only comfort she allowed herself was the thought that, wherever he was, he was most likely with Draco. And though she didn’t know why, she trusted Harry would always find happiness as long as they were together.
So she quietly put the letters away, keeping them in a growing stash in her closet, tucked between blankets and boxes of baby clothes. She told herself one day Harry would come back, one day he would give them to Hugo himself.
And on nights when the house was quiet, Hermione would open that closet door. She would see not only Harry’s notes piled neatly together, but also Hugo’s additions—scribbles on scraps of parchment, uneven drawings of stick figures with messy black hair, little crayon stars. The boy, too young to understand, left them with the same trust his mother carried: that somehow, some way, they would reach Harry.
It was the cruelest kind of hope. And yet, it was the only kind she had.
In a forgotten Bulgarian village, a man slipped through the shadows, his cloak drawn low. He pushed open the creaking door of the Lion’s Den. The room stank of stale firewhisky and desperation. Faces turned. Grimy witches and wizards sneered, circling him like jackals who’d caught the scent of prey. Fresh meat. Lost soul. Easy pickings.
They never expected the storm.
Three more figures apparated in a flash. Then came the blur—curses slicing the air, screams cut short, the sick thud of bodies hitting stone. By the end, the floor was slick, the air heavy with iron. Only four remained standing.
Draco turned at once, hand cupping Harry’s cheek, thumb smearing blood away. “Are you hurt?” His voice was taut, sharp with worry.
Harry only smiled, leaned into the touch, and pressed his lips against Draco’s bloody knuckles.
“Merlin,” Pansy groaned, clutching her side. “Do you have to be this revoltingly sweet right after a massacre?”
“Every single fucking time,” Blaise muttered, wiping gore from his sleeve.
Draco rolled his eyes, tugging Harry closer by the waist. Harry’s laugh rang too brightly for the graveyard scene they stood in. He caught Draco’s hood, tugging it back over his nearly-exposed hair. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
“Yes, please,” Pansy said, brushing blood from her boots. “I’d kill for a proper bath.”
Blaise chuckled darkly. “By the time the authorities find this mess, our little gift will have ripened nicely.”
Draco wasn’t listening. His grip found Harry’s hand, firm, grounding. Without a word, the world snapped around them, leaving blood and bodies behind.
They landed in a cottage somewhere in the middle of nowhere. The firelight snapped alive, painting the little cottage in flickering gold, and Harry snorted, shaking his head. “Show-off.”
Draco’s smirk was sharp, predatory. “You love it when I show off.”
And damn him, he was right. Harry did love it—loved the way Draco bent magic to his will like it was nothing, like breathing. He’d grown used to it now, the effortless way spells melted under his hands, the casual precision that left even seasoned Aurors looking clumsy in comparison. But what Harry adored even more was that Draco still made tea the Muggle way, still chopped vegetables with a knife instead of a charm, still lit a fire with a match when he felt like it. He chose effort when he could’ve chosen power, and somehow that grounded him.
Except when it didn’t. Except when Draco’s hands were elbow-deep in someone’s chest cavity, or when he was choking a man to death with a frightening serenity. That was the paradox—Harry found it disturbingly intoxicating. Watching Draco lose control, but never really lose it. He’d never admit it out loud, but sometimes he thought Draco was more terrifying without a wand.
Harry didn’t notice the cloak slipping from his shoulders, not until it hit the floor with a dull thud. Draco’s followed a second later, pooling into the shadows at their feet.
When Harry finally met his eyes, it stole the breath out of him. That fire—untamed, obsessive, the same damn blaze Draco had carried since they were fifteen—it hadn’t dimmed. It had only grown hotter, sharper, and it was aimed entirely at him.
Draco stepped forward, and Harry didn’t retreat. He never did.
Draco closed the space in two strides, his fingers catching Harry’s jaw, tilting his head up with an authority that made Harry’s pulse race. His thumb dragged across the faint smear of blood still drying on Harry’s skin, but instead of wiping it away, he pressed harder, smearing it like war paint.
Harry didn’t even flinch—he leaned into it.
Draco’s mouth crashed onto his, all teeth and heat and something almost feral. Harry tasted iron, smoke, the remnants of violence still clinging to them, and it only made him hungrier. Their bodies collided with a force that rattled the quiet little cottage, Harry’s back slamming into the nearest wall.
“You’re mine,” Draco growled against his mouth, voice low, rough, dangerous.
Harry laughed, breathless, and dragged his nails down Draco’s arm until he knew he’d left marks. “Always have been.”
Draco kissed him harder for that answer—bit his lip until Harry tasted his own blood mingling with Draco’s. And it was madness, the way they clung to each other, not soft or gentle but desperate, violent in their need. The aftermath of a massacre hadn’t cooled them—it had set them ablaze.
Harry grabbed Draco’s shirt, yanked it open, buttons scattering like sparks. Draco didn’t care; he only pressed closer, grinding him against the wall, hand slipping under Harry’s shirt like he was ready to tear through skin just to feel more.
Magic thrummed in the air, raw and unstable, sparking from Draco’s fingertips and crawling across Harry’s skin like fire.
And Harry—mad, reckless Harry—welcomed it.
Draco pinned him harder against the wall, one hand still on Harry’s jaw, the other locking around his wrists and slamming it above his head. Harry gasped, the sound breaking into a laugh, because Merlin, Draco was relentless.
“Still think I’m a show-off?” Draco hissed against his mouth, lips dragging across Harry’s throat, sharp teeth scraping over the vein there.
Harry arched into it, shameless, tugging against the grip only to feel Draco tighten it. “You’re a bloody narcissist,” Harry shot back, words rough, breathless—cut off when Draco bit down hard enough to make him moan.
“That’s rich,” Draco muttered, licking over the mark like he owned it, “coming from the Chosen One choking on my cock every night.”
Harry groaned, squirming against him, already aching, already undone by that venomous tongue. He managed to free one hand and fisted in Draco’s hair, yanking it until Draco looked at him—those silver eyes glowing like molten steel, hunger and rage wrapped up in one.
And then Draco kissed him again, brutal, their teeth clashing, Harry tasting the metallic tang of his own blood where Draco had split his lip open. The kiss was all consuming, a battle for dominance Harry knew he’d already lost the second Draco touched him.
Draco shoved a thigh between Harry’s legs, grinding up until Harry choked on a sound he couldn’t quite smother. His head hit the wall, eyes fluttering, and Draco only smirked, dragging his mouth down Harry’s neck, tongue and teeth worshipping and ruining every inch of skin.
“You love it when I lose control,” Draco whispered darkly, voice breaking into something almost feral. “Say it.”
Harry’s chest heaved, his voice wrecked when he gave in, “I love it—fuck, Draco, I love it when you’re like this.”
That broke something in Draco. He let go of Harry’s wrist only to grab both of his thighs and lift him off the floor, pressing him hard against the wall, holding him there like he weighed nothing. Harry’s legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, their cloaks still tangled at their feet, the air alive with magic sparking in wild bursts that scorched the wood behind them.
The cottage groaned around them under the force of it—their passion bleeding into raw, unstable power. But Harry didn’t care if the whole place burned down around them.
The only thing that mattered was Draco’s mouth on his skin, his body caging him in, and the way every kiss, every bite, every ruthless claim whispered the same thing: mine.
Draco’s grip tightened, and Harry’s back slammed against the wall again, hard enough to rattle the frame. Their mouths clashed, rough and frantic, Harry tugging desperately at Draco’s shirt as though he could rip it clean off by sheer will.
But Draco was faster. He dropped Harry so suddenly his knees nearly buckled—but before Harry could catch his breath, Draco shoved him down onto the floorboards. The impact knocked a grunt out of Harry, his palms scraping on the wood, his body already arching into the weight of Draco crashing down over him.
“Pathetic,” Draco growled into his ear, shoving his shirt aside with a flick of magic that sent it skidding across the room. His hands were everywhere—yanking Harry’s shirt open, dragging nails down his chest hard enough to leave welts. “You’re supposed to be the hero, darling, but look at you… writhing for me like this.”
Harry gasped, biting back a moan as Draco’s mouth trailed lower, teeth scraping at the hollow of his throat. He tried to push back—tried to roll them over—but Draco caught his wrists and pinned them above his head again, grinding his hips down until Harry’s body arched helplessly against his.
“Say it,” Draco demanded, his voice low, dangerous, lips brushing Harry’s ear. “Say you love it when I ruin you.”
Harry bucked beneath him, eyes blazing, breath ragged. “I love it—fuck, Draco, I need it.”
That was all it took. Draco snapped. His magic surged, rattling the beams of the cottage, making the floor creak like it might split apart. He tore at Harry’s clothes, fabric ripping beneath his fingers, every shred discarded like it was nothing. The sharp sound of tearing cloth filled the air, drowned only by Harry’s gasps and Draco’s curses under his breath.
Harry should’ve been furious—should’ve fought back—but instead he was shaking with anticipation, heart pounding so hard it hurt. Because it wasn’t just roughness; it was Draco’s hunger, his obsession, the fire in his eyes that told Harry he wasn’t just wanted—he was needed.
Pinned against the floor, wrists held in one hand, Draco’s mouth devouring every inch of him, Harry knew he was lost. He gave in to it, to Draco, to the power, to the fire that would burn them both alive.
And when Draco finally pressed into him, slow, brutal, claiming every inch with a groan ripped from his throat—Harry couldn’t help it. He screamed his name.
The walls shook. The fire roared higher. And Draco smirked into his neck, whispering the only word that mattered between them, the one that had always been carved into his bones, “Mine.”
Draco’s eyes didn’t just look at Harry—they claimed him. Every inch of that cold, calculating stare was fire, warning, promise. The way his hands hovered over Harry’s chest, brushing but never settling, made Harry’s stomach twist, heart hammering. He could feel the danger in Draco, that delicious razor-edge of control, and gods, he wanted it.
Draco leaned in, nose grazing Harry’s, their breaths mingling, dragging a slow heat across every nerve ending. “You know you can’t get away from me, don’t you?” Draco whispered, voice low and dangerous, each word a hook pulling Harry closer to the edge.
Harry swallowed hard, shivering despite himself. “I… wouldn’t try,” he admitted, lips barely brushing Draco’s.
Draco smirked, sharp and lethal, hand tilting Harry’s chin up to force his gaze. “Good,” he said, almost approving. Then without warning, his fingers trailed down Harry’s side, just enough to make him jerk, heart stuttering. “Because I don’t… forgive easily. And I never forget.”
Harry’s breath caught, body already reacting, pulse racing. Every teasing touch, every lingering glance was a promise he shouldn’t want—and yet he did. He could feel it building, that ache in his chest and hips, that longing that was all Draco, all sharp edges and dark fire.
“Draco…” Harry breathed, the single sound a surrender, a question, a dare all at once.
Draco’s lips curved, dangerous and knowing. “Shhh… don’t tempt me, love. You’ve been tempting me for years.”
And there it was—the full weight of everything, the years, the danger, the unrelenting pull. Harry shivered, caught between desire and dread, knowing whatever came next would tear them both apart—and he wanted it anyway.
Draco didn’t wait this time. The teasing was over. Hands gripping Harry with a possessive force that left no room for escape, he lifted him up from the floor and pressed him back against the nearest surface—the edge of the table in the cottage, rough wood biting through flesh. Harry gasped as Draco’s lips crushed his, teeth occasionally grazing in that maddening way, claiming him.
Every surface became their playground. The table, the couch, the hearth edge—they moved like shadows, bodies slamming and sliding, hands roaming, fingers tangling in hair, tugging, holding, never letting go. Draco’s control was absolute; Harry’s reactions were everything he’d ever wanted him to be—raw, unguarded, desperate.
“Do you feel that, Harry?” Draco growled into his ear, voice thick with heat. “Every inch of you is mine. Every thought, every gasp, every shiver…”
Harry’s fingers clawed at Draco’s back, pulling him closer, nails scraping, desperate to ground himself in the fire they were creating. “Y-yes…” he moaned, voice breaking, shivers running through him like wildfire.
Draco moved like a storm, dragging Harry across the surfaces, dragging out every shiver, every whimper, every moment of surrender. Walls, counters, chairs—they became witnesses to their chaos, their hunger, their unrelenting, dangerous love.
And through it all, Draco’s eyes never left Harry’s, wild, fierce, claiming, daring him to try anything—anything but resist. Harry couldn’t resist. He wouldn’t. Not ever.
Every surface, every motion, every touch was an argument and a surrender at the same time. They were a storm, a wildfire, and there was no escaping it—not for Harry, not for Draco.
Draco’s lips never left Harry’s, hands roaming, tugging, gripping, dragging him from one surface to another. They were all witnesses to the chaos, their gasps and groans bouncing off the walls. Harry’s hands clung to Draco, pulling him impossibly closer, nails digging into broad shoulders, hair tangled, breaths ragged.
Draco grinned into the kiss, voice low and dangerous. “You’re mine, Harry. Everywhere, every inch, every shiver…”
Harry arched against him, losing all sense of reason, lost in the storm of sensation. Every table edge, every chair, every counter became a battlefield of fire and surrender. Harry couldn’t think, couldn’t stop, and he didn’t want to. Draco’s every touch, every command, was claiming him, marking him, and Harry wanted nothing more than to burn alive in the way Draco demanded.
And then… Draco’s hands found the bed. “Time for the real fun,” he whispered, dragging Harry across the floor in one powerful sweep. They tumbled onto the mattress, a messy, tangled heap of limbs and sheets, the soft surface finally surrendering to their storm.
Harry gasped as Draco pinned him, lips hungry, teeth teasing, hands devouring. The bed became their altar, their sanctuary, the final stage for the storm they’d unleashed across every other surface. And there, in the dim firelight, they collided and entwined in a chaos that was theirs and theirs alone—wild, unrelenting, and impossibly, achingly perfect.
In the quiet of the night, two bodies lay on the bed, too drenched in their essence to be considered anything but theirs. Harry’s ear pressed against Draco’s chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat the only thing that could calm him. He had almost lost Draco again two years ago. Having him here, alive and breathing, was nothing short of a miracle.
Draco had always teased him, calling it “having Harry be the master of death and getting lover benefits from it.” But in reality, neither of them truly knew what had happened that night at Malfoy Manor. One moment, Draco had been dying in Harry’s arms; the next, Harry had apparated them somewhere—anywhere. He didn’t know where exactly. The memories were fuzzy, fragments of panic, tears, a limpid body, a familiar white light, and a cloaked figure. Nothing more. Draco was alive, and that was all that mattered. And Harry had made his choice. Because Draco could wear a thousand masks, tell a thousand lies, carry the blood of a thousand people, and Harry would choose him. Every time.
Draco shifted, fingers tracing idle, possessive paths across Harry’s back. “You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, voice low, almost gruff, but there was something in it that made Harry’s chest tighten. Ridiculous, but cherished. Irreplaceable.
Harry tilted his head up, lips brushing Draco’s shoulder. “No. I’m yours. Always.”
A smirk tugged at Draco’s lips, slow and dangerous. “Mine, huh? You really do know how to tempt me…”
Even drenched in exhaustion, sweat, and the aftermath of everything they had survived, there was no pretense between them. Just the undeniable weight of survival, of devotion, of knowing they’d chosen each other against everything the world—or death itself—had thrown at them. Harry pressed closer, letting Draco’s warmth seep into him, memorizing every rise and fall of his chest, every tremor, every beat.
And Draco, ever possessive, ever hungry, tightened around him slightly, a silent claim, a soft growl escaping him as he pulled Harry impossibly close. “Every time,” he said, echoing Harry’s thought, “you pick me. And I’ll pick you back. Every. Single. Time.”
The night held them, quiet but electric, as if the world outside could burn down and it wouldn’t matter—because here, tangled and raw, they had found the only truth that ever really mattered: each other.
The sea stretched endlessly in every direction, a restless expanse of blue churning under the weight of the ship’s slow and steady push westward. Salt hung heavy in the air, clinging to Harry’s lips as he leaned forward against the polished rail. His eyes closed, and for once, he allowed himself to breathe—really breathe—until the sharp edges of the past dulled with every exhale. The wind tugged playfully at his dark hair, sending it whipping into his face, but he didn’t care. He welcomed the sting of the sea breeze, the reminder that he was still here, still alive, still moving forward.
A familiar arm slipped around his waist, drawing him back against firm heat and the soft, crisp linen of Draco’s white shirt. Harry’s mouth curved into a smile, his body relaxing instantly as if it had been waiting for this contact all along. His head tilted back just enough for him to catch the steady beat of Draco’s heart beneath his cheek. That rhythm—it wasn’t just a comfort anymore, it was a tether.
“What are you thinking?” Draco’s voice was quiet, but edged with the curiosity he never bothered to hide.
Harry hummed, a low sound that lingered in his throat. “Just… appreciating the view.”
Draco’s silver eyes swept the horizon and then cut back to him, dry as ever. “There’s nothing but water for kilometers, dear.”
Harry’s elbow jabbed back sharply, earning a grunt. “Still a prat, I see,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a grin. Settling once more into Draco’s chest, he let the moment stretch between them.
“It’s my first time going to the States for something other than work,” Harry admitted softly, watching the sunlight dance across the waves.
“Good,” Draco said simply, his chin resting atop Harry’s shoulder. “You’d better get used to it. We’ll be staying for a while.”
Harry stilled, the weight of the words settling over him like a second skin. A while. No… this was it. Their past was behind them—buried, burned, eradicated.
Two years ago, Harry would’ve laughed at the thought. Two years ago, he was the Ministry’s poster boy, chasing names on parchment and praying justice was enough. But then Draco had pulled him in, dragged him into the shadows where parchment meant nothing and blood meant everything. Together with Pansy and Blaise, they had scoured Europe like a storm, hunting down the remnants of Voldemort’s supporters. Every last Death Eater, every quiet sympathizer, every snake that had once slithered in the dark—they had all met the same fate. Six feet under.
Harry sighed, his gaze fixed on the horizon. He’d never thought it would come to this. He’d never thought he’d be here—not as a savior, not as an Auror, but as Draco’s partner in something far darker. Two years ago, he arrested men like this. Now, he killed them. He knew which methods silenced a man fastest, which spells left no trace, which weapons Muggles had designed that could be turned mercilessly efficient in the right hands. And he had learned it all beside Draco.
He pressed himself a little closer into the blond’s chest, because despite the darkness clinging to his hands, Draco was still the only place Harry felt steady.
Harry’s fingers curled around the polished railing as he stared out at the endless waves, the deep ache in his chest at odds with the steady warmth of Draco pressed against him. It was strange—comfort and disquiet all bound up together. Two years ago, if someone had told him he’d end up here, on a private cruise bound for the States, not as an Auror but as… what? Draco’s shadow? Draco’s partner? A soldier in a war no one even realized was still being fought? He would’ve laughed in their face. Or hexed them.
But here he was.
He let the sea air sting his lungs, as though it could cleanse the weight of the lives he’d taken. His hands remembered the way blood clung—sticky, warm, stubborn even after scrubbing. Draco never flinched from it. He had guided Harry into the dark with such terrifying precision, teaching him the quickest ways, the cleanest cuts, the kind of cruelty that wasn’t for cruelty’s sake but efficiency’s. Harry hated how natural it had become. Hated how his nightmares had quieted once he stopped fighting it and simply let the shadows take him.
“Brooding again,” Draco muttered against his temple, voice low, tinged with dry amusement. “You’re going to wrinkle before your time.”
Harry snorted, eyes still shut. “You’d still find a way to complain. Too pale, too scarred, too… Gryffindor.”
Draco’s chest vibrated with a soft, dark chuckle. “And yet, here I am. Wrapping myself around you on a boat in the middle of nowhere. Hardly the picture of someone disgusted by your Gryffindor tendencies.”
Harry tilted his head back slightly, catching the faintest smirk tugging at Draco’s lips. His stomach twisted, equal parts warmth and unease. “I’m not sure what this makes me,” he admitted quietly. “Not anymore. I was supposed to put these people behind bars, not bury them in unmarked graves.”
Draco’s grip around his waist tightened. “Don’t romanticize it. The law you serve is a joke. You know what would’ve happened if you’d turned them in. Acquittals. Bribes. A slap on the wrist. These weren’t trials, Harry. They were loose ends. We cut them clean. Now… we’re free.”
The words should’ve felt reassuring. They didn’t. Freedom tasted like salt and iron, sweet on Draco’s tongue but bitter on Harry’s. He let his eyes slip open, the horizon stretching endlessly, no land in sight. A new world waited ahead. A new start, Draco called it.
But Harry couldn’t shake the truth lurking in his gut: the man he had been—the boy who believed in justice, in second chances—was gone. And in his place stood someone else entirely. Someone only Draco Malfoy could’ve carved out of him.
He turned his head slightly, studying Draco’s sharp profile against the sun, and whispered, almost too softly for the sea breeze to carry, “Merlin help me, I think I’d follow you anywhere.”
And that, more than the blood on his hands, terrified him.
And Merlin help him—Harry had fallen too far to crawl back. He couldn’t even mark the moment it happened, the point where horror had dulled into acceptance. Somewhere along the way, he’d stopped caring how deep into the shadows Draco wandered, stopped caring if his vows were inked in pen or scrawled in blood.
Harry wanted—needed—to believe the stains on Draco’s hands belonged only to monsters, the ones who had gorged themselves on innocent lives. That Draco was only correcting what justice had failed to do. But memory was cruel, and it shoved Silvia and Eli into his mind—their only crime had been orbiting too close to him. And they weren’t the only ones. In the last two years, Harry had watched Draco slit the throats of anyone who lingered: a laugh held too long, a glance that wandered, a touch that meant nothing. Mercy was not in Draco’s vocabulary, and Harry, somehow, always wound up spattered in the aftermath.
At first, it had gutted him. He’d hidden himself behind locked doors, shaking, while Draco coaxed him out with the patience of a man who knew Harry would never stay gone. But now? Now Harry only sighed in irritation, as if murder was some bad habit Draco refused to break. He’d argue, try to reason, but Draco would only tilt his head, murmur against his ear, and tug him into the bath. “Only to wash it away,” Draco would promise, as the crimson spiraled down the drain. But Harry knew better. Every time, Draco pulled him deeper.
And Harry wondered—when had he stopped caring about other people’s lives? Or maybe he still did. Somewhere, buried deep, was the boy who once fought for strangers, who shouldered a war he was never meant to fight. But now? Now he brushed corpses aside like dust on a battlefield, as long as Draco was standing beside him.
Because at the end of the day, Harry knew he’d do the same for Draco. Jealousy was an ugly thing, and in him it didn’t just simmer—it festered. Maybe he wasn’t as reckless or brazen about it as Draco, but his hands were stained all the same. He could pretend he was different, but the truth was right there every time he looked down at his finger. The matching silver bands should’ve been enough of a warning to anyone with eyes. They’d tied the knot quietly last year, with only Pansy and Blaise watching as witnesses—two devils disguised as friends, smirking as if they knew just how far Harry and Draco had already tumbled. Somewhere far from recognition, far from judgment, Harry Potter had stopped being anyone else’s savior and had become Draco Malfoy’s husband.
And Merlin, he found comfort in that. The cool weight of the silver around his finger was grounding, a reminder that the chaos had meaning. But what truly calmed him, soothed the gnawing fire inside his chest, was the ring on Draco’s hand. Proof. Belonging. Claim. Harry wanted the world to see it, wanted every idiot who dared to flirt, linger, or even breathe too fondly around Draco to choke on the truth: he was taken. Married. Harry’s.
So maybe he had always been twisted, maybe the monster had been curled up in his chest since long before Draco coaxed it out. Sirius had once told him what mattered were the choices Harry made—the side of himself he fed, the actions he acted on. For years, Harry had clung to that, wrapping it around himself like a shield. He was the good guy because he chose good actions.
But that was before Draco.
Now he knew better. It wasn’t that the darkness wasn’t there—it was that he never had a reason to use it. Not until Draco. Not until someone he loved enough to kill for. And was it really that bad? Most of the people he’d put down deserved it—filth that had slipped through the cracks, men and women rotting from the inside, the ones who had escaped justice because the system was blind, or corrupt, or simply too weak. Harry still clung to principles, yes. But those principles had shifted, narrowed, sharpened like a blade. They centered around Draco, around them.
Because when it came to his family—his husband—Harry didn’t hesitate. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
And maybe that was the most terrifying part. It hadn’t been Draco who created his monster. It had been Draco who gave it a name.
Harry turned and looked at Draco, who was already staring down at him with that infuriating intensity that stripped him bare without a single word. Merlin, he was doomed. He’d always been doomed.
Draco leaned in, lips brushing his in a kiss that wasn’t deep, wasn’t overtly sexual—but somehow more dangerous for it. It was intimate, deliberate, like Draco was pouring something raw and unspoken straight into him. Harry felt his toes curl, his heart race, every nerve caught in the undertow.
He kissed back like a starved man, greedy and desperate, but he could feel Draco doing the same—matching him beat for beat, hunger for hunger. This wasn’t gentle. It was claiming. It was poison Harry couldn’t live without, venom sweet enough to kill for.
They said love was blind. Harry knew that was a lie. Love, with Draco, had been nothing but eye-opening. Brutal clarity. The first truth he had ever stopped running from. Draco was his beginning, his end, the dark horizon he would walk into willingly. And if it meant sinking, drowning, being dragged down into the depths forever—then so be it.
A sharp voice cut through the haze.
“For Merlin’s sake! Stop rubbing your bloody marriage in our faces and get over here already!”
Pansy. Shrieking across the deck like a queen sick of being ignored. Blaise’s laugh followed, low and amused, the kind that only added fuel to her irritation.
The sound pulled Harry back just enough to realize where they were—lounging on the sun-drenched deck of a cruise ship, the ocean stretching endlessly around them. Only four passengers total. Him, Draco, Pansy, and Blaise. A handful of crew. A floating cage of luxury.
But none of that mattered when Draco’s breath was still ghosting his lips, when grey eyes still held him like a tether. The world could yell, laugh, or even sink beneath the waves, and Harry knew he’d still choose this—choose him.
Harry didn’t move, not at first. Pansy’s voice carried across the deck, sharp and amused, but he let it wash over him like background noise. His whole world was the press of Draco’s lips against his, the subtle tilt of his chin, the soft warmth that contradicted the steel that lived in him. Harry’s fingers curled into Draco’s shirt, dragging him closer, and Merlin—it was pathetic how much he needed this man.
Draco smirked against his mouth, the kiss breaking as he whispered, low enough for only Harry to hear, “She’s jealous, you know. She can’t stand that we burn like this.”
Harry gave a rough laugh, breathless, brushing his forehead against Draco’s. “Let her choke on it.” His voice was harsher than intended, possessive, almost feral, but Draco’s answering grin told him that was exactly what he wanted to hear.
“Harry,” Draco murmured, and Harry swore his damn name had never sounded like such a vow, “you’re going to ruin me.”
“Already have,” Harry shot back, kissing him again, slower this time, deliberately savoring the taste, like he could etch it into memory.
“Oi!” Pansy’s voice snapped across the pool again, followed by Blaise’s lazy chuckle. “Save the tragic romance for later. You’re disgusting, both of you!”
Harry broke the kiss, glaring half-heartedly in their direction, while Draco—smug bastard—kept his eyes on Harry, like they hadn’t just been caught drowning in each other.
“Let them stare,” Draco drawled, fingers brushing the band of silver around Harry’s finger, slow and taunting. “Let the whole world stare. You’re mine. And I'm yours. And they should know it.”
Harry’s chest tightened. Not fear. Not guilt. Just the raw, dangerous certainty that he would raze kingdoms if Draco asked him to. And maybe that was the real truth—they weren’t just married. They were bound, poisoned and blessed in the same breath.
He kissed Draco once more, softer this time, before muttering, “Fine. But if Blaise makes another joke about us christening the ship, I’ll hex him.”
Draco’s laugh was low, dark, and delighted. “Good. Then we’ll have the pool to ourselves.”
Notes:
And this is it! Thank you so much for following in this journey with me. It took some time though it was considerable short compared to my previous work but I feel like it was worth it. I've been wanting to try writing something a little darker for a while and though this isn't as dark as I had originally planned... I mean it was pretty goofy in occasions, it was still a genre I wanted to practice with.
When writing this I honestly was thinking of the show Hannibal most of the time. I wanted to do something similar without repeating the same thing. The whole murderer seduces and leads an inheritanly good cop to the dark side. But I also wanted to show Harry's overall shift from being someone strongly guided by justice and morals to someone who is willing to succumb to his own demons for someone who shaped him to be that way.
A subtle hint of this is the way I used their friends to signify this. At first we only get to see Ron and Hermione and Harry's friends. We don't even get to see or hear of Draco's friends until Harry starts questioning his own morality over wanting to be with draco despite suspecting him of being a murderer. In the end, Harry is seen only with draco and his friends instead, while also keeping a very weak and almost invisible contact with his old friends through the gifts to his godson. In reality, Harry didn't fully change. He still holds on to pieces of his past self. The most important ones. But they tend to not mix well with his current self and in order to protect them he keeps them at arm's length.
Draco had acted like a catalyst to this new side of him where instead of suppressing the darkness he'd always been capable of, he acts on it instead, bringing back what Sirius had once told him about carrying both good and evil but choosing which side to act on is what represents him. And you could day that Draco's been manipulating Harry this entire time into becoming his perfect partner, someone who can fully accept him as he is. But hey, Harry became aware of it and decided to play along at the end of the day so yeah, they're both twisted in their own way. It's all burning desire and obsession and possessiveness. Like their sex. It's not meant to be pretty or healthy, but it's theirs and they like it that way.
Finally, yeah, Ron calls his son mate. Makes sense.
Gentle reminder that none of the themes or choices here represent me or my own beliefs. This is fictional and wrote it for shits and giggles.
Once again, I hope you've enjoyed reading this mess and hopefully I'll be starting a trilogy I've been wanting to write for quite some time now.
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