Due Process

by Melo_Mapo

Summary:

Two years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry Potter gets his first - boring - mission as an Auror.

But of course, nothing shall be that easy when it comes to Harry Potter.

Chapter 1

The Trial

Harry is nervous, palms sweaty, a lot less composed than Draco, even tough he has a lot less to lose on the outcome of the hearing.

“Are you nervous?” he asks the blonde, who looks very fetching in dress pants & jacket, a silver grey button shirt that matches his eyes, and his hair neatly braided on top of his head, then rolled in a clean bun. It shouldn’t work, but it does actually. More importantly, he looks very composed.

Draco raises an eyebrow, and looks him over from head to toe:

“Potter, you’re a public figure now, like it or not. You really should learn to keep any… turmoil… internal.”

Harry rolls his eyes, and answers:

“I haven’t been schooled in aloofness since birth, Malfoy.”

The three witches in purple robes passing them by are now climbing the stairs to seat on a high row with a good view of the centre pit, and Draco adds in a lower voice:

“And yes, Harry, I’m nervous, but I won’t give them the pleasure to know it.”

Before Harry can answer, a young woman enters, exclaiming:

“Harry!”

“Susan?”

Harry greets the brunette with a firm handshake, hoping she can’t feel how clammy his palms are, and says:

“I didn’t know you’d be here today!”

Harry has stumbled on Susan in the hallways before, and she had told him she wished to follow in her aunt Amelia’s footsteps and work in the Magical Law Enforcement Department.

“I’m the scribe for this special session.”

People are starting to arrive in larger numbers now and Kinglsey Shacklebot is tapping his wand on the stand, calling the session in attention.

Susan looks to her spot and, after a cold glance at Draco, says:

“Well, good luck, I guess.”

Harry thanks her with a smile, though the smile is due more to the fact that, behind her, Draco rolled his eyes. They then head further inside the room themselves, Draco to seat in the horrible chair in the centre, tough the manacles thankfully remain open, and Harry to head for the pulpit that has been prepared for him.

With a few more taps of his wand, the Minister brings silence to the room, and solemnly declares the session open.

“Extraordinary session of the Wizengamot of the 27th of August, in answer to a demand of Junior Auror Harry James Potter to review the case of Draco Lucius Malfoy, previously condemned to a non-magical use sentence of 20 years for his involvement in the second wizarding war. Interrogators: Kinglsey Shacklebot, Minister for Magic; Pius Thicknesse, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Percy Ignatius Weasley, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister. Court Scribe, Susan Bones.”

There’s a short pause as people shuffle around and unroll the report Harry sent.

“Now, I’ve read your report, and I find the facts there most worrying. Would you like to remind the room of what you’ve observed in the past days?”

It’s time. Harry briefly closes his eyes, reminds himself that he survived Voldemort, after all, and that he can do this. He takes a deep breath, snap his eyes open, and looks at each of the wizards and witches present as he walks out of behind the pulpit, not needing the notes he has there anymore.

By the time he is standing in front of the whole Wizengamot, voluntarily attracting all the attention on him by standing in front of Draco, all eyes are on him, and silence has descended on the room.

“Esteemed members of the Wizengamot! Before I answer the Minister’s question, let me say a brief word about what will happen in this court today. We are not here to judge the fate of a single man. We are here to determine, in these times of renewed peace, what kind of society we want the wizarding community to move towards. Do we want to stay anchored in values that have led to two wars, and to the rise in power of a man like Voldemort? Or do we want to correct the errors of our past, and move forward to an inclusive, progressive society? As I tell you the facts of what is happening to one Draco Lucius Malfoy, keep in mind this bigger context. Keep in mind that your decision, here, today, will make precedent for hundreds of others, and will, if you make the decision I believe is right, shift our entire judicial system from a system based on punishment, and nothing else, to a system hopefully based on rehabilitation, and on bettering our society as a whole by fighting exclusion in all its shapes and flavors.”

Pause for dramatic effect. The attention of the room is high, the sudden tension his words created palpable.

“Now, I think the Minister wanted to know what I have been up to those past few days, so shall we?”

With a wave of his wand, Harry conjures a screen of sorts in mid-air, where volutes of colourful smoke form a timeline.

“On August 18^th, I was assigned my first mission as an Auror.”

Chapter 2

“Auror Potter.”

Harry immediately gets up from his desk, all thoughts of finishing his paperwork leaving his mind.

“Head Auror Savage?” he answers respectfully.

“I have a first mission for you.”

The face he must be making is probably quite funny, because the Head Auror chuckles.

“Nothing too exciting, be reassured. We just thought, coming from a Muggle background, that you’d be a bit more successful at looking… inconspicuous.”

She glances meaningfully at Harry’s neighbouring desk, where Dean is doing is best to look innocent.

“There has been signs that magic is being used in a small village not far from London. It is not the usual manifestations of a young witch coming to age however, but the potency of an adult sorcerer. No harm has been caused, as far as we can tell, nor any Muggle has witnessed the odd things happening, so we are only hoping for a bit of an investigation. No witch is registered as living in this village, and we don’t want to cause a fuss. It is rare, but it happens that people will develop latent powers well into adulthood.”

Head Auror Savage hands Harry a thin folder with the information they have so far, adds some general directive, and heads for her office. After a second of silent, Dean comments:

“Lucky you, you get to tackle the most boring case I’ve ever seen!”

With a smile, Harry answers his friend’s snark:

“At least I got a case!”

“Touché!” groans the young man, dramatically spinning his rolling chair back to his desk.

Carefully dropping the folder on his own desk, Harry gets to work.

Chapter 3

Harry feels doomed. Cursed. Just as he exits the highway, taking the road to Wulpgreen, his car sputters, and he only has time to park it on the side before it fully refuses to start. Harry checks the fuel gauge: still shows a half tank. There’s no point in looking under the hood: he knows nothing about cars. After checking that the quiet countryside road is empty, he tries a random Reparo, but the car still refuses to start. His spell is probably not focused on the right spot… Magic is finicky like that.

The only thing left to do is sighing, calling his insurance, and hoping there is a garage in Wulpgreen. Thankfully, after a one-hour wait, it appears that there is indeed a garage in Wulpgreen, called the In Good Faith, and that they are sending a tow-truck for him.

So much for a quiet, under the radar arrival, thinks Harry as the bright red tow truck pulls his car through the quiet town, drawing looks. Harry is riding next to the driver, entertaining awkward small talk with the mechanic, a guy built like a brick house with a thick accent. Finally, to Harry’s relief, they reach the garage. Used cars for sale are neatly parked in the lot. In the field behind it, carcasses of old cars, trucks, & tractors are gathering rust. The mechanic who picked Harry up jumps down to the ground.

“I’ll busy myself here, you go right ahead. Tell Granny about your car, she’ll find you a mechanic.”

Harry strolls in the garage through the open garage doors. There’s a radio playing the currents hits, and noises of machinery as three other people busy themselves on different cars. The closest to Harry, a man with long, pale blond hair in a bun, is working shirtless in the summer air, and Harry briefly admires his broad back before heading for the office, a small desk wedged in a corner. An old lady is sitting there, her white hair neatly braided in a crown around her head, and when she looks up her gaze is a steely penetrating grey and vaguely reminiscent of someone Harry can’t place.

“Hi. I’m looking for the owner?”

The lady smiles, softening some of her sharpness.

“That’d be me, boy.”

“I just got my car towed. The gentleman mentioned I should talk with you. My car’s a Honda Civic.”

“Ha. I’ve got the man for you.”

The woman starts filling a paper form and yells:

“Draaaake. Client for you.”

“Coming, Granny!”

The voice rings a bell in Harry’s mind, and suddenly things connect: the woman’s gaze, the blond man earlier, the magic events happening. With a groan, Harry turns around and looks straight at the man walking towards them.

Still shirtless, and unfairly fit too, Draco Malfoy is walking towards them, a smile on his lips that dies to let place to surprise when he sees Harry.

“Potter?”

The surprise leaves place to fear, then anger:

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m getting my car repaired?” answers the brunet in a small voice.

Harry wants to disappear in the ground: his first mission as an Auror, supposedly a stealth mission, and he stumbles upon his old nemesis in the first 10 seconds. Maybe he should have polyjuiced himself, and glamoured his driving license to match.

“I don’t believe you. Did they asked you to track me down? What are they gonna come up with again: daily check in at the Ministry of Magic?!”

Malfoy is whispering furiously, conscious of the presence of Muggles further in the garage. Harry raises his hands in defence:

“No, I swear I didn’t know you’d be here! Aren’t registered to live in London, anyway?”

Malfoy recoils slightly:

“So you’ve been tracking me!”

Harry sighs, and pinches the edge of his nose. He might have been keeping tabs on the whereabouts of one Draco Malfoy.

“I keep tabs on all ex-Deatheaters, Malfoy, don’t kid yourself.”

“Really? Where are Crabbe and Goyle, then?”

Ha, touché. Harry searches his memory.

“Scotland?” he tries.

Malfoy rolls his eyes:

“Try again. Why are they looking for me.”

“We’re not! There’s just been some… Magical activity in town.”

A slow, vicious smile blooms on Malfoy’s face:

“Ooooh. And they sent the famous, the great Harry Potter to check out some boring residual magic activity in Wulpgreen, Middle of Nowhere?”

Harry shrugs and mumbles:

“Could be important.”

“Could be. Or it could be Granny boiling her morning kettle of tea.”

Malfoy indicates the old lady behind the desk with a movement of his head, clearly having fun. Now that he knows it, Harry can see the family resemblance.

“If you’re a witch, why aren’t you declared here, Madam?” asks Harry, wanting to get his paltry excuse of an investigation back on track.

The old lady chuckles:

“I’m a squib, boy! Never been registered, thrown out by the family when I was nine or so. Burnt out of the family tree, most likely. As Draco said, the most I can do is boil water. Why the Ministry is sending you now is beyond me, I’ve been living in Wulpgreen for 40 years.”

Harry isn’t sure what face he’s making, but the lady laughs more openly. The brunet doesn’t dare turn to Malfoy, he doesn’t think the remnant of his pride could take the hit. He can picture his gloating face well enough from memory, thank you.

“Draco, darling, take a look at this young man’s car. Mister Potter, I advise you to go get lunch at the inn and come back after, and we’ll hopefully have your car up and running.”

“But Gran…”

“Draco, whatever happened between you and Mister Potter while you were busy being a hoodlum doesn’t matter. You’re a respectable mechanic now, and this man’s a client. Get his Honda running.”

Well, there’s definitely a certain Malfoy authority in the lady’s voice and, when Harry chances a glance at the blond, he’s making a face like he swallowed a lemon, but nods and says:

“Yes, Granny,” before turning around and heading back towards the back of the garage, where Harry’s car has been parked.

“Now, Mister Potter, don’t old it against us,” says the old lady, “Draco is a good boy, but he’s working through some things.”

“I…”

Harry’s not sure what to say. Honestly, the entire magical society of Great Britain has been working through some things, and it’s not always pretty.

“I will certainly not hold it against you. Or him,” he finally says.

The woman nods very seriously, and provides him with some guidance to the one inn of the village, so that he can eat something.

Chapter 4

It’s only once he is sitting at the inn’s terrace with some greasy, delicious fish & chips that Harry realizes: Draco Malfoy is a car mechanic. The arrogant, Pureblood, Muggle-hater Draco Malfoy repairs cars for a living. He’s got to tell someone. Harry takes out his cellphone, and considers calling Ron, but his friend is still not that good with texting or phone calls.

Hermione it is.

He texts her “WORLD-CHANGING NEWS” and hopes she’s at lunch break herself. Luckily she must be, because he’s barely had time to eat a few fries that his phone rings with the tune he gave her.

“You decided to become female?” is what Hermione opens with.

“I… What? Why would you say that?”

Hermione laughs:

“I might be studying for my ‘changing humans’ exam.”

“Wait, magic can do that?”

“Sex change you mean? It is certainly further along than Muggle surgery and hormone treatments can go.”

“This is…”

“Not what you called me for,” finishes Hermione. “What’s up, Harry?”

“Well, guess who I met today when my car broke down and I got towed to the local garage.”

“Your car broke down? Are you okay?”

“I’m perfectly fine, Hermione. Not the point.”

“Ok, well, I don’t know, a very good-looking car mechanic?”

Malfoy’s back, vast expanse of pale skin and muscles, flashes through Harry’s mind. He quickly chases it away:

“What? No!”

“Who then?”

“Malfoy!”

“Draco Malfoy?!” asks Hermione.

“is a mechanic, yes!” confirms Harry.

“That’s… unexpected.”

“Right?!”

“So your cover is blown.”

Harry groans:

“Yes. My first mission was over before it started.”

“He’s the unregistered sorcerer?”

“No, his grandma is.”

“His grandma?”

“Well, or great aunt or something. Everybody calls her Granny. She’s a Squib. Well, she can boil water apparently.”

Hermione makes a considering noise across the line.

“But why would the Ministry only send someone now?”

Harry shrugs, then realizes Hermione can’t see him.

“They wanted to test the rookie with something boring?”

“Hmmm. I’m not the Auror, Harry, but would such basic, squib-level magic even reach the alarm threshold? We all did minor stuff as kids and never had the Ministry send Aurors to our doors.”

“That’s… something to consider.”

“In any case, don’t call it a day until you have solid proof. Better make your first case as solid as possible.”

As always, Hermione is right. Harry sighs, and she chuckles.

“In the meantime, you should send me pictures of Draco. I wonder what he looks like now.”

“What do you care what he looks like?!”

“Well, if you looked past the sneering, he was rather handsome as a teenager. I wonder if adulthood did him any good.”

Harry chokes on a half-chewed fry.

“What?! Really?”

“Oh, come on Harry,” she says in a tone Harry knows very well, and which used to be her favourite, the ‘let me explain some truths you’ve been ignoring’ voice. “How do you think I knew you were gay before you realized?”

“Err…”

“Your obsession with Draco Malfoy was a big clue.”

“What? He was up to no good! He was a Deatheater!”

Hermione chuckles again:

“And a good-looking boy who could always argue back. That’s your type by the way: feisty.”

“I…”

Harry thinks about Ginny, how they would get into heated arguments, and then fuck it out.

“Well, I have to go Harry. Keep me posted!”

And just like that Hermione hangs up, leaving a slightly stunned Harry looking at his fish & chips like it’s holding the key understanding the universe.

Chapter 5

When Harry slowly walks back towards the garage, the fish & chip resting heavy on his stomach but having done some thinking, he resolves to not fall back into old patterns and snipe at Malfoy. Much like himself, Draco had been under a lot of pressure during their school years, made into something by others – parental figures - and wanting to fulfil a predestined path. Except on the opposite side. But Harry has his prejudices as well, having been raised by the Dursleys, and he’s been making conscious efforts to keep himself open-minded. The fact that Draco is working for a Squib, and learning to be a car mechanic, shows considerable efforts on his end too.

It helps that, when Harry walks in the garage, Malfoy is now wearing a t-shirt – albeit stained with engine grease – and a carefully neutral face.

“Hey,” starts Harry.

Malfoy gestures towards the desk, where Granny is again completing some paperwork. When they are stopped near the desk, and have her attention, Malfoy states:

“Your carburettor is on its last leg. We’ll have to change it. I checked: for a Honda Civic in your year, the part won’t be here until a week from now.”

“A week?!” exclaims Harry.

“You better make yourself confortable in town, boy,” confirms Granny.

Malfoy frowns:

“Can’t you apparate home?”

Harry explains:

“I could, but I still need to make a case for the mission I was sent to solve. It seems pretty straightforward, but I’ll need proofs, and I can’t get that unless I’m staying in Wuplgreen for a while. I’m also supposed not to use any magic if it can be avoided: I’m still under 21 after all.”

Malfoy is looking more and more sullen as Harry goes, so the brunet adds:

“Hopefully, I can get off your hair in two days, and come back for my car later.”

This bring a little joy back on the blonde’s face, and Harry resists rolling his eyes.

“Where are you staying in town, boy?” asks Granny.

It’s not like there are several options, so Harry says:

“Well, the inn.”

Granny makes a horrified face.

“Oh, no, no, no. Their food is good, but their rooms are terribly drafty! You’ll catch death in no time.”

Harry raises an eyebrow: it’s the beginning of September and the weather is superb.

“No, it won’t do,” adds Granny, “you’ll have to stay with us.”

A pitiful moan escapes Malfoy:

“Whaaaaat? Grannyyyy, whyyyy?”

The old lady looks very sternly at Malfoy and answers:

“Draco, it won’t be said that a sorcerer - an Auror from the Ministry even! - was badly received in Wulpgreen.”

Harry feels bad getting invited like that, but he knows Molly Weasley and has a feeling that Granny’s will is equally unbendable.

“Well, that would make my investigation that much easier if either of you is indeed the source of the magic activity detected by the Ministry.”

Turning to Malfoy, Harry adds:

“I’d be out of Wulpgreen tomorrow.”

The blonde must have realized that his protests would be useless because his hunched shoulders tell Harry he’s abandoned all hope.

“Follow me Potter. I’ll walk you to the house,” he says.

Harry hurries to his car and grabs a duffel bag out of it, then catches up to Malfoy, who already started walking down the street towards the town’s small main street.

“So, er, car mechanic, huh?”

That’s not his best line, and Malfoy’s unimpressed glance confirms it.

“Yes, Potter, car mechanic. In case you don’t remember, they snapped my wand.”

Harry cringes. Merlin, does he remember. He was there, at the Malfoy’s trial, when the sentence was announced. He had been testifying in favour of his mother. Lucius had gotten life in Azkaban, Narcissa house arrest in their manor in Wiltshire, and Draco had been free to go with a sentence of non-magic practice of twenty years. That was two years ago.

“I remember,” Harry eventually mumbles.

Malfoy must be remembering the trial as well because he sighs:

“Granny is my great-aunt on my father’s side. Somehow, she heard about the trial, and contacted me. Offered me a job.”

“That’s nice,” offers Harry, but it sounds forced to his own ears.

“Better than Azkaban.”

The rest of the way is spent in awkward silence, and Harry regrets accepting Granny’s offer, though he knows she would have forced his hand. Finally, they reach a house in a side street, a small stone abode complete with a thatch roof. Harry expects lots of knitted tea cosies, lace dallies, and patchwork blankets, but when they step in the living room, he is faced instead with a workbench overflowing in gears, parts, and blueprints. What looks like a gutted engine of some kind is resting on an old sheet on the floor. There also are a couple armchairs and a ratty couch facing a big tv flat screen, a well as bookshelves along the walls with rows upon rows of well-loved pocket books.

Malfoy looks at Harry, who’s probably staring, dumfounded, and chuckles:

“You’d think owning a whole garage would be enough, but not for Granny. Come on, you’ll be staying upstairs.”

Harry follows Malfoy up the stairs to the second floor, were five doors open on a central hallway. They are all closed, but Malfoy enumerates as they go:

“Here’s the office, the bathroom, Granny’s room, my room, the guest room.”

Malfoy opens the door to the guest room, and Harry is welcomed by light blue grey walls and ceiling. The blanket on the bed is a deeper blue, and the furniture is whitewashed wood. Paintings of the sea and marine-themed appliances complete the look.

“We’ll be home from work around 5pm. Don’t go in any of the other bedrooms, and the office is off-limits too, but you can go everywhere on the ground floor.”

And Malfoy leaves.

Harry sits down on the bed, sighs, sends a text to Hermione and another one to Ron, and gets to work: the sooner he builds his case, the sooner he won’t have to be around Malfoy.

Chapter 6

At 4:30pm, Harry is working on the couch downstairs, thinking about making himself a cup of tea – he saw the famous kettle in the kitchen – when the door opens.

“… and I’m sure you have ulterior motives!” finishes Malfoy’s voice as both he and Granny step in the house.

“Draco, you know me, I would never. Oh, hi, Mister Potter!”

“Err, you can call me Harry, Mrs Hart.”

“And you can call me Granny, like everybody else. How’s your day been?”

“Well, er, pretty good. I was thinking about making tea?”

“Ah! Want to see my water-boiling talents first-hand?”

Harry had not thought about that, but it’s as good a moment as any.

“Why not, if you’re up for it.”

“Of course! This way.”

Harry grabs his jacket from where he left it, on the arm of the couch, and follows Granny to the kitchen, a sunny room with buttercup patterned tiles and a sturdy, old-looking wooden table protected by a sunflower patterned waxed tablecloth. A yellow kettle is waiting to be filled and used, resting on top of the small back burner. While Granny fills the kettle with water, Harry rummages in his jacket pocket until he can feel the odd triangle shape of the magic detector. It’s about the size of a book, with many dials, and gauges where small needles are ready to jump. It is a smaller version of the Detectors the Ministry of Magic has installed throughout Great Britain to detect magical activity and regulate it.

“You had this in you pocket?” exclaims Granny.

Harry’s about to explain when Malfoy’s voice raises from behind him:

“Undetectable Extension Charm.”

Malfoy is nonchalantly leaning in the doorframe, apparently disinterested in the proceedings.

“Yeah,” confirms Harry, “I got a special permit for it through the Auror Department. The special robes we have aren’t going to do me any good in the Muggle world.”

“Don’t they have bumbags too?” mocks Malfoy.

“How’d you know?”

“The guy that checks on me weekly has one he puts his broom in.”

Harry wants to roll his eyes. Traveling by broom, even with an Invisibility Spell on, is not the best way to get around the British countryside.

“Well, I refuse to wear a bumbag. I’m not 80 – no offense Granny – nor an American tourist.”

“Potter, with a sense of style! That’s a first,” snides Malfoy.

“And you like Muggles. Everybody changes, Malfoy.”

Malfoy looks like he is going to protest for a second, then closes his mouth.

“Boys, when you are done teasing each other, I have water to boil.”

They both turn to Granny, who is looking at them with a slight smile. Harry fiddles with the Magic Detector for a minute, then gives her the go signal.

Granny turns on the burner. Harry observes, a bit dumbfounded, then, 20 seconds after the burner was turned on, the detector’s main needle sways for a few seconds, and falls back to zero as the kettle makes its typical whistling sound.

“Tadaaa,” says Granny, turning off the burner and pouring the water in a teapot she prepared.

Harry looks at the instrument, fiddling the dials to help in his calculations.

“Well?” asks Malfoy.

“I’m sorry, but it’s not you,” says Harry to Granny. “Your outburst of magic was barely enough to set off my detector, at very close range. It would read as static on the local Ministry Detector.

He doesn’t tell them that he’s looked into the files and the records and that the magic was indeed performed in this house though. He doesn’t want to accuse Malfoy before he has tangible proofs.

“Anyway, I’ll log this reading, compare it to the infractions we have on file. Do you do any other magic, Granny?”

The old lady laughs:

“Aside from building motorcycle engines the Muggle way in my living-room? No.”

“Touché,” answers Harry with a smile.

The cuckoo clock on the kitchen wall sings 5pm, and Granny pulls chairs from the kitchen table.

“Time for tea, boys!”

As Harry and Malfoy take place facing each other, Granny settles the teapot, matching china teacups, and a plate of biscuits on the table. When she is sitting down and they all are awkwardly sipping on their tea, Harry clears his throat:

“So, erm, I was thinking of making dinner as thanks for hosting me?”

Granny looks delighted, Malfoy intrigued.

“That’d be so kind of you! I’m afraid my late husband was the one who cooked, and Draco here isn’t a cordon bleu either, though he’s learning. What did you have in mind?”

Harry glances at Malfoy, who’s looking elsewhere very hard, and fails to picture him with an apron on, cooking. Focusing back on the conversation, Harry says:

“Well, er, anything really. Did you have preferences? Things you don’t like to eat?”

“We like everything,” answers Granny, “right Draco?”

The man rolls his eyes and refuses to answer. Harry thinks as fast as he can. It’s the end of summer, a perfect moment for fresh vegetables such as tomatoes, zucchinis, peppers…

“How about ratatouille, with some rice and chicken?” he says.

Granny smiles:

“Marvelous! And I’m sure Draco will be happy to drive you to the supermarket.”

The look of horror on the man’s face says otherwise, and Harry tries to protest but well, his car is in the shop after all.

Chapter 7

Now it’s Harry’s turn to be horrified. He understands better why Malfoy protested so much: he doesn’t own a car, but a motorcycle. A sexy, all curvy lines motorcycle. Where Harry will have to ride in the back, holding on to Malfoy.

“I… can walk?”

Malfoy rolls his eyes:

“The nearest supermarket is a 20 minute drive away.”

“I like hiking?”

The two men look at each other for a second, and their discomfiture must read equally, because they both burst out laughing. Malfoy hands Harry a spare helmet, put his on and says:

“Come on, Potter, hop on. Zucchinis are waiting.”

With a sigh, and thinking about how this day holds many unexpected events, Harry gets on the motorcycle behind Malfoy.

“There’s handholds, but I like to go fast.”

The ‘you’ll have to hold on to me’ stays unsaid, but Harry hears it loud and clear. Harry is barely sitting that Malfoy kicks the kickstand and makes the engine roar to life.

“Bloody hell…” prays Harry.

How Malfoy hears him over the engine is a mystery but the blond asks:

“Never been on a motorcycle?”

Harry thinks about how Hagrid carried him to the Dursley’s doorstep on Sirius’ flying car all those years ago but foregoes mentioning it. The way he reflexively grabs for Malfoy as the bike starts rolling must be answer enough however, because the driver says, voice full of mirth:

“This is going to be fun.”

 

Fifteen minutes later, Malfoy skids to a stop on the Tesco’s parking lot, like a show-off, but Harry doesn’t care, jump down the motorcycle, takes off his helmet and yells:

“This was so fun! Gosh, you’re a good driver, who knew!”

Malfoy looks at him, surprise then suspicion on his face:

“Are you mocking me, Potter?”

Harry calms himself down a bit then answers, more measured:

“No, no. Flying is still more fun, because, well, flying, but you definitely don’t get as much of a feeling of speed. And leaning in the turns, man, the ground felt so close!”

Harry realizes he’s babbling and shuts up, passing his hand in his hand, a nervous tic he knows he ought to get rid of. Malfoy is looking at him weirdly, and, after a moment, Harry decides to escape the whole situation and just walks away towards the supermarket.

Malfoy ends up following him through the Tesco as Harry makes his way through the aisles, comparing prices and muttering about the comparative values of rice – whole, or basmati? - and tomatoes – heirlooms or on the vine? The blonde is not helpful in any way, but Harry catches a weird kind of corner smile on the man’s face when he thinks Harry is not looking. He is being mocked on? wonders Harry, but finds he does not really care.

It’s a bit before 7pm when Harry and Malfoy arrive back at the house, and Granny welcomes them from the living room, where she’s tinkering with parts while watching the BBC’s evening news:

“You found everything okay, boys?”

“Yes, Mrs, err, Granny,” answers Harry, before adding: “It’s getting late, so I’ll start right away, if it’s okay?”

“Make yourself at home, Harry. Draco, help our guest with dinner.”

Harry can see the brief instant of hesitation when Draco considers protesting, but the man opts instead for a resigned face and gestures for Harry to enter the kitchen first. Harry picks up the grocery bag from the floor and walks in the kitchen, setting them on the table.

“Well, first of all, time to open a beer. Want one?” he adds for Malfoy.

The blonde shrugs:

“Why not. It might make this day more bearable, in any case.”

Harry gives a weak chuckle:

“Tell me about it. My first mission as an Auror, and not only my car breaks down but my arch-enemy turns out to be the mechanic assigned to the job. Should I worry about the brakes giving out after the ‘repairs’?”

Harry gets two beers out of the six-pack, thankful that the bike’s trunk was deceptively large, and Malfoy, after rattling in a drawer, hands him a bottle-opener.

“Depends on how nice a guest you are,” says the blonde, but the threat is half-hearted at best, and they both know it.

It hits Harry that he’ll be sleeping two doors down from Malfoy’s bedroom tonight, and he is not actually afraid in the least.

“Life is strange, heh,” he says, handing Malfoy his drink.

“Cheers to that,” seconds the blonde, raising his bottle for Harry to clang.

They cheer and savour a few gulps before Harry puts down his beer and announces: “Time for some cooking” before heading for the sink.

Harry washes his hands and says:

“Just show me where the stuff is, and I can manage the rest.”

“I might as well help, or Granny is going to roast me for tomorrow’s dinner.”

That’s a bit unexpected but Harry shrugs it off. He’s turned a few new leaves himself, in two years.

“Can you get a cooker out then, as well as a sauce pan for the rice?”

Malfoy nods and opens cupboards to get the necessary cookery while Harry grabs a cutting board where it sticks out from between two cookbooks on top of the microwave, and pulls out several knives from the block before finding the right one.

“What’s next?” asks Malfoy.

“How about you wash the vegetables while I chop them,” offers Harry.

“Ok.”

The two men get to work in a surprisingly confortable silence for a while, and Harry is merely chopping away at peppers while browning the onions in the cooker when he notices Malfoy looking at him, a considering look on his face. Realizing he’s been caught, Malfoy says:

“I didn’t know you cooked.”

Harry shrugs:

“My aunt would make me do it, when it was simple enough. And Ginny hates cooking.”

Malfoy asks, surprised:

“You live together?”

Harry sighs:

“We did.”

Malfoy does not say anything but Harry feels like he needs to explain:

“It was too much, too soon, like the rest. We fought a lot. Decided we had to be friends or we would murder each other in two years.”

“Ha! The perfect couple, not a couple anymore?!”

Malfoy is vindictive, a bit, but Harry does not hold it against him: the media had been blowing out Ginny and his relationship out of proportions, making them star-crossed lovers, putting a lot of strain on a very new thing, and participating in the eventual demise of their couple.

“I know, right,” Harry gestures with his knife: “He saved her from the basilisk when they were 10! She saved his life during the Battle of Hogwarts! And now the Boy-Who-Lived is dumping her!”

Malfoy chuckles:

“They do like their headlines, at the Daily Prophet.”

“I let you imagine what Witch Magazine said on the matter, never mind that we separated from common accord and are still friends.”

“That’s… big of you two.”

“Well, we didn’t have much choice. The Weasleys are kind of the only family I have so…”

“Right.”

“It was awkward for a while though.”

“Try family visitation in Azkaban.”

Harry winces:

“Sorry,” he offers.

Malfoy looks at him for a while, before telling him:

“It’s not your fault, really. Mostly, it’s my Dad’s and generations upon generations of men and women raised in a toxic culture.”

It sounds a bit rehearsed, and Harry says:

“That’s totally what Granny told you.”

“Nah, my psychiatrist actually.”

Harry laughs:

“Oh, man, we must have the same one,” and he says, taking on a deep, reasonable voice: “Mister Potter, you must cease to sacrifice yourself to people’s expectations. This was something toxic that was taught to you by Albus Dumbledore, but it has now served its purpose, and you must learn to live for yourself.”

There’s a blank, and Harry feels like he probably revealed a little too much of himself, so he adds quickly:

“Well, he’s not wrong, but I could without the sanctimonious tone.”

Malfoy concedes:

“They are a bit full of themselves, those psy this and that. Where were they when we were 17 and trying not to die?”

Harry gazes at Malfoy, and some shared comprehension flows between them, which scares Harry a bit. Clearing his throat, Harry makes for his beer bottle and takes a swig before going back to chopping some vegetables.

They are both quiet for the rest of the time it takes to prepare the dinner, each lost in their own thoughts. When Granny pokes a head in the kitchen, the ratatouille is quietly simmering, and Harry is sautéing the chicken while Malfoy is gathering the necessary plates and cutlery to take to the dining room.

Chapter 8

Dinner goes well, conversation rolling surprisingly easily. Granny regales Harry with anecdotes from the garage, Malfoy dropping dry quips here and there, and the both of them have the young Auror laughing more than he has in a while – and he shares a cubicle with Dean Thomas, so it’s saying something. In exchange, Harry gives some news from the wizarding world, describing the shops that have reopened, the reconstruction of Gringotts, the success of the Weasley’s joke shop. They all avoid more charged subjects, which fits Harry well.

 

Soon, Malfoy and Harry are left lounging in the chaises longues in the garden after Granny has gone to bed. Maybe it’s the scotch they sipped after dinner, and maybe it’s how blanket-soft the night is, full of stars and of the smell of dry earth getting a respite after sundown. Maybe it’s the fact that they are not looking at each other, but the light conversation shifts slowly to those subjects previously avoided. They discuss in low voices about who is doing what now, what profound changes the end of the war has brought. Harry is explaining how he’s started creating a database for criminal records, because the heavy paper tomes are not as easily searchable than a ctrl+F, even with a self-actualizing index, when Malfoy interrupts him:

“Show me magic, Potter.”

“Huh?”

“Your dumbest spell, even purple mist. I haven’t seen a spell in two years, almost.”

Malfoy is sitting up now, has thrown his legs over the side of his chaise longue so that he can look directly at Harry. The brunet thinks about invoking the restriction of magical use he is under, but knows it’s an excuse. He’s an Auror, on an official mission, a little spell won’t even be reported, especially if he does not use his wand. With an arabesque of his hand, Harry makes silver mist rise, until is coalesces in a stag that calmly wanders around the garden, exploring the space before stopping to graze.

When Harry turns to look at Malfoy, the man is actually looking at him, impressed:

“Wandless magic and silent magic?”

Harry hopes his blush won’t show in the dark.

“Well, Auror training is pretty… extensive.”

“Still, I bet the guy tasked to check on me weekly can’t cast a Patronus like that.”

He certainly cannot, since Harry is the first one to be able to do that specific trick since Nymphadora Tonks, if records are to be believed, but he will not be telling Malfoy that. Instead, they watch the stag until it slips between two bushes and disappears, its bright silver light fading slowly. With the return of total darkness, Harry is caught unaware when he feels Malfoy’s hand rest briefly on his shoulder.

“Good night, Harry.”

This is not quite a thank you, but it’s the first time Malfoy’s called him by his first name like that, and the brunet sits for a while longer, alone with his thoughts, wondering about the marvelous ways the world is changing, and hoping that he might be making a friend of a past enemy.

 

Eventually, Harry finishes his scotch and gets himself to bed.

Chapter 9

The Trial

Letting the memories of that first day wash over him, Harry takes a sip of water and readies himself to tell the tale. With a wave of his wand, a stick figure with messy hair and a scar on his forehead appears in the air and bounces to the beginning of the timeline and becomes the first point on it. Some chuckles in the room tell Harry that he managed in breaking a bit of the tension he created with his dramatic introduction.

“Now, I was planning on pretending to be a Muggle looking to buy a house in the charming village of Wulpgreen, so of course on my way there my car broke down.”

A car makes a lot of smoke, then morphs into the second dot.

“You can imagine my surprise when, once towed to the nearest garage, I stumble on no other than Draco Lucius Malfoy, my nemesis from my school years. Well, after Voldemort.”

Some strangled laughs.

“I’m already rejoicing at the idea of arresting him, but he maintains his innocence, and I realize he is, indeed, convinced of it.”

Harry smiles, skips over how exactly he came to room at Granny’s, and describes instead how her feeble traces of magic had not been enough to close the case.

“In hopes of disculpating himself, Draco Malfoy then accepts to be under my surveillance 24/7. But for what happens next, I believe it will be easier to show you.”

And under the surprised murmurs of the crowd, Harry pulls a silver strand straight out of his head, and plays it for the Wizengamot.

Chapter 10

In the first seconds of being awake, Harry rolls out of bed and fumbles for his wand with one hand, the other ready to cast a defensive spell if necessary.

“Harry! This is just me, Granny.”

Harry, remembering where he is, lets himself flop to the ground.

“Sorry ‘bout that.”

The old woman sighs:

“My Arthur was like that too, after the war. Anyway, grab your detector thingy, and follow me.”

Harry wonders how old Granny really is, and then complies, putting on his glasses as well while he’s at it. When he steps in the hallway, Granny is waiting by Malfoy’s door, which is half-open, and when Harry steps up to it, he realizes at once that Malfoy is, indeed, the source of the magic events recorded by the Ministry.

“The poor boy’s asleep,” explains Granny, “though tonight it’s a peaceful dream at least.”

“Bloody hell” whispers Harry, impressed.

Colourful mist is dancing through the room, spots of blue, green, red, orange, forming brief silhouettes before morphing, always changing, dancing round the room with an eerie sound like a choir maintaining an harmony of notes at the edge of whistling. Meanwhile, the blonde sleeps, unmoving in bed, unaware of what’s happening. Harry and Granny stand looking on, fascinated. Shapes are sometime recognizable: here a car, there a person, a teapot, a motorcycle, and Harry is embarrassed to recognize, on several occasions, the form of his glasses, of his scar, and even, briefly, a silvery echo of his Patronus.

“He’s dreaming about the day, about you showing up,” comments Granny before ushering Harry out of the room. To mask his discomfort at having witnessed such an intimate thing, Harry busies himself with studying the readings his detector gives him.

“As this been happening for a long time?” he asks.

“I started noticing about 8 months ago, but the scale of it is growing. It used to be only a few shapes, for a few seconds, barely any noise at all. Is it… Is it dangerous? Is Draco ok?”

Harry pushes his glasses up his nose:

“I’ll be perfectly honest: I have no idea. But I know someone who might.”

“Harry, I know you used to be enemies, but please help him. He’s better than when he came, but he’s still not happy. He was never meant to live like a Muggle.”

Harry thinks living like a Muggle worked wonders on Draco’s prejudices, but has to agree that, after all is said and done, the man is a sorcerer, and is suffering from the current situation.

“I will do my best, Granny,” he promises.

The old lady, who for the first time since he met her looks her years, sighs heavily, pats him on the shoulder, and gets back to her bedroom.

Chapter 11

The Trial

As the silvery shapes of the memory dissipates, whispers and questions rise from the crowd, but Harry silences with a gesture of his hand.

“All questions in due time, please.”

Once the silence is back, Harry continues to explain, adding points to his timeline, but also graphs, pie charts, excerpts of technical studies, all cold proofs that don’t keep him from recalling, within himself, how those days after he first witnessed Draco’s magic go haywire went.

Chapter 12

“Slept badly, Potter?”

Draco is teasing, seemingly perfectly rested himself. Harry exchanges a glance with Granny, who nods slowly.

“Well, since you’re mentioning sleep… I have something to tell you.”

“Hmmm, okay…”

Malfoy sits, pouring himself some tea and breaking a scone, glancing around the table before reaching for the jam.

“You’re the one behind the magic events.”

Draco stills, looks up, eyes intent on Harry now, his voice icily cold when he says:

“What?”

“You’re doing it in your sleep!” explains Harry, “Your magic plays out your dreams.”

Draco looks to Granny, like he’s waiting for the punch line. She confirms:

“It’s been a few months now.”

Draco puts down his scone, says in a bland voice:

“You’re frigging serious. I’m breaking my parole, and I’m going to get shipped to Azkaban.”

He looks white as a sheet.

“Ok, now, not so fast,” intervenes Harry. “You are not doing it on purpose. I’ve talked to Hermione this morning, she’s looking into precedent.”

“Oh. Isn’t she just an apprentice at St Mungo though?”

Harry rolls his eyes:

“We’re talking about Hermione Granger here, Draco. She’s in her second year but following the senior’s curriculum, and has already started modernizing magic medicine by adapting Muggle technics to it.”

Draco picks up his scone, starts picking at it. Granny asks:

“So, what does she think of Draco’s case?”

“Well, first off, he shouldn’t be held accountable, since he’s asleep at the time of the infraction. She’s exploring the path of it being some kind of… release.”

“Like a valve letting of excess pressure?” asks Granny.

Harry nods:

“Something like that, yes. Draco, you had a wand, and have performed magic probably well before you were eleven, right?”

The blonde acquiesces.

“So, really, it’s the first time in your life you are not performing anything magical, ever.”

Draco nods again.

“It’s the track I want to explore. If you’re okay with it, I’ll need recordings of other events of the type, to build a file. I’d like to have someone from St Mungo come and do some magical imagery of you too, if you’re willing.”

“You think you can keep me out of Azkaban?”

Harry shrugs:

“I’ll try my best.”

Draco snorts:

“It’s going to be the very first time your best goes my way. I’m impatient to see that.”

The man looks a little more alive, colour coming back to his cheeks.

Chapter 13

Two days later, and Harry has a feeling he is finally making process. Granny opened the office space upstairs to him – it used to be her late husband’s – and there are old tomes borrowed here and there strewn across the desk. The summer air comes through the open window, ruffling some pages, as Harry dictates to his quill, hands busy on his computer’s keyboard, a brand new turquoise iMac he pulled out of his duffel bag and un-shrunk to set up on the desk.

Suddenly, the doorbell rings, and Harry hears Granny hurrying the door. Draco pokes his head in on his way downstairs:

“It’s probably Granger.”

Harry nods:

“I’ll be down in a minute.”

Of course, it ends up being three minutes, because the stupid quill wrote down “I’ll be down in a minute” in the middle of his report, and Harry has to get it to erase it before he can finish dictating the paragraph.

When he finally gets down the stairs, he follows the voices and joins Granny, Draco and Hermione in the garden, where they are sitting around the terrace’s table, a cup of tea in hand.

“Ha, Harry!”

“Hi Hermione.”

“We were waiting for you to start,” she says, and then proceeds to take out of her purse a giant medical tome that could not possibly fit in there in anyway.

“How many authorizations for Undetectable Extension Charms did you get?!” exclaims Draco, and Harry & Hermione smile at each other, knowing that, inside her leather purse, Hermione still carries around the beaded purse she packed all of those things in when they were running from Voldemort.

“It’s a long story, and I’d rather tell you what I’ve found,” just says Hermione, and Draco shrugs.

“Go on, then,” encourages Granny.

“From that one reading Harry made, and from the records he procured me from the International Statute of Secrecy office, Draco started having episodes about seven months ago, at least of enough amplitude to be recorded. They mostly happen at night, though I’m guess you like to take naps on Sunday afternoons, because I’ve noticed a few occurrences then.

Hermione looks to Draco, who looks a bit sheepishly.

“I do like naps on Sundays,” he says.

The young woman smiles, and jots down a quick note in a notebook she also pulled out of her handbag.

“The frequency and power of those episodes has increased, from once every two weeks, to once a week, to every other day or so right now.”

Harry takes the relay:

“Their potency has increased as well, and that’s why the department is only sending someone now: the threshold for a worrying event, with potential Muggle witnesses” Harry points to Granny, “was crossed two weeks ago.”

“Okay,” cuts Draco, “but we already knew all that. What’s new?”

Hermione tsks between her teeth.

“Patience, Draco, the context matters. It shows that this phenomenon of magical release against a build up of energy is not efficient enough.”

She opens the big tome to a bookmark, then flips the book toward Granny, Harry, and Draco. The page is written in medieval English, with a gothic font that is hard to read, but Hermione is pointing at an illumination where laying down monks, brown frock and tonsure, are surrounded by colourful arabesques.

“This is from a cautionary tale titled ‘The Sorcerer Monks,’ in which sorcerers convinced of the evil source of their magic made a vow never to use it, on top of the regular chastity and silence vows. The tale then explains how the magic in them seeked other outlets.”

Hermione turns the page, and the next illumination shows a cloud of dark swirls were the monks were, and quite a lot of red pooling on the ground.

“Now, the tale is not very straightforward, and there’s some Devil/God nonsense involved, but I think the picture is pretty clear to what eventually happened to the monks, despite their praying.”

There’s a moment of silence, before Draco says, disbelieving:

“I’m going to explode?”

“Well,” quickly says Hermione, “It’s more like an obscurial-type situation, except, because your magic is one of an adult, so you… Well, the hosts get destroyed in the process. But I’m sure Harry and I can build a good enough case!”

“But… But surely there has been people before… Condemned like me… What about my father? Others in Azkaban?”

Hermione leafs through her notebook:

“I considered that. Concerning Azkaban, it’s been shown that dementors do absorb some magical energy when they work their horrible joy-eating spell. However, since the dementors are to be banished permanently from Azkaban, it is a valid question. As for other sorcerers whose wands were broken, they overwhelmingly elected to keep living in the Magical World, where their use of wandless magic would go undetected. I’ve placed a request for some morgue records at the St Mungo library, as my research has pointed to a few cases that might be similar to yours.”

“The morgue records?!”

Hermione explains:

“I’m not sure where to look for records of living cases, but intersecting the symptoms, context of the patient, and probable death cause yielded some results. Harry’s following the other trail.”

Draco turns the Harry and the brunet says:

“I’ve been looking for people with similar condemnation as yours who would have been registered as living in the Muggle world, and sent them letters. Now, as we both know, it’s not going to work perfectly. You are yourself registered in London, and live here instead.”

They all take a moment to mull over the new information, sipping at tea and nibbling at biscuits.

“So, what are we aiming for?” finally asks Granny, “A retrial?” she adds.

Hermione looks at Harry, and Harry looks at Draco:

“I don’t think a retrial is an option. But I’m aiming for getting you an authorization to get a new wand and a regular magic practice session, though under surveillance will be the best we can ask for.”

“Getting authorized for practice of wandless magic is another option I’d like Harry to root for. It’s true that you won’t be able to make precise spells, or powerful ones, but you can still do a lot. After all, the wand is a European invention to begin with. Native Americans and African sorcerers have been doing wandless magic for centuries, and they are fantastic magicians.”

Harry looks at Draco, wondering if he is remembering his Patronus in the garden, two nights ago. Finally, he says:

“Wandless magic can still be quite powerful, I am unsure the Ministry would be willing to let Draco practice it unsupervised.”

The blonde snaps his fingers:

“Now, I know the Ministry has been quite reformed since my father would, well, manipulate people there, but one thing he taught me is to always ask for the bigger prize, so that when you compromise, they feel like they won when really they gave you what you’ve been wanting all along.”

“It’s a classic strategy,” comments Hermione, “but worth a try.”

“Then I’ll make a case for it,” concludes Harry.

As their group disbands, Draco and Granny heading for the living-room to tinker with the engine that lays there, Hermione grabs Harry’s arm and adds for his benefit only, voice soft:

“I thought better not to mention it to him, but in the cases of the obscurus developing, there are elements of self-hate at play. The repression of their magic by the sorcerer has to be complete, and wilful, for it to rebel like that.”

And with a sad smile, Hermione left Harry to ponder her words.

Chapter 14

“Harry, don’t use all the hot water!”

Harry drops the soap to the tub’s bottom, and realizes for the first time that Draco is calling him Harry now. And that he is calling him Draco. And that they are sharing a bathroom. Harry would wonder how things got that way, but he knows Hermione’s voice, always reasonable, would tell him that for all their past enmity, Harry cannot resist helping people, and Draco needs quite some help.

“Harry, still alive?”

“I, err, I’m almost done!” answers Harry, before forgoing a second shampoo – his hair is that coarse – and getting out of the shower instead. Once mostly dry, he pops a head out of the bathroom:

“Draco?” he asks to the empty hallway.

The blonde’s voice answers from his bedroom:

“Done with the bathroom?”

“I was thinking about shaving, but if you need it…”

Draco steps out of his room:

“Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, Vanquisher of Lord Voldemort, Auror in training, doesn’t know any shaving spells.”

Harry shrugs. There are spells for everything, he presumes, but sometimes he likes to do things the Muggle way, and he tells Draco so.

“Fine, but I’m getting sleepy. Do you mind if I shower at the same time?”

Seeing how the Hogwart’s showers are common showers, it’s not something Harry is uncomfortable for, though he suspects that seeing Draco naked will be quite different than seeing any of the guys he grew up with.

“I don’t mind,” eventually answers Harry.

Draco raises an eyebrow:

“Would knowing I’m gay change that opinion?”

Harry isn’t sure what emotions flickers on his face, but Draco’s expression gets closed-off, and defensive. Before he can say anything though, Harry says:

“Not if you knowing I’m bisexual doesn’t bother you either.”

There’s something akin to surprise in Draco’s grey eyes, quickly replaced by something more mischievous:

“Really, huh. So you must be the most available bachelor of the moment.”

Harry rolls his eyes:

“I’m sure Rita Skeeter had a field day of it. I just refuse to read the wizarding press anymore.”

The stairs crack and Granny appears:

“If you boys are quite done sharing your sexual preferences, I’d like access to the bathroom sometime this century, so chop-chop.”

She’s giving them a knowing smile that doesn’t bode well, and Harry kind of jumps and hurries back to the bathroom to start shaving while Draco retreats to his bedroom, presumably to fetch pyjamas.

 

When Draco opens the Bathroom door, Harry stays ostensibly focused on lathering his face with shaving cream, but he still catches a glimpse of a bum cheek in the mirror before Draco steps in the tub and closes the shower curtain. A nice, round, firm-looking butt cheek. Harry chases the image away and contentiously starts shaving as the water comes on.

“So, Harry, does the Auror training includes physical training?”

Harry almost nicks himself and swears under his breath, surprised Draco is starting a conversation. Aloud, he answers:

“Well, some, why?”

“You’re quite more built than in my memories.”

Harry glances down at his soft, definitely not defined belly:

“Built, me?” he laughs.

“Your shoulders and your legs, quite so,” answers Draco.

“I…” Harry looks at his reflection in the mirror, examining himself closely.

“I suppose I did put on some muscle. It’s not the Auror training though, more like the jujitsu lessons.”

“Jujitsu?”

Harry chuckles upon hearing the strange pronunciation, then explains:

“A Japanese martial art. Perfectly Muggle, but who knows when you might need to use other means than magic.”

“That’s… actually clever,” comments Draco.

Harry says:

“It was Hermione’s idea.”

Draco chuckles:

“Of course.”

“What about you?” asks Harry in turn.

“Why am I not a scrawny teenager anymore, you mean?” teases Draco.

Harry hums assent.

“Well, I couldn’t do Quidditch anymore, so I picked up rugby with the guys from the shop.”

“Rugby?!”

“Yeah. It’s good that I’m fast, because I’m definitely in the lighter percentile of players.”

“That’s… unexpected.”

“What, you thought I’d spend my whole life hiding behind Vince and Greg?”

It takes a second for Harry to realize Draco is talking about Crabbe and Goyle, and then he blurts:

“Well, kinda, yes.”

The water stops and Harry hurries to pick up where he stopped his shaving. In the mirror, he sees Draco’s hand grab his towel, then his head appears on the side:

“To be honest, I probably would have.”

The man disappears behind the curtain again, and by the time Harry is rinsing his face of the last of the shaving foam, Draco steps out of the tub, towel wrapped low on his hips.

“Are you done? I want to brush my teeth.”

“Oh, crap, I forgot.”

Harry rummages in his toiletry bag and gets his own toothbrush. Draco shrugs and picks his out of the toothbrush holder on the edge of the sink before putting toothpaste on it, mechanically putting some on Harry’s toothbrush too. The domesticity of it strikes Harry suddenly, and he stares at his toothbrush for probably a long while, because Draco ends up asking:

“What, you don’t like minted toothpaste?”

Harry looks up, catching the blonde’s eyes in the mirror. A smile slowly blooms on the brunet’s face:

“I wish I had a powerful enough time-turner, and I could go tell my 12-year-old self: one day, you won’t hate Draco Malfoy. And he’s actualy the kind of guy who puts toothpaste on your toothbrush.”

For some reason, Draco blushes violently at that, looks down to the sink and brushes his teeth with the obstinacy of someone avoiding to talk. Harry takes a minute to enjoy the way Draco’s blush seems to spread to his chest and shoulders, briefly entertains if exertion from having sex would provoke the same reaction, and finds himself growing hot in answer. Putting his own focus back on brushing his teeth, Harry is now grateful for the way out of his thoughts it provides.

The slight awkwardness dissipates as they push each other for access to the sink to rinse their mouths, and Harry exits the bathroom first to go change in his room, leaving Draco the space to do the same.

 

A minute later, Draco knocks on Harry’s door:

“Decent?” he asks.

Harry snorts.

“Well, more, than two minutes ago. Come on in,” he answers.

Draco opens the door but doesn’t actually come in.

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m going straight to bed.”

“Ok, let me grab something to read.”

Harry riffles through the pile of tomes that made their way into the guest room despite having also conquered the office, and pulls out the judicial records from the year 1806 to 1814. Draco whistles when he spots the dates on the edge.

“Still looking for precedents?”

“Yeah. Even with searching spells it is quite tedious.”

“Sure you would not rather read something light?”

Harry piles the magic activity detector on top of the book and shrugs:

“I want to build your case as fast as possible.”

Something like hurt flickers on Draco’s face, and Harry realizes he just sounded like he wanted to be rid of the case.

“I’d like for you to be able to make magic as soon as possible! I’ve been looking into obscurials, since Hermione mentioned a similar process might be at play, and I really don’t like those prospects.”

“Aren’t obscurials only kids repressing their magic though?” asks Draco as they cross the hallway to his bedroom.

Harry’s about to answer when Draco raises a hand in a silence gesture before taking a peek in Granny’s bedroom, whose door is ajar.

“She’s asleep,” he whispers, then adds: “Would you put a silencing charm on my room tonight? I don’t want to wake her up and worry her if you’re around anyway.”

Harry nods, fishes out his wand from the elastic band of his pyjamas, and casts the necessary spell work.

“So, obscurials?” starts Draco again.

Harry frowns and answers:

“Well, there’s been one observed case of a much older kid transforming into an obscurus, in New York, in the 1920’s and even having some control over it, but…”

“He still died?”

“He was killed,” finishes Harry.

“Ha.”

“Yeah. Anyway, it’s another possible argument. We don’t want you to become some kind of violent mist and wreck havoc in Wulpgreen.”

Draco chuckles:

“Merlin knows this town needs some animation, but I’d want to spare them that kind of animation.”

Harry settles in the armchair that he levitated up there from the living room, and busies himself with the settings on the detector, letting Draco the intimacy he can as the man gets in bed.

“Hey, Harry.”

The brunet looks up. Draco is rolled in his duvet, back to him, but perfectly understandable when he says:

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Draco. Good night.”

Chapter 15

Like for the past two nights, Harry is getting ready for a long night of watching Draco sleep peacefully. He sighs, and starts muttering spells to the tome he has opened on his knees, looking for key words like obscurial, obscurus, un-explicated disappearance, death by mystification, death in prison, etc.

He’s jotting down notes on something that’s very unlikely to have anything to do with Draco’s situation, but is vague enough that Harry will have to confirm that with further research, when a slight buzz rises in the room. Harry glances at the detector, whose needles are vibrating, before looking up.

It’s like looking at a pool at night, the kind that lights from the inside, and has turquoise reflections dancing on the walls. Well, except prettier, because there’s no pool, just the reflections, hovering above Draco, spiralling lazily for now.

 

Harry wonders what Draco is dreaming about.

 

Slowly, the sounds gets louder, like voices harmonizing, and the mist develops colours and speed, curls grazing each other before separating, shapes dancing around each other, touching, caressing, retreating, before morphing together. Without knowing quite why, Harry feels himself grow uncomfortably aroused. It’s different from last time, where Draco was having one of those inane dreams that pulls elements from your day and rearranges them in some absurd story that only dream-logic can make sensible. This time, the silhouettes are not objects, nor people, but they exude something raw, sexual. As he watches, the cloud separates into two masses, one lighter, like smoke, which becomes a deep green. The other one remains closer to a mist, in a steely grey hue. The two clouds continue their ceaseless movement, their flirt, the small touches, the shapes adapting to each other until it is hard to say where one cloud starts and the other stops. A new sound joins the music, a low moan that comes from the bed, and Harry tears his eyes off the magic to look at Draco, who is rolling on his back, body quivering, duvet discarded and thin pyjamas not doing much to hide his erection.

 

Draco is having a sex dream.

 

And a quite passionate one at that, if the mating of the shapes his magic creates is to be trusted. Harry averts his eyes, trying to focus back on the records he was reading through, knowing he is not supposed to wake Draco up for they don’t know how the phenomenon would be altered by it. With great effort, Harry wills his own libido under control, and, as the moans and singing continue, blesses Draco for having the foresight to ask Harry to soundproof his room.

He jumps back into focus when the light pattern changes, and when the moans turn anguished. The dream has morphed, and so did the shapes, now a dark, wispy smoke with tendrils of red intertwined. The sounds too are changing, still voices-like but now discordant, Harry doesn’t like it at all. This looks a lot more like descriptions of obscurus he’s read about, and where the dream shapes had no impact on the real world, he can now feel the wind created by the movement of the smoke, and the curtains by the window are billowing.

“Shit, shit, shit,” swears Harry, debating to try and wake Draco up, but also afraid of the backlash in case Draco’s magic decides he’s a threat.

His decision made, Harry casts a few protective spells, but doesn’t dare a restraining spell on the cloud of smoke, fearing to separate Draco from his magic in the process.

“Draco, hey, Draco!”

Harry gently shakes the man, whose face look like he’s in pain.

No reaction.

Harry tries again, shaking harder, his shield taking some damage from the magic that’s spinning in the room, now focusing on him.

“Draco, snap out of it! Wake up!”

Harry is full on yelling now, and the magic abruptly disappears as Draco gasps awake, first scrambling away from Harry’s grip on his shoulder, then, when he recognizes him, slumping in his arms instead.

“Potter?” the man asks with a small, broken voice.

Harry notices the use of his last name, but answers none the less:

“Hey, Draco. Are you okay?”

“I… I was dreaming about… well… nothing pleasant after a while.”

The blonde is shivering, and quickly wipes tears on his pyjama sleeve.

“Want to talk about it?” asks Harry.

Draco shrugs, and with a dark laughs, answers:

“I have a shrink for that, Harry. And the nightmare’s always the same anyway.”

Harry lets it go, shifting instead to sit more comfortably on the bed. Draco seems to realize then that he is being cuddled, because he stiffens and Harry lets his arms go loose, expecting the man to push him away now that his moment of weakness is over. Instead, the blonde kind of sighs and slumps further in Harry’s lap.

“So, what was my magic doing anyway?” he asks.

“Err… Honestly, nothing good. I want your case in front of the Wizengamot by the end of the week.”

There is not much light in the room, but Harry knows that Draco is looking at him, and he’s guessing the blonde is torn between asking for details, and not being able to bear the answers. Eventually, Harry says:

“You want to go back to sleep?”

“Yeah. But you’ll have to let go of me, tough I appreciate the head scratches.”

Harry realizes with some degree of stupefaction that he is mechanically petting Draco’s smooth hair.

“Oh, crap, sorry. Habit.”

“Habit? You have a pet?”

Harry is thankful for the darkness in the room.

“Ginny was, well, I guess she still is, fond of head scratches after a nightmare.”

Draco slips from underneath Harry hair and sits down.

“She gets nightmares?”

“We all do. It doesn’t matter which level of horror we endured, we all have bad memories of the war. An entire generation with PTSD before they hit 20.”

“You… You too?” asks Draco, sounding dumfounded.

It takes Harry a second to understand the question is serious, and not asked in jest.

He turns to Draco, finds his eyes in the half-light.

“Draco, I wake up my wand in hand three days of the week. I sleep with the light on. And when I’m not dreaming about it, I get flashbacks and panic attacks during waking hours instead.”

“That’s… You’re…”

“Broken? Yes. I carried part of a madman’s soul in myself for 17 years, and had to let him kill me in order to defeat him. I died. I literally died. But I got lucky. I made it back. I’m the only dead who came back, and it’s unfair. I see the faces of my friends who didn’t every night when I sleep, and when I’m awake I long for them by my side, long for them to see how the world is changing. But there’s no coming back. Cedric, Sirius, Dumbledore, Mad-Eye Moody, Remus, Tonks, Fred…”

“Vince…” whispers Draco.

Harry stops his list.

“So yeah, I get nightmares,” he eventually concludes.

“I never really… thought about it like that. You won.”

“At what price. Even magic can’t repair that.”

The two young men look at each other and some new comprehension passes between them. After a moment, Draco confesses, voice a murmur:

“I’m… I’m a bit relieved actually, not to be able to use magic. Life in the Muggle world is simpler. Safer.”

Remembering Hermione’s parting words, Harry gently prompts the blonde:

“Isn’t it boring though? Don’t you miss magic?”

Draco shakes his head:

“I do, sure, but… I caused so much hurt. Part of me was enjoying it… the difficult spells, the scale of the magic I was doing…”

Harry looks at Draco intently, having trouble reconciling the confession with the man he’s been learning about.

“In Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom that day… I don’t feel like you were ‘enjoying’ it that much.”

Draco looks half fragile, half mutinous to have been called out on what’s a painful memory for them both, so Harry adds quickly:

“Part of me felt powerful for knowing that spell, but the harm it brought… I’m still ashamed of what I did to you that day, and terribly sorry. But in the end… The magic was just a tool, and the guilt belongs to me, same as if I had taken a knife to your body. And it’s me who needs to seek forgiveness, and to accept what happened.”

There’s a moment of silent where Draco mulls over the idea, but then a slow smile blooms on his lips and he exclaims, mock cheerful:

“And that was ‘How To Love Yourself Again’, lesson 1, brought to you by The Boy Who Lived!”

Harry chuckles:

“Busted! But seriously, Draco, if you can do good, then so can your magic.”

Feeling the blonde’s gaze on him, Harry studiously examines the duvet cover, the situation unexpectedly intense.

“Thanks, for telling me that,” finally says Draco, bringing a hand to Harry’s shoulder. Impulsively, Harry picks it up and brings it to his lips, dropping a kiss there before letting it go. The blonde makes a strangled noise of surprise, and Harry feels his cheeks redden, admonishing himself for such a blatant invitation for more after such heavy conversation.

“Good night, Draco,” he eventually says before standing from the bed and walking the few steps to the armchair where the heavy record tome is still waiting for him. Draco doesn’t say anything, but when Harry is settled in the chair again and dares look up, the man is staring at him with a wistful smile, which turns into a kind of grin:

“Have fun with your old book, Harry.”

And the man bundles himself in his duvet and turns his back on Harry.

Chapter 16

The Trial

Harry overlooks the more… personal details during his explanation, instead adding testimonies from St Mungo’s specialists that Hermione’s conclusions were sound. He’s reaching the end of his retelling, and goes for the kill: pulling another memory out of his head, he plays for the court Draco’s second dream. Of course he skips the beginning of it, showing only the transformation, showing how the physical room had been disturbed by it, how waking Draco had been difficult, how the magic had tried to attack Harry directly.

When Harry glances at Draco, he sees him become quite pale upon seeing how close he’d been to destroying Harry without even wanting it. Harry turns back to the crowd and adds:

“Now, after years of enmity, to have Malfoy’s magic try to kill me while his owner is asleep, when we had finally given up on trying when awake, was quite a downer.”

A few laughs. Harry does a thing he thought he never would, and thanks the Heavens for Pansy Parkinson’s sense of humour and timeliness in applying it. The obscurial morphs into a dark dot on the timeline, and Harry concludes:

“Now, witches and wizards of the Wizengamot, you have the facts.”

People start talking to each other on the benches, purple robes flapping as people gesture to the timeline, and discuss things over. After a few seconds however, Kingsley Shackelbot brings back silence with knocks of his wand.

“Now, now, silence please. Before I let this court debate between themselves, I’d like to ask what Auror Potter proposes as a solution to this… magical surcharge phenomenon.”

Harry has the crowd’s attention again, and states simply:

“I propose that Draco Lucius Malfoy might be allowed wandless magic.”

The court goes in uproar, words like “dangerous criminal,” “Death Eater,” “good riddance” clearly audible in the mix. Surprisingly, it’s Hestia Jones, the Chief Warlock, who brings back the calm with a booming: “Silence!”

When calm has come back, she says:

“I would like our esteemed court to be reminded of Auror Potter’s introductory words now. Please put aside personal feelings as you are to judge not just the man in this chair today – she points at Draco – but the path we want our new government to go, as well as other prisoners, some who might be friends having erred, may I add.” She sends a few pointed looks towards some of the members that were protesting quite loudly and whom Harry knows, thanks to Percy, that they are purebloods that would have readily changed sides to Voldemort if it had been in their interest.

After her intervention, things proceed a little more calmly, and Harry is asked a few questions, which allows him to explain in more details – tough if they had read the report he sent them they wouldn’t ask those questions at all. The session then enters deliberations, and as people mix up and down the rows, Harry conjures a chair and sits down next to Draco, resisting the urge to sprawl and remaining dignified instead. He fishes out a bottle from one of the many pockets of his Auror robes and start rehydrating, as the long speech as left his throat parched. While the judges talk, Harry remembers the rest of his stay at Granny’s, building the case leading to this day.

Chapter 17

“… and Good Lord, the sexual tension between those two is killing me!”

It is Sunday a bit before 1pm, and Harry, who only went to bed around 6am, when Granny got up, is not quite awake, barely dressed, in need of caffeine, and currently stopped hallway down the stairs as an offended “Granny!” is said by Draco, while both Granny and another person laugh.

“No, but really, Potter?” asks a feminine voice, probably the owner of the second laugh.

“Yes, Pansy, Harry Bloody Potter.”

Harry blanches, realizing at once that the voice must belong to Pansy Parkinson. Who is now saying:

“Well… Tastes and colours, I guess. He’s too much of a Gryffindor for my taste. And he should really do something about his hair.”

Harry self-consciously pats his hair, never mind that no one knows he is there.

“Now, Pansy, I like Harry,” says Granny, “he’s always polite, he cooks divinely, he is obviously smart and, must I say, he’s quite a looker.”

“Harry Potter cooks?”

Parkinson sounds scandalized. There’s a second of silence and Draco confirms:

“Pretty well, yes. And he is not only building a case to allow me to practice magic again, but quite sweet on top of it too.”

“By the way, Draco, did you sleep well? Your bedroom was quiet this morning. Unnaturally quiet…”

Pansy chuckles, when Draco hurriedly answers:

“I asked him to put a silencing charm on the room in case I’d have a bad dream, so as to not wake you up.”

“A bad dream, heh, so I guess Potter’s not that good in the sack?” teases Pansy, but Draco answers quite coldly:

“Actual nightmares, Pansy. As a matter of fact, I had a bad one, and the magic is growing stronger. Harry had to wake me up.”

Draco adds a few more details, finishing by:

“And he kissed me goodnight, though, very chivalrously, on the hand.”

“Very… Victorian suitor of him…” comments Pansy.

“Does that make me the fair maiden?” ironizes Draco.

“I’m surprised, after your shower stint, that things are moving so glacially,” comments Granny.

“I thought it was very tactful, actually,” answers Draco. “We had quite a serious conversation, and neither of us were in any kind of mood, but I like that he showed his interest still.”

Harry decides that he has been standing halfway down the stairs quite long enough. He considers going back to his room for a moment, but he feels a little miffed that there is apparently a ‘seduction plan’ going on that he had no idea of, and finishes going downstairs instead, entering the kitchen as Granny is saying:

“Things are looking up then.”

“Absolutely,” confirms Harry, before saying to the group:

“Pansy, hi, long time no see. Good afternoon Granny, and yes, I would love some tea, though I might skip breakfast and go for lunch right away. Hi Draco, I hope you slept well, will you have dinner with me sometime after your case is closed?”

There is a blank, then Pansy snarks:

“Spying on us, Potter?”

“Quite so, when I heard my name.”

“How did you get down the stairs so quietly?” wonders Granny.

“I’m a trained Auror, stairs do not creak beneath my feet.”

“Dinner where?”

“How about Barrafina in Soho?”

“A Muggle restaurant?”

“Barcelona-style tapas, on my list of places to try.”

“Done.”

“Pretty smooth, Potter,” comments Pansy, begrudgingly appreciative.

Chapter 18

The rest of the day goes much as smoothly. Harry thinks that maybe he unknowingly had some Felix Felicis, because with Hermione’s help, they finish building as solid a case they can, thanks to the more widely accessible documentation concerning obscurials, including cases appearing in adults in France and Germany, and the rest of Europe after the Inquisition, when adult wizards and witches having matured in their powers stopped practicing for fear of bringing on them the attention of the church.

 

After discussing the investigation with Head Auror Savage, Harry had gotten the authorization to ask the Minister of Magic for an exceptional session of the Wizengamot, for Savage had expressed worries for other wizards under a no-magical practice sentence living in the Muggle world, as well as for those imprisoned in Azkaban, since the dementors would be leaving soon. Kingsley Shacklebot, the Minsiter, had always been fond of Harry since their days in the Order of the Phoenix, and as such had answered very readily and quickly to the request for an expedite hearing. He too had been concerned about Azkaban, reporting that already signs of the dream magic had been observed, though so far Healers from St Mungo had deemed the phenomenon harmless.

 

Even Pansy, for all of her ability to snide and to give tit for tat, stayed that afternoon to help organize notes, references, and other documents. She revealed herself a skilled orator, coaching Harry on his formulations and wording for the hearing and matching report. Hermione and her formed quite a scary team, and Harry was astonished of how much the four of them managed to accomplish in a day.

 

It is now dinner time, and Harry has invited both Hermione and Pansy to stay for dinner as a thank you for their work. Hermione accepted on the condition that Ron would be invited too, as they had planned to eat together tonight.

“Granny, do you mind if my friend Ron also comes by for dinner?” asks Harry to Gran, who’s tinkering on the engine in the living room.

“Harry, you’re the one cooking, so I sure don’t!” she answers with a laugh.

“You’re cooking?” immediately asks Pansy from the garden, where they settled on the terrace table for more space.

Harry rummages in the kitchen cupboard, looking for inspiration, as he answers:

“Seems like I am, but I’ll have to run to the supermarket first.”

“Oooh. I’ve never been to one of these,” says the woman.

Hermione looks at her weirdly, but keeps her comment for herself, for which Harry is grateful.

“Well, I’ll be needing a few things. Hermione, you drove here right?”

“I did,” answers the brunette, “There’s no apparition spot within walking distance. How’d you come here anyway, Pansy?”

“I flew. My invisibility spells are quite good.”

She points to a sleek broom propped in a corner that Harry had noticed, but assumed belonged to Draco.

“Well, Harry, let me know what you need and I’ll go get it. I haven’t been to the supermarket in ages, it will be fun.”

“Pansy, you should go to,” intervenes Draco, “Muggles have a great selection of biscuits.”

Harry smiles to himself, noting that Pansy looks like she wants to go, but also like she should squish the idea, probably held back by her beliefs about Muggles.

 

Eventually, the two young women leave on an expedition to the nearby Tesco – though Pansy looks a bit scared of riding in a car – while Draco helps Harry with starting to prepare for dinner.

That’s how Ron finds them, relaxed and joking with each other as they chop onions, peppers, and carrots for a stir-fry. The greetings are a tad awkward, but Hermione must have warned Ron pretty heavily, because it goes a lot better than Harry would have envisioned.

“So, mate, what are you making tonight?” he asks Harry after plopping on a chair on the other side of the kitchen table from Draco and Harry.

Harry suspects that the promise of a home-cooked meal also was for a lot in convincing Ron to come. Neither Hermione nor him have much time to cook, and Harry knows he misses ‘real meals.’

“I’m making a vegetable and rice stir-fry, to go with some oven-baked salmon.”

“Harry, I tell you, if your career as an Auror fail, you can always just open a restaurant.”

Draco chuckles gently at the idea, and Ron turns to him:

“So, Malfoy, er, Draco, what are you doing these days?”

Hermione probably told him, but Harry appreciates the attempt at chitchat. Draco is no fool either, as he explains about being a mechanic in details, and Harry appreciates the irony of the situation, the ex-death eater explaining to another pure-blood about cars and motorcycles while the muggle-born watches on.

When they exhaust that subject of conversation, Draco asks in turn about Ron’s work, who tells him about realizing he wasn’t made for the Auror life – to much running – and going instead to help his brother George at the Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes joke shop. As a matter of fact, he even gets prototypes out of his pockets, and when Hermione and Pansy come back from grocery shopping, the three of them are crying with laughter as their voices squeak in the very high pitches:

“See,” explains Ron in a ridiculous squeal, “we got inspired by this video of Muggles talking after breathing helium.”

“This sounds very similar!” interjects Harry, before starting a new bout of laughter upon hearing his own shrill voice.

“How long…” Draco takes a big breath, trying to calm himself down, “how long will it last?”

Ron mutters a spell and waives his wand, and the men regain their regular voices. Hermione butts in:

“You’re lucky they figured the counter-curse, at least.”

Harry and Draco look at Ron, who shrugs:

“It’s still in development. We managed to make the original spell into a potion, then into the mouse-shaped candy you ate, but the reverse spell is trickier to brew.”

“Ron spoke like that for three days, which, well, I refused to have sex with him sounding like that,” comments Hermione.

“Mione!” yells Ron, now quite red in the face.

Pansy cackles, a hyena-like sound that hasn’t changed since school, and Hermione adds:

“Well, it worked. no? You came up with the counter-curse quite faster than you normally do.”

Harry can’t help chuckling, but also pats his friend’s shoulder on the way to the stove, where the stir-fry is getting started. Under his directions, the meal takes shape quickly while Pansy tells them about their expedition to the grocery store. Draco, Hermione, and Harry laugh upon hearing her describe the scale for the vegetables, or the machine that cuts the meat, while Ron listens on, fascinated, asking for details here and there.

“Mione, we should go to the supermarket, sometime,” he concludes, and his girlfriend exchange a glance with Harry – it’s been a subject of contention in their household that Ron doesn’t want to shop ‘like a Muggle’ – and say, magnanimous:

“Of course, honey, you can do the next run with Harry and me.”

“Wait, you guys live together?” asks Pansy.

Harry answers:

“Of course. My godfather left me a house that’s way too big for me alone.”

“We’re still working on the renovations, tough,” adds Hermione, “It had been inhabited by dark wizards for a long while, and their sense of interior design was quite… lacking.”

“I’m not even talking about the cursed stuff either,” sighs Harry, “every time I want to move books or trinkets around, I risk some gruesome injury.”

Pansy elbows Draco and tells him:

“You should take a look at it. Your father kept some pretty nasty stuff too, no?”

“Yeah, my mother and I had a hard time cleaning it up, even with her being able to do magic.”

“Well, maybe not for a first date, but maybe that could be the second,” comments Hermione, “I’m tired of the teacups in the third floor’s office trying to bite me when I’m studying.”

“Date?” says Ron, momentarily abandoning the stir-fry.

“They’re already going to the restaurant for the first anyway,” says Pansy, a smile that says she’s expecting chaos to ensue.

To be honest, Harry expects it to, so he’s not too surprised when Ron, looking scandalized, brandishes the wooden spoon and points alternatively at Harry and at Draco:

“You… Harry… You can’t…”

Draco’s face is closing alluringly fast, and Harry’s about to interrupt Ron, to try and save the situation, when his best friend yells:

“You can’t start dating someone and not even tell me about it! Not cool, mate.”

Harry takes a deep breath, notices that Draco’s looking pleasantly surprised, an expression that matches Hermione’s actually, and Harry says:

“Well, erm, sorry Ron, I only asked this morning…”

“This morning?! I know you were busy today, but you could have sent me one of those text things. Can’t hold that kind of information, and then invite us to dinner to meet the guy.”

“But Ron, you already know Draco,” says Harry.

“Wrong! I knew Malfoy, at Hogwarts. Aren’t you the one who keeps telling me that people change?”

“I… I am.”

“Ha ha!”

And, on this triumphant harrumph, Ron turns back to the pan and starts stirring again.

“Where are you going for your first date, anyway?” he asks.

“Someplace in the Muggle London,” answers Pansy.

“Barrafina, in Soho,” specifies Harry.

“That fancy tapas place?”

“Yes.”

“Mate, you’re going to go home hungry, that’s no good.”

“Well, they can’t quite have haggis for a first date Ron,” snipes Hermione.

“Hey, what’s wrong with haggis?!”

“Oh, just a little heavy… and smelly… If you have other plans for the night.”

Hermione adds the last part with a heavy leer towards Draco, and Harry knows that things are getting out of control again:

“Hey, hey, hey, now! Can we stop talking about this for a minute?”

The matching smiles on Pansy, Ron, and Hermione’s faces clearly tell him that no, they won’t, and Harry throws a desperate glance at Draco, who just shrugs before whispering, for him only:

“At least they get on better than expected.”

Harry sighs, but Draco is right: this is going on better than planned.

“Oy, kids!”

It’s Granny, poking her head around the doorframe:

“Keep it down, will you? There’s my favourite program on the telly soon. And when will the food be ready Harry?”

Harry moves to the stove, checks over a few things.

“It’s almost done. How long’s your program?”

“I’ll tape it.”

 

After Granny’s intervention, thing are a tad more subdued as the guests help set the table and start dinner, at least until Granny starts telling family stories from when she was a kid, before getting kicked out when she never revealed powers, and then from after, when she met her husband – an American gang biker who moved to the UK after having made a few too many waves in his birth country. This opens for everybody telling stories from how they grew up, and even Harry feels relaxed enough to share the days leading up to Hagrid telling him he was a wizard, and how the letters from Hogwarts had been trying to get in by all means possible.

“Oh, Harry, tell them about when you inflated your aunt!” this is Hermione, little tears of laughter at the corner of her eyes, Tapping on Pansy’s back who’s howling with laughter since the part where Dudley got a pig’s tail.

All in all, they have an excellent time, and when Ron, Hermione, and Pansy bid them goodnight, Harry feels light, happy, relaxed. He cheerfully does the dishes with Granny while Draco takes a shower, then hops in himself before taking some notes and his quills to Draco’s bedroom to keep himself occupied as the man sleeps, hopefully peacefully. He’s setting down his parchments by the chair when Draco steps in the bedroom, having gone to wish Granny goodnight.

“So, err, Harry…”

Draco sounds oddly serious, and some of Harry’s lightness evaporates.

“Are you okay?”

“What? Yes, of course, why would you… Oh, darn it.”

And Draco, looking decisive, closes the distance between them in two quick steps before kissing Harry, briefly, square on the lips, before taking a step back.

“I, eeerm…”

Harry touches his lips, blinks a few time, looks at Draco who’s now uncertain, and smiles before asking:

“Can we try that again?”

Draco smiles back, and Harry closes the distance between them, kisses Draco, and thinks that, definitely, there must have been Felix Felicis in his tea this morning, there’s no other explanation.

After kissing for a moment, and before he can get too carried away, Harry takes a break.

“So, just to be clear, what are you expecting to happen in the next few hours?”

“Next few hours? Are you really that good, Potter? Witch Magazine was right.”

Harry chuckles:

“Well, let me reformulate: are you inviting me to bed with you, and if yes am I allowed to lamely fall asleep in it after however long it takes us to have sex?”

“Well… It will depend on the quality of the sex,” answers Draco.

Harry chuckles:

“What, you also read the horrors Rita Skeeter writes in Revelio Mag?”

Draco scatters a few pecks on Harry’s mouth, then moves to his jaw, then to his ears where he murmurs:

“I might have entertained some level of obsession with you which Pansy has catered to with literature of disputable sources.”

Harry feels himself shiver, weirdly pleased that Draco has kept tabs on him, something Harry had been doing himself. Draco leans back and looks at him in the eyes:

“But I thought you didn’t read that rubbish?”

Harry shrugs, lets his hands trace Draco’s body, enjoying the smooth silk of the fancy pyjamas the blonde is wearing.

“Ginny will sometimes read excerpts at Sunday brunch when she thinks them particularly hilarious.”

“So you don’t fart when you come?”

“I… I can’t say it’s ever happened. But who knows, you might get lucky tonight.”

Draco rolls his eyes and seems ready to comment, when Harry interrupts him with a kiss:

“How about we stop talking about my sexual prowess and I demonstrate instead?”

Draco smirks:

“That was terrible, Potter, but I’ll still say yes.”

Harry rolls his eyes:

“I’m back to being Potter now?”

“Oh? You like it when I call you Harrrrrry?”

The r is purred, low and sexy, and Harry clenches the hands he has bunched in the bottom hem of Draco’s nightshirt.

“I… I rather enjoy it, yes, Draco.”

He whispers the last words in Draco’s ear, following it with a nibble at his earlobes, and is rewarded by Draco’s hands flying to his butt.

 

After that, there is a lot less talking, and quite some more action.

 

Chapter 19

When Harry wakes up on Monday morning, he’s disoriented for a minute, expecting the blue walls of the guest bedroom, and finding instead simple white. Remembering he’s still in Draco’s bedroom, Harry rolls on his side, smiling like a goof upon finding the man still asleep by his side, his long hair in disarray, looking peaceful. Stretching, Harry enjoys the slight soreness in his backside – he hadn’t done that in quite a while, but doesn’t mind the feeling. Feeling glorious, he slips out of bed and goes to the armchair, checks the detector: no activity registered during the night. Maybe being physically tired helps with releasing pent-up magical energy?

Harry settles in the chair, determined to catch up with the work he was supposed to do last night. As years have passed, he has found himself an unlikely passion for research and finishing things early rather than last minute, something Hermione has been delighted by on many occasions, unkindly reminding him of the many times she has had to help both Ron and him to meet a deadline.

Harry is humming to himself as he puts the final touches to his report, and already thinking about working on his speech for the Wizengamot’s session, when a yawn and movement from the bed catch his attention.

“Harry?”

“Over here,” answers the brunet, temporarily abandoning his work to go to the bed, sitting by Draco’s legs:

“Morning,” he says.

“Good morning. Already up?”

The blonde is still sleepy, stretching and nesting in the blanket, making Harry want to kiss him.

“Finishing my report up to send it today for review before the session on Wednesday,” he answers instead, not quite sure of how it would be received.

“Hard at work, I see.”

“I might have found new reasons to be last night.”

“Hard, or hardworking?” teases Draco.

Harry rolls his eyes:

“Both,” he answers, finally giving in to his impulse to lean down and kiss Draco.

The man is quite receptive, and pulls Harry further on the bed, until he’s awkwardly laying half on top of the bed and half off it, slowly slipping to the floor.

“Oh come on, bloody join me in bed already,” protests Draco when Harry tries to rectify his position.

“But… Work… You gotta go to the shop too…”

“Merlin’s beard, I didn’t know you to be so reasonable, Mister I Made Polyjuice in My Second Year to Spy on Draco Malfoy.”

“Ok, first, I knew Hermione shouldn’t have told that story yesterday, second you shouldn’t talk about yourself in the third person. Too weird.”

“Of really? So Mister Potter won’t be joining Mister Malfoy in bed then?”

Harry shakes his head, sighs, then caves in:

“Fine, but just for a few minutes. I have a meeting with the Head Auror this morning.”

 

 

Harry ends up making it to the meeting just on time, and with a few papers missing, but his report is finished and, after discussing it with Savage, he changes a few details and sends it to the wizards and witches who will sit on tomorrow’s session: Kingsley Shacklebot, of course, but also a few other known names: Percy Weasley, as Head Undersecretary to the Minister, his father Arthur as Head of the Muggle Relationship Department, since it seems like the case will concern mostly Wizards living amongst Muggles, old Elphias Doge, still Special Advisor to the Wizengamot, and of course Hestia Jones as Chief Warlock. Harry is thankful to know that so many friends and allies from his time in the war will be present, though this may also be a curse as they might be prejudiced against Draco to begin with.

There are a few other people sitting on the session, not the full Wizengamot, Merlin be blessed, that’s enough of a stage fright as it is, and Harry spends a little while longer at the Ministry, enquiring about the other people there and which way they might lean. The person to ask is Percy, as he knows everybody, and is conscientiously neutral in his opinion, but honest. The man is busy, what with being tasked to filter the thousands of requests that come for the Minister down to a manageable workload, redirecting the rest to other departments in the Ministry.

“Can you imagine that, Harry?! This witch is convinced Mister Shacklebot should come in person to her house because her garden gnomes are proliferating.”

Harry smiles and answers:

“Actually, you should send that one to the Auror Department. It’s well known garden gnomes are quite high a threat.”

Percy chuckles good-humouredly, then says:

“So, I’m guessing you’re here about the extraordinary session tomorrow?”

Harry smiles sheepishly:

“You got me. I just want to gage the crowd thanks to your knowledge of the inner workings of the Ministry.”

Percy preens a bit at that, and proceeds with reviewing the list of wizards and witches present the following day with Harry, making notes of whom was raised a pure-blood, who leaned which way during the war, and who might have prejudices against the sentenced one way or another.

By the time Harry leaves his office, he’s feeling a lot more confident about which angle of attack to use and, after shopping for food in the Muggle London, Harry finds a dark alleyway, disillusions himself, and flies back to Wulpgreen on his broom in quite a lighter mood. He stops by Granny’s house to take off his robes and stow his broom, then walks to the garage. Granny is chatting with a client, a hardy-looking man with overalls and muddy hunter’s boots, probably a local farmer if the tractor that appeared on the parking lot outside is his. Harry looks around the shop for Draco, and spots the blonde, hair braided, sides trimmed, shirtless, bent under the hood of a car, talking to an equally shirtless colleague who’s fanning himself with a piece of paper, pointing at things and answering questions. Harry, not wanting to interrupt, is about to turn around and go somewhere else when Draco’s colleague elbows him and points to Harry, following it with a no doubt lewd comment if Draco’s scandalised “John!” is to be believed. Nonetheless, the blonde walks towards Harry, a smile on his face.

“Sandwiches?” greets Harry, lifting the paper bag he picked up earlier.

“Yeah.”

“Your colleague knows about…”

Harry resists the urge to gesture between them, realizing John is still watching.

“He suspects. I told him you were helping with stuff from my delinquent past, and he asked if I meant the sex we had gotten to before gay marriage was legal.”

Harry laughs, then asks:

“So they know you’re gay?”

“Yeah. It’s hard to keep secrets from guys you joke with all day long.”

“And they’re fine with it?”

It’s Draco’s turn to laugh:

“You’re talking about guys who work for and learned from a car mechanic woman who’s notorious for having been in a lesbian biker gang after her husband passed away.”

“I… I guess that does attract pretty tolerant people. What about the clientele?”

“Well, it helps that it’s the only decent garage in quite a few miles. Either they’re polite, or they don’t get their car repaired.”

Harry laughs at that, and Draco and him get out in the sun, sitting on the hood of one of the derelict cars in the nearby field to eat the sandwiches Harry picked up. They chat and plan a bit more about the following day too, getting ready for the hearing. When they’re done, and Harry is getting ready to walk back to Granny’s home, Draco takes a look around and quickly closes the distance between them before kissing Harry, who gets a rush from it and is left slightly dazed and probably blushing as the blonde walks back inside with what looks like an absolutely unnecessary swagger in his gait.

Chapter 20

When Harry gets back to the house, Pansy is already waiting for him. Thanks to her experience as a lawyer, she has been able to coach him on public speaking fro the hearing, and she runs him through his speech many times, asking all the questions that might come up, playing turn by turn the very confrontational pure-blood, the worried muggle-born, the old conservative, the young hater of everything linked to Voldemort.

“And so you really think that a young man who’s been found to be a Death Eater, and still carries the mark must I say, should ever be allowed to perform magic again?”

“I… Draco’s not… He was forced to… Arg. Wait, let me start again. Ok. So, yes, I think anyone, whatever their past and the sentences they are serving, should be allowed to do magic. I think I have thoroughly shown today that much like breathing, or eating, using magic is an inalienable right of the wizard, and inherent to their good and continued health. I seem to remember that this very court banned death penalty through the dementor’s kiss a year ago, at last, must I add. Forbidding wizards to perform magic would be akin to a very slow, painful death sentence. It’s time to do better.

Pansy smiles, pleased:

“You’re getting the hang of it Harry. No using first names tomorrow though, nor making mooneyes at Draco. Your arguments will carry even more if they still think you enemies. Them knowing you are lovers would ruin it absolutely.”

“I, how do you…”

Pansy smirks:

“If you are not sleeping together yet, it’s only a question of time. You’ve been obsessed by each other for far too long not to go there at some point.”

“This… Actually makes some sense.”

“Now, whatever happens between you two, always be honest to him about your feelings. If it’s just about fucking it out and then be friends, or never see each other again, so be it. But don’t lead him on, or I’ll make your life very, very difficult.”

The brunette is absolutely serious, and Harry doesn’t doubt for a second that she would follow up on her threat.

“I… will certainly keep your advice in mind.”

“Good. Now, do it again, from scratch. Harry James Potter, you are appearing today in front of the Wizengamot concerning…”

Chapter 21

The Trial

It’s Draco who tears him from his daydreaming about the past week by grabbing his water bottle and taking a drink from it.

“What do you think?” asks Harry, turning to the blonde for the first time since the session started. Draco looks back at him, eyes in eyes, and answers in a low, but clear voice:

“I think that if I could shag you right now I would.”

Harry feels himself blush, and checks quickly that no one is within hearing range, then answers:

“You’re welcome to do that later, but I’m afraid right now would ruin my ‘objective observer’ argument.”

Draco allows himself a small, controlled smile, and surveys the benches:

“It would, wouldn’t it. Well, I’ll have to take you up on your offer then, and postpone, though I would very much appreciate it if you were to do the shagging, this time around.”

And isn’t that a nice mental image, Draco naked, offering himself for the taking. Mouth a bit dry despite drinking all that water, Harry squeaks:

“Quite a motivation. Offer more, and I’ll get you acquitted of all charges next.”

Draco is resisting rolling his eyes, Harry can tell, showing nothing to any observer, but he adds, his voice considering:

“If that were true, and your rectitude were that cheap to buy, I don’t think I’d be inclined to.”

“That’s… a very Gryffindor thing to say, actually.”

This time, Draco does roll his eyes:

“Gryffindor doesn’t have the monopole of honour and all good values. It just so happens that they are extraordinarily stubborn about the way they go about upholding them.”

Harry’s about to argue, just as a reflex, when Draco adds:

“And anyway, the Sorting Hat offered me Gryffindor. Not that I could say yes.”

“The Sorting Hat… This is too funny.”

“What?”

“I was offered Slytherin.”

The two men look at each other, and Harry, for a second, considers how the past 10 years would have gone if he had been in Malfoy’s House, or if Draco had been in his.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” finally comments Draco, “You actually show quite the ambition in your stubbornness to do the right thing. You don’t just want to do the right thing, you want to be the best at doing the right thing. I bet you not only recycle in your house, but also compost and takes your old batteries to the recycling centre.”

It’s actually quite spot on, and Harry thinks about the competitiveness he’s been feeling to do better than his fellow Auror trainees, and how, indeed, it happens that he fishes out cardboard off the regular trash – Ron! – to put it in the recycling.

“Well, it probably took you tremendous courage to follow through on your father’s dream for you.”

Draco shakes his head:

“I was terrified the whole way. The Dark… Voldemort, he, well, had put quite a price on my failure.”

“Ha! Because you think I wasn’t afraid? You think I walked to my death, literally, and did it easily? The price on my failure was quite high too.”

Harry’s aware of the bitterness in his voice, and shuts up with a sigh, but when he looks up, Draco is already looking at him, realization on his face, and a bit of awe. Harry shrugs:

“We’re not so different,” he concludes, before getting up to use the restroom before the session starts again.

Notes:

Aaaand we are done with the courtroom flashbacks people. Btw, it's my first time trying something like that. Did it work?

Chapter 22

After the session is back on, it is negotiations there onwards. As Draco had foreseen, it was a good play to ask for more first, then to compromise down. As it is, Harry’s Boss, Savage, is even the one to offer magical practice with a wand under surveillance as a solution. What she offers furthermore is a surprise though:

“Actually, Auror Potter’s opening words were quite a revelation. He mentioned, I think, today being the opportunity to reform our penitentiary system. Now, I happen to have looked into other prisons in the world, especially magical ones, when the decision was made to not have dementors in Azkaban anymore. Well, I was most surprised to see that, in Finland, prisons are schools. In order to make sure that their prisoners have a role in society when their sentence is over, Finland has taken to teach its delinquents jobs.”

“But Mister Malfoy is not a prisoner!” protests a Wizard with an impressive moustache.

“Well, still, his sentence forces him to live and work in the Muggle world, and would be quite incapable to find a job among wizards after 20 years of, what, casting a few basic spells a week?”

“What do you propose, Head Auror Savage?” finally asks the Minister.

“How about a rotation of the prisoners in several Departments of the Ministry, until they find a spot that suits them and where, three times a week, for a couple hours, they can be useful?”

Shrewd, Harry thinks. The Ministry, after the terrible losses of two years ago, still has trouble filling all posts, which is the only reason for Harry’s own expedite promotion to full Auror rather than trainee. By offering free interns to the whole Ministry, Savage might just have won the case for them. Already, he can see some eyes sparkle at the idea.

“Well, this is actually a rather sound idea,” comments Shacklebot.

Percy, however, taps on his shoulder and whispers a few things in his ear, after which the Minister adds:

“And as the Senior Undersecretary reminds me, all labour deserves pay, as well as fair rights, so we will draw up an official status for these prisoners willing to work with the Ministry. How about converting some years of their sentence into community service? And remunerating at 80% of the standard salary for a level one Ministry employee?”

After that, the conversation devolve in administrative lingo, which Harry, despite having been one of these echelon one employee for two years now, still finds hard to follow, and boring to death. A few minutes later however, a raise in voices catches Harry’s attention back.

“… and why would my Department the first to take the hit? I don’t have time to train newbies, even less so criminal ones!”

It’s Moustache-Man who talked, and after thinking about it for a while, Harry remembers that he is in charge of the maintenance of the spells and detectors that ensure accordance to the International Status of Secrecy.

“I’ll take Malfoy!” shouts back Savage, and Kinglsey is once more forced to bring back the calm with knocks of his wand on the stand.

“Very well! Draco Lucius Malfoy is to be accompanied at all time while on the premises of the Ministry, and will be training under the tutelage of Head Auror Julie Savage for the month. In a month, we will meet again with a more defined plan for this interning prisoner scheme. I will be in touch with specific instructions for each department soon, as not all of us are present today.”

With those final words, the session is dismissed, and Harry, with his boss’s approval, is allowed to apparate Draco back home and to take the rest of the day off.

“We’ll talk about it more, Potter, but you did good today,” she says with a firm slap on the shoulder, before telling Malfoy she’ll owl soon and striding out towards the Auror Department.

Chapter 23

Aware that people are lingering to take a good look at them, maybe engage in further discussion, Harry hurries out of the court room as soon as his boss left, and walks as fast as he can towards the lobby and its apparating spots.

Firmly grabbing Draco – maybe hugging him a bit, but no one has time to tell as he spins and apparates them directly in Granny’s garden. There, finally alone, he kisses Draco soundly, a sentiment the blonde returns. At a loss for words, they just hug and kiss for a while, before stepping in the house.

Despite the fact that they are going to Granny’s home early, at barely 3pm, she is waiting for them in the living-room, immediately dropping her tools and running in the room when she hears them come in through the kitchen door.

“Oh my goodness, here they are! How did it go?! Are you okay, Drake?”

Draco smiles to his great aunt and hugs her before saying:

“Granny, Harry was fantastic. His speech worked perfectly. I get to have a wand again, and to use it three times a week while helping out at the Ministry.”

“Helping out at the Ministry?!”

Harry explains:

“It’s a community service type thing. Part of his sentence will be lifted in exchange.”

“And… And you’re happy?”

Draco laughs:

“Am I happy? I get to start building my life again, and with a job at the Ministry, no less!”

“But… What about your job at the garage?”

Granny looks dejected, and Harry realizes she must fear Draco moving out, abandoning her to what’s probably a lonely everyday life.

“Oh, Granny! You’re not going to get rid of me so easily. The thing at the Ministry is only 6 hours a week. I’ll keep working at the garage the rest of the time. You know I couldn’t abandon the guys.”

Granny rolls her eyes, in a manner eerily similar to Draco’s own, and Harry laughs.

“Anyway! Tonight, party time! I’ll owl my friends right away, and Pansy too, and we can all celebrate at my place.”

“You don’t want to do it here?” asks Draco.

“I doubt breaking the International Statute of Secrecy by having inebriated wizards in a Muggle home is a great idea. No, my place is better, as it is right now, you’re welcome to trash it.”

“Renovations?” asks Granny

“Of some sorts. Old wizard houses get grumpy, and stubborn.”

Then an idea hits Harry and he turns to Draco:

“But first, we should get you a new wand!”

The man’s face light ups, and Harry adds:

“If we leave now we can make it to Diagon Alley before Ollivander closes.”

A darker expression comes on Draco’s face and he sighs:

“I still owe him apologies, but I doubt he’ll agree to sell me a wand.”

Harry is taken back to the dark cell in the Manor’s basement and shivers at the memory.

“There’s only one way to know,” concludes Harry.

Chapter 24

Ollivanders has been renovated since it reopened after the battle of Hogwarts and Harry must admits that the shop has never looked so good. It’s still way to small, and awfully crowded, but there is not a speck of dust to be seen in the display window, and the name on the glass are a neat, clean gold. As they briefly stop on the doorstep, Harry can see Draco steeling himself for a painful conversation, brushing the robes he donned on for the first time in a while. When the man decidedly steps in, Harry realizes he would have indeed made a good Gryffindor.

The brunet follows in, and the jingle of the bell is answered by Ollivander’s voice from the backroom:

“My assistant will be in shortly!”

No sooner has he said the words that, ephemeral looking in the dim, cozy lights of the shop, Luna Lovegood steps in.

“Harry, Draco, I’m so glad to see you.”

She smiles and glides to Harry, embracing him for a while, before doing the same to Draco who, frozen, lets himself be hugged.

“I, er…” sputters the blonde, having no doubt not quite expected to meet another ex-prisoner of his basement.

“I thought you were still doing that internship in Italy?” asks Harry in an attempt to clear the awkwardness, but Luna goes on hugging Draco and says, in that soft way of hers:

“It’s quite alright, Draco. Everything happened for a reason, and we’re here now.”

Draco sags a little bit in Luna’s arms and, finally, returns her hug with an uneasy pat on her back. The woman only relents when Ollivander comes in, leaning on a cane and looking very much his venerable age.

“Ha, Mister Malfoy,” he says, and he looks resigned. “I have been expecting your visit.”

Draco is off-footed, that much is clear, and his face is showing all the surprise and discomfort he is feeling, before he manages to wrestle himself back in control.

“How?” he simply asks.

“Mrs Savage is an acquaintance of mine, and she owled earlier today. Now, if I remember well, your first wand was 10" long, hawthorn wood, unicorn hair core. Reasonably pliant, considering the wood. Luna, dear?”

Luna waves her own wand and a pile of boxes comes floating in seconds later from the back room. Mister Ollivander gestures for Draco to sit and he titters, uncertain, before obeying.

“I… Mister Ollivander…”

The old man tuts, Draco opens his mouth again, and finally Ollivander sighs and, turning his gaze to the man, says:

“I won’t accept your apology, Mister Malfoy, because you never did me harm when you could avoid it. Actually, I owe my continuing existence to the extra food you instructed your house-elves to bring me.”

Draco blushes violently at that.

“How did you…” he mutters before his voice tappers off into embarrassed silence.

“The house-elves were gracious enough to indulge in conversation when they weren’t too busy. I also owe you having met my successor,” says Ollivander, indicating Luna with a movement of his head.

“Nothing quite like a dark, damp basement to make you realize it might be time to retire, and we had ample time to talk in depth about wand making,” adds the old man, a bit rueful.

There’s a pause, and Draco breathes deeply before relaxing on his seat.

“Well, let’s try some wands, then,” he ends up saying.

“Good. I have a few candidates here, but let’s see how it goes.”

The wand-maker selects a box from the hovering pile, opens it, and hands it to Malfoy, but the second his hand touches it a small earthquake starts shaking the store. Harry whips out his own wand, ready to cast, before he realizes that the ground is steady, and that it is the wands in their boxes that are vibrating on the shelves.

With unexpected vivacity, Ollivander snatches the wand back and things quiet down.

“Hmm. How long since you last used magic?”

Malfoy glances at Harry, who answers for him:

“Outside of Accidental Magic, it’s been two years, give or take.”

The old man scrunches up his eyebrows:

“Oh, that won’t do. Any new wand would splinter under that kind of pressure.”

“But… I had never done magic when I got my first wand!” exclaims Harry.

Luna is the one to answer:

“New wands are like shy virgins, Harry. They take kindly to equally virgin powers, like that of an 11 years-old, or to experienced, gentlemanly powers. But right now Draco’s power is more like a young adult after a long abstinence: it wants it hard, fast, and now.”

There is along pause where the three men in the shop cautiously avoid looking at each other, or at Luna, before Mister Ollivander eventually clears his throat and says:

“Despite her disputable choice in metaphors,” Luna beams at the comment, Ollivander scowls, she shines even more, and he finishes: “my assistant is right. If you wish to acquire a wand tonight, Mister Malfoy, I’m afraid you’ll have to go with a second-hand one that has the capacity to handle your current predicament.”

Draco seems to hesitate, and Harry jumps in:

“Will the wand still match Draco once I’ll be back to using his magic regularly?”

Ollivander smiles at that:

“Of course! Mister Malfoy’s power might be… eager, right now, but it doesn’t affect its nature, and that what the wand chooses.”

“Let’s try it then,” concedes Draco.

Luna sets down the pre-selected wands on the floor, in a corner, and then follows Ollivander while he takes a slow walk around the shop, muttering to himself as he marks this or that box, for Luna to pull off the shelf. With a pang of pity, Harry realizes that the old man had not once used magic himself, probably a consequence of the dark magic used against him, and Malfoy must come to the same conclusion judging by the guilt on his face. When the wand-maker returns to them, Draco has schooled his expression, and only shows polite interest, which quickly morphs into excitement when the wand he is handed doesn’t explode, nor makes the place quake.

But the wand, even after having been shaken, does not react at all, and Ollivander quickly switches it for another. Nothing happens.

The next one sputters three meagre sparks.

Nothing on the next.

A bit of mist shows with the next, which delights Draco, but Ollivander is still unsatisfied, and pauses to think for a while, before turning to Luna.

“What do you think?” he asks.

The witch absent-mindedly twirls a lock of blonde hair around a finger as she ponders her answer, before disappearing in the back room without a word. She comes back seconds later, a mysterious smile on her face, and hands the wand to Ollivander for inspection. The wizard frowns, and asks her:

“Are you quite sure?”

She nods, and Ollivander hands the wand to Draco, who hesitantly takes it. Joy blooms on his face, and everybody in the room new that this is it, but still Draco slices the air, and a firework of purple, silver, and blue sparks detonates, fizzling harmlessly as it showers the four people present.

Luna squeals excitedly and claps her hands:

“I knew it!”

Mister Ollivander’s frown has not completely subdued, and Draco asks:

“What’s special about this wand?”

“12 inches, holly wood, unicorn core, supple, perfect for detailed spell work, and Luna Lovegood’s first complete wand.”

The witch in question claps again, and explains:

“See, I submitted it to my exam, so it has been used for a lot of different spells, basic and complex both. That’s how they check you’re ready to get your license. But, because it’s only been held by wizards who already had a wand of their own, it also hadn’t bonded yet.”

“Yet?!”

Luna giggles:

“It chose you. No coming back now.”

“You don’t want to keep it?”

Luna shrugs:

“And having it gather dust? I’d rather someone I like use it.”

“I… You like me.”

Draco looks stunned, and Luna kneels by his low stool, and hugs him.

“Of course. Harry likes you, so I like you too.”

Harry feels himself blush a bit at that, and is happy for Ollivander’s interruption when he makes his way to the narrow counter, and rings up the wand.

“That will be one knut, Mister Malfoy.”

“One knut? That can’t be right!” exclaims the blonde wizard, still gripping his new wand tightly.

“Well, as this is not a wand made by an accredited wand-maker, I was not supposed to sell it in the first place. But it is now bonded to you, so a symbolic price of one knut will have to do.”

The old man shakes his head, but the smile he shoots at Luna is fond rather than annoyed. Draco steps to the counter and looks through the pockets of his robe for his wallet, but only pulls out pounds from it, and, helpless, turns to Harry:

“We forgot to stop by Gringotts…”

In his hurry to get there before closing, Harry has not thought about the fact that Draco might not have wizard money lying around anymore. Looking in his own pockets, Harry produces a handful of change, and hands Ollivander one knut.

“I’ll reimburse you,” says Draco.

Harry laughs:

“For one knut, I really don’t think you have to.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Ollivander hands Harry his receipt, which in turn he gives to Draco, and after quick goodbyes – the old wizard seems quite happy to get rid of them, which Harry can understand since they kept the shop open an extra half-hour – Harry and Draco are in the street.

Chapter 25

As they exit Ollivander’s store, Harry unceremoniously grabs Draco’s arm and Side-Along them to Grimmauld Place’s doorstep. With a squeak, Draco grips Harry’s arm to keep himself from stumbling, but already Harry is opening the door and rushing in, yells:

“Paaaarty time!”

Shouts from various areas of the house answer him, and Harry pushes Malfoy into a vast room that looks more like a Hogwart common room than a living-room, save that no specific House colours are represented. Various people are already milling about, sitting on couches or walking around with drinks, but everybody soon crowds them, asking to see Draco’s wand, or congratulating them. Malfoy looks stunned and

“Harry… Why are all these people here?”

Harry glances about the room

“Well, most of them live there, or date someone who lives here. And then, I told Ron to organize the party, and he told George, and things got out of hand?”

George slaps Harry on the back:

“Well, how could we not celebrate your first successful mission as an Auror!”

Harry scowls at that:

“But, it’s a party for Draco being allowed to do magic again!”

“That too,” easily agrees the redhead, shrugging. “I invited a bunch of Slytherins, the respectable ones anyway.”

Malfoy is already stepping back, and looks ready to flee, when Pansy makes an apparition, Zabini in her wake.

“Draco!” she shouts, before throwing herself at the wizard, hugging him. Zabini is a little less effusive in his affection, but Harry can see Draco relaxing a fraction, and after Harry catches her eye, Hermione also makes her way through the room to come congratulate them.

The party is a tad awkward at first, Draco unable to stop making apologies every time he meets someone he hurt back at Hogwarts and hasn’t seen since then, but Hermione has done a good job at briefing everybody about the situation, probably aided by Pansy’s promise of retaliations, because they all gracefully take it in stride, make some apologies of their own, and move on to catching Draco up on Quidditch, Ministry politics, or their careers. Alcohol is flowing, which helps too, and, two glasses and some food later, Harry wanders back into the living-room from the kitchen to find Neville and Draco discussing passionately about the properties of aconite in potion-making.

He’s still watching them when Charlie suddenly whispers in his ear:

“Pretty good-looking bloke.”

Harry jumps a bit, and squeals:

“What?”

“Great arse, too.”

Harry sighs. Spending summers at the Burrow playing Quidditch with a shirtless Charlie might have been instrumental in Harry’s realization of his own inclinations towards both genders, and Charlie, similarly inclined and far from blind, had sit Harry down for a heart to heart, and while not interested in Harry, had self-appointed himself wingman and confidante. Seeing how Ron was rubbish at it, as was Hermione, Harry had let him.

“You should see the rest of him,” eventually confesses Harry.

Charlie whistles approvingly:

“Already shagged him, heh?”

Harry hums non-committingly.

“Anything more serious than that?”

Harry glances at Charlie, but the man’s face is neutral.

“It might.”

“Don’t forget to tell him that, then.”

And with a pat on Harry’s shoulder, Charlie ambles away to go talk with Luna, who just showed up. Harry piles some food on a plate and heads for Draco and Neville, who have been joined by Dean.

“… and then he was so covered in mud Savage had him go through Decontamination!”

Neville and Draco burst into laughter, and Harry, fairly sure what embarrassing trainee story Dean just told, hands Draco the plate of food before pulling a stool closer and saying:

“Well, at least I didn’t back down and run away like a coward when that pig charged.”

Dean shakes his head:

“Only an idiot would try to wrestle a pig though.”

“And how were you planning on getting back the magic collar on it? I least I got the job done.”

“Speaking of job done, congrats on your first case, mate!” Dean shakes Harry’s shoulder, magnanimously letting the previous subject drop. Harry sips at his tumbler of whiskey and takes the compliment, though he adds that Hermione helped quite a lot.

A bit later, people move to the drawing room, which is currently empty but for a radio on the windowsill. In the dim light from a half broken chandelier, people are dancing to the latest wizard rock hits. Harry takes that opportunity to take empty bottles to the kitchen in the basement, where he finds Draco putting some water on his face.

“Everything ok?”

Draco smiles, wiping his face and hands with a kitchen towel.

“I’m good, just… I haven’t had that much alcohol in a while and… It’s a lot of people.”

Harry chuckles:

“This place feels like a hotel at times. I’ve never quite sure how many people live there at a given time.”

“Who does live here right now?”

“Let’s see… Hermione, Ron, George, and Neville are the most permanent. Ginny in the off-season, which mean Oliver stays over more often than not. Angelina is there quite often too. Charlie, when he visits. Dean and I often study together late into the night, so the guest room on the last floor pretty much is his at this point. I’m expecting Luna to move back in at some point. I hadn’t known she’s been back, she’s not very good at sending owls. She’s probably been staying with Hannah for now, but Hannah’s flat is tiny and Neville has been spending nights there lately.”

“Is… Is everybody dating someone?”

Harry shrugged:

“More often than not. And even if it’s just friends, we hang out together a lot. We do movie nights. Seamus and Ernie like to show up unannounced for a drink and a game of Exploding Snap. It’s… It’s companionship, you know. We’re all still struggling with the War, and so we check on each other, make sure everybody’s ok. And this house is the safest place there is, so people like to come here.”

There’s a silence, and Harry feels weird: Draco hasn’t had that for the past years, and psychotherapy or not, he’s dealt with his demons alone, for the most part.

“Oh, come on, Potter. Spare me the pity. Pansy and Blaise visited, it wasn’t all that bad. And I needed the space.”

Harry nodded.

“Well, you’re welcome here anytime. Pansy and Blaise too.”

Draco thinks for a long time, and finally says:

“I might take you up on that offer. I can’t perform magic outside of the Ministry after all, so I’ll need a place to stay in London part of the week.

Harry grins widely:

“I hoped you’d say that! Now let’s see what the others are getting into.”

When they go back up, the ground floor is shaking with the music from the drawing room, and from the stomping of dancing wizards & witches. To Harry’s surprise, Draco barely hesitates between joining the throng, and what a contrast he offers between his aloof, controlled pure-blood self at the hearing and the goofy, Muggle-clothes wearing dancer he is now, unselfconscious about his hair escaping his bun and flying in his face. Draco catches his eyes, and waves him in. Harry is a terrible dancer, but the room is dark, and full of non-judgemental friends, some of which are even worse dancers, so Harry pulls off his sweater and lets the music carry him.

 

Someone’s charmed the broken chandelier to act as a disco ball. Harry suspects Dean.

 

Charlie hands him a drink, and tells him to go dance with Draco or he’ll go himself.

 

Harry dances with Draco, and if they’re close enough for body parts to rub, well, it’s a crowded room.

 

Draco’s shirtless, and Harry feels really hot, so he takes his own shirt off too.

 

Neville twirls Hannah, then lifts her and twirls her again. Everybody cheers, and the dancing gets even madder.

 

Harry is taking a leak, and needs to do so sitting as the world seriously spins. He might have drunk more than reasonable for a weeknight… What time is it anyway?

 

Ron almost breaks the door to the loo down in his urge to get to the toilet, where he starts puking copiously. Harry asks Hermione what time it is. One am, she says, before stepping past him to go help Ron.

 

Harry attempts to shoo people out in vain. Instead, they lure him in for more dancing.

 

Strobe lights, gyrating bodies.

 

Harry bumps into Draco, who’s very dishevelled now and yells something about water. They get to the first floor, but it’s busy, so they climb one more set of stairs to the second floor.

 

Harry’s sitting on the closed toilet, head tipped back against the wall, as Draco gulps down some water directly from the faucet.

 

“Hey, Potter! Don’t fall asleep here. Where’s your bedroom?” To be honest, Harry isn’t sure anymore.

Chapter 26

Notes:

Hello all, I edited a few chapters, and added in a missing part, so it might worth to re-read starting at chapter 14.
Cheers!

“Harry, Harry! Get up! We’re late!”

Harry tries to open his eyes and closes them back immediately and groans, pain blooming behind his temples and nausea wracking his stomach.

A rough voice located somewhere beside him grumbles:

“Shut up, Dean.”

“Oh great, you’re here too Malfoy. Here, drink this.”

A minute later, a small round vial is pushed in Harry hand, and he’d recognize that shape everywhere: Hangover Cure.

There’s some sound of rustling sheet, but Harry’s focused on uncapping and drinking the antidote without having to open his eyes, so it’s only when it starts taking effect that he realizes that he’s in bed. With Draco Malfoy. And that Dean just walked in on them. His eyes fly open and he groans in relief: he’s still fully clothed from last night, as is Draco. They apparently just blacked out in one of the guest rooms.

“Harry, great, let’s go. It’s 7:45.”

Harry jumps out of bed, hesitates at the door, turns back to Draco, but the man waves him away.

“I’ll figure it out Potter, go to work.”

No need to tell him twice: Harry rushes after Dean, and in record time they are on the doorstep, appariting to the ministry. Harry is stepping off the apparition point, Dean and him are casting a few cleaning and ironing spells on themselves in the hopes of looking a tad more presentable when they see Head Auror Savage wave Harry over from the other side of the Atrium.

“Shit,” he says.

“You better go,” says Dean “I’ll cast on you as you walk. Hopefully we’re too far for her to see.”

Harry, grateful, pats Dean on the back and makes his way as slowly as possible across the atrium, feeling as he walk the gentle touch of magic straightening his tie, brushing his hair, freshening his breath, and even cleaning his glasses.

Despite that, he must still look quite rumpled, and there’s not much to do for the bags under his eyes, because Head Auror Savage eyes him and asks with a the hint of a smile:

“Partied late into the night, Auror Potter?”

Potter evades the question with a strangled chuckle and passes his hand through his hair. His dress shirt suddenly tucks itself in his pants and Harry, surprised, flinches. Savage glances past him and, when Harry turns around to follow her gaze, Dean is doing a shit job at looking innocent, standing like an idiot two steps away from the Apparition Point.

Thankfully, Savage’s voice is light and amused when she says:

“You have precious friends, Potter, take care to always treat them right. Now, let’s walk together. There are a few things I’d like to go over and schedule.”

They start making their way towards the elevators, and from there to the Auror Department. Savage fills him in on some paperwork still needed to fully close his case, and on the program of the week for their unit.

“You lot are still quite blue, so we will have regular training sessions in the mornings before dispatching cases. Don’t expect anything too exciting either. Boring field work and research.”

Harry nods, serious, though he knows the pitch already: that’s what his unit has been doing for the past few weeks since their promotion to Junior Aurors.

“I’m telling you this early, though I’ll repeat it at the staff meeting, because your case is special: I have assigned you our new intern, Draco Malfoy. I have a feeling he won’t resent having to follow you around for the next month, not with how you saved his life, and I’m sure you’ll find duelling together a good way to work out some past enmities.”

Savage has this twinkle in her eyes that informs Harry that she knows more than she lets on, or has ulterior motives, but after two years training under her, he knows that trying to guess what they are is pointless.

“Now, Auror Potter, go get some coffee, and don’t forget to drink plenty of water. Hangover Cure only does so much. And put some robes on.”

She turns around at that, leaving him in front of the break room, heading into another hallway, and Harry is pretty sure he hears her chuckle as she turns the corner. He usually chooses tea over coffee, but this morning that might be what he needs.

Chapter 27

At the team meeting brief, later that day, Harry and Dean are both a bit more awake, caffeinated, and Auror Sauvage explains a bit more how Draco Malfoy’s “intership” will unfold. At first, the convict will attend training three times a week, along with the rest of the Junior Auror teams. After a couple weeks – and a interview by management to check on Draco’s intentions going forward, since he is after all an ex-Death Eater – the intern might also be allowed to assist the Junior Aurors in their other tasks, mainly research or surveillance for small cases.

 

At first, Dean gripes a bit about the set back, but Harry gives him an abridged version of his impassioned speech of the day before, and he relents. On Harry’s end, even if having Draco along with him for a month means he gets pulled off from the sensitive cases he’s currently observing to get his feet wet, and put instead on some honestly boring ones, he can’t find it in himself to mind.

Maybe that has to do with the fact that Draco has gratefully accepted Harry’s invitation to stay over at Grimmauld Place when he’s in London. Maybe it has to do with the fact that Harry envisions a lot of shagging in his near future, and the opportunity to bask in Draco’s sass.

Just maybe.

 

Though it doesn’t quite unfolds like Harry has dreamed it, Draco waiting for Harry, and them kissing as soon as he passes the door.

Actually, when Harry comes home from work, Draco does not seem to be around, though Ron is, helping Luna bring in some trunks.

“Moving back in?” Harry asks, a bit bothered that she didn’t even ask him first, but having expected it.

“Mr. Ollivander’s back room has a Bruttille invasion underway, but they’re good for the wands so…”

Ron rolls his eyes and Harry smiles.

“Well, we missed you. Kreature?”

The elf pops out of thin hair.

“Master Harry?”

Harry sighs, but doesn’t correct him on the title: it’s a lost cause.

“Do you have time to help Luna settle back in? What rooms do we have available?”

Kreature’s eyes look faraway for a second as he consults his mental list of rooms and occupants – the elf is the only one who truly knows what’s going on at Grimmauld Place.

“Would the Carmine Room do?”

“Didn’t she have the Bowtruckle Room before?”

“Mr. Malfoy has requested it…”

“Uh. Well. Carmine Room it is then, unless you mind, Luna?”

“No, not at all,” answers the woman, one of her ethereal smile growing on her face.

Once Kreature and Luna have disappeared up the stairs, Kreature levitating the trunks to follow them, Ron elbows Harry and whispers-yells:

“He picked the Bowtruckle Room, heh? I wonder why that is…”

Harry frowns, failing to see the link, and Ron chuckles:

“This is the room straight above yours. A bit of magic, and you’ll have a nice little love pad.”

“I… We’re not…”

“Not there yet? I’ll bet you the house rearranges it for you within a fortnight.”

“Oh Merlin. I forgot about that.”

Grimmauld place, as magical a house as can be, has a tendency to follow its master’s wishes, even the unspoken ones, but in a sometime tricky way, like when Harry, after lamenting the fact that the walls were way too thin, and that there were way to many couples staying over, inadvertently soundproofed every single room, to the point that you wouldn’t be able to hear anything from one room to the next, even when standing across an open threshold.

Thankfully, some acquaintances of Arthur at the Ministry had been able to lend a hand, and had helped with removing a few more of the cursed objects lying everywhere around. They had mentioned that, as the house would get used to being owned by Harry, it would slowly transform to fit his tastes, or let itself be painted over and redecorated.

Even Kreature is sensitive to that phenomenon, because he is bound to the house and now to Harry: he doesn’t struggle to keep every piece of memorabilia anymore, and doesn’t live in the past so much, a process helped by the fact that the house is full of life again, and that Kreature has a lot to attend to, though Harry reminds his guests often that they are in charge of their own food and laundry.

 

Harry is puttering about the house, trying to get the tea cups in the Study Room to stop biting every time they are handled, when Kreature pops into the room:

“Mr. Malfoy is asking for you, Master Harry.”

Harry smiles distracted, and makes to get up, and the teapot seizes the opportunity to attach itself to his arm. Harry is swearing up a storm, trying to hex off the damn thing, when three people burst into the room in short succession: Ron & Hermione first, from their room on the same floor, followed by Draco who thundered up the stairs. It’s Kreature who gets to Harry first though, and the elf, pointing at the teapot, sternly declares:

“Bad teapot!”

The teapot shatters, finally letting go of Harry’s arm, which bleeds freely, the porcelain having left neat, sharp teeth marks.

“And bad cups too!” adds Kreature, pointing at the cups who were trembling on their platter, ready to jump at Harry.

The teacups also spontaneously break.

Hermione, who darted out of the room, comes back with her medical kit, and starts spelling the injury away, pulling out of her bag a slave Harry recognizes all to well: it insures there is no lasting damage from curse-based injuries.

“Well, you weren’t joking about the cursed items… Why didn’t you get the Ministry to take care of these for you?”

That’s Draco, standing by the door, his arms crossed, a tight smile playing on his face.

Harry smiles back, the pain receding with Hermione’s care, and his heart warmed by his friends – and Draco – having run to his help.

“I wanted to try and break the curse myself as training for work.”

“Sorry Master…”

Kreature looks a bit weird, and keeps glancing at the broken china, and Harry kneels to meet his eyes:

“That’s fine Kreature. Thank you for rescuing me. I know you were attached to this set, I’m sorry I wasn’t able to remove the curse.”

Kreature’s face gets even weirder, and he mumbles:

“Dobby was right, Master Harry, you’re too kind. They were just… memories.”

That’s when Draco clears his throat noisily:

“As much as I hate interrupting such a touching scene, you know that you are wizards, right? Now that Kreature broke the curse, those pieces are plain porcelain.”

Harry is glancing at Hermione, thinking through what he knows about curses, but Ron has none of their hesitation and directs a resonant reparo to the floor.

There’s a cracking sound, and smoke billows from the broken china. Harry, his wand in hand, has spelled a quick shield over himself, Hermione, Kreature, and Ron, but Draco was too far, and the smoke keeps him from seeing clearly.

“Hermione, cast a globe shield, Ron, get the smoke out, I need to find Draco!”

He doesn’t wait to jump out of his own protective sphere, and shapes the spell to protect only himself as soon as he hears Hermione’s voice utters protego. The windows clang open and, squinting through the smoke, Harry heads for the door, which is closed. Harry sneaks out, letting as little smoke as possible escape, and is yelling Draco’s name on the landing, wondering if he should explore up or down, when Dean appears from the ground floor, breathing fast as he runs up his second flight of stairs.

“Draco told me something’s going on in the study?”

“I’m good, go help Ron, Hermione, and Kreature. Where’s Draco?”

“Kitchen maybe? He looked shook.”

Harry frowns and heads downstairs as Dean spells himself with a protego and barges into the study.

Eventually, after exploring various rooms and finding them empty, Harry finds Draco in the small garden, which, since Neville has been spending for time at Hannah’s, is getting overgrown. Draco is kneeling on the ground, with no care for his nicely tailored slacks, the sleeves of his button shirt rolled up, and he is methodically pulling out weeds.

“Hey,” says Harry.

Draco spares him a glance, his expression neutral, and returns to his task.

“Are you hurt?” asks Harry, though Draco looks fine.

The blond shakes his head negatively.

“I’m fine,” tries Harry again, crouching next to Draco.

“Good for you.”

It’s meant to be cutting, but Harry doesn’t take offense.

“What’s up? Talk to me.”

“I’m fine.”

“Clearly… You’ve always had such a deep passion for gardening, never could keep yourself from dirtying your hands.”

Harry puts as much sarcasm as he can in there, taking a page from Draco’s own book by adding an incredulous raised eyebrow.

“What was that, Potter?”

“My best Malfoy imitation?”

“You look like an idiot.”

“That only means it’s good.”

Finally, the blond gives up on his task, opting to look scandalized instead, and shoves Harry. The brunet, having seen it coming from a mile away, lets himself be pushed to the ground, though he grabs Draco on the way, using the way the blond is unbalanced by the lack of resistance to pull him on top of himself. A furious mix of a tickling match mixed with some wrestling moves ensues, until Draco, stuck in a neat headlock and squirming from Harry’s other hand ghosting over his side, cries out:

“Ok, ok, I give up!”

Harry immediately releases him, and they sit on the grass side by side, leaning back on their elbows, legs extended, catching their breath.

“Will you tell me what’s bothering you, then?”

Draco groans.

“Merlin, how did they make you an Auror, you have the subtlety of a grand piano falling from the top of the Big Ben.”

Harry smiles:

“No doubt my admirable persistence played a role. Come on, tell me. Is it because you suggested the repair, and it turned bad?”

“No… Well, yes, but mostly, it’s because I’m… I’m useless.”

“What do you mean…”

Draco interrupts him with a vague gesture, moving to sit cross-legged, studiously looking at the ground as he starts nervously picking blades of grass and ripping them apart.

“Ronald spelled the cups, and whatever happened, I could do nothing about. I reached for my wand…” Draco lets out an ugly, humourless chuckle and continues:

“I haven’t lost the habit, it seems. I thought that… after years repairing muggle cars, using my hands, it feels… it feels hopeless, and a bit too close to the way I felt…”

Draco gives up on the shredded grass and gestures vaguely, gaze faraway, and Harry doesn’t need him to finish the sentence.

“You’re not useless, Draco. The simple fact that you would run into danger, especially without a wand, for me… I… That’s… Thank you.”

Draco’s eyes snap to Harry’s, and they stare at each other for a moment, and Harry is not sure what goes through Draco’s head, but his is full of the impulse to kiss him, gratitude mixed with the need to demonstrate that, at least in Harry’s eyes, Draco is more than worthy, somebody Harry never thought he would get to kiss and hold. Harry’s eyes drop to Draco’s lips, and he doesn’t miss the small smirk there, even as he forces his gaze back up.

“Here I am, pouring my heart out, and all you can think about is snogging me.”

And there is it, the one raised, mocking eyebrow, perfectly controlled.

Harry sighs:

“You’re such a git, I wonder why I do.”

Draco is smiling more openly now, and breathing in to no-doubt deliver a brilliant retort, but Harry, with a smoothness born of training, rolls over, on top of him, knees bracketing the thin body underneath, and as the blond gasps, surprised, Harry leans down and nuzzles him, kissing his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt, his neck, his jaw, and only when he does not get pushed away making his way to lips that part welcomingly under his, while long-fingered hands grab at Harry’s back, scrambling for purchase or trying to bring the brunet lower, Harry cannot say.

Their glorious snogging is interrupted when a window clangs open and Dean shouts down at them:

“Oi, Auror Potter! Bring your ass back up here, there’s an evil tea set to contain!”

Harry leans back, sitting right across Draco’s middle, the blond sighing at the weight in a way that is too close to a moan to truly sound put upon, as it was no doubt intended. Harry places his hands around his mouth, and yells back:

“You’re an Auror too, Dean!”

“Yeah, and it’s a two-auror job!”

Dean sounds a bit harried, and there’s still smoke pouring out the window. Harry sighs and dives in for a peck, which Draco smiles through, before getting up, brushing the grass off his pants.

“Care to give your opinion on the matter of Cassiopeia Black’s tea set?”

“I thought you’d never ask…” drawled the blond, a half-smile on his face.

Chapter 28

Draco is holding a wand, and he’s allowed to practice magic in the first time for years, and yet, all he can do is hold it loosely, and gape. Harry Potter is magnificent. There’s really no other way to qualify how he smoothly mixes physical punches and kicks with spell casting, his wand an extension of himself as he whirls, dodging and parrying no less than three other aurors’ attacks like he is merely making his way through a crowded platform on the morning Tube. Eventually, a particularly vicious expelliarmus breaks his shield, and Harry’s wand goes flying, but he still resists a full 30 seconds before he hits the limits of his wandless abilities, a petrificus totalus felling him to the mat.

Draco has the stupid impulse to clap, having witness an incredible feat, but no one else in the room pays Harry any special attention. Dean Thomas unbinds him and their coach goes over the session, commenting on this and that, before the next group steps forward, an Auror pair against another.

Harry makes his way to Draco and leans in, whispering in his ear:

“Impatient to go up, or terrified?”

Draco shrugs, keeping his face carefully neutral, but whispers back, far from earshot:

“I won’t last ten seconds.”

Harry bumps his shoulder:

“Don’t sell yourself short. They’ve put you against the weakest team, not realizing you have a lot of power banked up, itching to be used. You’ll be fine.”

“There’s a ranking?”

Harry hums, momentarily distracted by the action, a bright spell having ricocheted on a shield and hit the caster’s partner. Draco repeats his question, and Harry nods yes.

“Are you on top?” teases Draco.

Harry shakes his head no:

“Senior Auror Sheffield is. I’m 4^th. But I’m top Junior Auror.”

There’s a bit of pride, fighting with embarrassment, in Harry’s voice, and Draco can’t help but find it endearing.

“Maybe you should give me private lessons…”

Harry turns away from the duelling, playfulness at the corners of his lips and eyes, and he looks Draco in the eyes as he answers:

“I’d love nothing more. Maybe we can stick around for a bit after training…”

It’s that tentative promise, and nothing else, that bolsters Draco when his name gets called to duel against Junior Auror McCool, a witch who barely looks 18. She nods at him, stiff and clearly unhappy with having been designated to fight him, but Draco nonetheless observes the duelling code to the letter, walking the right number of steps, and bowing low, unwilling to give the judgemental gazes in the audience any fodder.

Then, all bets are off. Focusing on the sensation of the new, eager wand in his hand, he calls back to himself the training he has received, in and out of Hogwarts. He lets his opponent attack first, and when she throws a Bat-Bogey Hex his way, testing the water, he deflects with a quick protego.

Well.

He tries to, in any case.

Leaping to the command, his magic not only deflects the offending spell, but also, with a resonant series of booms, creates four shields stacked around Draco, Russian-doll-like, plus one protecting the audience behind him, and a last bubble neatly bundling Harry away where he stands, in front to the left of Draco.

Ignoring the exclamations from the crowd, followed by murmurs and giggles, Draco proceeds to counter attack, Auror McCool having only stumbled at the multiple shields, and having already taken one down with a quick-fire series of varied jinxes. Draco aims a rictusempra at her, electing something harmless should its effects be multiplied, and he feels his magic flow in a rush, the simple charm struggling a second, but eventually tearing through the woman’s shield as he pours more of his power into it. The auror manages to duck and roll, and Draco, unwilling to stop the elation from releasing his magic, lets her find her feet again before he throws another spell at her. This is a first for Draco, being able to control his magic like a raw material, dosing how much to expand – his magic had always felt intrinsically part of him before, but now it is both him, and something slightly foreign, a vast pool that can be somewhat shaped. The auror manages to deflect his next two attacks, breaking another one of his bubble shields in the process, but Draco nonchalantly renews the protego spell, his will a little sharper, managing this time to only shield himself, though several shields pop up again, making him not as mobile as he’d like. Having realized that his magic answers his intent better than the letter of the casting at the moment, Draco focuses his mind on getting his shields to contract, and after a bit of resistance, they comply, suddenly layered in a thick second skin that covers him fully.

This is novel. This is exciting.

Draco forgets about the audience. He almost forgets about Auror McCool, taken by that unexpected control. Draco shouts “Avis!” a first time, and a dozen robins spring from his wand. Unconcerned when a spell hits him, some of the birds and one of his armours taking the hit, the blond casts avis again, and this time he gets his mind to cycle through all the birds he knows, and here they all are, pouring from his wand without pause, without strain on his seemingly infinite power: flamingos first, then hummingbirds, five different types of owls, anything from you cute garden sparrow to your boring pigeon, with a detour via some exotic parrots and cockatoos. Canaries are next, and a half-dozen vicious crows, which join the swans, mallard ducks, and geese in attacking Auror McCool, who can’t disappear them fast enough, trying to keep up with Draco’s flying bestiary. And Draco is laughing, how can he help it, his grandmother loved birds, had a greenhouse full of exotic ones, and would point wild ones to him on walks in the woods: the flamboyant cardinal, the turtle dove, the black woodpecker and the white-backed one, a couple warblers, the odd heron, the colourful king fisher and blue tit, the regal hawk, and the thieving magpie. Running out of ideas, Draco eventually lets a few hens & chickens, and the one puffin, grow the ranks of his feathered army. The birds of all feathers overwhelm Draco’s unfortunate opponent. She is still casting them away as quick as she can, but the flying tornado is closing in, and that gives Draco time to try one more thing, as the absurd idea comes into his mind:

“Avis,” announces the blond, with a flourish of his wand that brings it high in the air as an ostrich, in an impossible display of magic, bursts out of his wand and reaches for the ground on two spindly legs, little disturbed to be there, and, with a running start, chases Auror McCool around the mat. The woman is still valiantly reversing Draco’s spells, her left arm protecting her face while she casts with the right, running all the while in circles, but the peels of laughter that take her anytime she spots a new species of bird or glances at the determined ostrich, are making it harder and harder to keep the birds away, and eventually she shouts, mirth in her voice:

“I give up, I give up, call them back!”

Draco breathes in, visualizing the whole area of the mat, and the birds in the air and on the ground, as he points his wand straight up:

“Finite incantatem!”

It’s like a net, expanding from his wand, up and then wide. Every bird it catches puffes out into nothingness with the silly sound of a balloon emptying. It takes a whole minute, but Draco gets them all, repeating the counter charm a couple times to catch stragglers having soared high to the ceiling of the room.

“Well…”

That’s the coach, looking at Draco with a confused smile.

“Highly unexpected, but that’s good, keeps your enemies on his toes. A couple binding spells or disarming spells while McCool was distracted by the birds would have been tactically perfect, but Mr. Malfoy is not, after all, actually training to be an auror.”

Draco resists showing embarrassment, having forgot halfway through that he was supposed to defeat his opponent, but he spies, with prideful joy, begrudging respect and even some jealousy, on the face of the Junior Aurors gathered to train.

Chapter 29

The rest of training has Draco being put in a corner to practice spells of his choice while the Aurors focus on actual drills, repeating attacks and parry under the coach’s vigilant eye. Draco would feel offended, but it makes a lot of sense to not want an ex Death Eater, and a criminal still serving a sentence, learn & practice the subtleties of offensive magic. He is content to test the limits of his newfound control, trying for precision over raw power, and then for both combined. Overall, especially once he exhausts most of the accumulated power, he realizes that his strength is much the same as it was two years ago. His awareness of it is accrued, however, and allows for a depth of control he has never experienced before. His mind and body remember by rote the words and gestures of the spells, despite the lack of practise, but he can now imbue them of more meaning, choosing if he transfigures a bludger into a cup to make the it fine china with delicate lilac blooms, or rugged earthenware with celadon glaze.

When the training lets out for lunch, Harry joins Draco and lets him know he got the authorization for them to use the training room a bit longer, provided Draco would not practice offensive magic.

“Actually… I was wondering…”

Draco glances up at Harry’s open, waiting face, and gets out the rest of his question:

“Would you teach me how to cast a Patronus?”

Harry smiles, and answers, softly:

“Of course.”

Harry explains the theory: the right wand movement, the inflection of the voice, the holding of a happy memory in your mind, and demonstrates himself, sending his silver stag galloping around the room. Draco breathes deeply, focusing on his 10^th birthday, right before leaving for Hogwarts: he got a broom from his father, a Nimbus 2001 that was not even out yet, and his mother said they would go shopping together for books and robes, just the two of them. She added with a wink and a whisper that they would stop for ice-cream at Fortescue’s, something his father disapproved off. Everything was perfect then: Hogwarts was this promise of making new friends, and learning more magic, his parents loved him, he had all he wanted within easy reach. Holding that feeling in his mind, Draco says “Expecto Patronum!” but only a thin silver mist escapes his wand, and as the memory of Harry refusing to shake his hand at Madam Malkin’s Robes For All Occasions comes to his mind unbidden, the mist dissipates and the spell sputters off.

Draco shakes his head, dismissing the memory, and focusing instead on Harry’s current smile.

“The wrist movement was perfect, and that mist is promising,” comments the brunet. “Try again.”

So Draco tries again, picking another memory: receiving his Hogwarts letter. It fails as well. The letter had been expected, and while source of joy, it had also come with a lecture from his father on the expectations of excellence all Malfoys had to meet. Draco works his way through time, but most of his “happy” memories from Hogwarts are linked with successfully bullying other kids, or getting good grades from Snape, which he isn’t sure anymore had been always deserved.

He skips altogether his last years at Hogwarts.

Memories from being welcomed by Granny, and taught how to repair cars, yield a bit more success, but Draco still seems unable to move past a thick silver mist. After a couple more attempts using the memory of his first full car repair, all by hand, Draco swears, something very impolite the guys at the garage had taught him along with car mechanics, and he lets himself fall heavily to the ground, lying down on the mat.

“I swear, I’ve been happy before,” he grumbles, “why isn’t it working?”

Harry sits besides him, silent for a while, and when Draco turns to him, he looks lost in his thoughts, brows furrowed.

“It didn’t come to me immediately either, you know,” eventually says Harry.

Draco hums, and rolls to his side to look at Harry, showing he’s listening, prompting him to continue.

“My first corporeal Patronus, well, we both remember it, but I had just won the game, and there wasn’t any actual dementors around.”

Draco kind of chuckles, and admits easily:

“I’m an asshole, that is well-established, thank you Potter.”

Harry shakes his head, a smile on his face, before becoming serious again:

“What did it for me, more than any memory, was the certainty that I could – it’s a bit of a story, and it involves one of Hermione’s secret, so you’ll have to ask her for it, but I just knew I could do it, so I did.”

“So I need to be more confident?”

“Well, it probably can’t hurt, but what I’m trying to say is that different things work for different people. If the past is not doing it for you, then find something else that makes you happy to focus on.”

Harry meets his eyes at that, a soft smile on his face, and Draco has no idea where they are going with this, with the changed relationship between them, but it’s good, it’s something he can find anticipatory joy in. Holding Harry’s gaze still, Draco casts with his free hand, a whispered Expecto Patronum that he doesn’t even look at the result of, instead closing the distance between them for a short kiss that brings a blush to Harry’s face. The brunet breaks away immediately, frantically looks around the room for unintended witnesses, and Draco can see when his eyes catch on something. Following his gaze, Draco turns around and sees a slender silver shape zipping around the room – when it slows down and approaches them, he identifies a ferret, because of course it couldn’t have been a snake, like his father’s, it had to be a reminder of his most shameful moment.

The ferret stops at Draco’s feet, and Harry clears his throat, carefully neutral:

“You know, that spell Crouch Jr. used… I’m pretty sure it was a forced Animagus spell.”

“Great. So I have the potential to transform myself into a ferret. What a noble animal.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure that’s an ermine. It’s a heraldic symbol for moral purity, often picked by Bretons lords. So there. Can’t get much more noble.”

Draco breaks his gaze from the Patronus and turns instead to Harry, flabbergasted.
“How’d you…?”

Harry shrugs:

“Research for a case,” he just says. “Also, more importantly, did you get the part where it means you could become an Animagus? Because Ron and I tried, and we couldn’t.”

Draco sighs:

“I’ve always known I have the potential. It’s a Black hereditary trait. I merely haven’t had the opportunity to do it yet. It’s just… a rodent… My mother’s a wolf.”

“Yeah, but you still can.”

It comes out bitter, and they fall silent, Harry not offering any more comfort, and Draco strains to change the subject.

“You are… You were very good, earlier, at training.”

It has none of the smoothness a Malfoy-made compliment should have, but Harry beams nonetheless.

“I, uh… Thanks?”

It’s a bit shy, and very awkward, like Harry never gets compliments, and doesn’t know how to deal with them. It makes Draco want to kiss him, and take him to bed, and please him, and show him he’s worth all the compliments. But there are people around, and anybody could walk in at any time, so Draco elects instead to get up, and when Harry takes his offered helping hand, Draco pulls them close together, and whispers in his ear:

“You’ve been so good to me, Harry. Tonight, we’ll go back to Grimmauld, and I’ll be very good to you. I want to blow you, and rim you, and shag you, and see how many times I can make you come with my mouth, my fingers, my prick.”

When he lets go of the man, Harry has reddened from his cheeks to his ears, but there’s a glint in his eyes, something between hunger and defiance on his face, and the brunet his voice pitched low, answers:

“That a promise, Draco?”

The blond uses his best cocky smile, and shots back:

“Sure is, and Malfoys never renegade on a promise.”

“Then I look forward to it.”

And Harry Potter strolls out of the training room, Draco Malfoy on his heels, matching grins on their faces.

Notes:

That's it, folks!
It took me a while to finish this story, but here it is. I hope you enjoyed it.

I have some ideas for an Auror Duo Drarry, with a slow build and more of an enemies-to-lovers pace to it. Anybody interested in reading that? I could use a beta-reader...