Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was nothing remarkable. The book was ordinary, and would not have looked out of place on any bookshelf. It was a slim plain hardback that had lost its cover, and like most, looked naked without it.

I had it opened to a random page. The words blurred, and I thought the paper shimmered. But that was impossible. More than likely it was my exhaustion — I had stayed up all night to finish my latest review for the Journal on the History of Countering the Dark Arts. It had been a doorstopper of an article, not to mention a week behind deadline.

I didn’t blame myself if I hallucinated the lines on the paper moving. But this was not a magical book — I detected no traces of enchantments. The only noteworthy thing about it was its lack of a cover, which I attributed to carelessness than any intentional actions.

I wondered how it had slipped into my tote bag in the first place. It certainly was not there this morning when I packed.

Then again, I might have accidentally stuck it in while I was distracted. I had a hell of a morning – alarm not ringing, coffee machine broken (I preferred the bitter tang of coffee to tea’s washed-out astringency), misplacing half the papers I needed. On other days, it would have annoyed me, satisfying the cliché of an absentminded academic, but I was too harried to care today.

I looked around. Sprawled around me was a moat of papers and books, some piled precariously in a mound that threatened to topple over at the slightest whisper. Thankfully, no one sat near, scared away by this mess and my glares and the knowledge of who I am.

There – again! The words slipped out of focus for a second before resetting into their tiny serif font. For a moment, I imagined that it had slipped into the curling loops of handwritten letters.

I groped for my thermos of coffee, hoping a shot of liquid energy would wake me from this daydream. As I reached, my hand brushed the outermost edge of the book.

A sharp sensation, like an electrical shock, shot up my hand, into my entire body. I saw clusters of stars amidst the night sky, the ocean waves parting and crashing onto the shoals, trees shaking. Then, out of the chaotic jumble of images, the image of a book swam before my eyes.

It was old – I knew this even at a glance. Yellowed with the years, the leather bindings looked worn to the point of decomposition, the pages crisp and flaking off in parts. There was a strange buzz in my ears, and a hum across my skin, the hairs on my arm rising, as my entire body seemed to react to this book. I reached out to touch it –

I stifled a cry – it burned – heat attacked my hand, and I felt the skin rending and curling into a crisp –

I withdrew my hand – and knocked over my thermos.

A loud clatter echoed. I winced. There was a strict no noise policy in the Reading Room, and heads were already turning to stare at me.

I glared coldly back at them. They could look all they wanted – it was an accident, and I’d be damned if I allowed them to run me out of the Reading Room with such a flimsy excuse. Chamberlain, that old fart, had upended a shelf with his bulk, and only received sympathy and mild jokes at his expense about his fatness.

The librarian hustled over, an expression of annoyed distaste on his face.

“Mr. Malfoy,” he began in an unctuous tone that slid down my skin like slime, “the Gringotts Reading Room has a strict policy of –”

“I know,” I interrupted. I gestured at the overturned thermos. Thankfully, the cap was still screwed tight and no liquid escaped. “It was an accident, you see. Me and my clumsy self.” I smiled sweetly at the man. “And would you mind calling me Dr. Malfoy? I worked hard for my DPhil, you see, and it’s one of the few perks I get to enjoy.”

I usually made no such fuss: I viewed the ones who did with disdain, knowing that more often than not it had to do with a bullying assertion of power rather than desire to be acknowledged for their hard work. Yet with this librarian constantly hounding me, I felt it was only appropriate. Yesterday, he gave me grief for bringing too many ‘outside’ materials into the Reading Room, until I pointed to a man in the corner using one of those newfangled Muggle contraptions called a ‘laptop’.

Honestly, he needed better things to do. I looked at him, not bothering to hide my dislike. He had never stopped blaming me for my actions during the War. Whereas most others gave me a wide berth or side-eyes and scowls, this man seemed to take my presence in the Reading Room as a personal offense.

The scabbed-over scar that was my Dark Mark itched, as it usually did whenever I thought about the War. I had thought of – and tried – various methods to rid myself of it, from a glamour to a Muggle technique known as laser removal, but none worked. There was no point; even without it, everyone still knew who I was and what I had done.

The librarian was about to say something when he spotted the book. He opened his mouth and closed it again, rather like a fish, and I smothered my urge to laugh. His attention was entirely captured by it. His face was enraptured; the expression that came over his face transformed his gaunt face. It did not make him look better: the wild joy gave his eyes a fevered burn, and I was reminded of the Dark Lord whenever he heard a piece of particularly welcomed news.

I reached instinctively for my wand, but the librarian had already smoothed his features into his usual irritation.

“Be careful, then, Dr. Malfoy,” he said, a disdainful emphasis on the word ‘doctor’. His words had a note of menace that chilled despite the stuffy heat of the Reading Room. “You don’t want to hurt yourself.”

He walked away. My eyes remained on his back. The other patrons had already turned back to their own work. But I was still fixed in place by the librarian’s tone and behavior … the danger in his posture and voice ….

I stilled and concentrated on calming myself the way that I learned in yoga. I pressed one thumb over my left nostril as I breathed in through the other, then released and exhaled. I repeated the process several times until the tingle of terror faded.

I rubbed my arms. What had happened seemed entirely out of place: both my reaction from touching the book and the librarian’s behavior. The Gringotts Reading Room was created in the aftermath of the War, like so many things, out of a spirit of magical cooperation. It was the reading room for the library to the Public Repository of Shared Magical Treasures in Gringotts Bank. Its catalogue was small, far eclipsed by the Hogwarts Library and the British Library, Magical Section; but Gringotts being the vault of choice for precious magical items, it quickly became popular for magical historians who lived in London and had niche areas of interests such as myself.

The book laid innocuously on the wooden table, absorbing the shadow from the numerous shelfs that jostled for space in the cavernous space. It was somewhat dim, the room being underground with the rest of the vaults, with the only illumination from the enormous chandelier. The space was surprisingly utilitarian, with straight-backed chairs and huge tables in dark wood hues. There was little other decoration. Dust floated gently, caught in the beams of light.

I turned my attention back to book, sufficiently in control of myself again. I took out my wand, rapping the book smartly.

“Specialis revelio,” I murmured. Nothing.

That meant nothing. Now that I experienced that – vision, there was no other term for it – I knew this was no ordinary tome. I heard of books like this; my father had once told me of a journal carrying a fragment of a soul that defied all attempts at magical inspection.

Despite the ominous reaction of the librarian and my response when I touched the book, I was excited. Here was a puzzle, a mystery waiting to be solved. It was a challenge; my blood rose at the thought of it. Perhaps it would be nothing more earthshaking than a journal of cookie recipes with a paranoid owner, but still – my eyes gleamed at making even the smallest discovery.

Blaise often joked that I should have been a Curse-Breaker, with my penchant for adventure and my yearning to make breakthroughs. But I pointed out it was in a researcher's nature to uncover the truth.

But … I should treat this as an adventure. The life of an academic — aside from what one sees in fiction — was relatively cosseted. Quests for historians, even a magical one, was more mental than physical.

I looked around. Though the librarian had returned to his desk, I had no doubt any flashier spells would draw him on me quicker than a shark with blood. And his reaction to seeing the book … I shivered. I should not examine the book here.

I quickly packed and made my way out. I tried to slip past the librarian, but even as I reached the door, I felt his baleful stare on my back like knives.

Was it the War that formed such animosity in him? I mused, as I exited Diagon Alley into the streets of London proper. He might be one of the thousands who suffered at the hands of my father or the Death Eaters. It was possible, and the idea hit me with shame. If that were true, then I should have been more understanding, gave him more leeway ….

But I was tired of living under the shade of my past. It had been ten years – in that time, I had traveled to four continents, earned my doctorate, and had achieved something of a name for myself. Yet my heritage chased after me – or, I was not ready to let it go.

My tote bag banged against my leg as I walked along the busy London streets, swerving to avoid pedestrians and obstacles. The knowledge that the book was in there burned, a distraction, and I barely managed to avoid a double-decker that came barreling down the road as I crossed the street without looking. It was in the nick of time, the red of the bus cutting so close that I could almost feel its paint rubbing on me.

I debated taking the Tube. Leicester Square Station was right there, and it was only a few stops to Knightsbridge where I lived. But I needed the walk; I loved the crisp fall air, the slightly gloomy grey of the sky, the noise and bustle of the city. I strode past the elegant façade of the Ritz, taking the longer path along Piccadilly until the greenery of the parks came into view.

I ducked into the sleek, modern building where my flat was. My father objected when I moved out of the Manor, bitterly complaining that I could have at least stayed at the family townhouse in Belgravia instead of wasting my money on a flat in a residence ‘infested with Muggles’.

I forbore from pointing out that it was money from the trust Grandfather Abraxas set up for me, and mine to do as I wished once I had reached my majority. I was twenty-eight. Besides, the flat was less than a few minutes’ walk from the family townhouse. It was easy to visit, and the reverse, though I chose the building precisely for its mixed residents to deter my family from dropping by unexpectedly.

Perhaps I should have chosen a humbler location, I thought wryly as I greeted the doorman cordially and took the lift up. But unlike some of my colleagues, I didn’t particularly care for scholarly squalor.

I should work more at home. I paid enough, certainly. I should try to enjoy some of its amenities, I thought, as I set my bag on the settee and went into the kitchen to brew more coffee. With a flick of my wand, the lights came on and soft Mozart began playing in the background.

With a fresh cup of coffee – even just smelling it woke me up – I fished out the book from my bag and stretched out. It was a relief to for blood to circulate in my legs. I leaned back on the cushions.

Now I definitely felt it. A small shock ran up my arm. It went through me, the sensations much milder than my initial touch back at the Reading Room, but no less noticeable. My skin formed tiny goosebumps.

I shook myself out of it and forced myself to consider the possibilities. A simple glamour was possible, though it should not have been able to resist my Revelio. It might be a Concealment charm of some sort, but that complicated my efforts –multiple variations existed and needed different combinations of counter spells to unlock.

Or … a more prosaic idea came to mind: I could simply try to read what the book had to say. I wanted to hit myself for not thinking that earlier.

Opening to the first page, I squinted at the words, trying to make sense of it. It was painful and difficult – my eyes refused to focus no matter how hard I tried. Forcing myself to stare at it gave me vertigo.

I turned my watering eyes away. … Strange … I never encountered anything like this. Maybe I should go to the Curse-Breakers. After, they specialized in cracking enchantments like these. And what if there was an actual curse on this? I did not relish that idea….

Yet my fingers itched to delve into its secrets. Without any help.

I twirled my wand as I wracked my mind. I confirmed that this book definitely was concealed by an enchantment. What now?

Touch! Touch was what triggered the book’s magic. Touch and my proximity: the book responded when I physically approached it. If spells were not an option, and staring at it did no good, then maybe my fingers might find the answer.

I set my wand and cup down. Then I touched the book.

A rushing sound filled my ears, like the roar of the London traffic. I saw stars and the moon in the night sky, glowing bright like pale jewels. They moved, a speedy flock of lights, and the sun rose, a fiery ball that outshone all the rest that I had to avert my eyes.

Then it shifted and I was in a cave. A book rested on a roughhewn stone round in shape. The book was the one I had seen earlier in the vision. This time, memory and a greater instinct for self-preservation stayed my hand from touching it.

Leaning in as close as possible without touching, I examined it. … It was life-like, this world I entered. … Now that pain did not cloud my senses, I noticed that the book’s cover was green and emblazoned with an ouroboros, the symbol of infinity. Somewhere in the recess of my memory, a stirring ... I knew I had seen this before. Not the ouroboros — it was a common enough sight in alchemical texts — but this cover....

I felt like I had been here before ... there was a familiarity that eluded me, a misplaced piece of a puzzle that I had owned for a long time. The cave, its walls slightly glinting with wetness … the book, ancient and yet somehow timeless … I closed my eyes –

And fell onto my floor. My legs hit the coffee table and the jarring impact caused me to grit my teeth in pain. The book – the coverless paperback, not the one in my vision – dropped onto the hardwood floor with a loud crack.

Gingerly, I picked myself up. Next time I needed more cushions around me. I sat on the table, staring at the book.

I know it – it’s there in my mind – I just need to pull it out of the morass of facts and memories. I glared. I rubbed my temples. A headache pressed; I longed to shut my eyes for some relief. What I had just experienced left me winded and disoriented. I needed to organize my thoughts.

First: that vision – it told me more than I expected. A codex – it was absolutely a codex, judging by its aged appearance – with a green cover inscribed with an ouroboros. It must be a manuscript of some sort, one that I had come across in my studies. I made a mental note to visit the British Library, Magical Section, tomorrow to check the catalogues. There might be a clue there, if not the actual codex itself.

Second: the vision and its aftermath. I didn’t need to know what the spell was to know its power. It was old, and very dangerous. Any wizard would know that in his bones. It was not Dark Magic, not exactly, but it was wild and gave me hesitation before I investigated further.

Third: what was it doing in my bag? I had never set eyes on it before today. It wasn’t any book I owned, and I did not take it from the library at Gringotts. So how the hell did I appear in my bag? It wasn’t a coincidence – my intuition told me that much. If I learned anything over the past few years, it was that everything happens for a reason. It was a hard lesson, and one that I resisted, but it was engrained in me.

I rubbed my head. So many questions. I needed something stronger than coffee.

My fireplace crackled with the green flames of the Floo. It used to be electric, since the building had no chimneys. It took some effort, but Goyle managed to redo the ventilations and installed a proper one so that I’d have a connection to the Floo Network. He was a magical contractor now, specializing in mixed residential buildings. He was a particularly dab hand at expansion charms; my flat was much larger than any one bedroom should be, even at the rate I was paying.

Speak of the devil: Goyle’s flat face peered out the grate.

“Draco! What’re you doing sitting on your table?”

“Huh? Oh. I was just thinking.” Quickly, I tidied up. I loathed letting others see mess, even old friends like Goyle. We had drifted apart after — well, after our last year at Hogwarts, the cataclysmic events overshadowing our friendship. Difficult was an understatement — dealing with Crabbe’s death, one that we witnessed before our eyes, the choices I had made leading up to that day — it broke us.

Goyle and I had always gotten along, even if I did behave like a little snot with him. But that year ... with everything my family suffered, the terror on us a shadow that no light would banish, we couldn’t act like nothing was happening. And after the War ... not only him, but all my friends and family, they questioned why I had turned away from all our mutual upbringing and our heritage. They didn’t seem to understand it was that toxic heritage which brought the War in the first place.

I shoved those thoughts aside, adopted a casual grin. “You know us academic types. We’re the oddballs. I thought it might’ve help me think.”

Goyle snorted. “Well, I can’t say much, but it sure doesn’t look comfortable to me. But I know how you like a hard thing under your arse.”

I flushed. My sexual preferences weren’t well known. For the most part, I lived more celibate than a monk, but the one time I was enjoying myself in the Room of Requirement, Goyle had rushed in to warn me about someone passing by — and caught me in a compromising position with a dildo.

“Yes — well — what do you want?”

Goyle laughed. He had found his own sense of self when he separated from our little trio when Crabbe died, apprenticed under a builder, and gradually worked his way to owning his own contracting business. In a way, he was the most well-adjusted out of all us. Crabbe was — well — dead.

“Don’t be such a prude, Draco. You need to get laid more. That’ll loosen that stick up your arse. Or perhaps tighten it.”

He winked at me.

I scowled. He didn’t need to rub it in that my last sexual encounter was months ago, and my last meaningful relationship even longer ago.

“I’ve been busy,” I said mulishly. “You didn’t just Firecall to make fun of me, did you?”

“No. Actually I called because we’re all getting drinks at the Cauldron. Wanna come?”

Belatedly, I noticed that the sun had touched the horizon. I hadn’t noticed, too caught up by this newfound question. My stomach made a rumble.

“Sounds good.”

I stepped through my fireplace into the Leaky Cauldron a few minutes later. Brushing off the dust from my robes, I spotted my friends in the corner. Goyle and Millicent and Blaise took up a table, with three pints of half-finished lager and one glass of wine on the table.

The Leaky Cauldron never seemed to change. Its grime, at least, was a constant. I sat down, taking care not to put my hands on the table. More often than not, the surface was sticky with some unidentifiable substance, probably a mix of spilled beer and dirt that accumulated since the pub opened.

“Merlin, I’m starved.” I stole a chip from Goyle. The crisp salted potato melted in my mouth and I gave an audible sigh.

“Did you replace sex with food?” inquired Blaise. “That’s how you always used to sound when you were in my bed.” He gave me a wicked smirk.

I glowered back. Blaise was as stunning as ever, his white teeth gleaming, his profile sharp and regal, like a classical bust. I loved tracing the curve of his jaws when we were sleeping together. But right now, the sight invoked irritation.

“I didn’t eat lunch today,” I said waspishly. My fingers dripped with grease. I hastily wiped them on a serviette.

“Spent the entire day with your books again?” Millicent gave me a disapproving shake. “I told you; you need to learn how to take care of yourself. You can’t just survive on coffee alone, you know.” She was completing her Healer’s residency at St. Mungo’s, and had developed an annoying tendency to lecture about healthy living.

“That’s why there’s alcohol,” I said, lifting my wineglass. White liquid sloshed within. I made a face at the taste. Too dry.

I thought about telling my friends what happened today – I doubt they would know much about magical manuscripts and enchanted books, but there was always a possibility. But a part of me stopped.

It wasn’t that I distrusted them; we had been through too much to be suspicious of each other. Rather, I wasn’t sure what I would say. I found a magical book that gives me visions? It would only set them off fretting and clucking with concern. Besides, I was perfectly capable. I have an advanced degree and seven N.E.W.T.s; I could handle a book.

Instead, I allowed the chatter to wash over me. it was calming, to hear about my friends’ days. There were so few of us left. It was a relief, after the dramatic events of our youth, for our lives to turn out so mundane.

Blaise was regaling us with tales of his models’ ridiculous behavior and outrageous demands. He was a highly sought-after photographer now, after a successful stint as a model. I tuned in absentmindedly to a story of an up-and -coming model who demanded peacocks in his dressing room because they “were soothing to look at”. I stifled my snort. Peacocks soothing? Pah. Sounded much different from the ones I grew up with at the Manor. They were fiercely territorial; they used to chase me around the grounds when I was young until I called for the house-elves.

“They made a mess of the changing room,” Blaise said with a shake of his head. “And then somehow they got out and ran around terrorizing my assistants.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “Sounds much better than my day.” I hesitated, wondering how much to reveal. “I spent most of my day with my books. I don’t think the early Druidic hexes can compare to being chased by peacocks.”

“Is that what you’re working on now?” Out of all my friends, Millicent was the only one who took more than a passing interest in my work. She was fascinated by the lurid history of the Dark Arts. It was understandable; in some slight way, it was also our families’ heritage, Slytherins and purebloods being so intertwined with Dark magic.

“More or less.” I had been stuck on this project for over a month now. Though fascinating, it didn’t stir the blood. “I need to think of a new angle.” I ran a hand through my hair.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” she said.

I shrugged. It seemed to have fallen by the wayside now; next to the events today, writing an academic article with properly supported thesis and citations seemed staid and dry.

“You should relax, take a break,” Goyle said. “Get laid. You’ve been in a hole lately. You work too hard.”

“I could say the same for all of us here,” I retorted. We had. It was our way of proving ourselves after the War, even with the doors shut in our face, that we still had value. Despite the stereotype of Slytherins at the fabulously wealthy landed class, most of us were driven and determined to make our mark. We were not united by an emphasis on blood purity; that came out of an ethos that prized continuity.

I looked at them fondly. It was practically a tradition by now to meet at least once a week for drinks whenever we were in the same city. We were each other’s connection with our collective past.

The night blurred. I ate and drank too much, my head pleasantly light, my stomach comfortably full. Our decibels rose ever higher as more alcohol was consumed. Goyle touched Millicent’s arm as they laughed over something she said, their heads huddled together in a mimicry of a lover’s intimacy.

Blaise noticed my gaze, raised an eyebrow in a knowing gesture. They’d been seeing each other on-and-off since our Hogwarts days. It was only a matter of time before they ended up married with a few brats along the way, I reckoned.

As he smirked at me, I could not help noticing how good Blaise looked. Even in the dim lighting, he stood out. He always turned heads wherever he went. Even now, several eyes were on him in the pub. I wondered which one he might take home with tonight.

“Galleon for your thoughts,” Blaise murmured, sliding into the seat next to me. Across from us, Milly and Goyle were in their own little world.

I chuckled. It came out throatily. My mouth was dry from too much alcohol and not enough water. “Don’t think they’re that valuable. A Knut maybe.”

Blaise gave a soft laugh. “Oh, definitely more than that. At least a Sickle.” His hand grazed my thigh under the table as he leaned in close to me. “You’ve an advanced degree after all.”

My head was heavy. I had a sudden urge to lay on his shoulder. “Do you think they’ll get back together again?” I nodded at the now snogging couple facing Blaise and me. “I mean – as in a relationship.”

Blaise shrugged. “Who knows. I see it, though.” He inched closer; any more and he’d be on top of me. It was not an unpleasant idea: my fingers itched for contact. Blaise smelled intoxicating, with his mix of soft cologne underlined with a hint of beer.

He touched my face. His fingers were soft and supple. “Why didn’t we ever get together?”

“You didn’t want to.” Blaise’s sexual appetite was legend. He craved variety, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t countenance the idea of sharing my lover with anyone else. I didn’t blame him – I also had no idea how to be a loving partner back then. I still didn’t.

“Besides,” I continued softly, moving so that I could count his lashes, “isn’t it much better like this? No strings, no obligations, just fun?” I kissed him, gently cupping his jaw.

“Mmm.” I heard his grin as he kissed me back, his hands grabbing my waist.

“Get a room, you two,” Millicent said. She looked at Blaise and me, her hair tousled. I noticed rather uncharitably a curl sticking up behind the ear.

Blaise laughed. “Same at you.”

Millicent blushed. I laughed. What an interesting bunch we were.

“We should go,” I said, winking at Goyle, who looked blithely content. “It’s getting late.”

Goyle returned the wink. “It is.” He looked at Millicent. “Your place or mine?”

I didn’t catch the rest of their conversation as I turned to Blaise to ask the same.

“I could do with a nightcap at your place,” he said. “There’s a bottle of that Macallan I’ve been eyeing for a while now.”

We stumbled through the grate back into my flat, almost knocking over the stand next to the fireplace. I poured a tumbler of the Macallan and myself some water as Blaise sat down on the couch.

“You could do with a bit more decorations,” he said, giving my living room a critical once over. “Needs more color.”

I settled next to him. “Bring flowers next time you visit.” The water was cool and refreshing against my tongue after the bitterness of the wine. “You’ve only been here once, when I moved in.”

He nuzzled my neck as he set down his glass. “I’ve been busy,” he said.

“Yes, I know,” I said with a touch of impatience. Desire spiked at his touch and it made me tetchy. “You’re highly in demand.”

“I always make time for you,” Blaise responded. His hands roamed, exploring beneath the folds of my robes. He nipped lightly at my neck. “You know I can’t resist.”

I let out a groan. My friends were right – it had been too long. I was already hard, like a randy teenager fumbling around for the first time. I was still pleasantly buzzed, floating on a cloud of sensations. Blaise’s touches were electric. Every time he put his hands or lips on me, a wave of pleasure washed over me.

He leaned over me, pressed me into the couch. His arms hemmed me in between the cushions as he kissed me. I arched my back to meet his mouth, my arms reaching and cupping his arse.

“You’re thinner,” Blaise said, his hands running down my chest. “You need to eat more.”

I glowered at him through half-lidded eyes. “Are you here to lecture me on my health? I already get enough of that from Milly and my mother.”

“Oh Merlin, don’t compare me with your mother. It completely ruins the mood.” Blaise grinned at me, flashing a smile that reduced the even most hardhearted into rubble. “I just care, that’s all.”

“You can show me you care in other ways.” I grabbed his shoulders and pulled him down on top of me. He was hard too, his erection jutting against my hip even through the folds of his robes. He groaned, a throaty rumble. The sound touched my groin. I pulled him in, feeling the hard, lean muscles against me.

Heat pooled in the bottom of my stomach. “Should we move this into the bedroom?”

Blaise nodded, getting off me. I padded after him, giving my living room a quick scrutiny. It needed cleaning; our activity on the couch had knocked some cushions onto the floor. My coffee table was still a mess, the cup from earlier and my tote bag heaped on it. The magic book was there too, one among many.

I shook my head. It could wait until tomorrow.

“Night lights,” I said to the air, and a soft glow lit my room. Blaise was already lying on my bed in his undershirt, his robes already a heap on my floor.

“You’re too dressed,” he said. He held his liquor remarkably well, despite downing twice as much as I had drunk. He still sounded remarkably coherent, with only a slight softening to his words.

I shed my clothes as I approached, dropping them as I climbed in next to Blaise. The cool air hit my skin and I shivered.

Blaise noticed. He wrapped his arms around me. He wasn’t much warmer but being held was always a pleasant sensation. I sighed, relaxing into his hold.

“We don’t have to do anything,” he said, his breath tickling my skin. “We can just cuddle.”

I thought about it. Blaise was beautiful against my sheets, long and dark and lean. Anyone would be a fool to turn him down. But I was tired suddenly, though my cock wasn’t, and I wanted nothing more than to sleep.

“In a bit,” I said, and I reached for his prick under his briefs. It was firm and hot. I flexed my fingers and he let out a hiss.

“You’re such a tease, Draco,” he said. He pushed me over, his hands twitching on my thighs as he mouthed kisses down from my neck. One hand held my hips in place as the other pulled at my erection.

“Want to get out of your robes?” I breathed out. It came in gasps and hitches as Blaise continued to work, his hand kneading and pulling at my cock. I tugged at the waistband of his briefs as he slipped out of them.

His erection sprung, half curved. Blaise smirked at me as he slipped out of his undershirt. We laid together, rubbing and kissing and pulling and rolling. It was a whirlwind of sensation, the buildup mild but no less enjoyable for that.

Finally, we came, him following me a fraction of a second later. I panted as Blaise rolled off him, our stomachs both stickily smeared. The room smelled of sweat and semen. I made a face and reached for my wand to cast a Freshening Charm.

Blaise wrinkled his nose. “You always cast it too strong,” he said. He sneezed. “And I’m allergic to this particular scent.”

“Oh. Sorry, I forgot.” Blaise had usually been the one to cast the charm when we were together, since I usually slept over at his place. I counted with one hand the number of times he came over to mine. Well, now it would be two hands. “It’s been a while.”

“It has.” Blaise surveyed me. “This was fun.” He paused, one hand still on my chest as he pushed himself up. “It’s just … that, right?” He reached over for his own wand and Vanished the sticky cum off of us.

I wanted to roll my eyes. One tiny outburst while I was under immense pressure and I was forever the emotionally fragile one. “Yes,” I said with exaggerated patience. “It was just fun. Besides, you know I can’t keep up with your lifestyle of glamorous jet setting. What would people think when they see you dating a boring old historian?”

“That I’m the kept boy to a fabulously wealthy man?” Blaise winked at me. “I’ll be expecting expensive jewelry and exotic flowers from you.”

I scoffed. “Your clothing budget problem exceeds what I spend in a month. Well, except in December. My mother has expensive tastes.”

Blaise laughed, all worry banished from his face. He drew me into his arms. “Still. Thanks.”

“No,” I said, fluffing up my pillow. “Thank you.”

We allowed Morpheus to lull us to sleep, our bodies warm enough that we didn’t need blankets.

He watched the two with a faint expression of distaste, surveying them as one would upon a mess to be cleaned.

The Malfoy boy had an affinity to the key. It was why he had dropped it into his bag, after all. It was to be expected; after all, it recognized his blood.

He wondered why it took so long for them to come up with the idea. But then, the simplest solution was sometimes the most difficult to fathom. But then, the boy still had not unlocked the mystery yet.

But the man had faith that the Malfoy boy will. He looked at Draco Malfoy. It was probably inaccurate to term him “boy”; Malfoy was twenty-eight after all. But he looked so young in slumber with his – friend.

Again, the man wondered at the strange workings of Fate. What twists had made the Malfoy boy, and not his father or his forebearers the critical piece to their plans? He wanted to laugh.

He stirred now, as if his dreams were not entirely pleasant. But that was no surprise – this boy who made a mockery of all that the man held sacred. The man’s hand flexed, and he longed to hold a pillow over the Malfoy boy’s face until the body stilled.

Patience, the man counseled himself. There would be time enough to make the younger Malfoy suffer. But they needed him now. He was a tool; he could be tossed aside when his usefulness was ended.

I woke too warm and with a splitting headache. I missed the days of my youth when I would down an entire bottle of Firewhiskey without ill effects. Blaise was stirring next to me with a soft moan.

“Why are you up so early?” he mumbled. “Go back to sleep.”

I checked the clock on table. It was already an hour after when I usually rose. I waved my wand, and the curtains opened, letting out a harsh stream of light.

Blaise hissed and I shared the sentiment. Sodding London had to be sunny today, of all days, when I could barely stand the smallest light.

“Oh Merlin, shut the damn curtains,” he snapped. He grabbed his own wand and they slammed together with an audible sound.

I steadied myself on the bedframe. “Do you want some coffee?” I asked, my voice coming out harsh like my throat had been sandpapered over.

Blaise nodded. “And some breakfast.”

“Yessir.”

I walked out, my feet slapping the hardwood. Sunlight washed in through the window, reflecting off the marble bar counter, and I flicked my wand at the coffee machine. It began whirling. Copper pots lined up on the stovetop; I forgotten to stow them away when I cooked the other day. I laid out two cups on the counter.

A pale face stared back at me. It was a washed out, drawn caricature of me: my chin, already sharp in real life, pointed like the end of a dagger, my hair white in the sun. I ran one hand over, trying to coax it back into place.

Soft footfalls behind me.

“I would’ve brought it over to you, you know,” I said without turning. I sat down on the barstool. It was cool against my bare buttocks. Belatedly, I realized I was still naked.

It made no difference; it was my flat. And Blaise had seen all this anyways.

He sat next to me, still bare-chested. “Needed to stretch my legs. Moving always helps the hangover.”

I gave him a doubtful stare. “I’ll take your word for it.”

The coffee was ready. I pushed a cup towards him as I held my own in my hands. It warmed my numb fingers, the steam curling as I inhaled.

“Thanks.” Blaise dumped mounds of sugar. “Do you have milk?”

“In the fridge.”

“I don’t know how you’re able to drink it without milk or sugar,” Blaise said, making a face as I downed my coffee. “It’s unnatural.”

“So was last night according to some, darling.” I winked at him. It was the oddest thing … I had a strangely fitful sleep last night … there was an uneasy bubble in my chest, and I could have sworn there was a shadow watching me.

It must have been a dream. In the light of day, all the fancies of nighttime dissipated. Must be the alcohol that caused it. I sighed. “I don’t have much food at home,” I said. “I meant to buy groceries yesterday.” I didn’t add that I got distracted by the visions from a magical book of another magical book.

“It’s alright.” Blaise gave me a rueful grin. “I need to head out anyways. I have a shoot today. Mind if I use your shower?” He gave me an appreciative once-over. “Pity that our time’s cut short.”

“You live in walking distance,” I pointed out. “I’ll come visit some time, or we can get lunch.”

He laughed. “All right, sounds fair. What are you going to do?”

What was I going to do? I had several leads but nothing substantial on the mysterious book in my possession. “I’ll be in the Gringotts Reading Room,” I decided aloud. “You’re welcome to join me after if you want.”

“No thanks,” he shouted from my bathroom. “Stuffy books aren’t my thing.” His voice was cut off by the sound of running water.

I sat at my counter. I had meant to go to the British Library. Why did I change my mind? My intuition told me that the answer wouldn’t be there, but in Gringotts Reading Room where I found it. Pity. The British Library had much more accepting patrons, and its librarian was much friendlier.

I dressed quickly, almost missing Blaise as he slipped out the door. His company last night had been – nice. It was a much-needed release. I stared at my sheets. Egyptian cotton, 350-thread count, they invited me back into their midst. I had a sudden urge to tear at them; there was a bereft hollowness that wanted to burst out of me.

I missed the contact of human touch. It came irregularly and unexpected, and I longed for a day when that was no longer so.

It was a chimera of a dream. Like this beautiful day, with the sun gloriously out in the cloudless blue, it seemed unreal.

I breathed in the sharp city air as I strolled along Diagon Alley. I had decided to walk again. The weather was smiling, and I didn’t think I could handle the hurtling sensation of magical travel. Not with my hangover. Pity that the limits of magic included their cures. If someone discovered an antidote, it would be an instant Order of Merlin, not to mention a Chocolate Frog card.

Even the crowded skyline of London was more open than the Gringotts Reading Room. It was slightly claustrophobic, despite the high vaulted ceiling, made worse by the hostile stares of the other patrons. I looked glumly at the piles of papers and books I spread out before me. My instinct had brought me here, but where to start? I had no idea why I even brought the book. I had no intention of having a vision in the midst of a hostile environment, and the environment here was hostile indeed.

In fact, the librarian, the most hostile, headed over.

I tried to hide my groan. I had an enormous headache that the coffee this morning had only partially stemmed, and I had more than a feeling that the librarian would undo all its work.

Maybe he would know about the book, an idle whisper came into my head. After all, I discovered it here, and he was the librarian. He was the most likely to have information regarding it out of anyone I could possibly ask.

If he were to help. Somehow, I doubted he would.

I pasted on a bright smile as he approached my area of the table. My faint hope that he was going to someone else – dashed.

An idea came to me. I had rudimentary training in Legilimency. From – from during the War. Aunt Bella had trained me in the fundamentals along with Occlumency. It made sense: they were two sides of the same coin. If I asked my questions strategically, I could probe his mind for clues.

Then I was ashamed of myself. It was an unparalleled invasion of privacy, breaching one’s psyche, especially for a matter that was trivial in nature. Even with someone I disliked, it was near anathema to abuse my talent in such a manner. Besides, my instruction was incomplete – I was more liable to confuse myself sifting through the mess of emotions and memories.

“What can I do for you today?” I asked, affecting a cheery tone that contrasted with how I felt. “I’m not aware of any Reading Room rules being broken.”

“I was curious as to the provenance of that book, Dr. Malfoy.” There was, as expected, the curl of disdain on his use of the word “doctor.”

“Ah, yes.” I hadn’t expected him to broach the topic himself. There was a curious tingle creeping up my arm. I didn’t know how to respond. Do I take the straightforward approach and ask? Do I lie and claim its mine?

I settled on a middle approach and said nothing further. I watched his face. It had a curious play of impassivity. I knew it was a façade – I had adopted the same one many times in the past. Curious … it suggested he knew something about it.

When he realized I was not going to respond further, the librarian said: “I only wonder because it seems to be one of ours. Yet without a cover, it’s very difficult to identify.”

“Really?” I couldn’t keep the sneer out of my voice. “If you can’t identify it, how would you know it’s yours?”

The librarian glared at me. It was different from his usual. Those had been blunted and common; this was sharp, like a stiletto point pressing on my jugular. I recognized that sensation I had experienced earlier now – it was fear.

I started at him, keeping my face still. He knew more about this book than he pretended. I had to draw him out.

“I’m studying it,” I said finally. “I brought it from a bookstore in Knockturn Alley. It has valuable insight into my research project.”

I waited. Would he take the bait?

“Interesting.…” The librarian stared at me “I suppose you would know better than me, Dr. Malfoy. About lost manuscripts and old books.”

Lost manuscript? Why would he say that? It was an odd choice of words … I stared at him. Did he mean misplaced?

It dawned on his face that he slipped. He forced a smile. It looked as unnatural as if he put on a tutu and began dancing Odette’s solo from Swan Lake. “I just mean, you would know if the book isn’t misplaced from our collection. Especially if you have been working with it.”

Working with it … another curious phrase he was using. “Don’t you mean reading it?”

The librarian was startled. He narrowed his eyes at me. “Yes. I meant that.”

With a final malevolent glance at me, he left.

I stared at his back. I was filled with a sense of relief – and surprisingly, triumph.

I had already established that he knew more about the book than he let on – this was the proof. And though he had not told me about its origins, his diction provided clues. Lost manuscript … working with … Instead of using misplaced book or reading … was this a lost manuscript? And he knew it revealed its contents atypical of a regular book – or even a magical one.

Lost manuscript … What if the book in the vision I received was a lost manuscript? My pulse raced. It made sense! A manuscript in green with the ouroboros. It was a common enough symbol, used in both alchemical texts as well as many others. Was it related to alchemy? That narrowed the time frame to pre-18th century.

I shrugged off my waxed field jacket and my Slytherin House scarf. Despite the clear day, it was still autumn, with the attendant biting weather. I would have preferred a cloak, but wandering through Muggle London, it would have looked odd. And the streets were dirty; I didn’t want it dragging through.

I shifted my scarf out of the way to make space. There was still much to do, but I was no longer lost at sea; I was near the coast – the outline was clear. I was close. I tasted it.

Then I looked at my scarf again. That familiar green and the snake was a soothing sight, reminding me of how far I’d come.

That shade of green and that snake ….

That green was the color of the cover in my vision! And that snake – the ouroboros was drawn in the same style! Was this book related to Slytherin House somehow? Did Salazar Slytherin have a journal? I wanted to laugh at the ludicrous thought. Imagine the headline: ‘Memoirs of Salazar Slytherin uncovered!’ That’d make the front pages of the Prophet.

Even as I chuckled inside, I remembered what my father told me. We were related to Slytherin on the distaff side, and my father was especially fond of our distant ancestor’s exploits. My father had mentioned a Grimoire that contained Slytherin’s most powerful spells and magic.

This book I saw in my vision – it must be Slytherin’s Grimoire. My breath came in hitches. It had to be. The admittedly scant signs all pointed to the book in the vision being the Grimoire, and what I had in my possession the key to finding it.

Founders’ Heirlooms were steeped in mythology and lore, but the Hogwarts Founders were real people, and it stood to reason that the objects they owned were real, too. The Sorting Hat was example of one – and didn’t Saint Potter find more? We all knew the stories of how the Dark Lord turned them into his Horcruxes.

I shivered from the reminder of the Dark Lord. And from the image of Potter that swam into my head. Last I saw him was at a chance encounter at the Ministry. He was severe and handsome in his Auror robes. I still wanked to it; in my wilder fantasy, I imagined him in those robes pushing me against the wall and cuffing me to it as he put his mouth on my neck –

Damn. I was hard. I shook my head. I needed to concentrate. I was on the cusp of what could be the most momentous event in my career and here I was, fantasizing about a man who would probably greet me with a punch to the face.

But the Grimoire — Potter had proven that the Founders’ Heirlooms were real. Maybe this included the Grimoire.

My excitement overwhelmed me. I couldn’t sit here any longer. I rose from the table and packed my belongings. I had materials regarding Slytherin at home. Not to mention, this cave was stifling my intellectual potential, though I should thank the librarian for inadvertently pointing me on the right direction.

I was so elated, I even offered the librarian a smile as I exited. He watched me with his cold eyes, his lips pressed into a thin line.

The sun seemed to shine even brighter when I emerged aboveground. It filled me with a sense of wonder. Though not as crowded as Muggle London, Diagon Alley bustled with wizards and witches, rivaling the activity of the nearby Covent Garden. It had grown in the ten years following the War. With little room for sprawl, shops instead sprouted upwards, the buildings pressed against each other and leaning over the cobblestone streets. In my more whimsical moments, I always imagined that one day the Building Charms would fail, and they all come crashing down.

Thankfully, that didn’t seem soon. I walked down the streets with a bounce, my shoes alighting on the cobblestones with airy steps. I didn’t even mind the hostile ogling; they slid off my back today.
My steps faltered as I walked past the boarded-up storefront where Fortescue’s Ice Cream used to be.

I enjoyed many a sundaes and cones there in the halcyon days of my childhood, before everything turned to shit and my world crashed into an abyss of horror and darkness. They had decided to keep it as a memorial for all whose lives had been lost in the war … Even now, after ten years, I sometimes still imagined old Fortescue himself emerging with a cheerful grin and a huge waffle cone piled high with scoops.

Even after so long, the scars were still raw, the wounds not fully closed.

“Draco!” Luna Lovegood’s ethereal voice greeted me. Even in the middle of the day, she still managed to sound as though she came from a dream. “Long time no see.”

Strangely, she had always been fond of me, despite having been imprisoned in my cellar. She was the one who soothed me when, under orders from the Dark Lord to check on the prisoners, I broke down. The others only directed their hate and fear, emotions that were well-founded. I didn’t blame them.

“Hullo Luna.” She looked tanned. I wondered where in the world she had gone this time. She was a Magizoologist now with her husband, Rolf Scamander; I occasionally received her postcards from the most exotic of locales. “You look well.”

“I’m so happy to be in London,” she said. “Though I haven’t quite adjusted to the cold yet. It is a bit chilly, isn’t it?”

Now that she mentioned, I noticed that she was only in a safari shirt and khaki pants without cloak or jacket or coat. It was just like her to forget London’s fall weather had a bite to it.

“Where were you?” I asked.

“West Africa,” she said. “Darling Rolf and I were trying to track down the numbers of the Ninki Nanka. There had been a number of sightings in the area, but no confirmed reports.”

“They’re swamp dragons, right?” I remembered coming across mentions of them in an article about West African shamans and their curses.

“Well, they have horse-like face, a long body with mirror-like scales and a crest of skin on its head. I guess they’re reptilian but not draconic ….”

I allowed her to prattle on about the difference between reptiles and dragons, only half listening. I was wondering how to delicately extricate myself as beads of sweat were beginning to form under my collar when she said: “Oh! But how are you? Sorry. I get overexcited with my work.”
“No, no, it’s admirable to have so much passion.” I moved under the awning of one Noltie's Botanical Novelties. Luna followed. “Just working on a piece about druidic hexes. Though I’m a bit stuck at the moment.”

“You’ll find your inspiration,” Luna said with conviction. “Or you can set that aside for now and find a new topic. There’s no point in forcing yourself to investigate a subject you’re not interested in.”

“Well … there is something.” I found myself telling Luna Lovegood, of all people, about my discovery of the book and Slytherin’s Grimoire. It sounded supremely laughable in the light of day.

To her credit, Luna only furrowed her brows thoughtfully. But then again, this was Luna Lovegood, the woman who was still convinced about the existence of the Crumply Horn Snack or such after five futile expeditions.

“It certainly sounds fantastical,” she said, “but I mean, the Founders were real people, and it’s completely possible that Slytherin had a Grimoire. Besides, there are plenty of things that people believe to be myths but are real. Like the Crumple-Horned Snorkack.”

I refrained from saying that Slytherin’s Grimoire had a much stronger historical basis than the Crumple-Horned Snorkack. Her calm acceptance of my theory did boost my confidence, after all.

“I do remember there was an article published in my father’s magazine about it,” she continued slowly. “I don’t remember the details, but the gist was that there’s a secret society after it. They’re part of a conspiracy since the medieval times that seeks to influence Magical society to their pureblood agenda and will not let anyone get in their way.”

I let out a light laugh. “I think I’ve had enough of secret societies and plots to take over the world for a lifetime,” I said with a little smile. The scar over my Dark Mark itched. “Hopefully, it’s just a story. It sounds like someone was a little too inspired by recent events and decided to make up his own tale.”

“It does sound very similar to Voldemort and Death Eaters,” she admitted. I flinched at the name. Even ten years after his death …. “Not to mention including the Founders’ Objects would sell articles. People are always fascinated by them.” She looked at me. “But Draco, there’s a basis in fact for myths and legends. And you’ve just as much admitted that secret societies with deadly goals exist. Don’t go discounting that when you’re investigating.”

“I won’t,” I promised. “If anything, I’ll include a chapter about it.”

“Be careful,” Luna said. “Sometimes, the stories are real.”

Something about what Luna said stuck with me. Even as I walked out of the Leaky into Muggle London after cheerfully seeing Luna off to the Magical Menagerie on the way, her words struck a chord.

I hoped there was no truth to what she said. I did not relish becoming entangled in ancient conspiracies and secret societies. Besides, though the Quibbler had improved its fact-checking protocols since, it was still nowhere a reliable source of information. I would never include it in my citations. I’d be the laughingstock of the magical academic community.

Nonetheless, her words made me eye everyone who came too close to me warily. I recalled how the librarian acted, his behavior, the hostile menace that edged his questions.

Suddenly, I found it difficult to breathe. London had millions of inhabitants; even this side street I was in filled with clusters of people. Young and old, fat and thin, from all over the world.

London was truly a world city, I thought with sudden appreciation, even as I glared at an old man hobbling adjacent that he almost touched me. He continued onwards, blithely unaware. I envied him.

The wind picked up as my shoes crunched on autumn leaves. It grew quieter now; in my daze, I had walked into Hyde Park, straying off the route I usually took. I had been so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t notice.

I shrugged. No matter; it was a still a nice day even with the added breeze. Surprisingly, there were fewer people here than I expected for such a pleasant weather. Even the chattering tourists were scarce. But this was not a frequented area. Most likely, they were at the more popular sights: the Serpentine, perhaps, or even the Speaker’s Corner.

It was also the middle of a weekday. Unlike me, most had more regimented schedules. It was one of the perks of my chosen career, I suppose. I let my mind drift as I made my way back home. The elms swayed softly in the wind, a gentle whispering as the branches danced gently. The leaves were crisp, falling slowly in an amber shower.

There was a faint itch in the back of my neck, as if I were being watched. I scratched at it. I was allowing my imagination to best me; it was the middle of the day. But when I reached my flat, I resolved to reinforce the wards and the protection spells –

There was a sharp pain in my head as a loud crack sounded. I fell on my knee. The impact only registered faintly, subsumed by a greater agony that left my entire body on fire.

I looked up. My vision blurred, my ears rang, filling with a muffled roar. A shadowy figure stood above me, a wand out.

I tried to push through the pain, my teeth gritting as I reached for my wand.
“Who are you?” I managed out the words. My eyes struggled to focus; the figure wore a dark cloak that concealed his face and his entire body. The only part exposed was the outstretched hand holding the wand. Skeletal and pale, with squat fingers, it reminded me of a piece of bone.

Just a little bit more … my fingers reached the carved handle of my wand.

“We want the book,” the figure said, its voice impossibly deep. A concealment spell – it was cast in such a way that the words grated against my ears, like the dragging of nails on a blackboard. “We know you have it. Tell us what you know.”

“I have many books,” I said, affecting as much calm as I could muster from being sprawled on the dirt. I had my wand in my grasp now. I gripped it, willing the pain to disappear. I waited for the response, to draw it out for more clues.

“You know what I’m talking about. The key to Grimoire. You, the blood of Slytherin. You will lead us to it or feel even more pain –”

I slashed out, my wand in an arc, letting loose a bright flash. The man – I was fairly certain it was a man now – raised his arm, deflecting my curse with a Shield.

I had never been more than a proficient duelist; the past ten years of peace and sedentary lifestyle dulled my instincts and reaction time even more. I knew I should Disapparate and seek help. Flight, not fight.

But the man already recovered, fast enough that he aimed a jet of red light squarely at my face as I hastily clambered up. I ducked again, one hand hitting the gravel to brace myself. The Stunner hit a tree behind me with a loud bang.

So he’s not aiming to kill, I thought as I responded in kind. The knowledge didn’t comfort me.

My charm missed by a wide mark, striking the grass uselessly. I winced, hurriedly casting a Protego that his retaliating spell met in a shower of sparks.

There were shouts accompanied with running footsteps. I tightened my hold on my wand, my nails biting into my palms. There was only a small window for the man to act; any longer and he’d bring the entire park on us. And the Ministry.

The man advanced, his wand weaving a complex motion I didn’t recognize. I raised my own, shouting as a blinding flash blotted out the sun.

Then I Disapparated.

I hit the hardwood floor of my flat. Picking myself up with a grimace – my entire body screamed at me – I checked quickly if the stranger had followed me. I held my wand up, ready for an imminent attack.

None came. I dared not breathe, body locked in tight suspense. Could he have followed me? The man certainly knew more than enough, but this building was discreet, and an unexpected choice for a wizard.

Just in case, I casted extra wards and protection spells, feeling the slight electric across my skin as they slid in place.

My bag was still with me. Somehow, I had managed to bring it back in one piece. The top of it I had sealed with magic; I was more than ever grateful to this unexpected foresight meant to guard against my clumsiness.

I dumped out its contents on the floor. Parchment, quill, ink bottles rolled with a clamor, the books falling out of the bag with a much more solid bang.

Seeing the unmarked book hit me with such relief that I nearly collapsed to the floor. If it had fallen into that man’s hands … I had no idea who he was, but it was obvious he wanted this book – and what I knew about it. Ironic, as it had only been yesterday since I discovered it.

They must really hold my intellectual ability in high esteem, I thought with grim amusement as I put the book into my safe. The lock clicked as the anti-theft and Disillusionment charm activated. I debated whether to store it in my Gringotts vault, but it was an additional hassle when I still needed to examine it.

I needed to unravel its secrets and find the location of Slytherin’s Grimoire. Luna’s tale of the secret society took on new meaning: t was no longer an incredible story with elements lifted from the last few years. If the other part of her story was accurate, then the others who were after the Grimoire would not be interested in using it to cure Dragonpox.

That’s two for the record, I thought as I poured a tumblerful of whiskey into a new cup of coffee. I supposed once this was over, I should tell Luna that the Quibbler had hit on the truth again.

My warming charm was awful; I made a face at the lukewarm liquid that nonetheless burned a path down my throat.

I didn’t want the responsibility of dealing with this – this was why I selected the relatively dull path of the historian. I enjoyed learning about it, and occasionally teaching it, not make it. That was something for people like Saint Potter and his friends. They seemed to relish the spotlight, the glory of saving the world. I on the other hand, had no need to play the hero.

That sparked an idea. I could seek protection from the Aurors. After all, this was what our tax paid for. They were much better trained than I to apprehend someone who attacked me in broad daylight.

Maybe they would assign someone to guard me until the threat’s passed. Maybe it would even be Potter.

Chapter Text

“What do you mean, ‘I need to make an appointment?’” I glared at the receptionist at the reception room of the Auror’s Office. I had Apparated to the Ministry as soon as I was sure the book was securely in the safe. My haste was not returned in kind: the woman at the front desk of the reception, a mousy haired witch in plain and shabby-looking black robes, told me that no officers were available.

“I’m sorry, sir, but there are no available Aurors to see you right now,” she repeated -- with relish, I thought. “They’re either all on active cases or otherwise out of office.”

I gave her a look that had once reduced Eloise Midgen to tears. The receptionist, however, simply glanced down at the thick parchment she had in front of her, unperturbed by my expression. “Yup. I see no one is available until tomorrow. Would you like me to make an appointment for you, sir?”

I let out a huff and resolved to complain to Astoria about the deplorable state of our police force next time I had dinner with her. She had married some high-up on the Minister’s staff; I’ll have her give him an earful.

We had been engaged once, bonding over our shared rejection of our parents’ ideals. It had been a commitment of convenience, Astoria being in love with a man completely unsuitable for her family and me having a fondness of cock too powerful to overcome. But then her beau had made a name of herself and she had apologetically though firmly tossed me aside. I couldn’t find it in me to begrudge her that — someone deserved an opportunity to be happy.

I sat in one of the wooden chairs, watching the flow of people come and go. It was unlikely that I’d be attacked in the Ministry itself. Despite this, my fingers still danced nervously as I held onto my wand under my robes.

Damn bureaucrats. I was at loss. Do I make an appointment? It seemed a comical response when someone tells you his life was in mortal peril. I narrowed my eyes. No doubt if it had been one of the Gryffindors or anyone else, the witch would have leapt to help. Probably accompanied by maternal fussing and offers of a warm cup of tea.

Once again, I was left wondering how long until I could wash off the stink of my past. Judging by her behavior. Life had improved tremendously for our lot, by which I meant the children of the former Death Eaters, I had to admit. And loathe was I to credit Potter and his lackeys, their actions and attitudes had made all the difference between hidden hostility and outright persecution.

And it left me surprised. Of all the ones, they’d have the most reason to hate us, considering what they suffered and our mutual antagonism at school. But Saint Potter and his friends were too good for grudges, arguing instead that we, the children of his enemies, were as much victim as anyone else.

Moral fiber indeed.

I stood to leave. I had no intention of sticking myself in a bureaucratic morass. No doubt they would hand me a book’s worth of paperwork before I even saw an actual officer. I shuddered. I had enough of administrivia in my own work – there was still a pile of unfilled expense forms I needed to complete and return to the office.

The witch watched me go with a saccharine smile that I returned. I wondered if she was somehow involved in this conspiracy. Claustrophobia constricted my chest at that idea.

No, it was unlikely. She probably disliked me because of my history, not purposely obstructing me from seeking help.

I walked along the hallways, feeling the cold seep of paranoia bleeding in. How many others were part of this secret society? What did they want with the Grimoire? What did they want with me? They seemed to think that I knew more than I did. Ironic, since this group, whatever it was, had a much deeper understanding of the background surrounding the Grimoire.

The second-best option might be to go into hiding, at least until I had inconvertible proof that a secret group was after me. It had a certain appeal, but usually I wanted to hide from social obligations, not from thugs.

Portraits of past Ministries luminaries stared at me, some with a mere glance before returning to posing, others with a much more intent curiosity. I could ask Professor Snape for advice. Even in portrait form, he still had valuable insight to offer. Being the former Head of Slytherin, it was possible he knew more. Being oil and canvas had not improved his disposition, I remembered, from the last visit I paid him.

Even to this day I missed him. He had protected me, in his own way, when my family had fallen into disfavor, his acidic words and his cold presence fending off harassment from the others who relished at our disgrace. I had gone to his portrait after that last battle at Hogwarts. To apologize … to confess … to mourn. He had looked upon me with an uncharacteristic softness, extracting from me a promise to live with my head raised.

There was also Dumbledore’s portrait, I remembered. Say what one does about him, he was a brilliant man, with vast knowledge spanning all the fields of magic. Not to mention he had been Headmaster of Hogwarts for so long – he might have found clues that could reveal more. In any case, Hogwarts was on the itinerary after more research, Hogwarts being Slytherin’s crowning achievement. Physical clues were most likely there than anywhere in the world.

My footsteps echoed with loud clacks on the marble floor. I had always admired women’s high heels that clicked when they walked; the sound was, to me, an audible evidence of power.
Blaise told me that good dress shoes had the same effect. I glanced at my Cleverleys. I had bought this pair when the Magical Historian Society published my first article. It was that moment, when elation and pride surged through me, that I knew I had made the right decision.

That seemed only yesterday. I had tried to live up to my promise to Severus … it had been so long ago, but if I closed my eyes, I could swear I had just dashed in from the din of battle on the ramparts of the castle ….

Abruptly, I was aware my footfalls were not the only noise in the hallway. There was another, softer click, that accompanied mine.

I whirled around, wand whipping out, ready –

And stared into the face of Hermione Granger.

She gave a startled sound as she stopped, staring at me. She remained mostly relaxed, however, eyeing me with my wand out more as an exotic sight than a threat. Undoubtedly, she had unseen Shields and other magical protection invisible to the eye around her; most high-ranking Ministry officials did nowadays, since the War.

Thankfully it was just the two of us in the hallway, this being a busy day and most still tied to their desks. I cringed to imagine how others react if they happened upon a former Death Eater with his wand raised at the Deputy Head of Magical Law Enforcement.

“Yes?” she asked evenly. “Why are you pointing your wand at me, Draco?”

“Ah. Sorry. I – you startled me, is all.” I tucked my wand away hastily and looked at her. She had grown into her looks now. No longer the bushy-haired know-it-all, Granger was severely elegant in her Ministry robes, her formerly bushy hair parked sleekly on the right. No wonder Weasel’s mad for her. “I didn’t hear you.”

She surveyed me. I took a step back warily; she had surprising strength. I recalled her slap from our third year. I had deserved that, as reluctant as I was to admit it.

“Were you expecting to be jumped in the middle of the Ministry, Draco?” she asked instead, in a tone that made no doubt she thought I was an idiot.

“Maybe that will finally get the Ministry to care,” I said, with more bitterness than I had intended.

“Have people been harassing you again?” Granger’s expression hardened rapidly. Our personal history aside, Granger always came down hard on those who engaged in anti-Slytherin bias, or sought to use their position in the Ministry to lord our past over us. I had seen her speak on magical cooperation and the need to move past our historical antipathies. She was very persuasive.

She had always been an idealist.

I shook my head. In my view, she was fighting a losing battle: the wounds were carved too deep.

“It’s fine,” I said. “I’m used to it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Well, if they have, you let me know. What are you doing here, anyways?”

“I was trying to file an incidence report with the Aurors,” I admitted. “But they told me no one was available to see me and I had to make an appointment.”

“It has been surprisingly busy,” Granger said apologetically. “Though they should have still had someone on duty.” She frowned. It was just the bit of terrifying and bossy that’d probably catapult her to Minister one day. “I’ll take your report.”

“You?” I looked at her doubtfully. “Don’t you have a million things to do? Not to mention, all the paperwork that’s probably piled on your desk?”

She laughed. “I’m not Harry. I do my paperwork on time, unlike him.”

“Oh.” I hadn’t expected that tidbit. I filed it away, in case there was use for it later. Though I couldn’t claim to be much better with my own paperwork. “Well, if you’re taking my report, I was attacked in the middle of Hyde Park earlier. With magic.”

Granger froze. “Would this be near roughly after lunchtime? We had reports of an incident. Our Memory Charm squad and Muggle-worth Excuses Office are already working on it.”

“Yes, that would be what I refer to.” I knew it wouldn’t be long before the Ministry took notice of the event. It had improved markedly in effectiveness. “A man in a cloak attacked me. I defended myself within the limits of Section Four, clause B of the International Statute of Secrecy, and –”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Draco, I care more that you’re not hurt over if you had acted by the book,” Granger interrupted. “I trust your story. You’re a magical history, not a thug.”

I stared at her, gratified and a little taken aback. “Well. Okay. Yes. That’s what I wanted to report.”

“Do you have any other details?” she peered at me. “I mean … a man with a cloak who doesn’t like you … that doesn’t quite narrow it down.” She gave me a lopsided grin. “You know you have a way with people.”

I glowered at her. “Well, I’m fairly certain it was a man. Though I don’t have any evidence to back that up. He had his hood up the entire time and there was a concealment spell masking his voice. He was powerful, though; I could feel it.”

“Hmm … well, without more details, I’m afraid we can’t do anything. Maybe our squad on the scene can turn up more details, but I’m afraid the only thing I can offer is a pamphlet on magical self-defense.”

“Can’t you assign an Auror to me for protection?” I demanded. “Or have someone shadow me?”

“Not without more information, no.” Granger looked annoyed. “It’s these damn budget cuts, I tell you. Unless you have more details you can share, I’m afraid you’ll just have to be careful.”

I hesitated. Did I want to confide in Granger about my discovery regarding the Grimoire? She was the only other one besides me to read Hogwarts, a History from cover to cover.

“It might have to do with a recent academic discovery I made,” I said finally. “I think I found a clue to the location of the Grimoire.”

To her credit, Granger didn’t bat an eye. “And which grimoire is this that someone would risk attacking you in broad daylight over? You know most old spell books aren’t very up to date compared to the modern ones, though there is still tremendous historical value to finding one—”

“Yes, I know,” I interrupted. Really, lecturing a magical historian on the value of old spell books? “It’s THE Grimoire. Slytherin’s Grimoire.”

That caught her attention.

“And I think it might be connected to this secret conspiracy or whatever,” I continued. “I don’t know much about it, but Luna mentioned an article in the Quibbler about an ancient order that’s looking for it – I sound ridiculous, don’t I?”

“No ….” Granger looked at me, her face unreadable. “You’re making a lot of sense. But I don’t think we should be having our conversation in the middle of the hallway. Let’s move this to my office.”

I was not sure what I expected when it came to her office. Her assistant at the front gave us a polite nod as we walked in.

It was modern and strangely comforting, decorated in warm, earthy hues. It was a good balance of modernist and traditional furniture. A large desk took up most of the space. True to her boast, it was neat, and I stared jealously at the lack of stray papers. Framed pictures of the golden trio and her other Gryffindor friends were interspersed, with that Muggle ‘laptop’ contraption and a quill and inkpot to the side.

She noticed my gaze. “I had it modified so it works with the interference magical activity produces. It’s basically a machine that combines –”

“I know what a laptop is,” I said quickly. “Some of the Muggleborn scholars use them. It’s nifty, though I don’t think I’ll ever be able to figure one it.” And I wondered at myself – the younger me would never have deigned to even look at a Muggleborn, let alone listen to one explain how a computer worked.

Granger seemed surprised and pleased. I quickly spoke before she was tempted to explain her alterations. “Are you going to assign someone to look into this now?”

She paused, then raised her wand and casted a quick Muffliato. The irritating buzzing filled my ear as she looked at me. “What do you know about this group?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I never heard of any group that cared about Slytherin’s Grimoire until I ran into Luna today and she told me about it. Apparently there’s an article on them in the Quibbler that I haven’t even read it.”

“We’ve an investigation into them.” Her voice was low and her face serious. “They’ve been linked to a series of deaths that we haven’t been able to satisfactory show are murders. There’s also been links to money laundering and trafficking in illegal magical substances.”

Despite my cloak, a chill went through me. “They sound illegal.”

“That’s an understatement,” Granger said. “We haven’t fully plumbed the extent of their activities, but they’re very dangerous.” She looked like she was choosing her next words carefully. “And it’s appearing that they have links to old pureblood supremacy groups.”

My heart skipped a beat. “Like Death Eaters.”

She nodded. “So far, it’s only been rumors and conjecture. We have nothing solid yet. And there’s evidence that their network reaching deep into all parts of Wizarding society.”

“And what does this illustrious group call themselves?” I thought about the one who attacked me, the librarian at Gringotts. Reaching deep into Wizarding society … I told Granger about the librarian and my suspicions.

She nodded. “We’ll check him out. Now tell me about why you think you might have found Slytherin’s Grimoire.”

I could tell she was intrigued by this, the prospect of a historical discovery. I grinned; it was the academic in her.

I explained quickly the book that I found in my bag, the vision it gave me, what I saw in the vision.

She frowned. “And you trust these visions?”

I shrugged. “Not completely. I’ll have to corroborate them, of course. Imagine if I tried to cite them as sources. How would you go about citing magical visions anyways?”

“Well, there’s precedence in articles that have cited Seers’ visions,” Granger pointed out. Trust her to know that. “You’ll probably have to do something along similar lines.” Her good mood vanished. “But I don’t like this. I have no doubt his Grimoire exists. After all, we’ve found some of the other Founders’ Items over the years. But if this book does have all of Slytherin’s most powerful and dangerous spells, then we need to prevent it from falling into the wrong hands.”

“I’m a historian,” I said. “Not an Auror. I’m not equipped to deal with secret societies and dangerous conspiracies. I never was.” An image of a suspended body over our dining table flashed in my mind, the hiss of a snake as it slithered around. And the eyes, glassy with terror.

“I know.” Granger looked at my sympathetically. “But you’re the only one who has a clue as to where the Grimoire is right now. And it seems that you’re somehow meant to find it. I’m not going to question that everything happens for a reason.”

“Are you offering to help?” I asked. “Because if so, I’m still not sharing the byline.” I considered. “Maybe in the acknowledgments.”

Granger laughed. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She sobered. “But the investigation is highly classified. I only told you because you’re somehow linked to it already and I think you need to enter into the situation with all the facts.”

“This has been an interesting way of filing an incident report,” I said. “I come to you for help and instead you’re asking me to assist you in a dangerous case.”

She had the grace to look slightly ashamed.

“That’s also why we can’t assign you any protection from the Aurors. All the ones on the team investigating are fully occupied and I don’t trust any of the ones who I haven’t vetted yet.” She stared down at the photo on her desk. Potter waved at her and gave me a dark look.

What she said next shook me.

“That’s why I think you should go to Harry for help.”

“What?” My mouth fell open. I must look like a fish. I had fantasized about it, but there was a reason why it was a fantasy.

“Harry’s not affiliated with the Aurors anymore,” she said. “He started his own security firm. It won’t draw any attention from within the Ministry that he’s helping you, and I know he’s been itching for things to do.”

“How come I don’t know about this?” While Potter’s antics did not make the front pages anymore, the papers still loved publishing stories about him. The Chosen One still sold copies.

“We kept it discreet,” Granger said. “He doesn’t want the spotlight and we — well, we needed to keep morale up.”

I understood. Potter leaving the Ministry would have cast a shadow, regardless of the reason why. It would have made at least page two on the Prophet, most likely along with screeching columns decrying the government’s ability. I wondered why he left. Must be a personal issue, since Granger was still here. I doubted she would have stayed when he left if it was related to government decisions.

“And no, I’m not going to tell you why he left,” Granger added sternly, clearly anticipating I was going to ask that next. “That’s his business to share. He’ll tell you if he’s willing.”

“I wasn’t going to pry,” I protested. At her look, I sighed. “Alright, I was. But you can’t blame me.”

She pursed her lips, looking remarkably like old McGonagall. “No, I suppose not. But when you ask, be gentle.”

I looked at her suspiciously. “Why? What could have befallen our great savior?”

“Nice try.”

Damn Granger and her sharp mind. “Alright. But at least give me his address.”

I brooded on Potter as I made my way to the Atrium. Quitting the Aurors did not sound like him. He made an enormous fuss about becoming one during school. That screaming match McGonagall had with the old toad Umbridge about Potter joining was legendary.

Dredging up all the knowledge I had about him, I separated it into two categories: actual facts and gossip.

Of gossip, I had too much to count. I’d deny if anyone asked, but I had devoured every periodical that he featured in. There were breathless accounts of his marriage with the female Weasel, from portraits of domestic bliss to rumors of rancor. One memorable headline screamed: “HARRY POTTER AND PERSONAL TRAINER: MORE THAN FRIENDS?”, complemented with photos of a shirtless Potter looking annoyed at the camera as he did calisthenics. All the blood in my body had flowed downwards, and I had to excuse myself from the meeting I was for a quick trip to the lavatory to splash cold water on myself.

Damn schoolboy crush.

Of the facts, I had much less. He was married to Ginerva Weasley, was – had been -- a rising star in the Auror force, and was deliciously attractive. He also did not care much for me. The few times we interacted since Hogwarts were polite but cold. Irritatingly, he had spent more time talking with my mother than he did with me.

Nor did I care much for him. Physical appreciation aside, we had nothing in common. I had no idea where to begin the conversation if we were to somehow meet at dinner. He always seemed the type that grunted his responses, as evidenced by that broad shoulder and those strong legs ... his firm handshake that clasped my hand with crushing pressure....

Damnit! I was becoming aroused again. In the middle of the Ministry, no less. I hurriedly tried to think of his faults. Brash and rude, impulsive, with a death-seeker’s thirst for glory and a priest’s conviction of moral certainty, Potter and I were two different species.

What I needed was a cold shower and a hard fap when I get home. And a good cup of coffee. Maybe tonight I’ll call Blaise again. That itch needed scratching. Again.

All thoughts of sex vanished when I stuck my head into my flat.

Someone had ransacked it.

My coffee table had been upturned, the upholstery of the couch slashed and ripped, the cushions dumped onto the floor. The paintings on my wall were thrown onto the ground with enough force that the frames splintered. I saw that my coffee machine was likewise on the hardwood, the broken pieces still rolling. Shards of crockery littered my kitchen and the cabinets were open, ripped ajar by someone in a hurry.

I ran into my bedroom. A similar scene of devastation awaited me. My bedsheets were in shreds. I winced. Those had been expensive. The pillows were torn, some feathers still lightly aloft, and the mattress had a large slash down the center. Clothes were strewn on the floor with abandon, and the wardrobe door hung slightly off the hinges.

I hissed in anger. And fear. Whoever had done this managed to break the wards I had set. The spells I casted were sturdy enough to cause trouble for anyone but a powerful wizard. In theory. I never had anyone test their durability before.

I raised my wand and said: “Homenum revelio.”

Nothing happened. I lowered my wand an inch. It would have alerted me to any other humans in the vicinity, though if they managed to break my protection spells, they might have also found a way to evade detection.

The book! That must be what they came looking for. There was no other explanation. It was not an ordinary robbery; no burglars would expend this much effort into penetrating my wards. And nothing of value were missing. Smashed and destroyed, yes, but none were taken.

I ran to my safe, quickly dissolving the concealment spell. It was still intact. My chest remained tight as I touched it with my wand.

The door swung open, revealing the book inside.

I let out my breath. It was safe.

I collapsed onto my ruined couch, not caring that I ripped the tear even more. It was safe.

The relief was quickly replaced by anger and a deep sense of violation. I lived here: I ate and slept and fucked here. For someone to stroll in and upend all that, no matter for what, was so deeply wrong; the outrage left me naked and sick. I wanted to throw up.

I took a deep breath. I needed to push through the panic, to think. My first instinct was to Apparate to the Ministry and drag someone from the Auror’s Office, by force if I had to, to show him the scene. Their inaction was the cause of this.

But Granger had warned me to be careful … even as that memory entered my mind, my anger became suddenly tempered by a chill of paranoia. I had to be cautious. If Granger was right – and annoyingly, she was rarely wrong – then turning to the Aurors would be a mistake.

Potter’s business card burned in my pocket. I had turned it over so many times. Black, embossed simply with his name and address. My heart raced, a behavior that I knew did not result from seeing my flat destroyed. I did not want to run to him for help. I had my pride, and somewhere within me, fear pulsed that he might reject me. Though I knew it was unlikely, given Potter’s penchant to play the hero. But humbling myself before someone I had attempted to humble for so long? It left a bitter aftertaste.

It warred with the unpleasant bile that rose whenever I set my eyes on the tatter remnants of my flat. Damn pride and fear – I couldn’t handle this alone. A piece of what had been my kettle rolled towards my feet.

Damnit. Rather than experiencing the stirring hope that I found my hero, I felt like a damsel being delivered to the mouth of the dragon.

Potter’s office was located in a discreet townhouse in Mayfair. I would have mistaken the rust-red brick facade to be an estate agency or brokerage had I not known what I was looking for.

His assistant waved me up, giving me a curious once-over. I ignored it. He was familiar, and I recalled his face as one I had seen before in Hogwarts. He was probably one of Potter’s Gryffindor lackeys, following him like a puppy.

I sat, waiting in a brightly lit antechamber, looking impatiently at Potter’s closed door. I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection.

It was a frightful sight. My hair was a mess, the fine stands like drowned reeds around my face. Even from a distance, the dark bags under my eyes were visible, and my pallor was more pronounced than ever. It was a far cry from the usual dapper self I fancied me to be.

The door opened even as I hastily sat up straight.

Potter came out. My mouth went dry. He looked more delectable than ever, tall and broad and dark. His chest had thickened since I last saw him, though still retaining his overall slim build. I suppressed a desire to touch it. Sleepy eyes looked at me through round-framed glasses, and those emerald eyes, so often filled with anger and dislike at me, were filled with curiosity. His hair still appeared as if it had never met a comb, but what looked grungy on a teenager somehow worked on an adult man.

“Malfoy.”

“Potter.”

We stood there, watching each other. The air pulled taut as neither of us spoke.

I felt inexplicably awkward. I had not thought beyond seeking out his help; even stepping into his office took more willpower than should have been necessary. I had convinced myself that his aid was necessary, but somehow, in my endless analyses, I had not taken interacting with the man into account.

“Hullo,” I said, finally. “You look – good.”

It was true; he did. He also found a sense of style – or more likely, his wife the female Weasel dressed him.

A corner of his mouth quirked. “Hello to you too.” Then, remembering himself, he pushed his office door open. “After you.”

I sat myself, suspecting this was not unlike how Daniel must have felt in the lions’ den. Yet despite my nervousness, I could not help but be curious about how Potter decorated his office. It was wood-paneled and traditional, the dark coloring of the walls broken up by the fading sunlight from a floor-to-ceiling window.

It was bigger than I expected too, despite the clutter of books and miscellaneous objects in the cabinets and on his desk. There was a large Sneakoscope taking up half the space and a Foe Glass behind his chair.

“I don’t like to sit with my back to the door,” Harry said as he eased into his chair, “but when I have to, I like to know if an enemy’s approaching.”

“Ah.” I didn’t want to point out he could just keep his door locked while his back was turned. I was secretly thrilled to see the rest of his desk cluttered with loose sheaves of papers and a half-eaten sandwich. “Is that how you knew I was here?”

Potter gave me a strange look. His eyes really were attractive, even with those hideous glasses. “No. Dennis called up and told me you were waiting.”

“Oh.” I shifted awkwardly in my seat. Silence fell between us again.

“Do you … want some refreshments?” Potter asked after a while. “Tea? Coffee? Butterbeer?”

I shook my head. “No. Thank you.” It was odd, this polite professional behavior between us. “I suppose I should tell you why I’m here.” I eyed him hesitantly. “Unless Granger already told you.”

“Hermione?” Potter seemed surprised. “No. I haven’t talked to her since we had dinner last week. How’s she involved?” He suddenly grinned at me. “You’re not here to hire me for protection from her, are you? Did she slap you again?”

I glared at him. That incident seemed to bring him endless mirth. “No. If you must know, she highly recommends your services, though your professionalism seems a bit lacking.”

Potter leaned in. “And what ‘service’ do you require from me?” His voice was low and husky. It touched deep and I wanted to hear it whisper dirty things in my ear.

I pinched myself. Just such a reaction to an innocuous question boded ill for our working together. But – the sick turn of my stomach at the memory of my flat being broken into prodded me to speak.

“I was attacked today,” I said. “And my flat was broken into.”

Potter frowned in concern. “Are you alright? Did you make a report with the Aurors?”

I was reminded by this of how decent Potter and his friends truly were. “No, there weren’t enough Aurors to take my report, and when I found my flat wrecked, I came here straightaway.”

Potter’s frown deepened. “Are they giving you a difficult time? Tell Hermione; she’ll sort them out. And do you know why you were attacked? Was it because you were a Dea – your past?”

I suppressed the urge to close my eyes. Our interaction would inevitably touch on our past; it was another reason why seeking Potter out was foolhardy.

But.

I was already here.

“No,” I said. “It wasn’t because of revenge. It was something I discovered.” I told him about how I discovered the book containing clues to Slytherin’s Grimoire. I also told him about what Luna said about the conspiracy, and how Granger had warned me against trusting the Aurors.

“I don’t like this,” Potter said. His brows furrowed. “What do they want with a book? Even if it’s a book of Slytherin’s.”

I rolled my eyes. Honestly, so ignorant.

“It’s not ‘just a book,’” I said with exaggerated patience. “It’s a book with spells used by one of the most powerful wizards in history. A book that contains all the magic he knew. You remember the Chamber of Secrets — the Grimoire probably has the secret of how to breed and control a basilisk. Along with so many of his secrets.”

Potter’s face paled. I had struck home with my point. He of all people should understand how dangerous if the Grimoire fell into the wrong hands. I longed to ask about his experience in there, the details how he found it, how the reality compared to the legend.

“And what do you need me to do?” Potter asked after an interminable length of silence . “Are you asking me to join you on your search?”

I bit my lip. My libido went into overdrive whenever I was near him; my mind spiraled into memories I would rather forget.

“I can’t do that,” I said. “I can’t ask you to leave your wife and children to go on some wild chase that probably will have us traipsing all over the country.”

I felt disingenuous for saying that. In truth, I didn’t give a damn about the female Weasel, and I was not sure if Potter had children either. Or at least, the glossies had found that detail too dull to publish. It was just a convenient excuse, and guilt poked at me for manipulating Potter’s decency in this manner.

Potter gave me a small smile. “One ex-wife. No children.”

My blink concealed the depth of the earthquake his revelation created in me. That wasn’t in the papers. A million questions flooded my mind and I had to bite my tongue to prevent the torrent from spilling.

Struggling to keep my face as impassive as I could, I managed a “I see” with relative equanimity. “So you and the female Weasel – Weasley – are no longer an item.”

“No,” Potter said. “We’re not.”

“Ah.” I never knew what to say in these situations. If it had been one of my friends, possibly I would have cracked a tasteless joke. But this was Potter, and I couldn’t do that. “My condolences.”

Faint amusement crackled in his eyes. “It’s a divorce, not a bereavement, Malfoy. And it was amicable. We just had too many differences to be a couple, that’s all. Ginny and I are still friends.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask what those differences were, but my self-control checked me just in time. In any case, there were more pressing matters to deal with.

“I’m not sure why I sought you out,” I confessed. “You’re welcome to help me with my search, but honestly, most of the work will probably be going through old documents. You know, firsthand accounts, maybe maps and old household receipts. I don’t think it’s going to be exciting.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t sound exciting,” Potter said. “But you must have a reason for why you came to me. So what is it?”

“Well, Granger recommended that I come to you since the Ministry won’t or can’t help. I guess you can track down whoever is after me while I research. I don’t know the details of how that’ll work, but I guess I was thinking along those lines when I came to you for help.”

“Hmm. Well in cases like these, the typical Auror protocol would be to open an investigation. If I were the investigating officer, I would look for clues at both where you were attacked and at your flat. But I expect if you’re telling so late, that the scene where you were attacked is probably cleaned up by now. And your flat –”

“I cleaned up before I came,” I confessed. “It was making me … uncomfortable.” Sick was more accurate, but I didn’t want Potter’s pity. It came anyways.

“It must have been frightening,” Potter said, in a soft voice that I imagined was what he used to speak with skittish witnesses. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

“I’m not made of glass,” I said with a brittle laugh. “I’ve survived much worse than this.” My hands twisted the folds of my robes in my lap. “Why aren’t you an Auror anymore?”

Potter’s sympathetic expression folded in, into a mask of nonchalant cheer. It hit me with a pang at the loss of the rapport I was beginning to feel with him. I should have remembered Granger’s warning to ask gently.

“Wasn’t paying that well,” he said lightly. “Public sector salaries being what they are.” His eyes shadowed and he glanced away quickly.

I wanted to ask more, but his body language signaled that this area of conversation was closed. Potter surprised me. So many assumptions that I had regarded with the inviolability of Holy Writ – demolished. With just a few words.

“You’re incredibly quick in accepting a story that most would regard as farfetched,” I said after a heartbeat.

Potter shrugged. “I don’t think you’re a liar,” he said, “and I don’t think you’re crazy – though that’s always a debatable point. Besides, I found objects from the Founders in my own time, and Hermione still keeps me up to date on Ministry affairs from time to time. What you told me makes sense.”

“Thanks for that ringing endorsement of my trustworthiness,” I said sardonically. I tempered the edge with a chuckle. “Well, then I guess I did come to the right person, if you’ve experience in these matters.” He seemed surprisingly opened to the idea and I had to be grateful for that. Images of my destroyed flat, the sensation cut of gravel on my knee flashed through my mind, and I knew I needed his help.

“I don’t think you need a protection detail,” Potter said, leaning back into his chair. He took on the mode of an experienced professional now. “It would attract too much attention if I were to follow you and accompany you around. If you had Auror protection, it would’ve been possible for them to stay in the background. I’m much too high-profile, and our … history is too well known not to attract questions.”
He gave me a rueful look, falling out of his sharp focus for a moment. “Besides, I know you can defend yourself.”

I touched my chest, felt the scar the Sectumsempra had left, remembering the immense hate and anger as I raised my wand –

“We should talk about payment,” Potter said, snapping me back. His face was curious, almost as if he had also recalled the same memory.

I made a face of mock outrage. “What? The Chosen One taking pecuniary advantage of someone in distress?”

“You’re not in financial distress,” Potter said mildly, though I could swear a smile played in the corner of his mouth. “What you’re wearing probably could pay my rent for a week. And who actually uses the word ‘pecuniary’ in conversation?”

“Someone who reads,” I said, with an annoyed huff. “And I doubt my clothes are that expensive, Mayfair rent being what is.” I took out my coin pouch. “Do I need to pay upfront? I didn’t bring much on me. I always envy Muggles and their banknotes. And that card, the what’s-it-called – debt card. So convenient. Wonder why we don’t use it.”

Potter laughed out loud this time. “Credit card. But you’re not off the mark.” He surveyed me. “When did you begin paying attention to Muggle money?”

“I’m not advocating Wizarding superiority anymore, Potter,” I said, more sharply than I intended, an uncomfortable reminder of shouting matches with my father. I dialed down my tone. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to snap. Besides, I live in London. You can’t live in London without interacting with Muggles in some way.”

That was, strictly speaking, false, but I did not feel like elaborating for Potter’s benefit, the fetching look of interest appearing on his face aside. This meeting had turned out better than I expected, but I was suddenly exhausted. I just wanted to retire to my armchair with a cup of tea and a good book.

“I’ll have Dennis owl you an invoice,” Potter said. “Payment half in advance, half on completion of the job. And expenses, of course. Though that usually just amounts to cups of coffee.”

“I have a good coffee machine,” I said with a slight smile. It faded as I recalled I had to toss it, its condition too damaged. “Well, had. But I mail ordered a new one. It should be here within the week if you’re visiting.”

“I’ll have to,” Potter said. “I know you said you cleaned up the damage, but there still might be clues. And I’ll have to assess the vulnerability of your residence, especially since I’m assuming whoever attacked you and broke in was powerful magically.”

I nodded. The idea of Potter in my space – never even in my drunkest fantasies did I conjure up that. Although the reality was more sobering. “I look forward to your visit.”

“I look forward to your coffee,” Potter said with a smile as he showed me out.

I lingered in the anteroom for a while, giving my contact details to Potter’s assistant Dennis. I looked up at Potter’s closed office. I had accomplished what I came here to do, but there was a niggling sense of dissatisfaction in me.

Why did he divorce Ginerva Weasley? That could not have gone well, seeing as how the Weasleys had practically adopted him. Was that linked to his quitting the Ministry? I gave this room a quick look around. His line about pay rang false; it was true that Ministry pay was a pittance, but he was on the fast-track for Head Auror, I heard while having dinner with Astoria and her then-fiancé. And he had been so bent on it.

I gave his assistant my most dazzling smile, the kind that charmed both my mother’s cantankerous dowager friends and partners at the bars alike.

“I think I remember seeing you somewhere,” I said brightly. Potter seemed to count him both as friend and staff, and he probably knew something. At least hopefully the reason for his employment. “School?”

“I was two years behind you, Mr. Malfoy,” he said, not exactly hostile, but not warming up to me. I was nonplused. I could not have lost that much of my appeal, have I?

“Oh. Sorry,” I gave a tinkling laugh, one that I witnessed Blaise using on the most recalcitrant of models. “It’s been a while. I haven’t thought about school in a while.”

“I haven’t thought about Hogwarts in a while, Mr. Malfoy,” he said. “My brother Colin died in the last battle there ten years ago.”

My smile fell abruptly off my face. Everything I had said – I cringed. The words sounded so callous and insensitive now.

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. It felt like I was apologizing for more than my faux pas. I was apologizing more my past, for the actions of my family, for the damage of those I had once counted as friends and comrades ….

With an effort, Dennis smiled at me. “It’s a long time ago. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

We looked at each other in an uncomfortable silence. All thoughts at trying to extract gossip about Potter left my mind. This was why I vacillated in coming here – all these reminders of the past …. I had nowhere to escape. At least when I was with my books or my friends, I could forget, just for a while.

The irony of a historian trying to run from history … But didn’t I take up its study to impose my will on it? To shape its understanding, and in some ways, discipline myself to endure it. I inclined my head at Dennis.

“Well,” I said, breaking that uncomfortable silence. “That’s my address. Tell Potter to owl me when he comes over so I can set the wards to recognize him.” I left as quickly as I could without being rude.

The next few weeks saw me holed up in my flat. I brushed off several appointments with deans and editors with excuses of illness, and asked my mother to send food from the Manor instead of leaving.

This was a new level of paranoia, I thought, as I cut a piece of toast that had been from my parents’ leftover breakfast. At least I hadn’t ordered the house-elf who brought me the food to taste-test it. That would be extreme. Not to mention unnecessary.

I sipped my coffee. The machine had arrived faster than expected, even though I did pay for expedited shipping. I was irrepressibly excited at the prospect of Potter visiting, even though I knew it would be strictly business. I resisted the urge to order the house-elf to clean the flat, knowing that Potter would need it to be as it is to search for traces of the invader. He would need to be in my bedroom too, and didn’t that just leave me in a state?

I needed to leave the flat today, I decided suddenly. I had made no headway with the book and tracking down the Grimoire. In truth, I had not moved the book; it remained untouched in the safe. I was reluctant to touch it again, for some reason, working off the clues in that vision from memory. I could find no mention of Slytherin and caves in any of the historical records I had, or any mention of the Grimoire apart from brief mentions that were useless.

Not to mention my editor was growing increasingly frustrated with me for not finishing my article. She had sent me five owls to remind me of the upcoming deadline; I was certain the next post I would receive from her would be a Howler.

I needed certain documents from the Gringotts Reading Room to complete the last chapter. I was also fairly certain that the librarian was linked to all of this. I was going to attempt to question him one more time. Going would solve both problems neatly.

Besides, I was tired of my flat. It was tiresome to wander from the bedroom to the kitchen to the living room whenever I needed to stretch my legs. Not to mention I had been practicing my dueling; the pillow on my couch bore evidence of that.

I inhaled. I was ready as I would ever be. I strengthened the wards on my flat until the effort of casting them made my eyes water, then departed.

The Reading Room was empty today. Usually, I’d welcome it, but now it gave me a sense of unease. Without of the soft noises of the patrons moving about, the rusty of turning book pages, or the scratch of quill on parchment, the silence had a sinister undertone.

The librarian was here, however, sitting in his usual perch with an overview of the entire room. He watched as I sat in my usual spot, laying out my books and papers in front of me. I acknowledged at him politely. He made no movement but stare, his eyes protruding and bulbous, rather like the eyes of a fish.

Despite my unsettled state of mind, I managed to finish most of my work. It was strangely meditative, the soft press of my quill against the parchment as I detailed the effects of Druidic magic on their enemies. It made for the perfect distraction, their methods of spell works being so different from our own.

As my mind fumbled over the intricacies of druidic rituals, I spotted from the corner of my eye the librarian heading my way. He’s taken the bait, I thought.

He hovered over me, looming like an overgrown bat. Even though it had been my plan to lure him out and question him, I still had a thrill of danger run through me. Yet I was not afraid. It was strangely anticipatory, and I found myself eager for this confrontation.

“Hello,” I said politely. “You came just in time. I would like to request,” I looked down at my notes, “Manuscripts 102A and 15C, please.”

He ignored me. “Dr. Malfoy, where is that book?”

I raised an eyebrow and gestured at the mess around me. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Don’t play games with me, Malfoy,” he hissed, not even bothering with his usual pretense of civil dislike. “Where is it? What have you found from it?”

As he asked those questions, he turned his gaze straight at me with those dead fisheyes. There was a curious sensation, as if I were floating as I looked into them. They were really ugly … I could not help but try and turn my thoughts away, letting them drift pleasantly back to my morning, when I had breakfast and then readied to leave, getting up to check on the book –

I slammed my mind shut with a force had me bite the inside of my cheeks. I tasted the coppery salt of blood as I summoned up all my mental barriers to repel the librarian’s Legilimency.

It was powerful and subtle. Unlike the Dark Lord’s overwhelming brute force, the librarian’s probe sought to distract and lull one into a sense of complacency before he struck.

But my Occlumency was equal to it, even as I was locked into place, somehow frozen and unable to move. The mental pressure increased, like hot fingers pressing on my skull.

I gritted my teeth. It was endurable but unpleasant. I knew from my training that as awareness of mental invasion grew, the more painful the process became. It was the mind’s natural way to defend itself.

The librarian had lost his advantage early, but that did not mean he had failed. He increased the force behind his push into my mind, and my walls quailed before the assault.

I was faintly conscious of sweat beginning to trickle down my back. My own exertion was taking a toll. I could try to redirect his attention instead of fighting it, but I had no idea of the full extent of his abilities. It was always a risk; if I made a single misstep, my mind would be wide open for him to explore at will.

So I held on. Grimly, painfully, as the burn continued and increased, my fingers gripping my wand tight under my robes, ready to break out of the mental link that was forcibly created between us and hex him. But I was petrified, my muscles frozen, as I was bound by the power of his Legilimens.

I caught a flash of surprise from him, that he couldn’t believe I was such a strong Occlumens. He had always thought me weak, a traitor who had not the strength to stay with the Cause.

I reeled from his contempt. It came in waves heavy and unfiltered.

But this could be used to my advantage. The mental bridge between us went both ways. He was too busy attempting to breach my mind; as a result, his own was unprotected.

I concentrated, pushing past discomfort and my inhibitions – and entered his memories.

I saw myself sitting in the Reading Room, with a burning desire to wrap my fingers around the neck of the Malfoy boy — I felt the seething just underneath the surface every time the Malfoy boy came to speak with me —

I recoiled from the double vision. But I needed to press on. An opportunity like would not present itself again.

There was a figure in the circle, surrounded by chanting men in a room lit by candlelight. A snake hissed, coiling around the man. As the men looked on, the figure in the center drew back his hood, revealing the librarian. He raised his wand in the air and out spit the ouroboros that blazed on the cover of the Grimoire. It hovered, sulfurous green, circling above the group.

“We will find the Sacred Grimoire of our Founder,” he said, in a powerful voice that was unlike his usual. “We will use it to create a new world, a world where we no longer have to scurry like rats, where we will regain our rightful place in the world, where the Mudbloods will serve us, where we will correct all the mistakes of the past.” …

… It faded into a plush living room with a roaring fireplace that gave off a claustrophobic impression. The librarian faced someone in an ornate armchair that was almost a throne. The figure in the chair was cloaked by the brightness of the fire and the resultant shadow thrown.

“Master, are you sure about the Malfoy boy being connected to the Grimoire?” he asked, in a respectful tone. “With all due respect, he does not seem like someone who would aid us in our goals. Particularly since he betrayed his last master.”

“He is the last living descendant with Slytherin blood,” spoke a voice from the armchair. It was a mellifluous baritone, one that lulled a feeling of soporific calm. “The key will react to blood.”

“But he might not be willing to aid us,” the librarian protested. “He’s turned his back on the True Cause. I don’t think he’s willing to help us achieve our goals and the goals of his great ancestor and our Founder.”

“One does not need be a true believer to be a tool,” the voice said. The man in the armchair remained out of sight. “The Malfoy boy has Slytherin qualities aplenty – ambition, cunning, a desire to redeem himself. Those, too, can be manipulated. After all, is that not how we used the last candidate?”

“Voldemort was unwieldy,” the librarian said, stretching out the name with distaste. “He was too deep in his megalomania to be of use in the end. He would have been the most suitable candidate for the key, being the actual Heir of Slytherin.”

“It’s no use bemoaning the past,” the voice said, with a touch of sharpness for the first time. The librarian bowed his head. “Go and give the Malfoy boy the key. If he is unwilling, there are ways to make him cooperate by force.”

The librarian bowed –

And suddenly we returned to the Gringotts Reading Room. My arms fell to the table with a loud bang as the librarian stumbled, hitting a shelf. Books dropped to the floor, echoing in the high-vaulted space.

We looked at each other, our shock mirrored on each other’s faces. My head split, my eyes watered –

The librarian recovered first. He drew his wand, waving it in a figure eight movement as he opened his mouth –
I raised a Shield reflexively. And felt the heat of his spell hammer at it with a heavy impact that had me winded and taking a step back.

My Shield managed to redirect the force of his curse onto the wooden table. It cracked as papers and books were sent in the air. They came down slowly, in a stream of confetti.

I didn’t wait for him to cast another spell, aiming a Body-binding hex directly to his chest. The jet of light bounced uselessly off his Shield and hit the ceiling in a shower of sparks.

A loud keening cry rang out. It was the Reading Room alarm.

The librarian took one final glance at me with undisguised malevolence and fled.

I moved my legs gingerly. I was wobbly but unharmed. I debated chasing after the librarian, but he had no doubt disappeared by now. In any case, Gringotts security were arriving: goblins with wickedly sharp axes and wizards in the gold livery appeared with their wands out. They surrounded me with unpleasant looks.

I sighed. I knew how this looked. And as they advanced on me, I knew today was going to be a long day.

I spent an exhausting afternoon convincing Gringotts security not to ban me for life. I had exhausted all my currency with them but the most important one – that of our continued family patronage. Thankfully, being one of the oldest and largest clients of the bank still had weight with the senior management. And in the middle of their interrogation, a delegation from the Ministry led by Granger herself showed up. She had pulled aside the Head Goblin, conferring with him with such hissed vehemence that I had mistaken it for a burst pipe at first.

She gave me a look as we left the Head Goblin’s office. When I opened my mouth, she gave me a little shake of the head to forestall me.
We walked in silence until we reached a corner on the streets. I waited as she casted a discreet Muffling charm.

“How did you know to come?” I demanded as soon as the spell was cast. “Are you having me watched?”

“Would you rather spend a night in a cell?” she asked. “And no, we don’t. Gringotts has a direct line to the Ministry when situations like these occur.” She looked at me wryly. “Interesting form of a stretch break. Most would just take a walk.”

I gave her a malevolent look. “Don’t be facetious. Those were expensive. Some were on loan.” Thank Merlin they only suffered cosmetic damage. “I have news to share.”

I told Granger what had happened back in the Reading Room. My head still ached from the backlash. She seemed impressed.

“You must be a strong Legilimens if you managed to use his attempt to breach your mind against him.” She digested information the same way I remember her studying before exams. “This definitely proves that you’re meant to find the Grimoire. And that you need to do it before this group does.”

“I know that,” I said. Then, more quietly: “They seem to want me to help them find it.”

A mess of emotions whirled within me…. Hearing what the librarian and his Master, whoever that may be, talk about me drew me back to when the Dark Lord occupied the Manor…. The sneers and the pointed remarks at my weakness, my failure, still haunted me.… And the fear that I was being led into a trap, that they knew enough about my weaknesses to use me, it struck my heart with ice….

Granger tapped me on the shoulder, startling me out of my reverie. “Do you have any idea who the other man is? We have some records Gringotts provided us about the librarian, though I’m willing to bet most of the information is fake.”

“I bet. All this time, I had thought the librarian hated me because he lost someone in the War. Instead….” I was strangely relieved to know that. I was not at fault.

Granger looked at me sympathetically. “Don’t think about that. And no matter your faults, you’re reformed. You were just a child.”

I had not envisioned I would be standing here in the chilly afternoon baring my soul to Granger of all people. I forced a wan smile. “Don’t worry about it. Let me know when you track him down.”

Granger nodded. “I’m worried for your safety. Ordinarily I’d assign a team to you for protection, but we can’t spare any right now.”

I waved off her concern with a confidence I wasn’t sure I felt. “I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself. I’ve been practicing my dueling.”

“Harry can help you. He taught all of us how to duel.” She gave me a small smile. “He told me you hired him.”

“Ah, yes.” In the excitement of today, I had almost forgotten. “He’s supposed to come by sometime. I’ve changed the wards to allow him entry before I left this morning.” I had no idea why I did it; it seemed rather presumptuous of me, now that I thought about it.

“Tonight,” Granger said. “He told me tonight.”

“Tonight?” That was fast. I hadn’t even had time to cut my hair yet. Then I wanted to laugh. I had been attacked twice, and my flat broken into, and I was worried Potter would not like my hair.

Still, one must keep up appearances. And I knew I looked like how I felt: shit. I was tired, my mood irritable and jumpy. And that unexpectedly smooth meeting aside, I had not fully set aside my misgivings working with Potter. The combination of that and an unwanted infatuation made my head spin.

“I need a drink,” I muttered. I rubbed my temples; every time I used Legilimency always resulted in a headache.

“Buy you one at the Cauldron,” Granger said. “You look like you need one.”

“Thanks. Are you even supposed to drink right now? Aren’t you on the job?”

She shrugged. “Call it part of handling the witness. We can expense it to the Ministry.” She winked at me.

“Careful, Granger. If you’re not careful, I might actually start to like you.”

She tossed her hair as she exited the privacy bubble. “Please don’t. Don’t make me slap you again.”

I had only intended to have drink before I headed home to sleep before Potter’s arrival (I gave up hope of a haircut; the stylist I usually went to needed an appointment at least a week in advance), but one turned into two, and the next I knew, I was downing shots with Granger. She had a surprisingly high tolerance.

After exhausting all the safe areas of topic – the ever-English subject of the weather, Ministry gossip, the research I had been working on (thankfully, the manuscript had been untouched during the scuffle with the librarian) – I finally mustered the courage to ask the question that had been troubling me since I called upon Potter.

“Why did he leave the Ministry?” I asked. “And he’s divorced Ginerva Weasley?”

She gave a little hiccup. The look she gave me, though, was entirely too sharp for someone who was several drinks in. “It’s not my business to answer,” she said. “For both your questions.”

“Oh, come on.” I said, aware I was close to whining like a child. “Give me a clue. I’m going to be dealing with the man. I need to know at least if he’s volatile and one wrong word could set him off faster than an Erumpent horn.”
She gave me a beady look. “Are you ever going to stop pestering me for information?”

“No.” In truth, I probably wouldn’t have asked her if I had not drunk so much. My headache was gone, replaced by a spinning weightlessness that I knew meant I would fall down all the harder tomorrow. But for right now, nothing seemed to matter. “It’s not terminal, is it? Or contagious?”

She gave me a scathing look. “No. Don’t be ridiculous.” She sighed. “I can only tell you that the job didn’t suit him. He did well at first; he’s magically capable of the job, and he loves helping people, but being an Auror was not at all what he imagined.”

That was informative and only whetted my hunger for more. “Adulthood is like that,” I pointed out. “Disillusionment and compromises are what awaits us.”

“You sound like him,” she said. She put down her pint. “But it isn’t all bad, you know. I know we’ve all been through experiences that make us jaded, but life isn’t all that bad.”

I squinted at her. “I know. I can drink now.” She briefly cleaved in two before coming together. “Perks of growing up.”

She laughed at that. “I think you’ve had more than enough to drink, Draco.” She checked the large and smudged grandfather clock next to the fireplace. “I need to head home soon. Ron’ll be back from his business trip in America.”

I nodded. “I should head home anyways. Don’t know what kind of damage Potter will have done in my absence.” I rose shakily. There was an itching dissatisfaction that her mention of the Weasel . It wasn’t dislike, not anymore – I was just drinking with his wife, after all. It touched a chord of jealousy in me, that they had each other to go home to.

Well, this was just the liquor talking. Now I had to get home and tidy up for Potter.

I stumbled out of my fireplace, feeling a sense of déjà vu. I needed to stop coming home drunk.

The lights were on. They hurt my eyes. I did not recall leaving them on when I left. Then again, my mind was so fuzzy right now, I could barely remember my own name. I should not drink this much. But they seemed to have dulled the knife’s edge that I felt myself standing on. That altercation with the librarian shook me. It raised so more questions than it answered, and they plagued my mind like locusts.

There was a clink from the kitchen. I peered. It was coming from the area hidden from view by the angle of the room. I hope it wasn’t china that I hadn’t stow away properly this morning.

Then again, that sound. I froze. It wasn’t from an open shelf; someone was rummaging in my kitchen.

I took out my wand and tried to approach as stealthily as I could. I prayed it was just a thief with a particular liking for bone china and not another one from the group that was after me.

I jumped into the kitchen, ready to unleash whatever hex my drink-addled mind could come up with on the intruder– and froze.

It was Potter.

He was holding a mug decorated with ‘I Love London’ on it, his face opened in surprise as he took in what must be the ridiculous sight of me in crumpled robes and smelling strongly of scotch.

“I’ll … make a cup of coffee for you too, then,” he said.

I glowered at him. “What the hell are you doing in my kitchen, Potter?”

“You told me I could come by whenever to inspect your place,” he said, setting down my mug and reaching up the shelf for another one. He wrinkled his nose. That sight should not have looked so attractive. “Merlin, you smell horrible. Did you douse a bottle of whisky on you or something?”

“I was having a drink with Granger,” I said waspishly. I glared at his fuzzy outline, shaded against the harsh kitchen lights.

“More than one, I should say.” He bustled past me, reaching for the fridge. “Do you want milk or sugar with your coffee?”

“No, I drink it black.” The words came out automatically. Potter moved so naturally in my space, like he belonged here. I gave myself a little shake. “Why are you still here? I lost track of time. Sorry.”

He shrugged, setting my milk on the bar top as he tapped my coffee machine. It made a little noise and began to steam. I sat down, heavily; my legs were about to give way. The mesmerizing smell of coffee filled the room. I breathed in. Heavenly.

Potter laughed. “You should see your face just now.” He gave me a curious look. “I can’t wrap my head around you drinking with Hermione. You two … well, it’s unexpected.”

Me neither. If I had told my younger self, he would probably have me checked into the mental ward at St. Mungo’s. “Free drinks,” I said with a grin. “The Ministry paid.”

Potter laughed. “Explains why you showed up soused. How is she? Ron’s back from the States. Bet she’s excited for that.”

“She is,” I said, taking the mug of coffee from him gratefully. I marveled at myself for having a conversation with Potter in the kitchen. That spun my head more than all the alcohol I imbibed earlier. “You know?”

“Of course,” Potter said. He sat down across from me. “I’m having dinner with them sometimes this weekend.”

“Ah. Of course.” I felt a sudden surge of jealousy. I was being ridiculous, I told myself. I had no reason to begrudge Potter his friends’ company. I took a sip of the coffee to avoid saying anything further.

Potter did the same. We sat in silence; if Potter felt any sort of discomfort or awkwardness, he did not display it. He was remarkably at ease.

“Did you eat yet?” I asked suddenly. My stomach grumbled. “I’m getting hungry.”

Potter chuckled softly. “Post drinks hunger? I ate, but I’ll have some of whatever you decide to have.”

I considered the contents of my fridge and took out some leftover filet from dinner yesterday. “You like steak?” I waved my wand and it flew into a pan, the stove turning on with a click.

“Smells nice. You cook?”

“No, I had the house-elves bring it from the Manor.” I gave an embarrassed laugh. “I haven’t been out of my house before today.”

“Really? You couldn’t have just ordered take out?” Potter sounded amused. “Would have been easier.”

I sniffed. “I would do nothing so plebian. Besides, owl droppings might get in my food.”

“Muggle take-out don’t involve owls,” Potter pointed out.

“I don’t know how to order Muggle take-out,” I said. “Besides, I don’t have a Muggle bank account.”

“Really?” Potter looked surprised. “Isn’t this a Muggle building?”

I shook my head. “It’s a mixed residential property. There’s a wizarding building management that I pay rent to.”
“Still, I’m impressed you’re living with Muggles,” Potter said. “Despite having house-elves bring you food from the Manor.” He gave me an approving smile and my insides warmed. I told myself sternly it was only the alcohol.

Potter was sitting close enough that I could make out the individual lashes. He was unshaven, with a slight hint of stubble, and his tongue, flat and pink, peeked out of his mouth. He looked at me, his eyes a bright green that called to mind summer fields in the sun, and I moved in nearer to him …. I licked my own lips … our noses were almost touching ….

And then I smelled the sizzle of the steak. It was strong, almost to the point of being burnt.

“I think your food’s ready,” Potter said. There was a small hitch in his voice, and though his features were even, I could have sworn a faint blush crept underneath his tanned skin. “I think I’ll have some actually. Smells delicious.”

“Our house-elves cook well,” I said, hurriedly moving past him. I didn’t look at him as I set the cutlery down.

“I haven’t found any traces of whoever broke in,” Potter said after we ate in silence. “But I’ve increased the strength on your wards.”

“Thank you,” I said. It was a cold reminder that Potter was here, not for a social call, but because my life was at risk. “Someone tried to break into my mind today. There’s definitely a group after the Grimoire. All these attempts targeted at me, they probably came from this group.”

“I don’t like this,” Potter said. “I tested your wards when I arrived, and they were decent enough to give me trouble. For this group to so easily break in makes me uneasy. And if they’re growing bold enough to attack you in public ….”

“They’re somehow linked to my past,” I told him quietly. The room seemed to grow shadowed at its mention. Potter tensed, his hand gripping his fork a little tighter. I watched the strong, callused fingers with unmanicured nails. “They mentioned something about the Dark Lord being a candidate. And now it’s me.”

Potter’s face tightened. He was no doubt having his own recollections of facing the Dark Lord. And I was left in amazement, once again, at how easily Potter seemed to have forgiven us.

“I’m not surprised, with all these Slytherin links,” he tried to joke finally. “It’s must be like a House reunion for you.”

“Or a reunion for Death Eaters?” I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice.

You’re not a Death Eater, Draco,” Potter said quietly. I started at the use of my given name. “You might’ve taken the Mark, but you never were a Death Eater.”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” I said, turning away sharply. I looked around my flat, at the lived-in messiness, the assorted knickknacks, the little affluent symbols of a comfortable existence. It was a facile appearance of a space for someone who seemingly had everything. “Not right now.”

Potter fell silent, and I regretted my harsh tone. We had been getting along so well … Finally, I asked: “So now what?”

Potter quirked a half-smile at me. “I think we need to clear up.”

“Oh. Right.” I waved my wand, and the dishes flew to the sink. With another flick, they began to clean themselves. I shrugged at Potter. “I might be not much of a duelist, but my cleaning charms are pretty competent.”

“Maybe you should move in with me,” Potter joked. “I’m awful at them. Ginny always had to recast them because mine stopped folding the clothes halfway or only got the dishes to rinse without soap.”

“Is that why she dumped you?” Too late did I realize what I just said. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean –”

“It’s alright.” Potter didn’t look it. “Let’s just … not talk about it for now.”

I wanted to slap myself. Here was Potter being amiable beyond all expectations, and here was I, making cracks at a wound that must be still fresh.

“Sorry,” I repeated.

He gave me a lopsided smile. “At least I know you’re back to normal when you’re insulting me.”

He really had a great smile, I thought. It wasn’t as dazzling as Blaise’s, but it was more … approachable. It didn’t leave me breathless, but it warmed me, like coming inside after being stuck in the rain.

I smiled back, unsure at what to do. His presence made me lightheaded. I wanted to blame this on the drinks tonight, but it was a flimsy excuse. What happened earlier ... if I had leaned even a centimeter closer, our lips was have touched. My heart raced at the idea … my body grew warm….

“How about this,” Potter said, breaking our eye contact. He looked a little embarrassed. “I can teach you how to duel while I wait for clues to turn up.”

“Alright,” I said, forcing my mind to focus on the matter at hand. “And let me know when you visit next time, so I can go to the wine cellar beforehand and get –”

There was a loud bang. Both me and Potter jumped, Potter whipping his wand out reflexively. It was barely in time – a bolt of red light went directly towards him.

With a loud profanity, Potter deflected the Stunning spell and shot a jet of blue light at the cowled intruder. It hit his shield and vanished; the intruder was already reacting, flicking his wand at my coffee table. It rose and flew at us.

I quickly transfigured it into a pillow as Harry aimed another Disarming charm at the figure. It glanced off harmlessly.

“This is what you call good at dueling?” I yelled at Potter over a loud crash as the intruder’s spell shattered a light fixture.

“I’m trying to catch him alive,” Potter shouted back as he shot a Stunner aimed at the intruder’s chest.

“This isn’t going to work,” I said, ducking under my counter and pulling Potter, the brave idiot, with me. He had been standing, trying to get another shot in. “His Shield’s too strong.”

I was panting already. I wondered if I had an opportunity to call for reinforcements — the last time I was confronted with him, I only managed to escape by grace of having Muggles nearby. With the din loud enough to wake the dead, maybe my neighbors would summon help.

Then I remembered with a crestfallen feeling that these walls were thick and soundproof, like all luxury residences tended to be, and that I had added my own spells to reinforce my privacy. Damn. That came back to bite me in the arse.

Potter made an incoherent sound next to me, and I remembered I had one advantage here that I lacked time: Potter at my side. Despite my crack about his skills, he handled himself much better than I would have in his stead.

“What’s the plan?” I asked him in a low voice. I winced as another spell shattered my mug.

“Come out, Malfoy,” the discordant grating voice rang in the space. “Having Potter here won’t help you. Pity he had to be here tonight. I wasn’t in the mood to kill, but I can’t have any witnesses.”

Potter snorted. “It’ll take more than a sneak attack to do me in,” he said loudly.

In response, a jet of green light arced over our heads, hitting the shelf across from us. It burst into green flames.

I doused it hastily and glared at Potter. Trust a Gryffindor to goad someone trying to kill you. “You might have experience surviving the Killing Curse, but not everyone has,” I snapped. “And I’m deducting the cost of repairs for that shelf from your pay.”

Potter laughed, a ragged sound that still contrasted in its mirth against the tension. “I thought you were going to follow my lead.”

“Lead the way, Potter.” I hoped he wouldn’t do something foolhardy like jump out, wand a blazing. After a beat, I said, “I’ll cover your back.”

Potter looked at me with a glimmer of amusement. “When I go out, hit him from my left.” He spoke in quick, rapid bursts. “Don’t bother with any direct jinx or hexes; his Shield’s too good. Instead, use the surroundings against him. Charm or Transfigure the objects around him.”

I nodded, readying my grip on my wand. I looked at Potter. His eyes shone, his entire face alive with excitement and exertion.

“Ready?” He crouched, battle-ready. I mirrored his stance, adrenaline pumping, terrified – and not a little excited.

Harry leapt out, a bright light hitting the intruder’s shield with a pitter-patter of gunshot. They were absorbed as the intruder waved his own wand; I felt the impact of it rush past me as Potter was forced to Shield himself.

I aimed, a silvery rope issuing out of my wand. It changed into a snake that hissed and struck at the intruder. The intruder slashed at the serpent – it vanished in a puff of smoke.

Potter took advantage of the distraction to shoot an Incarcerous at the intruder. The rope shot out – almost trapping – the intruder’s reaction was too quick: he turned it into sand that scattered onto my floor.

I growled. That would be hell to clean. Lightning exploded out of my wand. It sped along the lines of the hardwood tiles and through the air in jagged streaks. They struck the intruder in the chest and he dropped, his face frozen in surprise even as he attempted to block them.

I moved cautiously towards him, Potter following in my wake.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” he asked as he came up to the body. He prodded it with the toe of his shoe. “He’s out cold.”

“It’s just a little lightning,” I said. I raised my wand, tying him up in neat knots. “I dated the instructor for the London Dueling Club for a few weeks. He taught me this spell. It’s more flash than practical, but,” I shrugged.
“He?” Potter gave me a sideways glance. He settled down onto my couch. “It didn’t last?”

“He,” I confirmed. I thought about him. Dark-haired, tall, and broad-shouldered, just my type. “It wasn’t serious. Or I guess, I didn’t want it to be serious.”

“Ah.” Potter gestured for me to sit. I did, the cushions sinking beneath my weight. There was a burn hole. I fingered it idly. I didn’t look at Potter. It was not in my plan to divulge that bit of information. I had no idea how Potter would react – would he recoil a little? Would he look at me with new wariness? I thought of what happened earlier, how I had felt that shudder of attraction between us. I could have sworn I saw a hit of the same from him.

Potter stayed silent. Then he said: “Me too.”

I turned my head so swiftly there was an audible snick. We looked at each other. His eyes were shadowed; one of my lightning had hit one of the bulbs. His lips were slightly parted, his breathing heavy and uneven. Mine wasn’t calmer; my entire body was hot. I moved my hand – it touched his, just on the edge, as I leaned in --

There was a groan and a stir from the floor. Potter stood up and banged into the sofa. He stumbled to the side and bumped his shin on the end table. Jerking back, he straightened up, crossed his arms, and stared at me.

My face burning, I turned to face the body on the floor. It was moving now, the concealment spell still preventing his hood from falling.

“Want to do the honors?” I asked Potter. I didn’t look at him.

“Revelio.” The spell on the figure began to fade, and a faint glimmer around him shone before disappearing. Potter knelt beside the man and removed his hood.

It was the librarian. The breath choked in my throat as I stared. In the back of my mind, I knew it should not have come as a surprise. I knew he was linked to this, and his attack in the Reading Room today proved that, but to find that he was the intruder – it left a bitter taste, that he had been sitting so close to me all this time.

“He’s the librarian from the Gringotts Reading Room,” I told Potter. “He attacked me this afternoon, trying to find out what I knew about the Grimoire.”

“Who else is involved?” Potter asked him coldly. Power emanated from him like fire burning; his features were stern and rough, like hewn wood. “Why do you need Draco to find the Grimoire?”

The librarian spat. “Like I ever tell you, Potter. You might’ve killed Voldemort, but the Circle is far older and stronger as a collective than him and his Death Eaters. Death Eaters — such a pretentious name. Appropriate for a pretender.”

Potter grabbed the man by the collar. “Tell us what we want to know.” He hauled the man up to his feet roughly. He stared back at Potter in cool contempt. Despite myself, I had to admire his composure. Not many could keep it under this circumstance.

I met the man’s eyes, trying to probe into the librarian’s mind, trying to see his most recent memories of this ‘Circle’ he mentioned.

And met with blazing pain. I was on the highest tower the night I failed to kill Dumbledore – I was faced with the Dark Lord, his face as still as marble while he raised his wand and agony twisted my very veins – I saw a Death Eater casually backhand my mother as she stood between me and him –

I fell to my knees. My breath came in choked gasps. Potter dropped the man and rushed to my side.

“Are you alright?” His voice was gentle, coming like a balm after my memories. “What happened?”

“It’s not so easy to break into my mind this time, Malfoy,” the librarian’s taunting voice sliced through. “I was unprepared last time. Try to invade my mind again and you’ll find yourself a dribbling vegetable.”

“What did you do?” Potter grabbed the librarian in a fury. He raised his wand –

I clutched Potter’s hand. “Don’t. He’s not going to break so easily.” I hauled myself to stand with my grip. He half-pulled, half-dragged me to my feet. “Torturing him would be a waste of energy.”

“Scared, Malfoy?” The librarian’s voice came sing-song and mocking. I held Potter’s hand tighter, my nails digging into his flesh.

“Malfoy,” Potter sat me down. “I’ll make you a cup of tea and call Hermione.” I twitched as he tenderly pried my hand off. I had left nail marks.

“Sorry,” I mumbled as Potter Silenced the librarian. He glared spitefully at me as Potter went into my kitchen. I heard the comforting sound of mugs jingling as I closed my eyes.

“You guys alright?” Granger asked as her men clicked silver cuffs that shone with anti-magical properties onto the librarian’s wrists. They would inhibit his powers, and, as an added precaution, they had also muzzled him.

Potter nodded. His face was still flushed. It was ruddy with excitement. “I miss this. The rush, the adrenaline. Capturing bad guys.”

“Protecting the innocent?” Granger looked at him. “You can always come back, you know. There’s always going to be a place for you.”

Potter stared just a little off to the side. “You know I’m not going to. They’ll just stick me behind a desk and wheel me out once in a while to boost morale.”

“Yes, but even with that, you can do more good than as a private individual chasing down lost cats and cheating spouses.” This seemed to be an old argument they were replaying. I listened with barely disguised fascination.

Potter let out a frustrated sigh. “Hermione, you know I’m not doing that. Well – the lost cat bit.”

“You did for me,” she pointed out. She quirked a smile at him. “Play with him when you come over. He’s fond of you.”

I remembered her giant beast of a cat, and smothered a laugh at the image of him sitting in Potter’s lap, purring as Potter petted him.

Both Potter and Granger turned at the sound, like they had forgotten my presence.

“Are you alright, Draco?” Granger asked. “You’ve suffered two Legilimens attack in one day. You should be resting.”

“With all this racket your lot is raising, I can barely take a piss in peace, let alone sleep,” I said, but there was no real edge to my words. I looked at Potter amusedly. “You’re good with cats? Maybe you should come with me next time my mother forces me back home for tea. You can play with her cat and distract her from getting hair all over my robes.” I knew better than to pry right now, even though I so desperately wanted to.

Unexpectedly, Potter smiled at the mention of my mother. “How is she? We corresponded a few times, but we lost touch recently.”

That was a bit of disconcerting information. I couldn’t imagine Potter and my mother being pen pals any more than I could imagine a centaur dancing with a goblin. “She’s well. Nagging as usual, but that’s mothers for you.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Potter said as Granger winced. “I’m an orphan.”

“Fuck. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean –”

“Relax, Malfoy.” Potter laughed. It was deep and toe-curling; I wanted to listen to it all day. “I’m just teasing.”

“Oh.” Nonplussed, I turned to Granger. “What are we going to do now?”

“WE are doing nothing. YOU are going to stay somewhere safe while I try to figure this out.” Granger nodded at her men, who carried the librarian out of my flat. She glanced at Potter. “Can you keep an eye on him?”

Potter nodded. “I know I said I didn’t think you needed it, but I’m changing my mind. I think the situation calls for it.”

“Then it’s settled. Harry will keep you safe while I try to figure out what our friend and his group wants.”

“The Circle,” I interrupted. “They call themselves the Circle. They have links to the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters, pureblood supremacy, that sort of thing.”

Granger wrote this down in a small notebook. “I’ll add this to our database.”

She left; I was alone with Potter now. He sat back down next to me.

“You’re sure you’re alright?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” I said. I raised my arms. “Look. Nary a mark on me. My flat, though ….” I flicked my wand and repaired some of the lesser damage. The scorch marks left by my lightning and the ruined furniture needed more effort that I couldn’t give right now.

Potter flicked his own wand, and within minutes, my flat was pristine.

“Aren’t we worried about destroying evidence?” I asked him.

“There isn’t much the forensics team can turn up that we don’t already know,” Potter said. “Doesn’t make sense to leave the flat in a mess to me.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I can sleep here with it like that,” I said. “Maybe I should have the Manor house-elves come clean.”

The Manor …. Then it struck me. I was a fool for not thinking of it before!

I jumped up with a cry of triumph. Potter reacted by whipping out his wand.

“No, no, we’re not under attack again,” I said, laughing. “I just had a breakthrough.”

“Well, warn a man next time,” Potter said, disgruntled. He settled back down. “And what is this ‘breakthrough’ of yours that almost gave me a heart attack?”

“The Manor,” I said. “It has records of Dark Magic and artifacts as old as any in the libraries. I cited some of them in my articles actually. I can’t believe I forgot.”

“That’s a good idea,” Potter said thoughtfully. “And this Circle has links to Voldemort. We can ask your father if he knows anything.”

“My father’s reformed,” I snapped. “He’s not a Death Eater anymore.” He’s not that reformed, a voice in my head whispered. He’s just had to accept a new reality in which he no longer has the power to enact his ideals.

“He still might know something,” Potter said, not conceding the point, but not pressing it.

That was true. I just didn’t know how to broach that with him. it was one of the subjects that remained untouched in the silent rules we had drawn up after the War. “I’ll ask if I get the chance,” I said finally.

“I’m coming with you,” Potter said.

Chapter Text

Potter insisted on coming despite my objections. I told him in no uncertain terms that I would be fine without him tagging along. I was, after all, just returning to my childhood home.

I didn’t mention that Potter would not likely find a friendly welcome with my father. My mother, perhaps, especially if they were in contact, but definitely not Lucius Malfoy. I expected Potter knew that too.

But, bull-headed as he was, he still persevered, and in the end, worn me down to agreement. I had a sneaking suspicion that he would have secretly followed me in any case.

In the meanwhile, I dug up the issue of the Quibbler that discussed this mysterious Circle. It was old, having been published a few years back, and I had to visit the British Library, Magical Section, to obtain a copy.

It made for chilling reading. The writer detailed their alleged links to various terrorist groups and acts all over Europe, as well as money-laundering, fraud, as well as theft of magical artifacts and tomb-robbing. I recognized some of those incidents: the recent break-in at the Avalon Conservatory at Glastonbury, for instance. The Ministry still had no idea who broke in. Nothing valuable was taken, or so they had told the Prophet, but among the items listed missing were a number of curios linked to the Dark Arts. I had incidentally been planning a trip to view them for a journal review.

There was also the death of a Muggle man in a small village in Somerset that had not made Wizarding news. I only knew of it because I had caught a glimpse of the headline screaming about the goriness of it on some Sunday tabloid.

I swallowed. Reading between the lines, what made them more terrifying than the Death Eaters was their coordination and unity. The Death Eaters were dangerous, but they -- we -- had been a fractious group, held together only by the Dark Lord. This Circle, though … it reeked of something far older and expansive. According to this article, they were also deeply emmeshed in Wizarding society, to the extent that removal would need to be slow and surgical. Any mass action would result likely in destabilization and mass chaos. Yet like the hydra, I had no doubt that as soon as one cell was destroyed, another would take its place.

I searched up the writer of that exposé in the Prophet’s directory. He had disappeared. Though I knew he could have simply decided that he wanted privacy or solitude, I had an inkling that was not the reason.

Once again, I wondered what I had gotten myself involved in. If I had any sense of self-preservation (and I had loads, I was a Slytherin), I should leave this affair with the Grimoire well alone.

But something in me urged me forward. Ambition and a thirst for recognition? A sense of duty? A historian’s desire to understand the past? Whatever it was, I was set firmly on this path, to walk it until its end.

On the day we were set to visit the Manor, I dressed with care. I sent two letters to my parents, one to my father and one to mother. I neglected to mention Potter was accompanying me in the copy my father received, my reasoning being that my father would be more receptive to the news from Mother.

My mirror grunted approvingly as I gave myself a final scrutiny. My hair was groomed, my robes freshly laundered and pressed, smelling faintly of lavender. I looked like a proper Malfoy; nothing to give my father ammunition for criticism.

There was a little bell that signaled a visitor from the Floo.

“Hallo, Malfoy. I brought a bottle for your parents,” Potter’s voice came from the living room. “I know it’s a business call, but it can’t hurt, can it?”

My father would likely look down his nose at whatever swill Potter was bringing. The Malfoy wine cellars were as old as the house itself. I didn’t mention this to Potter as I came out of my room.

“It’s the thought that counts,” I said. I was met with stunned silence. “What?”

Potter was staring. He had the dazed look of someone used to a hard pallet waking up in a luxury suite.

“Nothing. It’s just … you look nice, that’s all.”

It must have been a trick of the light, but I thought I saw a blush creep across his face. Whatever it was, he recovered quickly, gesturing at himself. “I didn’t know it was so formal. I mean, it is business, but it’s also with your parents.”

“Have you ever seen my father in jeans and a t-shirt?” I asked rather snidely. “No, don’t answer that.” I knew the answer, and frankly, it must be difficult for Potter to return to a site where there was nothing but dark memories. “Besides, you can dress however you like. You’re the Chosen One after all.”

“Still ….” Potter frowned. “Should I change? I don’t want to look out of place.”

I forbore to say that a Potter at the Manor would be out of place no matter how he was dressed. I gave Potter a quick look-over. His broad shoulders filled out his robes, and his pants accentuated the length of his legs, tapering at the end. He looked fine to me. I didn’t mention that to him.

“Maybe a tie,” I said. “I’ll see what extras I have.”

I doubled back to my room. Perhaps the silver one with blue strips. Or the green silk and wool blend. They brought out his eyes.

Potter remained unmoving. I stared at him. “What? If you want to show up like you are right now to the Manor, I don’t have an issue.”

“No, its ….” Potter paused. “It’s your bedroom.”

Oh. It was my turn to flush. “It’s fine,” I said, affecting a nonchalance that clashed with a skip of my pulse. “It’s easier than me bringing them out for you to look.”

“You can just pick one for me,” Potter grumbled, but he followed me inside.

He was strangely fussy about ties. Not so much that he cared which one he wore, but rather like a child who disliked being put by adults into formalwear. It took longer than I expected before he acquiesced to one.

“It fits weird,” he said, pulling at it.

I sighed. “You tied it wrong. What the hell kind of knot is that?”

“I don’t like wearing ties,” he said grumpily. “They’re always choking me.”

“You have to wear one when you were an Auror, didn’t you?”

Potter tugged at it. “Ginny used to do it for me.” He fumbled with the silk. I winced. At this rate, he was going to accidentally rip it. 

“Stop it,” I said, rising from my bed and slapping it out of his hand. “You’ll ruin it and this being one of Blaise’s, it probably cost more than your rent.” I looped it around his neck, trying to decide how to tie it. Probably a half-Windsor.

As I pulled the short end over, I was struck at how close I stood to Potter. Our chests were almost flush, and I could smell his aftershave. I blinked.

“Why do you have one of Blaise’s ties lying around?” Potter asked.

“Why do you think?” I said, adding the finishing touch. I could just imagine Blaise’s expression if he caught Potter wearing one of his ties. The teasing I’d endure. I resolved to never mention it to him.

“You borrowed it? You two have very different styles though. Or — oh....” He drifted off in embarrassed silence. Finally, he said, “Are you two ... you know....”

“What?” I moved back to admire my handiwork. It wasn’t a complex knot, but I approved of my choice. It really did bring out Potter’s eyes. “Are we what?”

“Seeing each other,” Potter clarified rather lamely.

I slapped his hand as he moved to fidget at it. “Don’t pull at it! Or I’ll have to redo it. And we’re going to be late. And no, we’re not. We’re just friends. And occasionally roll around naked together.”

Potter flushed and I wanted to kick myself. I could have worded that rather more delicately.

“Uh huh,” he said, his tone neutral. If I didn’t know Potter, I could have sworn he sounded jealous. “You sure he won’t mind if I wear it?”

“As long as you don’t ruin it, no. Now hurry up, we’re going to be late.”

We head out to the living room when I heard the visitor’s bell go off. I groaned.

“I’m busy,” I yelled as I picked up my cloak and Potter’s bottle of wine. It had a rather cute duck on the label. “I’m heading out right now, so clear off the Floo.”

“I just wanted to visit you,” Blaise feigned hurt as he emerged from the fireplace. “You cleaned up nice. Business meeting?”

“Dinner at the Manor. And come back later; I’m already running late.”

“Why are you bringing wine with a duck on it for dinner with your parents? I doubt it’ll pair better with foie gras. And — hang on — is that Potter?”

Damn. Now I was definitely going to be late. I looked at Blaise evenly. “Potter is joining me for dinner with my parents.” I made no effort to elaborate further. I hadn’t mentioned the Grimoire or the attacks to any of my friends. I knew the less they knew, the safer they would be.

Blaise fairly swooned with mirth. “Really? You’re taking Potter to dinner with your parents? How’d you manage that? Do you have him under an Imperius? Or are you under an Imperius?”

“Neither of us are under a spell,” Potter’s deep voice came from behind me. “Hello, Zabini.”

“Hello, Potter.” Blaise gave him a predatory look. “You look good. And is that my tie?”

I gritted my teeth. Now I would never live this down.

“Yes,” I said, forestalling Blaise from any further questions. “He forgot to bring his own.”

Blaise winked at Potter. “It’s part of his charm. Rough and untamed. Though I have to admit it does look good on him.”

“I’ll return it tomorrow,” Potter said. He didn’t sound a bit disconcerted by Blaise’s flirtation, and a little jealous bubble popped in me.

“Oh, no, keep it. I have a ton of others. It’ll be my gift to Draco.” Are you sleeping with him? he mouthed at me. He hadn’t missed the fact that we emerged from my bedroom together.

“He’s helping me with a research project.” I fastened my cloak and looked at Potter.  Blaise was already settling into my couch, summoning a bottle of wine and a glass to him. “Are you just going to stay here and drink my wine?”

Blaise uncorked the bottle with a tap of his wand. “I’m house sitting for you. Don’t stay out too late.” He gave Potter a wink. “Don’t let Draco’s parents scare you off, Potter. You’ve handled them before.”

Potter actually laughed at that. Growling, I grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the fireplace. “We’re going to be late. I’ll see you later, Blaise.”

We arrived at the Manor in a flurry of movement. I quickly let go of Potter’s arm as we emerged from the grate.

“Master Lucius and Mistress Narcissa are waiting for the young masters Draco and Potter,” the house elf waiting for us squeaked. “If you will follow me, the dinner is in the Small Room.”

“Small Room?” Potter looked at me.

“We don’t use the Dining Room anymore,” I said. “It’s where — was where we had the meetings.” A body suspended over the table, rotating ... a flash of green and it fell, heavy, with a wooden thud....

“What? —Oh. Oh.” Potter seemed to get the hint. He looked around, at anywhere but me. I watched him take in the decor of the Manor.

He absorbed in the marble floor which our footfalls echoed slightly off of, the long hallway filled with portraits and busts of my ancestors, the velvet wallpapers and the intricately patterned moldings.

My hand grazed the plinth of my great-great-granduncle Quintus Malfoy, known for his experimentations with Dragon Pox on Muggles. He was lauded in the Magical society for his breakthroughs, but no one mentioned the contributions of his ‘volunteers’.  

I could smell the damp and disuse even in this hallway. After the War, my parents had removed themselves to only a wing of the Manor, giving the rest up to shameful memories and neglect. The house-elves did what they could to stem the ravages of time, but without inhabitants, the rest of the Manor gradually would begin to decay despite their valiant efforts.

“You and Blaise are close,” Potter said after a while.

“We’ve known each other since we were children, before Hogwarts,” I said. “I met Blaise when his mother was still with her second husband. Or was it third? I can’t really remember.”

“Explains why.” Now I was certain there was a note of jealous in his voice.

“You seemed to, too,” I said, “back at the flat.” I treaded lightly, my steps barely registering.

Potter smiled at that. “It’s hard not to, when his attention is focused on you like that.” His smile faded. “Not that it’s any of my business but are you two….”

“It isn’t any of your business,” I said, unfathomably irritated by his fixation on Blaise. I knew he had an effect on people, and Potter was only human, but still – I had expected him to be more resistant.

“We’re just friends,” I said, as we turned the corner leading to the Small Room. This passage had never felt so interminable as it had right now. “We tried dating, but we don’t work well together.”

“Oh.” Potter was mercifully silenced as we entered the room at that moment. Here, my parents still kept the pretenses of the old days, that we were amongst the first families of the Wizarding world. A grand tapestry dating back to the Norman Conquests hung on the walls, and a great table covered by a white tablecloth dominated the room. It was lit by two ornate silver candelabras and a Venetian chandelier that tinkled softly every time it swayed.

“I see why you dressed up now,” he whispered to me.

“Draco, Mr. Potter, welcome.” My mother rose from her chair to greet us. She gave me a quick hug and shook Potter’s hand.

My father stayed seated. He raised an eyebrow at me. “It’s good to see you, Draco. Mr. Potter. Imagine my surprise when your mother told me you’re bringing a guest that you neglected to mention in your letter to me.”

I flushed. Potter looked at me. “Must have been an oversight.”

“Indeed.” My father looked at me and Potter. “Well, you might as well seat yourselves.”

I sat across from Potter, trying to ignore the irritated unsettledness in my stomach. Potter quirked an eyebrow at me as he settled in, thanking the house-elf who pulled out his chair for him.

“Oh! I almost forgot.” Potter produced the bottle of wine. He presented it to my mother, who accepted it with dignity.

My father peered over. “Is that a duck on the label?”

“Well. Yes.” Potter seemed embarrassed by it. He shot me an ambushed look. I shrugged. Father’s brows knitted together in disapproval, but my mother thanked Potter graciously and gave it to a house-elf to pour.

Thankfully, Mother had a repertoire of small talk refined over years of entertaining that managed to put Potter at ease. She broached the silence with a genial question asking Potter how his day was. He responded by launching into a description of what he did today at the office. I half-listened, half poked at my tuna crudo.

“Don’t play with your food, Draco.” My father scowled. “You’re not a child anymore.”

I deliberately speared a piece and slowly popped it into my mouth, not looking at my father.

“So, Draco, how are you spending your time these days?” my father asked. “Still wasting your time buried in those books of yours?”

I stiffened. This was an old bone of contention between us, and he never failed to bring it up every time he saw me. He had never approved of my choice of career, let alone my field of study. “At least choose a more useful field,” he had said bitterly. I had tired of trying to convince him in seeing the value of my work, particularly when sometimes I doubted it myself.

“I’m actually doing more research with old artefacts now,” I said. I took another bite. My father could not have waited until at least the main course to start. I should have started drinking before I came. “That’s part of the reason why I’m here. There are some records in the Manor Library that I wanted to go over. I think they have clues to my next project.”

“Of course, dear,” my mother said, looking up from her conversation with Potter about my Aunt Andromeda and her grandnephew – who also turned out to be Potter’s godson. I had forgotten about that. “You’re always welcome to come look at the books in the library. I think you’re the only one who takes out those dusty things.”

She gave a quelling look at my father as he opened his mouth to say something. Unlike my father, my mother had supported my decision to be a historian. What she disapproved of, however, was that my moving out of the Manor. But I was an adult; I had no intention of staying under my parents’ roof forever.

She turned back to Potter, satisfied now that my father hadn’t said anything offensive that might have run me off.

“Mr. Potter, you need to come with Andromeda to visit me for tea sometime,” my mother said. In the intervening years after the war, she had gradually re-established her connections with her long-estranged sister, particularly now that the baleful influence of Aunt Bella was gone. I had yet to run into her, though I believed she also lived in London.

My father did not seem to like my mother’s suggestion. He glowered at Potter, but wisely did not say anything, lest my he brought my mother’s wrath upon himself.

“Or come with Draco sometime. Now that you two are friends,” my mother said, giving my father another look. Potter, who had reacted to my father’s disapprobation with blithe indifference, now shifted uncomfortably. “I think it would be nice, don’t you think, Draco?”

“Of course, mother.” I had no intention of following through. For once, I was in agreement with my father. The thought of having Potter and my Mother sitting across from me at tea was mortifying. “Potter’s my partner in this latest research project. That’s why we’re here, actually.” I hoped my mother received the unspoken message: ‘This is only temporary.’

My mother smiled serenely. “You said as much in your letter, Draco.” She gestured for the house-elves to bring out the next course. My plate was taken away, replaced by another of roasted halibut. “I do hope this time you’ll stay longer. I never see you anymore.” She gave a long-suffering sigh as if I had not just called a week ago. Even if it had been to borrow a house-elf for food.

Potter made no comment, but he smiled into his plate. He looked like he was enjoying this.

My father sought to redirect the flow of the conversation back to his favored topic of choice these days, to convince me to be a proper Malfoy heir.

“Tell us about your research, Draco,” he said. “You’re looking at artifacts now. What does that entail? Any old objects? You can start with the Manor, you know. We have objects that dates back to when our ancestor came over with the Conqueror.”

“I’m not just looking at regular historical artifacts, father,” I said. “I’m looking at Dark Objects.  They’re dangerous and needs careful handling.” As you very well know, I wanted to add.

“That sounds like a job for a shop assistant at Borgin and Burkes’ than a person of quality,” my father sniffed. “Why don’t you just leave the work to them?”

“My work goes far beyond certifying their provenance and powers, though that’s a part of my job when no one else does. But my work is more examining the circumstances in which they’re created and looking more at the why. What values or attitudes resulted in these Objects being made, for example? That’s only for right now,” I added. “I’m not an archaeologist, but it’s intersecting with my studies.”

My father snorted. “And come up with trite insights about the Dark Arts are a product of our biases and prejudices of our community when we came up with this magic to defend ourselves? How we’re all secretly bent on oppressing Muggles when we’re just trying to defend our way of life?”

My political opinions were also high on the list of my father’s disapproval.

“I don’t agree with that, Mr. Malfoy,” Potter said. I tensed. Potter hearing this was not the best idea; it had only been by his conviction that we were reformed to which we owed our freedom and our comfortable life. “This ‘way of life’ doesn’t need to involve lording over the Muggles with the idea that they’re lesser.”

“We’re being squeezed into this half-life of scurrying around like rats, Potter.” My father didn’t bother hiding his contempt in his voice. “Aren’t Gryffindors meant to be brave? Instead of running around scared?”

“When the alternative is oppressing Muggles and treating them as animals, then yes, we need the Statute of Secrecy to keep us separate. And that’s not what’s at question here: the issue is how the Dark Arts might have been created to ‘defend ourselves’,” Potter showed great restraint in refraining from making air quotes around the phrase, “but it’s turned into a way for wizards to oppress both Muggles and other wizards.”

My father looked to say something scathing to that, but my mother cut in.

“We do have some lovely Muggle neighbors,” she said. “Old Mrs. Maple just had her third grandson. She’s a fat bouncing baby. Very adorable.” She gave a melodramatic sigh. “I wonder if I’ll even have one of my own in my lifetime.”

“Not with Draco here bent on living his unnatural lifestyle,” my father said. He gave me a dark look. “It’s fine when you’re young, but you’re not anymore. As a Malfoy, you have responsibilities to fulfill.”

Potter stiffened. He was about to say something, but I caught his eye. I shook my head.

“I like to think I’m still young,” I said lightly. “And I definitely am not ready to settle down. I’m much too busy to even think about that.”

“Busy with what?” my father said sharply. “You can’t tell me that you’re willing to give up your heritage as a Malfoy to traipse around the country instead of taking up your rightful place here.”

“I need to be in London for work,” I said. “Most of the libraries and the resources are there. It’s simpler that way.” I wanted to stab myself with my fork. This conversation reminded me why I limited exposure to the Manor as much as I could. I took a sip of Potter’s wine. It burned pleasantly down my throat.

“No one is saying you have to give up your hobbies,” my father said, and I gritted my teeth. I took another, deeper swallow. The taste of it lingered on my tongue, sharp and dry. “You can continue your studies here at the Manor. After all, plenty of Malfoys have. Your great grand uncle was a notable Potioneer in his spare time. But you need to settle down and marry someone from a proper family. Not like last time.”

“Last time?” Potter’s head swiveled towards us. “What last time?”

I took it Potter did not read the social columns of the Prophet. “I was engaged a few years ago,” I said, somewhat reluctantly. Then I became angry at myself. Why should I be ashamed of that fact? Potter had a failed marriage under his belt; he had no grounds to judge. “To Astoria Greengrass. She’s a year younger than us.”

“A most unsuitable match if there ever was one,” my father sniffed. “Radical opinions, much too wild. Shocking morals.”

“I think she has charming manners,” my mother said mildly.

Potter stared at me. “Isn’t she married? To someone else.”

I sighed. Potter had a knack for stating the obvious.  “Yes. Thank you, Potter. We didn’t work out. For … too many differences.”

“Thank Merlin,” my father said. “Though I would rather her than what you’ve been doing now. Merlin knows what you’re up to in London.”

My father still labored under the illusion that I could be ‘fixed’ if I returned to the Manor and lived under his watchful eye. And a properly dull girl from a proper family that he would select for me.

I drained the rest of my glass and motioned for a house-elf to refill it.

“From what I know, Draco don’t get ‘up to’ much in London,” Potter interceded in a neutral tone. I blinked. It was only the second time he used my given name. “He stays mostly in the Reading Rooms or his flats, pouring over his books.”

“You should get out and see the sun more, Draco,” my mother chided at that. “It’s not healthy to spend so much time inside. You’re looking paler than ever.”

“I’ve always been pale, Mother.”

“Still. Any whiter and I’d mistake you for a vampire. Go for some exercise. Mr. Potter here can give you some advice. He looks healthy and fit. Maybe he can take you for a walk sometime, can’t you, Mr. Potter?”

“I’m not a dog, Mother.” I took another long draught of my wine. “I don’t need to be walked.” Potter was fit, though. In more than one sense of the word. I looked him over appreciatively. Much better at handling this dinner than I was, too; I was already in need of a third glass. I

My mother frowned at me. “No need to be rude, Draco. It was only a suggestion.”

Her rebuke made me feel like a child again, like that time she had told me off for knocking over the ugly suit of armor in the Grand Hall. It had been one of my ancestor’s, apparently.

Potter chuckled. “I spend most of my days at a desk too, Mrs. Malfoy. I don’t know how much advice I can offer Draco about staying healthy other than eat his greens.” He grinned at me across the table. I aimed a kick at him under and missed.

“Oh, he never liked his greens,” my mother confided in a carrying whisper. “He always fed it to the hounds when he was young.”

“Mother!” When did my mother become bosom buddies with Potter, of all people? “Besides,” I said with a dignified air, “I ate my chips.”

“Potatoes are roots, not vegetables.” Potter’s eyes danced wickedly.

He was lucky my mother was watching, or I’d have tossed the roasted potatoes on my plate at him. Root indeed.

Instead I aimed another kick at him under the table. There was a thump as my foot connected with his shin. Potter let out a muffled oof as a small thump sounded.

“Sorry.” Potter coughed into his napkin as my parents looked at him. “Swallowed too quickly.” His foot collided with my own. I trapped it with my own before he could do any damage.

He looked directly at me – and I blushed. I let it hastily.

“So, Potter, how are things at the Ministry?” My father dropped his policy of ignoring Potter, now that I had not risen to any of his challenges. “Shacklebolt still carrying on with those soft policies of his?”

“Those policies ensure equal justice for everyone, including those who were victims of the War,” Potter said, his words calm, but every bit defying my father. “They ensure that those who have an opportunity and the desire to repent receive it.”

My father’s face turned a blotchy red. He hated reminders, even more than I did, of the past. It was a symbol to him of his impotence, of a world that no longer feared or moved to his whim. I knew he was likely to lash out at Potter any second now.

“I saw a play by this Muggle -born playwright recently,” I jumped in, hoping to fend off my father’s wrath. I didn’t want a wand fight at the dinner table. “It was a rather ridiculous one.”

“Which one was it?” My mother was only too happy to help me keep the piece.

I named it. “It had some ridiculous plot involving a Time-Turner, the daughter of a Dark Wizard, and a love triangle.”

Potter smiled as he relaxed. “Sounds like the punchline of a bad joke.” He took a sip of his wine. It really was not bad, I thought. I should ask Potter where he had bought it.

I amused him and my mother with details of the play for the next few minutes. My father’s face remained mottled, but he mercifully kept quiet. When I finished, my mother smoothly took over the conversation. I was never more grateful for her mastery of social niceties.

My father remained quiet for the rest of the dinner, though his eyes alternated balefully between me and Potter. The quiet flow of dialogue between my mother and Potter, however, kept him quiescent. I was on my fourth or fifth glass of wine, the house-elves having brought out our household reserves as Potter’s duck wine was long emptied. When we retired to the drawing room for refreshments, I followed everyone with a light head.

It flashed by. My father remembered himself and kept civil, though his barbed comments made my grip my glass. Even Potter, despite his composure, started to feel the strain, downing more than a few snifters of brandy.

“Why don’t you take Mr. Potter for a tour of the gardens, Draco?” my mother suggested. The sun already set, and it was well into the evening. I forgot dinner usually ran long, especially the more formal ones. If it had just been the family, I would have had time to finish and skip the rest of the night to visit the library.

I looked at Potter. It was too late for that now. Besides, my head was not clear enough to be perusing through dense texts of Middle English. “We have a lot of work to do in the morning ….” I began.

“Actually, that sounds nice,” Potter answered my mother. He looked at me. In the flickering lights, it seemed like a smile. “Lead the way, please.”

We followed each other out, biding my parents goodnight as we parted. I led Potter to the gardens through the double French door. It hit with a breeze of fresh air after being inside for so long.

I breathed in. Fairy lights fluttered, washing the garden with a soft glow. Here, flowers that were out of season still bloomed, kept so by magic and scrupulous attention. Elaborate topiaries of mythical creatures towered over the manicured hedges. Stone benches were unobtrusively placed around the garden.

I sat Potter down under a ferociously lifelike chimera.

Potter glanced up. “That’s terrifying.”

I followed his gaze. “They’re not so bad once you get used to them.” I looked around. Every part of this garden exuded serenity, grandeur; a tidiness that tried to evoke both timelessness and awe in the visitors. “When I was a child, I wanted to meet one.”

“They eat humans.” Potter’s amused glance was warm against my skin. There was a small puff of air visible; the autumn air had a bite to it. He rubbed his arms. The idiot’s robes were too thin. The elves had taken our cloaks when we arrived, and we hadn’t brought them along with us.

“Here.” I took off my own robes and draped it over him; I wore a thin sweater underneath. It wasn’t much, but it was better than what Potter had on. He looked slightly ridiculous with two robes wrapped around him.

“Thanks,” Potter said. His hand caught mine as I reached over to adjust the collar. It was hot and callused against my own. His thumb traced over the crook of my hand. “I can do it.”

“Oh.” I drew back quickly. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s thoughtful of you. Thanks.” Potter relaxed against the bench, looking up. Here, far in the countryside, the stars were clearer; they were bright droplets in the dark backdrop.

“Unlike my parents, I love London, but I do miss the sky out here sometimes,” I said. I looked up. “That’s Mars over there, isn’t it?”

Potter squinted. “I think so.” His glasses slid a little on the bridge of his nose. It was an endearing sight. “I never really paid much attention in Astronomy.”

He looked at me. “So why did you want to meet a chimera?”

“I wanted to be an explorer when I was young,” I said. “Too many books, and much too vivid an imagination. I used to run around the gardens here pretending I was the hero slaying the monstrous Gryffindor griffin.”

Potter grinned at that. “That sounds fun,” he said. “I wasn’t allowed to be in the gardens without supervision when I was young.” His voice was faraway, as though remembering a distant past that was not as long-ago as he imagined. Perhaps it wasn’t.

“Oh, I had a house-elf with me at all times,” I said. “Can you imagine a child running around here by himself? I would’ve gotten lost in the maze or stuck in the bushes.”

“Must have been fun playing hide-and-seek with your friends, though.” Potter still spoke in that wistful, dreamy voice. “Though I guess it can be a little scary too.”

“I didn’t have that many friends that visited,” I confessed. I stared at the hedge across from me. “It wasn’t so easy to meet other children my age when you’re stuck in a big bloody house all by yourself, and most of my parents’ acquaintances – well, they didn’t care much for children, a lot of them.” I gave Potter a bitter smile. “You remember some of them, don’t you?”

Potter shifted uncomfortably.

“That’s why I treasure my friendship with Goyle and Blaise so much,” I continued. “They’re not perfect, and neither am I, but we’ve known each other for so long, it seems a pity to throw it away over small differences.” I looked at Potter. “Sounds a little pathetic, doesn’t it?”

“No.” Potter’s voice was quiet. “It makes sense. I didn’t have any friends until I went to Hogwarts. That’s why I was so defensive of them when I first met you.”

“That wasn’t my proudest moment.” I really drank too much, if I were sitting here apologizing to Potter and having a heart-to-heart. “But you? No friends? The Chosen Savior? I don’t believe that.”

“No, it’s true. My guardians weren’t the … fondest of me. Or of me being a wizard. They tried to pretend I wasn’t there most of the time, actually.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” I couldn’t fathom the idea of Potter being a neglected child. It never really occurred to me that the Golden Boy wasn’t so golden to some.

“Don’t be. It was a long time ago.” Potter tore his faraway gaze back to me with an effort. “I’m sorry about how your father was at dinner, by the way.”

My jaws clenched. But Potter seemed genuine in his sympathy. It probably was a poor display, especially compared to what he must be used to, with the Weasley and his friends. I forced myself to relax. “I should be the one to apologize to you. I didn’t expect my father would forget his manners so easily … but you being you, I suppose some leeway should be given.”

Potter laughed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well....” It was my turn to shift uncomfortably. “He was really never that fond of you, even when you were a child.”  That was the understatement of the decade.

Potter chuckled at that. “No, I suppose you’re right. Still, it can’t be easy living with that all your life.” It explained how you are the way you are, I could hear him think.

“He’s my father,” I said simply. I didn’t think I needed to say any more. We sat quietly together, looking at the stars.

“Mother seems to like you,” I spoke after a while. I became aware of our proximity. We were touching, our thighs grazing. I had a ridiculous urge to rest my head on his shoulder.

“It’s my charm,” Potter said. I could just hear his grin in his voice. “I’m not surprised.”

“Yes, don’t you have a fan club?” I laughed. “I can just imagine a troupe of middle-aged women camped outside your office, waiting to catch a glimpse of you.”

“Don’t remind me.” I felt Potter give a little shudder. The small motion made me want to wrap my arms around him. “I still get a mountain of letters from them on my birthday.”

I laughed. “Love letters from housewives mooning over you? I want to read them.”

Now I could feel Potter scowl. “Definitely not.” His voice lowered. “I really like this garden. It’s peaceful. I miss seeing the stars. I don’t think I ever looked at them after I passed Astronomy.”

“Really? Not even to try casting your horoscope to find your soulmate?”

“No. Have you?”

“No,” I said. “Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t even take Divination at Hogwarts. I seemed to recall you did, though.”

Potter shuddered again. And again, that surge of protectiveness, the urge to hug him. “I did,” he said. “Worst choice of my academic career. I won’t call Trelawney an old fraud, but she’s close.”

“Didn’t she predict your death?” I asked. “I mean … given the circumstances of your life, it was a relatively safe bet.” I paused. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be cavalier about it.” He had saved my life too, when he had no need to.

“I like defying the odds,” he said. “And you keep apologizing to me. You don’t need to, you know. It’s putting me off.”

“I can tell you how ugly your hair is,” I said. “Will that put you more at ease?”

Potter’s hand went to his hair. “That’s ridiculous. I combed it before I left my flat today.”

“With what? A fork? You need to use shampoo and conditioner when you wash it too. Otherwise it’s going to stick out like that.”

“I’ll have you know my hair is perfectly fine,” Potter said with wounded pride. “Yours, on the other hand, has a leaf in it.”

I reached up instinctively, but Potter beat me to it. “I’ll do it.”

His hand ran through my hair; my scalp tingled from his touch. His nose almost touched mine; it was only a breath away. There was a lash that flicked off as he blinked and wetted his lip.

“I got it,” he said, warm air from his mouth ghosting on my face. I saw it out of the corner of my eye. It was a little yellow thing of a leaf.

“Thanks,” I exhaled. “Not a good accessory. Doesn’t really fit the look I’m going for.”

“Heavens forbid.” Potter’s laugh blew small puffs into my face.

And then he kissed me.

It began gently, questioningly, the exploration tender and unsure. Potter’s lips were chapped, I noticed. It did not detract from how good it felt.

One hand cupped my face as he leaned in. It grew more heated as I returned the kiss, becoming lost in the sensations. His thumb drew small lines on my cheek and his teeth nipped at my lip as the other grabbed my hip.

His body is long and lean, roughly my height, but he had the advantage of gravity as he pressed me against the bench. The cold stone I felt through the thin cashmere of my sweater contrasted pleasantly with the heat from his body. He was still wearing my robes over his. It made him look rather lumpy.

I couldn’t stop as we continued to kiss, my hand reaching out to pull him in closer. He weighed comfortably on top of me, one leg on mine, as our arms intertwined.

We broke for air, and he looked at me, his eyes lidded.

Stop. What was I doing? I couldn’t kiss Potter. This was a mistake of colossal proportions.

Panic flooded me, the clash of emotions in me causing vertigo. I pushed him off with a sudden movement and sat up, forcing Potter back.

 “What’s wrong?” Potter looked at me.

“I — I can’t do this,” I gasped out. “I’m — I’m sorry.”

I ran. Through the garden, past the woods and the bushes, through the dark hallways, my feet catching on the plush carpet and the tiled floor.

I stopped until I was in my suite. I headed straight into the bathroom — my stomach heaving and my head spinning — I emptied out my dinner into the toilet.

I stared at the mess, eyes not seeing. Despite his unexpected kindness and his surprising acceptance of me, Potter was still as different from me as day from night. I already owed too much to him. No matter how much I wanted him, I could not let myself become entangled any further.

And no matter how deep Potter had inserted himself into my psyche, I knew every time I looked at him, I would be reminded of all the mistakes I had made. And it tore at my soul. Unreasonable or not, I lacked the courage to face it, especially not with someone that I had somehow grown to respect.

I woke up with a groan and a headache. My mouth was dry and felt like cotton. Sunlight was already streaming through my window in bright bursts. I considered burying my head under my pillow.

I was still last evening’s robes, having fallen asleep in them. They smelled rank. I wrinkled my nose. It was more than just my robes; I smelled rank.

As I sank into the water of the bath, I thought back about last night’s events.

Potter had kissed me.

And it had not been a continental peck or the playful one friends sometimes gave each other. This was one with passion, the type lovers would give to each other.

My toes curled. It was the type of kiss I fantasized Potter would give – urgent, tender. The way he pushed me against the bench, lying on top of me … my hand found my cock and began to stroke.

Potter’s body was long and lean, even wrapped up under that tent of robes. I longed to press myself against that broad chest, wrap my legs around his waist – my hand quickened its pace – as he mouthed my neck, his hands roaming and kneading with callused roughness.

I wonder what I would feel when I ground against him. Would he be as controlled and cool as ice? Or would he return with equal fervor? I imagined the press of his erection against my arse: it would be long and thick and hard with need as I was right now.

I could imagine him chuckling as he slipped a finger in my hole, holding me tight so I didn’t thrash uncontrollably from the mix of pain and pleasure. I groaned. Fuck, I was close. My own erection strained hard for attention as I continued to jerk, the warm water a small recompense for the lack of warmth from another’s attention.

Then I came, the milky seed spilling into my bathwater, and I fell back against the rim of the bathtub, my tension loosened and my headache much relieved.

I went down to breakfast much refreshed and feeling not a little dirty after my wank. I had resolved not to be involved with him beyond what was necessary. And yet, here I was, having the best jerk of my life from imagining Potter and his cock.

Last night was a dream a long time coming. Desire had always tinged my loathing of Potter. And this new Potter I was coming to know was considerate and collected, with a wicked sense of humor. And he was so damn attractive with his messy dark hair and his sharp eyes, not to mention how built he was.

I had to resist. Too messy, too many feelings. If a simple kiss caused this much consternation, an involved relationship would tax my emotional reserves to the limit.

I was so deep in thought that I failed to see the buffet table.

“Be careful, Draco!” My father’s bark coincided with a painful bump at my hips. I steadied the table just in time before any plates fell.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. My headache was returning. I poured myself some coffee and stared glumly at the buffet.

“Long night?” My mother raised a delicate eyebrow. “Mr. Potter’s still asleep. I had a house-elf check on him.”

“Thank you,” I responded automatically, as I took a piece of toast. It was all my stomach could handle right now. Then I realized as I sat down, that somehow Potter had become my responsibility. Or, at the very least, my family regarded him as such.

It made sense, I told myself. He was my guest. Don’t think too much of it.

“I still can’t believe you brought him here,” my father sniffed. “Just because you two are collaborating on a project doesn’t mean you need to be attached at the hips.”

Those were the exact words I had said to Potter, but somehow, I did not feel like being reminded of how similar I was to my father right now.

“He wanted to make himself useful,” I said neutrally.

“I like him,” my mother said.

Both me and my father glowered at her.

“He’s polite and has charming manners,” she said mildly. “And this family owes a lot to him.”

My father’s face creased even more in displeasure.

“He’s going to miss breakfast at this rate,” I said. I did not particularly want to dwell on what my mother said. “Should we have an elf fetch him?” I did not particularly want that either, but I would be a poor host if I let my guest starve.

“He told the elf this morning that he wasn’t feeling well, so I had a tray sent up to his room,” my mother said.

“Ah.” I felt a little stab of guilt, though it was washed out by the relief that crashed through me. I was not mentally prepared to face him or what we did last night.

My mother sharpened her eyes on me. It was much too knowing for my comfort. “What will you be doing today, Draco?” she asked.

“I’ll be starting with the household ledgers in the library. Then maybe the catalogues and some of the older reference books and house records. Maybe some of our ancestors’ journals.”

“Be careful with those.” My father peered at me over a steaming cup of coffee. It appeared I had inherited my taste for it from him. “They’re delicate and valuable. And tell Potter to not be his usual blundering self.”

I refrained from rolling my eyes. “Yes, father.”

He huffed. “I still don’t understand why you wanted to be a historian, of all things.”

“Who better than a historian to understand tradition and continuity? Aren’t you the one who’s always telling me to be proud of our past?”

“You have duties as a Malfoy, and you’re letting your interests get in the way of fulfilling them. Now, your mother knows several eligible girls from good families. You need to come by the Manor sometime and meet them.”

I was right: the piece of toast was all I could handle for breakfast. “Can we not do this in the morning? I’m finished, by the way. I’ll be in the library.”

I left without being excused. On my way, I flagged a house-elf with instructions to inform told Potter I was in the library if he wanted me.

The familiar sight of the Manor’s library welcomed me as I stepped in. The tall shelfs and Jacobean décor greeted me as I took my seat. It smelled old: dust and must from untouched filled my nostrils, and I stifled my urge to sneeze. My mother was right; this room was rarely visited. Even the house-elves only occasionally came in, and then just to clean.

Evidently, their last trip was not recent. I ran a finger on the table. Dust stained my fingertip. Scowling, I casted a quick Cleaning Charm.

Where to begin? There was no archivist or librarian here to answer my questions or a catalogue of books. And there must be thousands of books here.

I waved my wand to summon the family Bible. I could start by investigating my family ties with Slytherin. Then, hopefully, find the household accounts around that time to track the expenses and the journals to see if there were any references to the Grimoire –

“We need to talk.”

I almost slammed the thick volume into Potter’s face as he appeared at my shoulder.

“Merlin! Don’t do that!” I gave him a dirty look.

Potter looked unapologetic. His hair stuck up in a way that made me want to run my hands through it.

“We need to talk,” he repeated.

“There’s nothing to talk about.” I opened the family Bible to the first page. “11^th century,” I enunciated clearly.

With a loud rustle, the book flipped open. Words began to appear slowly, as if an invisible hand had begun writing. It moved at a glacial pace. I restrained myself from shaking it. It would probably get offended and slam shut again.

“The Blacks have a tapestry to show their family tree,” Potter said, taking his eyes off me momentarily to take in the sight.

“The Malfoys are older than the Blacks,” I said, raising my chin slightly, “and our family is larger. If we used a tapestry, it would take up at least two walls. And besides, tapestries breed moths and doxies.”

Potter laughed. “That’s the Malfoy I know and love.” We both flushed at that word.

“We still need to talk,” he added, rather lamely.

I let out my breath. Evidently, I was not meant to have a quiet morning. “About last night.”

“Yes.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” I said, determined to wait patiently for the book to finish writing. “It was a kiss.”

Potter appeared thrown off by my sudden change from reticence to bluntness.

“Yes, it was a kiss, Malfoy, and I wanted to talk to you about it.”

“What’s there to talk about?” This damn family bible moved with geriatric speed. “You, me, lips, touch. That’s all a kiss is.”

“It was more than just lips, Malfoy.”

“Don’t be vulgar, Potter.” I blushed at the reminder. Potter was a good kisser. The way he teased and nipped and explored…. I shook my head. “Are you here to dissect your performance last night or what?”

Potter growled at me, a low, dangerous rumble that nevertheless set a low fire of desire burning. “I don’t make a game of kissing people, Malfoy.”

“I don’t either.” The implication stung. “But sometimes a kiss is just a kiss.”

It hurt to say that to Potter. His face tightened.

“What was it to you then?”

I didn’t know what it was. I knew one part of me desperately wanted it to be more than a kiss, to ascribe meaning to it that the logical part of me knew did not exist. I looked down at the book.

“I don’t know.” It came out at a low volume, barely louder than a whisper. “What was it to you?”

Potter ran a hand through his hair and let out a sound of frustration. “I don’t know either. But I know I can’t fight my feelings. And I know that this kiss wasn’t ‘just’ anything: it wasn’t a whim.”

The book finally finished. I waved my wand: a sheet of parchment appeared with the names copied onto it. I handed it to Potter, careful to avoid touching his hand. He took it, in a manner that told me he was only delaying the conversation.

“Here’s a copy of the names of Malfoys with potential Slytherin blood ties,” I said. “I isolated the candidates to only the ones with marital ties to families who are known Slytherin descendants.”

“Like the Gaunts.”

“Yes.” I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice. “Like the Gaunts. I didn’t take you as someone who paid attention to wizarding genealogy.”

“I don’t,” Potter said. “But there are some things that I had to learn out of necessity.” I waited for him to elaborate.

When none was forthcoming, I grinned at him. “It’s not particularly interesting. Just a bunch of cousins marrying each other. But that’s why I kept it to only the ones who married into known Slytherin blood.  More and we would be looking at years of research.”

“So what do you want me to do with these names?” Potter stared down at the sheet with alarm. It was at least a foot long, crammed with miniscule script.

“Look up family records, account ledgers, travel expenses, journals of those names,” I said. “We have to trace their movements to see if we can come up with a list of possible hiding places for the Grimoire. In the meanwhile,” I waved my wand and a pile of books flew at us, “here are some books on magical cryptography and concealment methods to figure out why that book that I found is the key to finding the Grimoire.”

Potter gaped at the mess of volumes littering the wide oak table.

“You don’t have to help if you don’t want,” I said, with some hesitancy. “I’m sure my mother will be happy to entertain you.” I knew if I were in Potter’s stead, I would have stormed out already, and probably put miles between myself and some libertine who refused to acknowledge the tension between us.

“No.” Potter’s voice was firm. “I want to help.”

It was tedious work. I was used to this; writing my thesis had been the same. I could tell Potter was chafing, though. He would stare out the window every ten minutes or so, and he fidgeted so much that I banned him to the other table. He kept on tapping his quill and drumming his fingers.

Yet he pushed on gamely, and I had to admire him for that.

And it wasn’t like I was much better. I kept on becoming distracted, glancing over at Potter in between making notes of dates and locations. His profile shone in the sunlight streaming in from outside.

I wasn’t aware that I was doodling him until I felt a tap at the knee and a house-elf popped up.

“Should I bring in a tray for your and Master Potter, Master Draco?”

“Oh.” It was already lunchtime. “Yes. Thank you.”

I rubbed my eyes blearily. So far – nothing. I knew it was early yet, but it was disheartening, particularly as I only had the faintest idea of what I should be looking for.

Potter came over. He yawned and stretched his arms. I looked away quickly as his movement exposed a stretch of tawny abdomen. “Time for lunch?”

“The elf’s bringing in a tray.”

“And some coffee, too, I hope. All that reading is putting me to sleep.”

I chuckled. “When I was a grad student, I used to consume buckets. How’re you faring, by the way?”

Potter rubbed his eyes. “Like I’m back sitting for my OWLs and on desk duty at the Aurors at the same time. I was always better in the field. I don’t know how you do it.”

The hours intervening since our tense exchange had eased that strain. I was reluctant to break that détente, but curiosity made it impossible to keep silent. “What exactly is your job now? I’m sorry if I don’t understand it completely.”

“You asked me for help and you even don’t know what I do?” Amusement saturated Potter’s voice.

“I was taking a leap of faith,” I retorted. “Trusting the Chosen Savior to save my bacon.”

Potter chuckled. “Then you came to the right person. I should put that on the marketing materials.” He looked out the window. It was a beautiful day and regret that I was unable to spend it outside touched me. “I couldn’t stand the inertia of office life,” Potter admitted.

I waited for him to continue.

“I itched to get out of the office every time. And the politics. Merlin, there was so much politics. Who stole the credit from who, who got to be placed on the special forces, who should have been commended to the Hit Wizards. And then there was the Ministry politics.” Potter shook his head. “I was dragged out so often to the meetings to remind every other department that the Aurors had the ‘golden boy’ and deserved a larger share of the budget.”

I gave him a look of sympathy. Potter carried on. “That wasn’t why I wanted to be an Auror. I wanted to help people, not fight about parchment allotments.” He grinned at me crookedly. “That’s why I went rogue and decided to start my own – well, I’m not quite sure what it is yet. Part private investigation, part security detail, I suppose. I don’t chase after lost kittens or spouses. Usually. Call me a … security consultant.”

“What kind of cases have you taken on, then?”

“I can’t tell you, or I’d have to kill you.” Potter grinned at me. “I always have a strict confidentiality agreement with each and every one of my clients. That includes you, of course. But I can tell you my last case involved a missing tiara, a nest of vampires, and a chase from the middle of Slovakia to Egypt.”

I whistled. “A thrilling tale. If, of course, there wasn’t a confidentiality agreement. Must be a contrast to sitting here going over dusty over papers.” A wave at them stirred up a fresh round of dust. I sneezed.

“I don’t know, Malfoy, I was attacked in your kitchen.” Despite the levity in his tone, Potter frowned. “And we still haven’t caught the rest of them yet.”

“I don’t expect we’ll be able to until we have the Grimoire,” I said. “Maybe not even then.”

There was a knock as a house-elf laid out our lunch tray. He bowed, and, upon seeing Potter, gave an even deeper one at him, before vanishing.

Potter attacked the mound of sandwiches with gusto. I settled for a more sedate pace, pouring out cups of coffee for us both.

“Thanks, Malfoy,” he said through a full mouth. He took an enormous swallow and gulped down half the cup. “Damn. I needed that.”

“You should see the look on your face. Never thought coffee and sandwiches could get you off like that.”

Potter made a face at me. “I’m hungry. Going through all these makes me ravenous.” He paused, taking in the number of books, now organized into neat stacks by me. “How much more do we need to go through?”

“I’m not sure.” I didn’t want to give an estimate and raise my hopes. “At this rate, it might be a couple of days at the very least.”

Potter groaned and I didn’t blame him. “What started all of this? The book that gave you visions?”

I nodded and took it out of my bag. “Here. I haven’t really examined it since. I thought it was too risky to do so, so I just kept it in my safe.” It was so small, so ordinary, amidst the rare leather-bound codices and manuscripts.

Potter squinted at it through his eyes. “Doesn’t look like much, does it?”

“Wait ‘til you touch it and get a vision,” I said darkly. “You wouldn’t be saying that so chipper.”

“Why don’t you touch it again?” Potter suggested.

I swallowed. Potter noticed the reluctance.

“I’ll be here,” he said. He laid a hand on my shoulder. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

In that moment, I regretted my decision to deny my attraction to him. That simple act had set my heartbeat pounding harder than a ship’s broadside.

“Thanks.” I closed my eyes, readying myself as I reached for the book –

Then I opened my eyes.

“What?” Potter looked at me, concerned. “Did it hit already? I didn’t even see you touch the book.”

“I don’t need to!” I was excited. This was more exhilarating than flying. “There’s only a few types of magic that gives you visions. What I experienced before – it’s a memory of someone’s. That’s why when I experienced it, it was more than images. It’s like when I use Legilimency into someone’s past. I retain all five of my senses when I touch the book.”

Potter looked at me dubiously. “I know of a book like that. It was a powerful Dark Artifact. In light of your epiphany, I don’t think you should touch it again. It could be a very dark curse – or even a fragment of a soul.”

A fragment of a soul? I snorted. “Potter, you’ve been reading too many novels. You’re describing a Horcrux. That’s ridiculous. No one had made one since the fifteenth century.”

“I encountered them before,” Potter replied quietly. “Voldemort’s.”

My throat stuck. He just so casually revealed such an abomination of magic and nature. “That’s – that’s disgusting. And you said ‘them’. Plural.”

Potter merely nodded.

Despite the glorious day, a chill descended in the room. What he had just told me beggared all belief. To break a sacred part of yourself into bits – I turned away from Potter, appalled. To think that my family and I had been in thrall to such a man, if he could even be called a man. It was more than the megalomania, the wanton killing, the genocidal tendencies and his emphasis on blood purity. It was ….

I took a deep breath. And yet … the historian in me itched to ask Potter for more details. If I could face my past, I could write a history of the War. It was my past, the messy bits of it with the foolish vainglorious thirst for attention, the delusion of blood purity that all Malfoys had been indoctrinated in –

“Blood!”

Potter eyed me with concern, his expression like what I imagined of a mother hen watching her chicks. “Yes? Are you alright? I’m sorry that my story upset you so much, but—”

“No! The memory’s triggered by blood ties! To Slytherin. That’s why the Circle wanted me to have the book, because they aren’t related to him and there aren’t any other living descendants left. Well, apart from my parents. That’s why they wanted the Dark Lord! He was a direct descendant of Slytherin.”

Potter nodded, as if I had merely relayed to him the weather instead of a theory based on circumstantial evidence and thin conjecture.  

“So all of this,” I motioned to the stacks of books, “is overkill. We don’t need to be looking up clues from past Malfoys.”

“What then?” Potter asked. He looked disgruntled at being told that all the work he had done this morning was for naught. I didn’t bother telling him that research usually involved several false starts. Particularly if you didn’t know what you were looking for.

But now I did. “It’s likely no one else touched the key except for Slytherin himself. Can you speak Parseltongue to it? Maybe it’ll respond to that.”

Potter shook his head. “I can’t anymore. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.”

Hm. I pursed my lips. “Well, I guess then we could use a spell or something to break the protective magic that’s encasing the memory.” I gestured towards the books. “Time to hit the books again.”

Potter cocked his head at me. “What about a Pensieve?”

“A Pensieve?”

“Yes, a magical object that allows you to review memories –”

“I know what a Pensieve is,” I said tartly. Honestly, Potter acted like he forgot I was the magical historian here. “They’re rare. Even the Manor doesn’t one. There’s one in the British Museum, but it’s terribly difficult to request access, and we don’t know who’s watching.”

“There’s one in Hogwarts,” Potter said.

“How do you know that?” I demanded. I gave Potter an annoyed look. Here I was trying to demonstrate my expertise and experience, and Potter was outshining me in such a casual manner.

“I used it before. More than once,” Potter said apologetically. He seemed to read my thoughts. “I’m surprised you didn’t want to go to Hogwarts. It’s where Slytherin’s greatest work is. He has a chamber of secrets there.”

“It’s too obvious,” I said. “And from what I know about Slytherin, he always hedged his risks. If the chamber of secrets was found by his enemies, for example.... No doubt there are clues there to guide whoever found it to the Grimoire.”

It was a chilling thought. If the Dark Lord had found it ... the one who was capable of splitting his own soul. And the Circle thought this man could be used.

I shook my head. There were so many questions. So many little details from the past — my past — that I had not had the courage to face.

“So what do we do?” Potter asked. “Go to Hogwarts?”

Hogwarts ... I haven’t returned there since the War. I wonder how it had weathered all these years. But there were a more important task to do.

“Not yet. Right now, we need to ask my father some questions.”

We found my father in his study.

“Draco. Mr. Potter.” He assessed us with cool eyes. “To what do I owe this … pleasure?” He sat in his chair, glaring at Potter as he did the same. I remained standing.

Potter gave me a look and pulled out the seat next to him. My father’s desk was even taller than I remembered when sitting; a behemoth of oak that conveyed solid power. It was clear except for an ornate timepiece and a book propped open with a silver bookmark. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn behind him. The room had a dark and slightly foreboding atmosphere.

“We have some questions to ask you, Father. About … our past.”

My father arched one eyebrow. It was a skill I had never really mastered, despite practicing in the mirror for hours. When I did it, I always looked surprised than derisive.

“Aren’t you the family historian, Draco? Shouldn’t you have a better grasp on these matters than me?”

“Book knowledge is no substitute for lived experience,” Potter said. My father’s mouth puckered. “That’s why we came to you.”

I shot a look at Potter. I didn’t want Potter to upset my father with his high-handed and clumsy questioning. It was a hallmark of Auror training.

And we needed to know what my father had seen or heard, either personally or from whispers, about the Dark Lord’s ties with the Circle. My father, as much as I hated the fact, counted amongst his inner circle. The Dark Lord did not confide in anyone, but Lucius Malfoy would never be so inattentive to the currents of power.

He would know if there were interactions between the Death Eaters and an even more shadowy group that pulled the strings from behind. Or at least, be sensitive to whispers of it.

“We have a few questions we like to ask you,” Potter continued, ignoring my look.

“This is starting to feel like an Auror interview, Potter. Draco, are you reenacting those silly books you read as a child again with Potter?”

I tried hard not to take the bait. “This is serious, father, or we wouldn’t be involving you. It’s important. Lives are at stake.” Like mine.

My father looked at me impassively, unmoved. “Why isn’t this a formal Auror interview, then?”

“Neither of us are affiliated with the Ministry, Mr. Malfoy, but that doesn’t mean our business is any less important,” Potter said.

My father looked at him dubiously.

I glanced at Potter. I wasn’t sure if it were Potter’s presence or my father just felt recalcitrant today, but this approach wasn’t working.

“What do you know about a group called the Circle?”

I watched my father’s face for any signal. I noticed his hand went flat on the table, and he blinked before he looked straight at me.

“What about?” There was an edge in his tone beyond his usual sharpness; I sensed tension in my father that I had never felt before.

“We want to know what you know about them,” Potter said. “We might not be Ministry officials, but what we’re doing still impact people’s lives. Your help could save a lot of people.”

It was on the edge of my tongue to tell Potter that appealing to my father’s better natural wasn’t an effective tactic. My father stared at him as if he had grown a second head.

Then -- “What do you want to know?” my father asked gruffly.

I barely managed to stop myself from toppling out of my seat. To say I did not expect that was an understatement.

What was Potter’s secret, to get others to follow him willingly? Even my father, with his notable antipathy, seemed to have succumbed to it.

Potter looked as stunned as I was. Apparently, he hadn’t expected my father’s response either.

“Well,” my father demanded impatiently. “What do you want to know?”

“I take it you’re aware of them,” Potter said, recovering from his shock. My mind still could not process how quickly my father agreed.

“Of course I do, Potter,” my father said with a touch of his old asperity. “Which is why I assume that this isn’t a frivolous request. What’s all this about?”

Potter looked at me. I forced myself out of the daze.

“I might have found clues to where Slytherin’s Grimoire is located,” I said.

My father swore. I looked at him, dumbfounded. I had never seen him so discomfited, let alone utter a profanity.

“What have you gotten yourself involved in, Draco?” My father shook his head. “That thing’s dangerous.”

“You know of it?” Potter leaned in, looking at my father intently. “Have you seen it?”

My father snorted. “Anyone with a proper education knows of it. And don’t be idiotic. Of courses I haven’t seen it.”

“Oh.” Potter fell back, disappointed. “But I take it you know about the links the Circle has with it.”

“The Blood Circle,” my father said. “That’s what they call themselves.” He raised his wand and drew a circle in the air. Green sparks formed into an ouroboros, shining, above his desk. I stared at it. That was the emblem of the Grimoire that artist depictions usually included.

“The serpent is a symbol of Slytherin’s. The ouroboros is a symbol of infinity. Slytherin recorded all of his magic in there, all his knowledge, and created the Blood Circle to defend both the book and his ideals of a pure world.”

Potter tensed at that, and I waited for my father’s inevitable rant on pureblood supremacy.

None came. My father looked at me. “I don’t deny I still think the pureblood families know best and are best equipped to lead wizarding society, but it’s clear that the world isn’t ready. And,” he looked at Potter, “sometimes people with the most unexpected origins can surprise us.”

Potter was about to reply to that, but my father carried on. “The Blood Circle never had the book; they were only charged with guarding the key to it. Only a descendant of Slytherin’s can use the key to find it.”

“Like Voldemort,” Potter said.

My father nodded. “Like the Dark Lord. He already came to their attention while he was a student, and they saw in him potential. Potential to use him to find the book and complete the task they were charged with. After all, similar goals.

“They offered him funding and connections in exchange for his help in finding the book. After all, the Circle has a millennia’s worth of experience, magical knowledge, and resources. No matter how talented the Dark Lord was, without help, able to achieve such power in such short time.”

He rubbed the area on his arm where I knew the Dark Mark had been burned into the flesh. “And of course, he accepted.”

“How do you know all of this?” I asked. “And are we … members of the Circle, too?”

“No, Draco, we’re not. I only know of this because some of our distant relatives were – your great-grandfather was, I believe – but most of this had passed into the stuff of legend. No one believed in or cared about Slytherin’s Grimoire anymore.”

I breathed a sigh of relief at having avoided another burden on my conscience.

“Unfortunately, people still believe in Slytherin’s ideas of pureblood supremacy.” Potter pointed out.

“In that age, it was common for wizards and witches to fear Muggles,” I said, the historian in me itching to lecture. “There was a great deal of hatred and mistrust on both sides. It made sense in light of the historic persecutions and a sense that wizards were beset on all sides and dying out.”

“But --”

I raised a hand. “I’m not trying to justify any side of the argument. I’m only explaining what likely would have been Slytherin’s mindset in his preference for purebloods. Of course, it’s an outdated idea now, and we know that people will react with fear and violence towards anything they don’t understand. Both wizards and Muggles.”

“But the Chamber of Secrets –”

“Infiltrators, not ‘filth.’” I gave a twisted smile. “Of course, paranoia isn’t a particularly endearing trait either. Especially in a pedagogical setting. And we know that the solution to fear isn’t more fear, but understanding and empathy”

Both my father and Potter looked displeased at my lecture, and Potter seemed like he was about to argue some more, but my father broke in: “The first task I completed for the Dark Lord was to find all the information I could on the Circle. He would find the Grimoire for them, and in exchange, they would help him with his quest for power.”

“They came to meet us here, at the manor. I still remember it clearly. They had on robes that covered their entire faces so we would not be able to identify them and concealment spells that hid their voices and other identifiers.

The meeting happened in this exact room, actually. There were two of them. They looked at us and asked the Dark Lord if he wanted power.”

“I don’t think I need to guess what his answer was,” Potter interrupted acerbically.

My father shot him a dark look as he continued with his tale. “It’s a bargain, they said, not a gift. Power for power, that was the price. To give access to the Dark Lord all their collective resources, the two representatives from the Circle said that the Dark Lord, as the Heir of Slytherin, had a duty to fulfill.

‘You are the backup,’ one of them told me. ‘You being a distant relation to Slytherin. But we prefer the heir rather than the spare.’

I didn’t ask why, though it’s a common belief that the stronger the blood ties, the more powerful the magic was.

‘What do I have to do?’ the Dark Lord asked. He did not look cowed by the two. ‘I could make you tell me. I can break your mind and leaving you wishing you had died if you defied me.’

They did not sound cowed as they answered. ‘You can try, but we don’t have the answer. That’s why we need you. And you aren’t strong enough to do that.’

The Circle member smiled at the Dark Lord, who raised his wand in anger. I prepared myself to see him writhe on the ground in pain, but nothing happened.

‘That’s just a demonstration of the power we could offer you,’ he said as the Dark Lord stared in confusion. ‘So much knowledge has been lost to us and we’re only left with these petty tricks now. But if you help us, you can share in the power.’

Never had I seem the Dark Lord so bemused. I readied myself to run, but instead of raining destruction on the man, he gestured for him to continue.

‘I know you can kill me, but then you’ll lose a great opportunity,’ the man said. ‘And I promise you, it’ll be a bargain that benefits both of us.’

The Dark Lord regarded the man coldly. ‘You resisted my Cruciatus, so I accept you have resources beyond what others possess. However, as you point out, it is only a small trick. You’ll have to prove you have more than that for me to help you. What is it you wish for my assistance anyways?’

‘In exchange for helping us find the Grimoire of our founder, Salazar Slytherin, we offer you the possession of it,’ the man said. ‘Is that not an exchange which benefits us both?’

The Dark Lord’s eyes went wide. The man continued: ‘In exchange, we can help with your … experiments. I believe you wish to experiment with the magical properties of the number seven.’ He produced a scroll of parchment so old and yellowed, it was flaking onto the carpet. ‘Here are some ideas.’

I had no idea what the man was talking about, but the Dark Lord seemed inexplicably excited by this.”

I shared a look with Potter. My father had no idea, but I did. As did Potter. To think that this Blood Circle gave the man who would become the Darkest wizard of recent times the means to do so.

My father continued speaking:

‘This is just one of the little ‘tricks’ we have left. There are more awaiting you should you find the Grimoire for us. But … you’ll have to prove yourself willing to help us too.’ The man produced another scroll. ‘Here is a list of ones we want dead. We want you to kill them for us. They will become your enemies eventually too, so another happy collaboration between us.’

The Dark Lord took the scroll. I waited and watched. Then the Dark Lord nodded. ‘I’ll do it.’”

There was a chilling gust of wind that seemed to rise with my father’s words. Numb, I turned to look at the source.

A man stood in the middle of my father’s study, his face concealed a hood. Unmistakable was the sense of power and threat radiating off him, like a rotting scent around a corpse. He cut a tall and powerful figure, and I was struck with a sense of déjà vu, like I had met him before somewhere.

“Hello, Lucius.” His voice was a blast of menace. “Telling our little secrets, I see.”

My father had his wand out in an instant. “How did you get in here?”

My body pulsed with fear. The Manor had stronger protection than my little flat did. Ancient defensive enchantments guarded the home of the Malfoys for generations.

The man took off his hood and I gasped. It was Ted Cross, the Head of the British Museum, Magical Section. I stared in disbelief, and yet it made sense in a way that he was a Circle member. No one else had the depth of knowledge and access to antiquities that he did.

He had a full, almost avuncular face that contrasted sharply with his threatening air.

“Hello Draco,” he said, turning to me. “It’s been a while. I haven’t seen you since the Magical Historical Society’s Awards. I understand you’ve engaged in a new research project.” His eyes glittered menacingly. “And with Mr. Potter, the savior of our world, no less.”

“How did you get in?” My father’s wand raised threateningly. “And get out. I’m having a private conversation.”

“Ah, Lucius, you wound me.” Cross put a hand to his heart with a feigned look of hurt. “Your wife let me in. She was under the impression that I came for a meeting to discuss the funding of a new wing for the Museum. Maybe we’ll name it the Malfoy Wing. In memoriam.”

Potter pushed in front of me. “I’m performing a citizen’s arrest under the Wizarding Crimes and Offenses Act of 1841. I suggest you come with me quietly or I would have to restrain you.”

Cross laughed. “Ah, Mr. Potter, still playing Auror? How comical, coming from a man who was reprimanded for someone who continuously put his squad’s safety at risk through reckless endangerment.”

Potter’s face tightened as he took out his wand. “I take it you’re not willing to come willingly?”

Cross gave Potter a disdainful look. “I’m surprised someone as stupid as you managed to pass the Auror exams. Of course I’m not coming with you.” He turned to me. “You, young Master Malfoy, will be coming with me, though.”

“He will do no such thing,” Potter snarled before I could say anything. He raised his wand. “Come any closer and I’ll turn you into the toad you are.”

“I’m hurt, Mr. Potter. Not by your childish name-calling, but by your assumption that I’ll hurt Draco here. I’m not going to do that. He’s a valuable piece of the puzzle.”

“That’s not what your friend did.” Potter pulled me behind him. “Your friend tried to kill us.”

“You, Mr. Potter. He tried to kill you. Admittedly, he was a little rough with Draco here, but I have to excuse him for it. He’s never liked him.” Cross looked at me contritely. “You might try being more polite to others next time. It does wonders.”

“Then he shouldn’t have involved me in this,” I snapped.

“Oh, I put the key in your bag,” Cross said. “You really should think twice before leaving it unattended. He objected to the plan, but I suppose he got his comeuppance. Stupid fool, getting caught by the Ministry.”

Cross looked at my father, who had a curious expression. “What do you think, Lucius? Think about it … your family honor, restored. Your dreams … achieved. You as his father will share in the glory of ushering in a new world, where we don’t have to hide anymore. Where we will be restored to our rightful place guiding the wizarding world.”

I glanced at my father. His face was impassive, and his entire body remained unmoving. I knew if he sided Cross, then Potter and I would be at a disadvantage. As Master of Malfoy Manner, my father could command the house itself to help him – and Cross.

Potter remained in front of me, a comfortable bulwark against Cross. I could tell his thoughts were on the same lines by the way he tensed and turned ever so slightly, as to keep my father in his line of sight.

My fingers grabbed the handle of my wand. I couldn’t turn my wand on my own father. I prayed that Potter had the ability to disarm my father before Cross reacted.

“Stay behind Potter, Draco.” My father rose from his seat. His wand was out, pointed at Cross. “And you, Cross, I think it’s time to go.”

Cross looked disappointed. “Really, Lucius, you’re not going to help me? What a disappointment. Just like your son, you’re always too coward when it came to taking action.”

His wand flashed out in an arc, quicker than any of us could move. A flash of light filled the room. I shouted, putting my arm across my eyes to shut out the light.

Potter responded better than I did, throwing up a shield; the blunt force of Cross’s spell hit it with an audible sound that reverberated, as deep as a gong.

My father pulled me down just as another jet of light came. It was in the nick of time, as Cross’s hex hit the velvet curtains. They shredded with a loud tear. Then the next spell caught my father squarely in the chest.

Time stopped. I watched as his face, usually set in cold patrician calm, contorted in surprise as he fell on his back.

I jumped up, a roar in my ears, the thudding in my heart vibrating through my entire body. My father – so proud, so strong in my childhood. And even after, he was an ever-present constant in my life – lying on the floor.

I paid no attention to the dueling jets of light that raged above my head as I ran towards Cross. I had no idea what I planned – tackle him? Run him to the ground? Blood rushed through my head. All I knew was that I never felt such a rush of emotions before. I wanted to feel Cross’s soft flesh against my fist –

Searing heat flashed across my cheeks, replaced quickly by the wet warmth of blood. Cross looked at me, his expression pitilessly unperturbed. I felt my body freeze, my muscles refusing to move despite my efforts.

“Come with us, Draco,” he said. He fended off a jet of red from Potter. I strained against his Body-bind, my fingers flexing on the handle of my wand. If I could only aim it ….

“You can regain all you have lost,” Cross said. He waved his wand and a great serpent made of flames flew out at Potter. “But I’ll give time for you to think about it over when I take you back –”

I managed to angle my wand and whispered a muttered spell. The books on the shelves behind him jumped out, attacking Cross. They were heavy volumes, in the style of Victorian doorstoppers. Some hit him on the head, others aimed for his legs and the rest of the body with a rush of pages flapping.

Cross cursed and turned to deal with them. In the split second that he was distracted, Potter grabbed me and pulled me aside. With a wave of his wand, he vanished the window and threw me out.

I hit the bushes outside, feeling the cuts and scrapes of wood and leaves against my skin. A soft thud sounded as Potter landed besides me. A whistling sounded – a broom appeared, almost out of nowhere.

Potter grabbed it as he released the hex preventing me from moving. There was an acrid smell of smoke behind me with the overpowering heat of fire consuming wood and books and velvet.

“We have to go,” Potter shouted over the noise; the sound of wood cracking ominously rang around us, and I was struggling to breathe in enough oxygen.

“My mother – my father – they’re still in there –”

A loud blast erupted and the air itself choked all the air out of my lungs. The Manor was on fire – my home was burning –

“We have to go!” Potter threw me onto the broom, then jumped on, his arms hemming me in to prevent me from falling as he took off.

Hot air surrounded me as we fly, wind whipping past us.

The sight was even more horrifying seen in the sky. A plume of smoke curled, almost lazily, up, and the stucco facade with its ivy-lined greenery was lit from within with an unearthly orange glow.

“We have to go back,” I croaked. My voice was hoarse. My throat was sore, and I desperately yearned for water. “My parents are still in there.”

“We can’t.” Potter’s voice was tight as we sped — away from the Manor. “It’s not safe for us. That man’s still there. And your parents have the elves to help them. They’re not who the man’s after.”

“Cross. He’s Cross. And my father’s body is in the center of the fire!”

“I’m sorry, Draco, but we need to get you of here.”

We sped along the air. I couldn’t look back, nor could I bear to. I had no love of the Manor, but to see it burn wrenched at me. And my parents ….

I wanted to rail at Potter for taking me away, for not helping my parents. I should be there. But I couldn’t blame Potter. He was right — we would be no use in that inferno. He was the only one thinking clearly here. If it had not been his help ....

“It’s my fault,” I said. My voice barely registered against the wind. “I led him to the Manor. If it weren’t for me, that man wouldn’t have come to the Manor. I should’ve never come.”

“It’s not your fault,” Potter said gently. “You’re not responsible for this. That man — Cross — he is. You weren’t the one who decided to attack or start the fire.”

I could not respond to that. I was too numb to say anything, my head still spinning, my chest still pounding. If I had listened to my father and been a proper Malfoy, without chasing after lost books and murderous conspiracies ....

“It’s not your fault,” Potter repeated.

I looked at Potter. His face was earnest and set in determination. And, even in the midst of all that, he softened with sympathy when he caught my gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he said. I felt his arms tighten around me with that statement. “It hurts, I know.”

I thought of all the times I had argued with my father while my mother looked on, exasperated. I took a deep breath. “I’m not going to let them get away with this.”

Chapter Text

We Disapparated once we were far enough from the Manor’s protective charms. I was numb, deadened even to its hurtling sensation.

As the smell of smoke vanished, I looked around and saw that we were in a spacious but dusty room. I sneezed. My olfactory senses overloaded with odors that I was unable to differentiate. It was dim, with faint rustling amongst the curtains like a flutter of moths lived inside. A chandelier dripping with crystals but only one candle hung from the high vaulted ceiling.

Potter helped me gently off the broom. I refused to let go of his arm, knowing that if I did, I would immediately collapse on the floor.

“Kreacher!”

A soft pop sounded as a decrepit house-elf materialized, wearing a filthy dishrag for a loincloth. He bowed low to Potter.

“Yes, Master Harry?” His saucer-like eyes widened even further when he saw me. “Master Malfoy?”

I squinted at him. “Have we met?”

The elf dipped low. “I have served the House of Blacks for three generations and I recognize a member of our family anywhere. You have Mistress Narcissa’s eyes.”

Despite the turmoil raging within, I clung to the manners ingrained in me since birth. “Hello — Kreacher? I take it we’re in the Black family’s house.”

“Yes,” Potter intercepted the question. “I thought it would be the safest here. Not many people know about my connections to it, and many of the old protections the Order laid on the place are still extant.”

His words cut through the fog in my head. “Order? The Order of the Phoenix?”

Potter nodded. “Yes. 12 Grimmauld Place. We’re back in London.”

I looked faintly at him. “Oh.” My mother had mentioned this place to me before. This must be the house my mother grew up in, before her family moved out to the country.

And suddenly the thought became too much to bear. I fell to my knees, the threadbare carpet rubbing against my knee.

Both Potter and Kreacher were instantly at my side. The elf’s tiny arms tugged at me as Potter scooped me up in his arms.

“Kreacher, get some tea. I’ll take Malfoy to the guest room.”

Kreacher snapped to with an agility that would have shamed a younger elf. He scurried out of the room as Potter carried me up the stairs, one arm around my knees, the other around my back.

“Let me down!” This position was not all that uncomfortable. “My legs are fine.”

“You’re in shock,” Potter said. His mouth was set in a grim line. “You need rest.”

“Where are you taking me?” Instinct told me there was no fighting Potter when he was in hero mode. I was not wholly opposed to it either. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

My legs were jelly and I hardly thought I would be able to claw my way up the stairs, but that was irrelevant. All I wanted was to be left alone, Potter’s comforting presence notwithstanding. I could barely take in enough air to let out the scream that bubbled inside me. All that kept it at by was a resolve to not break down in front of Potter.

I tried distracting myself by taking in my surroundings. The stair creaked under our weight, and I noticed that the wood of it were pitted and scored. The walls were lined with peeling paper whose decorative patterns had long faded with the passage of time. It was too dark to make out much; gas lamps instead of candles provided the light. They flickered, threatening to sputter out, as Potter took me up.

There was a line of shrunken, shriveled things on the wall leading up the stairs. It was too dark to make out much details, though I could have sworn in the reflected light they looked like eyes watching me.

“They’re the heads of past house-elves,” Potter said shortly. “We tried removing them, but they’re stuck on the wall with Permanent Sticking Charms.”

I made a face at them. “Interesting choice of décor … I guess this is where Aunt Bella got her bad sense of style from.”

Potter gave a strained chuckle. “Among other things.” He stopped at a door on the first floor, kicking it open with his feet. It was a spacious bedroom with a large four-poster bed, the wood of the frame worn and streaked with grime. He deposited me on it. Despite its rather insalubrious appearance, the sheets and mattress were new, the sheets soft and clean, the mattress springs firm and solid.

“This is the only room that’s in any semi-decent state,” Potter informed me ruefully. “No one lives here except for Kreacher, and he obviously does his best to keep things up to standard, but ….” He gave a slight shrug.

“It’s no problem.” In better times I would cavil at its condition, but right now ….  I shook my head. “You don’t live here?” I realized I knew so little about Potter. And yet, the short time we had spent together was like an eternity to me ….

The bed sagged as Potter sat. His eyes were lit with concern. “You don’t need to pretend to be okay, Draco. What you just experienced – it’s horrible and –”

“I’m not pretending anything,” I said sharply. Wetness dotted my vision. I looked away from Potter hurriedly. “I’m not pretending anything.”

I wanted him to go. I wanted him to stay. Contradictory emotions flooded me, choking me. My throat closed. I swallowed with an effort. Potter hovered over me, solicitous and worried, his face creased in concern.

His proximity made itself known with a mix of heat and space on the bed. I inched towards it, away from the cool side of the sheets. It formed a gaping void besides.

His hand came, unexpectedly, on my shoulder. I noticed just now that there was a tea set on the bedside table. Evidently Kreacher the house-elf had come and gone with it.

Potter poured out a cup and held it to me. “Drink,” he said sternly.

I took a tentative sip – and nearly spat it out. “What the hell is in this?”

“I added some gin to it,” Potter said. “It’ll help take some of the edge off.”

“More like poison me to death.” I glared at Potter without heat. He was right; it did relax me, just a miniscule amount. But it was enough to restore most of my mental functions. “We need to inform the Ministry of what happened. Or at least Granger. And have someone go to the Manor to – to retrieve the bodies.”

“I’ll send Kreacher to the Manor,” Potter said. “He can organize the elves to put out the fire. And I’ll contact Hermione as soon as I’m sure you’re alright.”

“I’m alright.” I had to keep saying it. If I said it enough times, I would believe it.

Potter looked dubiously at me. I stretched my face in my best smile. Somehow, it did not feel quite up to standard. I wanted him to go, not least so he could bring back news. His hovering was touching, but unwelcome. I could take care of myself. After all, that was what I insisted to my parents every time they pushed me to move back to the Manor.

And now both they and the Manor were gone.

There was the sound of a small pop as the house-elf appeared.

“The Deputy Head of Magical Law Enforcement here to see you, sir. And her husband.” He disappeared again.

“Hermione and Ron?” Potter jumped up. “What does she want?”

“How did they know we were here? You don’t live here, do you?”

Potter shook his head. “I have a flat in Camden. This house is more of a meeting place and a hideout than an actual residence. Though there’s not much need for a hideout anymore….”

“That’s probably about to change,” I said. I looked at Potter wryly. “I take it I’m not allowed to go back to my own flat?”

“I would strongly advise against it.” Potter scrutinized my face carefully. “Given what has happened, it’s best that you remain here. But if you feel you have to ….”

“Pity.” My hands were slack on the bedsheets. “I guess I’ll miss having Harrods within walking distance.”

“You’ll stay?”

“Were you expecting me to refuse? I’m not foolhardy, especially not since….” My voice trailed off and I looked away.

“I need to go down and see Hermione and Ron,” Harry said.

“I’ll come with you,” I said, pushing myself out of the bed. I knew I wanted Potter to leave me alone, but the idea of being by myself in that empty room chilled me. I suddenly could not face the prospect of sitting in the dark with my thoughts.

“You should stay in bed,” Potter said with a frown.

“I assume you’re filling in the Weasel too –”

“Don’t call him that,” Potter said automatically.

“—the Weasley too, and I can explain the full story to him. And Granger would be interested in listening to what I found out. I want to pick her brain on some ideas I have.” With a deadened, hollowness, I realized that the key was still at the Manor. That book … I was not worried about its survival, as I was certain whatever protective magic laid on it would not allow the fire to harm it. But it was another matter to go back to the Manor and sift for it through ash and ruin.

“Well. Alright.”

Granger and her husband were waiting for us in the drawing room. Their faces were pinched with worry, and Granger ran up to Potter with a worried “Harry!” as the Weasel cuffed him on the shoulder.

“That’s for making us worry,” he said. His voice was deeper than I remembered, and he was taller too. “Running off to Malfoy Manor like that – what the hell were you thinking?” Then he caught sight of me. “Malfoy.”

It was a statement more than any kind of greeting or acknowledge. “Weasley.” I tried speaking in as cool a manner as I could, though the effort was ruined by a slight quiver of exhaustion.

Granger turned her full attention on me. “Draco!” She came up to me, looked me up and down with worry and sympathy. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

I did not have the energy or the heart to push her off. “I’m fine.” I made another stab at my most charming smile. “Do I look hurt?”

The Weasley took Granger by the arm and thankfully pulled her away from me. “He said he’s fine.” He gave me a look of the deepest suspicion and I had to stifle my smile at that. It was almost comical.

“How did you know where we were?” Potter asked.

“We guessed,” Granger said simply. “If I were attacked, I would be seeking the safest place I could think of. And this would be a logical first choice.”

“Then you know what happened?”

Granger nodded. “Yes. We had reports of a fire at Malfoy Manor. Thankfully, most of it was contained by the house-elves within an hour of discovery, though I believe the study and a large part of that wing would need repairs before it was habitable again.”

“And?” Potter’s voice was strained. I knew what he referred to: did they find the bodies?

“Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy are fine,” Granger said. “Mr. Malfoy suffered extensive smoke inhalation and magical damage, but he’ll live. Mrs. Malfoy is with him at St. Mungo’s right now.”

Tension that had been keeping me upright broke and I almost collapsed. Potter grabbed my arm just in time.

“I got you,” he murmured, his voice a comfortable buzz in my ears as he helped me to the sofa.

The Weasley eyed Potter curiously as he took everything in. “Why are you hanging out with the ferret  -- Malfoy, Harry? I’m so confused right now.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary here,” I drawled before I could stop myself. Relief that my parents were alive overshadowed everything, even my common.

“Listen here, you little –”

“Ron,” Granger began reprovingly at the same time Potter said, “Malfoy,” in a warning tone.

I looked coldly at the Weasley. He glared back.

“What happened?” Granger asked. “Our people could tell it was arson, but we couldn’t find any traces other than that the fire was created magically. And intentionally.”

“It was the Circle,” I said. “They attacked us.”

Quickly, Potter and I filled them in on what transpired at the Manor, Potter punctuating the story with some colorful language. The Weasley listened, his brows knitted in puzzlement as Granger’s face deepened in concern.

“So you were attacked by this ‘Circle’ over some book?” the Weasley said after we finished. “And you’re the only one that can use the key to find it?”

“That’s pretty much the gist of it,” I answered him dryly. My head ached and I regretted my earlier insistence to meeting them with Potter. He was right: I would have been much more comfortable in bed. “The key itself is in the shape of a book, though that’s only its outward appearance. I wonder why it took that shape?” I needed to focus on the academic nature of the problem lest the terror and the near miss of it overwhelmed me.

“Well,” Granger spoke in a lecturing tone. “It’s very common for magical objects of a certain nature to take the shape of whatever its current holder’s affinity is. For example, in 1654, the Acronium took the shape of a ruby brooch because its owner at the time, a Lettice Hollis, was—”

“Was famously in love with jewelry of all sorts and had in fact murdered several of her employers to steal their jewelry collection,” I finished for her. “I know.”

The Weasley looked at Potter. “Any idea what they’re on about?”

Potter shook his head with amusement. “No, and I’m afraid to ask.”

“Well, the Acronium is this source of magical power, you see, and –”

Granger shook her head. “We don’t have time to talk about unrelated subject.”

“That’s a first,” the Weasley grinned. “Hermione not taking an advantage to give us a lesson.”

Granger scowled at her husband. “Shut it or I’ll turn all your socks into spiders.”

The Weasley visibly quaked. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Potter coughed. They stopped with a guilty start.

“Sorry, Harry,” the Weasley said.

“Regardless of what shape it took, and I think I can guess that the key took the shape of a book to fit into Draco’s bag and so it wouldn’t look out of place at the Gringotts’s Reading Room, it’s the map to finding Slytherin’s Grimoire before the Circle does. You said that Ted Cross is a member?”

I nodded. “He seems like he’s in a position of some authority,” I said. “I don’t know, but he said that he wants me to voluntarily help him find it. I don’t know why he doesn’t try Veritaserum or Legilimency instead of me joining him.”

“Persuasion is sometimes more effective than magical coercion,” Potter said sagely. “It’s more foolproof and there’s a power in having someone join you willingly instead of forcing them through physical or magical means.”

“Yeah, like that time you had to get old Slughorn to give you that memory.”

“Yeah, that’s an example. And this case seems likely the same, with Ted Cross having the same rationale.”

I listened to their exchange with a tinge of envy. I had no idea what they were talking about, but even that did not erase the sense of how tight-knitted and deep-rooted their friendship was. They were one unit.

And here I was, the interloper.

I put aside that itching, crawling mood. There were more important matters than feeling left out of the clique. “So our first step is to retrieve the key. I left it at the Manor.”

“You can try summoning it,” the Weasley suggested.

“It’s probably protected against it,” I pointed out, restraining the urge to roll my eyes at his stupidity. “I doubt Slytherin would be so stupid not to think of that.”

“Well, you can still try it,” the Weasley said mulishly, adding under his breath no doubt aspersions against my House founder.

I raised my wand. “Accio.” Nothing happened.

“I don’t think that could have summoned a biscuit from the kitchen,” the Weasley said.

I did roll my eyes this time. “Accio!” Still nothing.

“It probably is protected,” Potter said to the Weasley apologetically. “Remember the locket? When I went with Dumbledore to retrieve it, there were also defenses in place to protect it from the summoning spell.”

“It might still be at the Manor,” I said, “if Cross hadn’t taken it. I doubt he will, since he knows it won’t respond to him. And I don’t think he would have known where I put it. The Manor is big.”

“We’ll go look for it,” Potter promised. “And after? What do you plan to do? Since it’s possible it’s a memory, it means we’ll have to go find a Pensieve.” He looked at Granger. “Where can we find one, other than at Hogwarts? Malfoy mentioned that there was one at the British Museum, but given that this Cross fellow is the head there ….”

“He’s no doubt on the run by now, but we’ll find him,” Granger said. “There are evidence that he’s been involved in the looting of several magical archaeological sites. We’ll have the Museum watched, as well as his regular haunts and his house at Hampstead Heath.” She considered. “I don’t think there is any other ones. Pensieves are rare magical artefacts and even the Ministry doesn’t have one. I think the best bet is the one at Hogwarts.”

“I’ll write to McGonagall,” Potter said, running a hand through his hair. He looked tired. Suddenly, I was reminded that I wasn’t the only one undertaking this – Potter had been with me, if not for every step, then at least most of it.

“Before that, we need to break the protection spell on it that prevents those who aren’t Slytherin descendants from interacting with it,” I said. “These types of blood concealments usually are very tricky. The key probably won’t work with a Pensieve until we remove it.”

Granger nodded. “I’ll look into it. Anything else?”

“I would ….” I hesitated. “I wonder if it’s possible to visit my parents? You said they were at St. Mungo’s right?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Potter said. “The Circle will likely have your parents watched and Cross is still out there. Visiting them would only expose yourself and put your parents in danger.” He looked at Granger. “Can you let them know Malfoy is safe?”

“Yes. I’ll also have a protection detail arranged for them. Harry’s right, though; it’s best that you stay away for the time being.”

The Weasley, who had remained sitting quietly until now, spoke: “And what are we going to do after we find the Grimoire?” He gave me an unreadable look. “Are we just going to place it in a vault in Gringotts and let it gather dust? Or use it? What if we simply stop looking for it and destroy the Circle? Wouldn’t that solve all our problems?”

Loathe as I were to admit it, the Weasley had a point. If I had not gone willing looking for trouble, my parents would not be in St. Mungo’s right now. And yet, another part of me rebelled at the thought. I wanted to find it. I wanted to see the stuff of legend before my very eyes and touch it with my own hands. I wanted to unravel the secrets found within this thousand-year old book.

Thankfully, Granger spoke before I could respond to the Weasley. “It’s going to take years, if not decades, to completely uproot the Circle. I doubt we could even do it. They’ve also links to other groups internationally that we can’t reach. Even if we stop this one, others will take its place.”

“Like the hydra,” I said.

“Yes. So the best plan right now is to go on the offensive and find Slytherin’s Grimoire before they find other Slytherin descendants who will be … more pliant.”

The Weasley sighed. “I guess that’s a good a plan as any we’ve ever came up with. Though I still don’t like the sound of this book. Doesn’t sound like some good thing to me.”

“It’ll be fascinating to examine it though,” Granger said, voicing some of my desires. “To see what Slytherin himself wrote in it. It’s a pity that Voldemort turned most of the Founder’s Objects into Horcruxes, or otherwise we could have looked at them in greater detail.”

“Is that what happened to them?” I looked at her, appalled at such an act of violation against priceless historical artifacts.

The Weasley laughed at my expression. “You look so distraught. Don’t worry; they can’t hurt you anymore.”

“I’m a magical historian,” I said, rather sniffily. “Of course I’m upset. In addition to the whole murder and ripping your soul affair, of course.”

“Of course,” Potter said mildly.

“Well, we’ll keep in touch,” Granger said as she stood up. “Ron and I need to get home. We’ll let you two rest.”

“Sorry about your parents, mate,” the Weasley said to me, somewhat gruffly. “I don’t like them, and I don’t think I ever will, but I understand how you’re feeling right now.”

“Thanks,” I said, rather taken aback. I nodded stiffly. “I look forward to your visits.”

They left me with Potter. He examined me carefully. “How’re you feeling?”

“Good.” I was exhausted and the swirl of emotions left me wanting a bottle of whiskey to numb myself. But speaking to Granger and the Weasley and mapping out a course of action cleared centered me. I knew what I needed to do. “I think I’m ready for bed now.”

“I’ll escort you up,” Potter said.

This time, I did not refuse his offer.

The human body was capable of recovering from shocks remarkably quickly. I woke the next day, refreshed, the leaden weight of guilt lessened but not entirely gone. I was filled with a renewed sense of purpose. I had to find the Grimoire – and to make Cross pay.

I also needed to ask Potter for some clothes, if I were to stay here for the time being. I sniffed at myself and made a face. And where the bathroom was. I had fallen asleep in these clothes, too exhausted to think, and they were now stained and wrinkled, smelling of smoke and sweat.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in!”

Potter came in with a tray of a full English breakfast and the enticing aroma of coffee. “I wasn’t sure what you usually had for breakfast, so I had Kreacher prepare everything.”

“Smells amazing.” My stomach rumbled. “Though I never did manage to acquire a taste for black pudding.”

“They’re not my favorite either.” Potter set the tray down. “But it’s included for the sake of tradition.”

“True,” I agreed, “and Malfoys do love traditions.” I picked up the cup of coffee and inhaled.

Potter looked at me with a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “You love your coffee, don’t you?”

“Lifeblood of an academic.” I lifted the cup in a toast. “Cheers.”

I ate ravenously. I was halfway through the tray before I realized Potter had only brought one set of cutleries. “Are you not eating?”

“Ate earlier. And I never got the taste for black pudding either. The whole thing just puts me off.”

“I need to ask another favor of you.”

“What?”

“Do you have any spare clothes? I smell and I need a shower.”

Potter laughed. “I’ll have Kreacher bring you some of my old ones.” He looked at me appraisingly, his gaze lingering. I blushed at the intensity. Stop, I told myself.

Evidently Potter felt it too. He looked away, but not before I caught a hint of flushed skin.

“And the bathroom is down the hall to your left,” he concluded, rather lamely. He turned to leave.

“Potter?”

“Yes?” He stopped at the door.

“Thank you.”

His expression softened. “You’re stronger than you’re feeling right now, I can guarantee you that.”

“I don’t feel it right now, so I’ll have to take your word for it.” I stepped out of bed gingerly and stretched, my muscles finding some long-needed release. Potter gave me one final look. And then he left.

What was it that drew him to me? I wondered as I massaged the scalp. This house’s water pressure was slightly weak, and I stood under the faucet for a minute, water dripping into my eyes.

I knew in some quarters I would be considered a catch. I was decent-looking and independently wealthy. But somehow, Potter did not strike me as someone who sought that.

In fact, Potter was probably a better catch. The hero of the Wizarding world, with his roguish good looks, and decently well-off, not to mention his innate kindness and charm. Ginerva Weasley was a fool to divorce him.

Or was it the other way? Potter had made it clear he played both sides of the fence – perhaps Ginerva would not stand for it. Did not seem to in line with the reputed Weasley ethos of acceptance to me, but then again, she might have made an exception since it was her husband.

I wondered Potter and I had reached a stage in our acquaintance where I could ask. It was personal, but we had – kissed – and didn’t that give me the right?

But then, I was not sure that I wanted to know. I had no idea what the truth would be and how it would affect my feelings for him. It was ironic – when faced with one of my longest fantasies, I elected to run.

But my father was right; I couldn’t do as I pleased anymore. This episode had shown me that. I was the Malfoy heir, the last of my family. And tried as I did to hide from them, the responsibilities there were real – and onerous. I stared at the water running down the tiles. My parents would not be alive forever to shoulder them for me. I realized that now. I had a future that the serendipity of genes had mapped out for me.

And Potter was not included.

Potter was sitting in the drawing room when I went to find him. It took some doing; although not as large as the Manor, this house still had a multitude of rooms that was a maze to navigate.

“Sorry. I got lost.”

Potter wetted his lips. “You look good in my clothes.”

His T-shirt was too big on me, Potter being rather broader than I in the shoulders. I had more space in the arms than I was used to. His jeans were looser than I was used to, hanging a little baggy around my waist. Potter must be joking. Or he needed new lens prescriptions.

I sat across from him. “Thanks for letting me borrow them. I’ll return them pressed and laundered when —“ I gave a careless wave, “ — all this is finished.” The shirt smelled faintly of the scent I had begun to associate with Potter too, a mix of sweat and his body wash.

Potter kept his eyes on me. “Keep them,” he said quietly.

I had to look away before I become sucked in any further. I coughed. “So what’s the plan? I was thinking that we go back. To the Manor. To retrieve the book-key. And you can take the opportunity to look for clues.” There was only the slightest hitch in my voice when I thought of the Manor. Granger said most of the damage was contained, and yet I could not erase the image of it burning —

“That’s a good idea,” Potter said, “but you sure you’re ready to go back? I can go and you can stay here.”

“No. The book-key won’t respond to you.” I tried to keep my voice still. “And I need to go back. I need to be there. It’s my home.”

Potter accepted my logic reluctantly.

“Don’t worry,” I added. “I mean, you’re coming with me anyways.”

Potter seemed more satisfied with that. “I should get changed, then,” he said, gesturing at his ripped t-shirt and gray joggers.

“I’ll wait for you here,” I said. I looked around the room. “I want to take a look at some of the objects around here. They look old.”

“Help yourself,” Potter said. “But be careful. There might still be doxies in the curtains.”

I drew back hastily from examining one. The sudden movement stirred up dust and I sneezed loudly.

As it turned out, there were no doxies in the room, though I did find the silver boxes on the mantelpiece inscribed with Linear B to be fascinating. I had no idea what they were for, nor what the engravings said, but I resolved to take a closer look at them once this whole business was settled.

“Ready?” Potter came down in a dark, workmanlike robe. He offered his hand out to me in a manner more befitting a gentleman escorting a deb into the ballroom.

I took his arm. I was ready as much as I would ever be.

We Apparated to a point close enough to walk to the Manor. The road was deserted, which struck me as strange this time of day, but it fitted our purpose that we remained unobserved.

The iron-wrought gate opened at my touch. A peacock turned its head at us before returning to back to its strut. The hedges which used to be so familiar now towered over us, as we walked in its sinister shadow it left.

I led Potter through the grand foyer, our shoes echoing on the marble. It was dark and strangely saddening to see it so empty. The elves were most likely busy at their tasks or busy restoring the Manor.

“It’s creepy in here,” Potter said. His voice bounced off the stones. He hastily lowered it. “No offense.”

“It used to not be like this. Back in the day, my parents would give grand balls and other social functions, and it would be lit with a thousand candles and torches and Lumoses. Everyone would be here in their best robes and dresses and my parents would be at the center, my father in full evening dress, tails and all, and Mother would be in a full-length gown. I used to watch up there,” I pointed up, “and think that I would down there one day too.” I gave Potter a flicker of a smile. “Most of the guests are probably in prison now.”

“I think I have a very different impression of this place,” Potter said neutrally, “but I’m sorry that your memories of your home has been – well, ruined.”

“We look at the past through tinted glasses, don’t we? Whether they’re rose-colored or some darker shade.”

Potter touched my shoulder. It was a gentle gesture, and yet I felt in it all the strength he could convey to me. I stopped myself from instinctively leaning into it. I had to be strong. And yet, every gesture and every word peeled back the layers of my attraction to Potter from merely being physical to something more visceral.

Thankfully, we separated at the library. I summoned an elf who looked at Potter with reverence that I thought would not look out of place for a pilgrim seeing a saint’s relic to guide him to my father’s study.

The Manor, true to Granger’s word, was mostly undamaged, though the smell of smoke still hung in the air, mostly thank to poor ventilation. Luckily, there were no char marks or any observable traces of the fire that Cross had caused. If I had not been there, I would have almost been unable to tell. The stacks of books I left were still there.

And so was the book-key.

I almost sagged in relief. Cross had not taken it. It laid on the table innocently, a plain, hardbound book without cover or any markings, one among many,

I reached out to touch it. It was cool, the fabric gently grazing my fingertips.

I knew I should stow it away, take it somewhere safe, but my fingers had minds of their own. I opened it.

The pages flipped in a soft whisper, like a million indistinct voices were in hushed conversation. I closed my eyes, willing it to take me away.

There was a pull at my navel, not unlike the sensation of falling, and I was in that cave again. The walls shone with slick wetness, and there was a man in gray robes that reminded me of a monk’s habit laying an object on the pillar at the center.

I only caught a glimpse of green, yet I knew it was the Grimoire.  My breath grew bated and my pulse quickened as I watched the man take out his wand.  He walked around the pillar thrice, mouthing words too quiet to hear. Licks of blue flames followed his footsteps.

I knew, without even hearing it, what kind of protection he was casting. It was powerful and difficult to penetrate — I would not be able to do it on my own. But I did not need to: I had Potter on my side.

The man looked up — and looked at me. I tried to turn away. But I could not.

“Why do you turn away from me?” He spoke quietly, his voice barely louder than a whisper, and yet it reverberated throughout the entire cave. It seemed to rock my very bones.

“You, of my blood, thinned as it is, should not look away. This is your both your birthright as well as your future.”

My mouth dried. I had an urge to touch the Grimoire, to turn it over and go over it page by page.

“Yes,” the man —  Slytherin — said. “You feel its power. It’s yours if you accept your heritage. You want it, don’t you? You crave what it offers. Not just magical power, but the sense of achievement, the recognition that will follow.”

His voice was hypnotic. I moved in closer, longing to have it —

My hand was met with a terrible burning that threatened to sear off my flesh. And yet I could not let go. I did not want to.

“Yes,” Slytherin whispered. “All knowledge, in the end, is painful. But pain makes you strong.”

I wanted to scream, but I could not. The sound caught in my throat and withered as my world was reduced to crisp, charring skin –

“Malfoy!”

I tumbled hard back into the present, my elbow colliding painfully with a stack of books next to me. As they cascaded down, Potter pulled me back and I landed painfully on top of him.

“Are you alright?” he asked, out of breath. We were tangled in a heap of limbs and robes. “What happened?”

“I touched the book-key. I know I shouldn’t have. But I couldn’t help myself….”

“You were thrashing,” Potter said. He bit his lip. “One of the elves came in to check on you and thought you were having a fit and came to fetch me.”

“I’m a little shaken but I’m fine.” What I had experienced was so vivid….

“You look pale.” Potter examined me. “And you’re still shivering. What exactly happened?”

“I touched the book-key and it showed me Slytherin.” Seeing that face in the flesh, even though I had viewed his likeness so many times in canvas and stone, gave me chills.

“Slytherin? THE Slytherin?”

“Yes. I think part of the book-key’s defenses is to trap you in an endless illusion. It’s an ingenious defense, and much more subtle. An enterprising person would probably choose to stay, too, out of hope that he can glean some clues from it. Speaking of clues, what did you find out?”

Potter shook his head. “Nothing. The fire had gotten rid of any traces, and what was left was cleared away by the elves. Hermione’s team had already been through the scene too, and they didn’t find anything.”

“So more luck on my end, then.” I grinned at Potter. “See? And you wanted me to stay put.” And despite the dangers of touching the book-key that I had just enumerated, an urge to open it again almost overcame me. Not because I was a masochist, but because no matter how warped or dangerous it was, I was experiencing a memory of Slytherin’s firsthand. What other historian could claim the same?

Even that glimpse of his face – it was enough for me to judge artistic depictions of him throughout the age. I could think of several popular historians and novelists that I could put out business right now.

“Malfoy?” There was a small cough. “Your elbows are on my ribs right now. It’s making it hard to breath.”

I realized I was still on top of Potter. I hastily scrambled off. “Sorry.” It had been a comfortable position, and I was sorry I had to remove myself.

Potter picked himself up. “I would advise you against touching the book-key again. Not until we have a good sense of how to break that protection so it’s safe.” He eyed me like he could read my thoughts. “I know it’s tempting to dwell in the past – this time literally – but you have to resist it. Even without knowing all the other ill effects touching this book-key could have.”

I took a deep breath. I wanted to argue with Potter, but he was right. “I know.” I looked at him. “Let’s go back.”

Being forced to stay in the house did not agree with me, never mind that my entire flat could probably fit into Potter’s drawing room. For one, my flat was much newer and cleaner. And despite the valiant efforts of Kreacher, the house seemed to resist all efforts to spruce up its living condition beyond somewhat habitable.

It was a funny thing, freedom. One only noticed its lack – rather like oxygen. I had not chafed at such restrictions on my movements when I voluntarily stayed indoors.

Thankfully, having Potter – and surprisingly, Granger and the Weasley – for company alleviated that itch of restlessness. They came every few days, ostensibly to provide updates on the search for Cross, though I was fairly certain their visits had a dual purpose in checking in on Potter. I enjoyed sniping at the Weasley, and Granger, despite her propensity to lecture, had surprisingly insightful comments into my work. I secretly resolved to update some of them with her suggested revisions in mind.

And Potter … part of my restlessness had to do with him. Or rather, if I were honest, most. The longer I remained in close quarters with him, the more my resolve to maintain my distance crumbled.

I could not deny that he kept my spirits up. To my utter jealousy, he came and gone as he pleased, though I pointed out that he was in as much danger as I was. Even more – the Circle wanted me alive. Not him.

He probably thought he could fend them off better than me. He might even be right; though Potter attempted to train me, I was hopeless. No instinct for counter spells and slow responses hindered my progress.

I scowled at Potter as I picked myself up from the floor for the fifth time. “You don’t have to aim at the same place all the time, you know.” I rubbed the sore spot on my chest. “It’s going to bruise.”

Potter laughed. “You did well when you were actually attacked. Take it seriously.”

“I do.” We were in what appeared to be a spare bedroom, the bed pushed to one side, the pillows laid out around us to break our fall. They had not yet managed to be of use yet. “It’s hopeless.” I had agreed to Potter’s training in the hopes it would take my mind off being stuck in the house, but all it did was make me more anxious. “I think I’m better off studying ways to break the protection spells on the book-key. Are you sure you think it’s not safe to leave the house?”

Potter rubbed his eyes. “There are a lot of alleyways in London, and I still have to work. I can’t watch you all day. And I can’t ask Hermione or Ron to do that either; they also have jobs.”

“So do I. Besides, what do you mean you have to work? I thought I was the only case you’re working on. If it’s a matter of money ….” I was running out of gold I kept on hand, and a visit to Gringotts would be the perfect excuse to leave the house. The Gringotts collection had extensive resources of Cure-breaking.

“No, it’s fine.” Potter shook his head. “It’s not money. I just hate sitting around, waiting. I get so restless. I can’t imagine what it’s like for you.”

I was touched, even as I was annoyed my little ploy failed. “It’s not that bad,” I admitted. “I would like to breathe air that’s not stale with dust once in a while, and I do miss being with my friends, but your house is actually fascinating in its own right. I’ve been listening to some of Kreacher’s stories. And the Black heirlooms – many of them belong in museums. Did you know you have a Mycenean cursed object in your drawing room?”

“No – wait, what?”

I laughed. “It’s nothing serious. The curse is very specific. It only applies to the seventh son of the fifth daughter of a farmer who was born on during a full moon. And its effect is to make you only give birth to girls.  I don’t think you need to worry about it.”

Potter relaxed. “I guess it’s a good thing I’m an only child. Sorry about your friends, though.” As a precaution, I had sent a note around to my usual group that I had gone abroad for an extended research trip and that I would have little time to respond to letters. I even included a postcard. I missed them. Seeing Potter and the Weasley and the Granger together … it reminded me Millicent’s sharp, no-bullshit manner, and of Goyle’s blustering kindness, and of Blaise’s flirtatious protectiveness.

I forced a smile. “It’s better than seeing them get hurt too.” I wrinkled my nose. “I should go and change.”

“Same.” Potter waved his wand and the room rearranged itself back. “I’ll see you later at dinner.”

Other than the training sessions with Potter and the calls from his friends, I occupied my time with exploring the house. As I had said to Potter, this house really was fascinating. The library had oddities and curios gathered from the centuries of Black explorers. The book themselves were more of a letdown. I had ventured there for research, and mostly I found pulp novels from the Victorian era and outdated spell books. The magical encyclopedias were several editions behind, evidently being purchased before the Self-Updating Charm was invented. I amused myself by reading some of the ridiculously romanticized – and highly inaccurate – accounts of the Goblin Wars.

It distracted me from thinking about Potter. Mostly.

Still, at times, I felt his eyes linger on me, though he treated me like Granger or the Weasley and so mfar, did not attempt to kiss me again. And yet, I hated this gentlemanly restraint of his. I wanted him to kiss me. Hard. I wanted to feel his hands on me, pulling my hair to expose my neck as his mouth ravages me –

Goddamn it, I was hard again.

No. My hands stopped on the hemline of my shirt. I looked at myself in the mirror. My face seemed longer and thinner, and I was a startling white in the murky lighting. And even in my state, I had all the physical traits of my Malfoy antecedents: the blond hair, the sharp chin, the slate-grey eyes. And though it was also a Malfoy trait to make poor decisions, I knew falling for Potter was one I needed to avoid.

I threw the soiled shirt onto the bed. It made an unsatisfying noise. It was time for dinner. Though usually taking place in the kitchen and being a casual affair, I suddenly had an urge to impress Potter.

It was more to emphasize to Potter that I was a Malfoy, and that we were supremely different from each other, our temporary alliance aside, I told myself. Nothing more. Certainly not to make myself more appealing in his eyes. And it was not like I had many options in my closet. Most of the closet was filled with Potter’s clothes. But I had secretly tasked Kreacher with fetching some items from my own wardrobe. I knew Potter would disapprove, but his sweaters were too big, and frankly, I was tired of wearing old band t-shirts.

I settled finally for a cream sweater that I had bought on sale at Selfridges two years ago, and a pair of black pants tailored to accentuate the length of my legs.

I stared at my reflection. An elegant figure that would not look out of place sipping cocktails by the bar at the Savoy gazed back. Outwardly, I appeared every inch the aristocratic Malfoy, unruffled by the swells of life. And inwardly – well, perception could easily be turned into reality.

Perhaps it was due to the excitement at finally having regular habitants again, but Kreacher had been outdoing himself with the cooking, stretching his gastronomical oeuvre, even if we were simply sitting in the kitchen. Two plates of duck confit gave off mouth-watering aromas, and roasted potatoes and steamed peppers took place at the center of the table.

Potter came down as I was seating myself. And froze. His eyes fixed on me with a gleam that had nothing to do with the gaslight.

“You look good,” he said at long last. “Should I have dressed nicer?” He had changed out of his training clothes into a long-sleeve tee and jeans that made me sneak a look at his arse.

“No, it’s fine. This was just a whim.” And I was reluctant for Potter to change into pants that covered up more of his arse. It really was delectable.

“This smells good,” Potter said, helping himself to a heap of potatoes. “We should thank Kreacher for cooking.”

I poured out the bottle of Riesling that was on the table for Potter and me. “Thanks for staying with me in this big old house. I don’t think I would like to stay here by myself, as interesting as it is.” Instead of returning to his flat in Camden, Potter had chosen to move into Grimmauld Place temporarily.

“It is a bit creepy, isn’t it? We tried to clean it up over the years when it was the HQ for the Order, but I don’t think the house really wanted us to.”

“Is that why you moved to the Weasley’s house?”

“The Burrow? No, it was because after Dumbledore died, some of the house’s protections were compromised, and –” Potter stopped upon seeing my expression. The old familiar emotions of shame and fear rushed through me. “Sorry, I don’t mean to bring up the past.”

“No, it’s fine.” I smiled gamely at him. “I don’t think we can avoid it, us being who we are. I mean … we’ve known each other for how long now? Almost two decades.”

“And in that time, I think we spent most of it hating each other and fighting each other.”

I sniffed. “You were obsessed with me. Admit it. Our sixth year … you were constantly following me around. Like some sort of deranged fan.”

“I was trying to prevent you from doing something nefarious!” Potter broke off again. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re right.” I had to face my past somehow. It was inescapable. “I was up to no good.”

“And what about you making those ridiculous songs about me and that badge?” Potter attempted to move on from the touchier subjects. “Admit it, you were just as obsessed with me.”

“Those were some of my best work, you know. The song, not the badge. The badge, admittedly, was a bit common.”

“I don’t think you’ll win songwriter of the year anytime soon if that’s the level of your talent.” Potter grinned at me. “You best stick to those boring academic papers of yours.”

I snorted. “Your mind simply cannot comprehend the genius of my intellect.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Of course. That’s what the reason is.”

“Granger enjoys them,” I pointed out.

Potter scowled at me. I grinned at him in victory.

“Can I ask you something personal?” Potter swirled his wine. “Why history, if you’re so afraid of the past? And why history of the dark arts? Doesn’t that field especially make it impossible to escape?”

I looked at my own glass. The clear white liquid touched the edge.

“I suppose it’s my way of dealing with it,” I said, after I took a sip. “Learning about the history was my way to understand what I had just been through, help me process the experience in a detached and empirical way. Or so that was my reasoning.”

“Did it?”

“In some ways, it did. I don’t think I realized how much the discourse around the War was in terms of black and white – Light and Dark, good and evil. Oh, I can see that my father and the Death Eaters were carrying out horrific deeds. But that wasn’t born in a vacuum, and neither was the Dark Lord’s rise. And understanding that helped, in a way, to understand how much I was at fault.”

Potter nodded. “I think about it a lot. I still get angry the way Dumbledore had arranged things. The plan he had for me, the secrets he kept. Every step I took had been made for me already, without me even knowing about it. And then I thought about the context. Would I have made the same choices I did if Dumbledore just let me do what I wanted? Would I have been able to save all those lives? Would I have made the right decisions?”

“You would have,” I said softly. “Because if there’s anything I’ve learned about you over the years, it’s that you would done what you felt was right. No matter what anyone said.”

Potter blinked. “I hadn’t expected you to say that. We’re not schoolboy rivals anymore, but you haven’t seemed so keen on me since – well, you know.” He gave a hopeless wave.

“No, I don’t,” I said rather tartly. “I’m a Legilimens, not a mind-reader, Potter. I assume you know the difference.”

“Yes, yes,” Potter said hastily. “Well -- since we kissed.”

“Oh. That.” I looked away. “Sorry. I just don’t think I’m ready, with all that’s going on.” I crooked a small smile at him. “A secret society is after me, you know.”

“I’ll protect you,” Potter replied automatically. He blushed. “I mean, I would regardless.”

“Can I ask you something, too?” I took another drink. “Why did you divorce Ginny Weasley?”

“I wasn’t a good husband,” he said. He finished his wine in one gulp. I moved to pour him more, but he motioned for me to stop. “We rushed into our marriage. It seemed like the world was ending at the time, and it seemed a good idea at the time. But we wanted different things: I was too restless, and Ginny was eager to settle down for the traditional white-picket fence house and kids.”

“Restless?”

“Oh, I don’t mean that I was unfaithful, or that I had a roving eye.” Potter gave a twisted smile. “More that I was used to being on the move, too comfortable with uncertainty and danger to really lead a domestic life. Of course, coming to the realization that I enjoyed the attention of both men and women didn’t really help settle me into domestic bliss either. It was a surprise, I tell you.”

“How did you realize?” I couldn’t help asking. I poured myself another glass and waited for Potter’s story.

“Well, our sex life was also … well, stagnant, so we visited a swinger’s club.”

I nearly spat out my wine. Potter, at a sex club? I think I needed more alcohol to get me through tonight.

“Yes,” Potter said, catching my look. “I pushed Ginny to try. And I think her realization that I was more interested in Adam was the final straw.”

“Ah.” I could not think of any appropriate response. I was still trying to digest the idea that Potter visited a sex club. The image of Potter in a leather harness with a whip in his hand … my mouth went dry.

“Yeah … this was around the time of the Aurors’ annual review. It didn’t go down well.”

“I would think the Aurors would do anything to keep their golden boy,” I said. Potter’s story touched me. I sympathized with his feeling of restlessness and being trapped. How could I not?

“Not when you explode the Head Auror’s desk.”

“Ah.” That made more sense. I was surprised it didn’t make front page news, though likely both sides wanted to avoid a scandal. “I’m sorry you had to experience that. It couldn’t have been easy. That’s why you chose to strike out on your own, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” His eyes met mine. “I’m really glad that you came to my office that day. This has been quite an adventure so far.”

“You don’t mind being chased all over the country and randomly attacked by bibliophiles?” I could not tear my gaze away from him. The intensity locked me in place. All I could see was Potter’s face – his eyes, his nose, the crinkle of his mouth…. 

“I got to know you better. It’s a good tradeoff.” There was a gruff undertone as he said that. Then the moment was over.

The rest of the dinner moved onto lighter subjects – we argued over who should have won the Quidditch World Cup two years ago, and I sought Potter’s view on Goyle and Millicent’s relationship. We ended with Potter, ever the gallant, walking me to my room.

“Well, that’s me.” I gestured. “Unless you want a nightcap?”

Potter shook his head. “I’m alright. I’ll let you rest.” Then, quick as a flash, he kissed me on the cheek.

“Goodnight,” Potter said with a wink as he left. I gawked at him, my mouth opened slightly.

That cheeky bastard, I thought. Getting the last word in like that.

I woke up earlier than usual the next day, feeling a pleasant sort of laziness. I moved leisurely; there were no impending deadlines, no urgent need for me to be in a rush.

I hoped breakfast would be ready for me in the kitchen. Then I laughed at myself. How easy it was to revert to old patterns; I had lost my expectation to be waited upon when I moved to London. I supposed this was one of the dangers of living with a house-elf.

My hope was not in vain. The scents of toast and eggs and coffee drifted out of the kitchen. I grinned. That smell always put me a good mood. Strange, too, since I was not a morning creature by nature, and only rose early by the necessities of responsibility. Perhaps instead of thinking of the restrictions on my movement, I should try and imagine this as a vacation of sorts.

I walked into the kitchen – and stilled.

Potter sat at the head of the table, holding a newspaper out in front of him, with a piece of toast in stuffed his mouth. But that was not why I stared.

He was shirtless, his bare chest bronzed even in the washed-out lamplight. Broad in the shoulders and well-defined, with a light dusting of dark hair, it tapered down in a lean physique that remained powerful despite the overall slender build. I stood, transfixed, my eyes traveling down to Potter’s ridged stomach, taut with muscles. My fingers flexed, and I longed to glide along its surface.

Then he saw me. His mouth opened in surprise. The toast fell out and he uttered a curse as he bent to pick it up from the floor. I caught a look at his back, as muscled as the rest of his body, the curves mesmerizing. My throat dried.

“Malfoy! What are you doing up so early? You’re usually still in bed at this time.” He replaced the newspaper on the table. His hair was still wet from his shower, and there was a faint outline in his grey joggers that could only be –

I poured a cup of coffee, the liquid almost splashing out and burning myself in my haste. “Is it usually your habit to wander around the house half-naked?” I didn’t look at him, focusing on making my way to the table.

“It is my house,” Potter replied mildly. Whatever shock or embarrassment that he had must have faded, and he leaned back against his chair, looking at me with a cocky expression. “Besides, you’re usually sleeping about now. Why are you up?”  

“Tired of having cold breakfast,” I said, fixing my eyes on a spot above his head. “Besides, I was awake and didn’t want to wallow in bed. Now would you please go put a shirt on?”

“Why?” Through the corner of my eyes, I saw a smile threatening to break out at the corner of Potter’s mouth. “Getting you a little bothered?”

“What? No! Just – it’s distracting!”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.” Now Potter definitely smirked. “Look, can we cut the bullshit?”

I looked up, startled at how direct he was. “What are you on about?”

“You, me. We’re obviously attracted to each other, but you’re acting like it’s nothing. That it doesn’t exist. We can’t go on like this, not if we’re going to be living together.”

“This is a big house,” I pointed out.

“Malfoy.” Now there was an edge of frustration in Potter’s tone. “I’m not asking you to marry me. I just want to talk about it. You think I’m fit, I think you’re attractive – let’s be adults about this.”

“You’re just stating the obvious now,” I said. I knew I was being deliberately difficult, but I knew no other way to face this conversation.

“Malfoy!” Potter slammed the table. It was only by the barest grasp of my self-control that I didn’t jump.

I sighed. Potter had been open with me – it was the least I could do to be serious. I looked at him. “Look, Potter, we’re not a good match for each other. You have your responsibilities, I have mine. We’re after different things too. I don’t think I’m ready for any kind of commitment. I already have enough as it is.”

“We don’t need to commit to each other,” Potter said. He wetted his lips. “I had fun kissing you.”

“I did too,” I admitted reluctantly. “What are you saying?”

Potter came to sit next to me. His naked torso beckoned me. He leered at me. “I think you know exactly what I’m saying.” He took my hand and placed it on his chest. I twitched. Goddamn Potter. “Sex. No strings, no commitments.”

I choked on my coffee. “You do surprise me, Potter. First a swinger’s club and now this? Didn’t take you to be such a hedonist.”

“Free spirit, Malfoy.” He increased the pressure, keeping my hand in place on his chest. “It’s called being a free spirit. And you know you want this.”

I did. And keeping my distance to Potter obviously was an ineffective tactic. Potter was right: we couldn’t go on denying our attraction to each other. And his other point, that we weren’t making any commitment to each other, both stung and appealed to me. Sleeping with Potter did not preclude my new resolution to be a better Malfoy heir. And I so sorely wanted to.

But it still smarted that Potter wanted nothing more than sex from me. It was only my wounded pride, I told myself. I sure as hell did not want to date him.

All these thoughts hurt my head. So I pulled him down into a kiss.

It was electric. My toes curled at its heatedness as Potter deepened the contact, coming down to sit on my thighs, almost resting on my lap.

Potter curled one hand on the nape of my neck, the other gripping my thigh. I groaned against his mouth. I was hard, every part of me that came into contact with him on fire.

My hand came around the small of his back, pulling him in deeper. Potter came to straddle my hips, his weight hot and heavy. I didn’t mind how small the chair was; I relished our closeness.

It was intoxicating, the sensations and Potter’s small rocks going straight to my groin and overheating my brain. My hands explored his body, feeling the muscle, the iron strength beneath the skin. My fingers clawed at his back as he pushed against me, his mouth hot and insistent.

There was a wobble in the chair. Potter drew back. I shot him a look of annoyance, my lips chewed and chapped.

“Let’s move this somewhere else before we break the chair?” He offered me his hand.

We moved into the living room, this time me being the one to push Potter down on the couch. I sat on top of Potter, feeling the firm press of his cock against my arse.

“Fuck, that feels good,” Potter breathed out as I rocked back and forth. My hands were a startling white on his chest. “You have a great arse.”

I smirked at him. “Yoga and pilates, Potter. Glad it’s paying off.” I gave him a quick peck on the cheek. His arms shot out and held me in place, taking control of the pace, his erection engorged and solid at my back, his breath hot on my neck.

I nipped at his earlobe, moved down to his chest, my breath ghosting over his nipples. I missed this. I missed sex, especially with a body substantial enough that I could grab onto, that I could feel the raw power humming just below the surface. I was tired of my hand being my only companion.

Potter groaned, a heady sound that sent all the blood in my body rushing to my groin. I redoubled my efforts. We moved in tandem, matching each other’s rhythm as short, sharp breaths and gasps sounded in the room.

There was a small chime at the fireplace, and a delicate cough.

“I … can come back later?”

Granger’s unwelcome voice was a splash of cold water. I nearly toppled off Potter as he rose from the couch.

“Hermione! What the hell are you doing here?”

“There’s urgent business I need to discuss with you,” she said. She looked at us with amusement, clearly recovered from her shock already. “I didn’t know you two were busy. I can always come back later,” she offered.

I could hear the grin she so assiduously hid on her face. “Can you look away? It’s disconcerting.”

She held up her hands. “Sorry. I’ll come back.”

“No, no. It’s fine.” Potter got up. I sat back, fastidiously rearranging my clothes to be more presentation. It was a silly exercise; Granger had caught us en flagrante, and there was no going back.

Bet she caught an eyeful, I thought, shooting a quick glance at Potter. I could still see the swell in joggers where he was still semi-erect, and it was my turn to hide a smile.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying your stay,” Granger said as Potter disappeared upstairs. “I was worried that the prolonged isolation was taking its toll on you.”

“I’ve shut myself in for longer periods of time,” I said, a little taken aback and annoyed at Granger’s usual insight. Then: “It is a bit tiring being the house all day,” I admitted. “I found a bunch of artifacts in the house that I would like to take a closer look at, but I need cross-referencing materials, and this house lacks a proper library.”

Granger laughed. “Who would have thought Draco Malfoy would be a dedicated bibliophile? If you need anything, you can just let us know. How are you with the progress on breaking the protections on the book-key?”

“I made some progress. I think the spell on it is an Inesco Loop, and I’m not exactly certain how to break that.”

“An Inesco Loop, huh? A spell that traps an intruder within the loop of a certain memory. I’ll go look in the records for a way to counter it.”

“It’s extremely rare and difficult to perform,” I said. “And it’s not exactly Dark Magic, though I’m always of the philosophy that magic is magic, and the intent determines whether it should be considered Dark magic or not.”

“Please, no more philosophizing. It’s much too early for this,” Potter groaned, coming down the stairs. He was surprisingly light-footed; once or twice, he had snuck up on me while I was in the library reading or the kitchen eating. He sat next to me. The couch sagged in protest at the sudden weight. “What are we talking about?”

“How to break the protection on the book-key,” I said. “It seems like an Inesco Loop – a memory loop – that’s meant to trap anyone who wants to use it. And it seems to only react to someone with Slytherin ties, so that’s also a protection. Frankly, I’m at a lost for what to do.”

“You’ve an advanced magical degree and Hermione is the cleverest witch in our generation. With your collective brainpower, I’m certain you two will find a solution in no time.”

“That’s not why I came today, actually,” Granger said. “We’ve been keeping track of Ted Cross’ movements and we think we found one of his hideouts.”

“Great.” Potter stood up. “Let’s go.”

“Actually … I was wondering if Draco wants to come. You’re always welcome too, Harry, but I thought you needed to be at the office today.”

Potter shook his head. “No. It’s too dangerous for Malfoy to come. I assume it’s going to be a raid and that you haven’t secured the location?”

Granger hesitated. “We haven’t. But I think there will be magical artifacts in the hideout that could benefit from Draco’s expertise. Our scouts reported that the area’s been giving off strong magical auras – dark magic auras.”

“Then that’s even more reason for Malfoy to stay away,” Potter said. “Why do you want him anyways? He isn’t an Auror or a Hit Wizard.”

“He’s an expert in Dark Magic,” Granger said. “It’ll be an asset to the team.”

“Don’t we have specialists? I’m assuming you want to examine the objects. We can remove them and have Malfoy view them after the raid’s completed.”

Granger shook her head. “There isn’t anyone on the team with his credentials. And we can’t risk moving the artifacts. We don’t know what kind of spells and traps there are at the place. We might only get one look at them before the whole place explodes.”

“All the more reason not to involve Malfoy,” Potter pointed out. “Besides, his expertise is the history of Dark Arts, not actual Dark Arts.”

“I’m right here,” I said, cutting off Granger’s response. I was touched – and more than a little irritated – at Potter’s protectiveness. The irritation won out. “And I think you forget who I am. I’m not just some squishy academic; I’ve practical experience in the Dark Arts too.” Both Potter and Granger flushed at that.

“You were never a Dark wizard,” Potter said, almost gently. “Everything you did – yes, you hurt people, and it was foolish and misguided, but you aren’t a Dark Wizard.”

“I’m not here to mope and debate with you about my past, Potter.” I tried to keep my calm. Everything in me wanted to run from this conversation. But I was undeniably excited at the prospect of seeing the Circle’s hoard and what kind of ill-gotten goods they had been hiding. Not to mention the desire to hex the cool, calculating expression off Cross’ face the next time I ran into him. “Like Granger said, there’s no one with my level of academic credentials and practical experience. Well, no one that she trusts,” I amended. “I’m sure there are ones out there that she could find given enough time.”

She laughed at that. “Was that your attempt at being humble? It was horrible.”

“You want my help because I’m good,” I said. “Not for some meek wallflower.”

“You got me there.”

“You’re not going,” Potter said with a snap of finality in his tone. “It’s far too dangerous. You’re not trained for this type of situation that Hermione and I are. You hired me to keep you safe, remember?”

“So come with me,” I said. “You watch my back, I’ll watch yours. But you know Granger’s right. This might be the only chance we get to see what Cross is up to.”

“What if you run into Cross?” Potter said. His face was still stony, though I was equally determined to go, Potter’s approval or lack of be damned.

“Then I’ll hex him. I won’t run off with him, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried about that!” Potter all but exploded. He twisted the fabric of the couch in frustration. “I’m worried about your safety.”

“We have an elite team of Aurors and Hit Wizards,” Granger cut in smoothly. “We’re not going to let Draco on the front lines. He’ll be safe and secure behind us. And if Cross is there,” Granger’s face set in determination like Boudica of old, “he’ll have to get through me before he can touch Draco.”

Potter shook his head. “I still think it’s a bad idea. You’ll still be exposed.”

“Potter.” My voice was patient, like a parent reasoning with a particularly stubborn child. “I can’t hide in your house forever. I need to find the Grimoire. In addition to doing a field examination of the hideout like Granger said, I can use this as an opportunity to look for clues. Sitting in your house with its poor excuse of a library is getting us nowhere. Sorry,” I added quickly to the chandelier swinging ominously above me.

Potter broke in a reluctant smile. “Did you just apologize to my house?”

“You laugh,” I said darkly. “But I can tell you stories of houses where stairwells cracked and walls shattered, all because the owners slammed the door too hard. These old houses – better not to offend them.”

“Oh! I remember that incident you’re referring to,” Granger said. “It was in Norfolk, right? I didn’t know it was because the house itself got offended.”

“Well, the house itself wasn’t offended, but –”

“Okay, fine, you can come with us,” Potter interrupted loudly. “As long as you don’t try to teach us any more history and listen to everything I or Hermione tells you. Got that?”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, sir.” I gave him a mock salute.

Potter’s reluctant smile grew a centimeter bigger. “I guess this will be a test of how well I taught you how to duel.”

We crouched in the mud, waiting for Granger to give the signal. She was up ahead with the advance team, her eyes sharp, her attention focused and diligent.

Potter waited besides me, his face taut. Despite our assurances that I would be safe, he had insisted on being with me every step of the mission.

We were outside a nondescript farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Or rather, the outskirts of London. A haze of magical protection surrounded the structure that made me wince even standing near it. I could not imagine what Granger and her team were experiencing.

If they were under any sort of strain, they showed no signs of it. Grim-set and serious, these were professionals used to dealing with hardened criminals and the darkest of wizards. Some of them looked askance when Granger introduced me but were too well-trained to question her.

I could tell Potter itched to be up there, in the thick of the action. Even I felt its pull – behind the lines, we still felt the same tension, but experienced none of the same excitement. Though I had blustered earlier, I had to admit I was more nervous than I let on.

I gripped my wand, aware of how exposed we were. Though all of us had threw up Disillusionment charm, and hid behind the white fence, it was still easy to spot us if one knew what they were looking for. Not to mention if there were any detection spells that Granger’s team had failed to disable.

“You alright?” Potter whispered. Unlike me, his wand was clenched in anticipation, not anxiety; his eyes lit up, his cheeks flushed, similar to his appearance when we kissed.

“You’re glad to be back, aren’t you?” I asked. “In the middle of the action, the adrenaline pumping, all of it.”

“Can’t say I enjoy sitting behind a desk.” Potter’s eyes were fixed ahead. “Though if it were up to me, I would go in already. We’re too exposed here; we’ll lose the element of surprise.”

A fierce wind picked up. The sky, already grey with clouds, threatened to rain. Granger signaled to us – they’d finished scanning the entryway for traps. It was time to move.

Like clockwork, her team sprang into action, each taking up their positions – two besides the entrance, one behind Granger as she kicked in the door with a resounding crash. She made a gesture. They swarmed in, wands at the ready, looking for any signs of trouble.

Potter motioned for me to stand. We followed with more measured footsteps as we entered the house.

Even the interior was plain: bare walls, no furniture, empty all around. From the outside, the building had looked at least partially inhabited. Now, I could tell that was an illusion designed to protect the house.

“There’s nothing here.” I was disappointed. I had hoped for at least something – a few cursed lamps, at least. “The magical signature must have been from dark rituals or something.”

Potter laughed at my expression. “Don’t look too disappointed. At least nothing’s exploding in our faces.”

“Sir!” There was a shout from underneath the floorboards. “You need to come down here!”

I looked at Potter. “Well, after you.”

We went down to the basement. So this is where all the action is, I thought. Before me was a dazzling array of magical artifacts, the power their auras gave off visible even to the naked eye. I recognized some of the objects as the ones being missing from sets supposedly already completed, and others stolen from magical museums all over Europe.

There must be centuries worth of artifacts in here, not to mention thousands of galleons in value. Some of these objects, too, exuded dark power; I would not approach them absent any form of protection.

“Don’t touch any of them,” I warned. One of the team who had found the basement strayed a little too closely to an odd, spindly-looking device with spikes poking out too close for my comfort. “You don’t want to walk out of here with boils and an extra arm, do you?”

The man abruptly took a step back.

“It probably won’t do that,” I said hastily to their looks of alarm. “Dark spells like that don’t interact well with others, and there are so many of these objects here. Most likely, their protection is passive, and they won’t react unless the right person touches them or activate them the right way.”

There was a collective slackening of tension as the group relaxed. It was dark in the basement even with the wandlight. I could barely make out any finer details past the initial outlines of the objects.

I stepped closer. Potter shifted next to me.

“I have to take a closer look,” I told him. “Otherwise, I’m not of much use here. I can tell what some of these objects are – namely, the stolen ones that were reported – but the rest are of unknown provenance, and I’m curious to see what they are. I’ll be careful, I promise.”

I raised my wand, strengthening the charm to provide stronger lighting. I was looking at a broadsword, a claymore to be precise, a two-handed sword favored by the Scots. The hilt was silver, with an onyx set in the pommel, and tiny script inlaid in filigree at the guard. I could not decipher what it said; it was too small and the room too dark. Maybe it was some form of Goblin, though it was none that I recognized. But even lacking that information, I knew that the sword had power.

“What is it?” Potter crouched next to me. “Nice sword.”

“It’s a claymore,” I explained to him, “a two-handed Scottish sword. It’s likely to be goblin made, judging by its craftsmanship, though I would need to test its composition to be certain. Or have a goblin identify it.”

“Don’t,” Potter warned. “They’re violently possessive over every object they’ve ever made.”

“I know. This sword has power – you can feel it, can’t you? Sometime in its past life, it came into battle with something powerful and came better off. You can tell because goblin-made objects absorbs the quality of whatever doesn’t destroy it and –”

“—makes it stronger,” Potter finished.

 “Really, Potter, stop trying to show me up. But yes, you’re right. But the strange thing about this sword is that only the hilt appears to be goblin-silver; the rest is some other kind of metal. Look –”

“Malfoy, don’t touch it!” Potter slid in swiftly to shield me as my finger touched the blade –

A flash filled the basement. Spending so much time in the darkness made it all the more blinding. My eyes watered even as I fell back. My foot caught on a piece of the flagstone, and I almost tripped. Potter’s blurry form blocked out part of the light as a loud keening cry sounded, followed by a quieter grunt of pain that I knew came from Potter.

Then, as suddenly as it came, the light disappeared. I blinked several times, trying to clear my sight, before I saw Potter’s prone figure lying in front of me.

I moved without thinking, my wand out, hovering over his chest as I pumped healing spell after healing spell. He twitched, once, twice, before subsiding into stillness.

A cold panic twisted my insides. He couldn’t die on me – he couldn’t.

I forced myself to breathe. I needed to concentrate. I had no idea what that spell was, but judging by Potter’s convulsions, it didn’t do his body any good. But the fact that he was responding to it meant that it had not killed him right away.

Then I knew what I needed to do. I slid my wand over the center of my palm; a deep cut appeared. I suppressed a wince at the pain. Already, blood welled up and flowed, uninhibited.

I only had a few seconds to act. I tapped my wand thrice to my palm, making sure the tip dipped in blood. Then I flicked, in a wide arc up.

Red droplets hung midair, frozen, as I spoke a word.

Once more, the basement filled with light. Unlike before, it was of a softer cast, and yet no less weak for it. It touched every corner of the room; it was eerier, somehow, than the one created by the curse.

I touched my wand to Potter’s chest. A rush of vertigo hit me. I fought the black spots in my vision as the spell’s effect took.

A small gasp of air escaped from Potter’s mouth, then a louder cough. He jerked up with great hacking chokes. He looked at me through wide, unseeing eyes as he fought to breath.

“Potter! Potter! Harry! Don’t you dare die on me, you bastard.”  I kept my wand level to his chest, struggling to maintain the spell. My eyes drooped.

Then, after what seemed like an eternity, Potter’s eyes focused. “First ... time ... you used my name.”

“Don’t talk,” I said. “Save your breath. Conserve your energy.”

“I’m ... fine....”

“What happened? Harry!” Granger’s voice demanded. She pushed through a ring of onlookers that I just now noticed. “Why aren’t any of you lot helping?”

“We don’t know what’s going on,” one voice said in a broad Yorkshire accent. “One moment we were just standing here, and Malfoy was just showing Commander Potter this sword and going on, and then bang! Sudden light and then here we are.”

“It was my fault,” I whispered, my throat hoarse from the effort of keeping the spell together. “I was showing Harry something and then I accidentally touched it. He just – jumped in front of me.”

“Don’t blame yourself too much, mate,” the man from Yorkshire said. “You did some of the quickest spellwork I’d ever seen, mate. You should’ve seen him, ma’am – it was impressive, the way he just cast spell after spell like bam! And then he did this weird thing with his palm and blood and there was a light and –”

“Alright, thank you, Sergeant,” Granger interrupted. “I get the picture.” Her voice was tempered with amusement, however. Two people in the periwinkle blue of the field Healers hovered over Harry. One took his vitals while the other was casting spells to stabilize his condition.

“You can let go of the spell now,” she said. “We have him.”

I dropped it. Exhaustion flooded me and it was only through the timely intervention of Granger and her sergeant that I did not collapse to the floor.

“What you did here was impressive,” the Healer said. “I’ve never seen someone hold an Animus Inpertio for so long. Most people would have collapsed by now.”

“You used the Life-Sharing spell?” Granger searched my face, her eyes wide in impressed surprise. “You could have killed yourself if you used it too long.”

“I can’t just let him die in front of me.” My voice was a dry rasp. I coughed. “Do you have some water?”

Her sergeant handed me a flask. “What’s Anima Imp – Life-Sharing Spell? I’ve never heard of it.”

“It allows the caster to share his life force to someone else,” Granger answered. “You use blood as a catalyst and it saves and restores the target from an otherwise fatal condition, but at the expense of the caster’s health.” She frowned at me. “It’s a Class A Regulated Spell. You shouldn’t be using it.”

“Is the Deputy Head of Magical Law Enforcement going to arrest me?” I gave her an exhausted grin. “I think I should feel rather honored.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Draco. You know as well as that you used it in one of the extenuating circumstances allowing the spell.” She paused, looking at Harry, who was now being strapped into a gurney by the field Healers. He saw us looking at him, gave us a weak thumbs up. “And you just saved Harry.”

“It was my fault,” I said, not daring to shut my eyes. If I did, I would replay the exact moment – the flash of light, Harry jumping in front of me to take the curse –

“He’s not going to suffer any permanent damage, is he?”

Granger pursed her lips. “It’s hard to tell, but from the looks of it, no.” She clapped me on the shoulder, suddenly brisk. “Come on. If you’re feeling up to it, you have work to do. Take a look at those artifacts and see what you make of them. I’ll have the Curse-Breakers come after we secure the location to remove these objects safely. Can you determine if there are no further … surprises?”

She was offering me a way to distract myself from my near-fatal mistake, I realized. A feeling of gratitude towards her warmed my chest. I picked myself up gingerly.

“Of course,” I said. I raised my wand and casted a Shield around myself. “I should be good to do that.”

Harry was not a good patient.

For one, he was far too impatient, and refused to listen to any instruction from the Healers. After a day at St. Mungo’s, he insisted on checking himself out.

“He just bulldozed over the Healer who wanted him to stay longer for examination,” Granger had told me when she and the Weasley brought him back to Grimmauld Place. “I think it’s best he stays here instead of at his flat. You and Kreacher can look after him if you don’t mind. Do you?”

I shook my head. “I can do that.”

Harry was left weak and bedridden by the curse, but he was slated to make a full recovery in a couple of days, I was told. In the meanwhile, he was irascible, testing even Granger’s patience.

“Ron, you go deal with him,” she said, after he had tossed a pillow at her for lecturing him on taking his potions. “I can’t handle him right now.”

He looked at her doubtfully. “You’re the more patient one. If you can’t handle him, how do you think I’ll be able to?”

“Well, I’m not going back up there,” she said huffily. “It’s your turn to have a pillow thrown at you.”

He laughed. “No, thank you. I have a thick head, but I don’t think having a pillow thrown at me is high on a list of things I fancy.”

They both looked at me.

“What? What makes you think I’m any more suited to dealing with poorly behaved patients than either of you?”

“He likes you,” the Weasley pointed out.

“Really likes you,” Granger said with a wink. “Show up in a sexy nurse outfit and I bet you’ll improve his mood.”

I glowered at her. That incident had brought her no small amount of amusement. The Weasley was surprisingly supportive of it. He had merely given me a beady look and grunted, “Hurt him and I’ll hex your balls off.”

I looked at him now. He gave me a small shrug. “Better you than me. I don’t think Harry will appreciate me in a sexy nurse uniform half as much as he’ll appreciate you.”

I exhaled. “Fine.” I had not been alone with him since he was injured. The guilt gnawed at me, though both Granger and the Healers assured me that my quick actions saved his life and prevented any permanent injuries.

I knocked on his door with not a little amount of trepidation.

“Go away,” came Harry’s muffled voice.

“It’s me, Malfoy,” I said. “Just came to check up on you. I brought some tea.” I hesitated and pushed opened the door.

Harry sat propped up by pillows, dressed in his pajamas. He was pale and his face was thinner than before, but he looked well otherwise.

I set the tray down. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been ran over with a car.” He looked at what I brought on the tray. “Did you bring any clotted cream with those scones? I’m starving.”

In addition to his poor mood, Harry’s appetite also increased, to the point where he was eating twice as much per meal every day.

“Slow down, man,” I laughed, as he dug in. “Don’t want you to choke.”

“I’m hungry,” he said through muffled mouth. “And I’ve been drinking those vile potions for the past two days, I need something that tastes good.”

Looking at him lying in his bed, even though he appeared to be in good spirits, made me feel even worse.

“Sorry,” I said. “Getting you injured.” The memory of that moment came again, the unexpectedness way the flash had erupted, while I was frozen in shock and confusion as he shoved me out of the way. “Sorry, Potter.”

“Harry. You’re calling me Harry now, remember?”

“Oh. If you insist.”

“I do insist. I can’t think of anything odder than someone who saved my name sounding so distant.”

“It just sounds so … intimate.”

He cocked a smirk at me. “More intimate than having my tongue in your mouth?”

I blushed. “Don’t be vulgar, Pott -- Harry.”

He leered at me. “But I can’t help it, Draco. It’s part of my chart. And admit it – you like it.”

“I see being stuck on bedrest has not diminished your ego.” I sat down next to him on the bed. “I am sorry, though. I should’ve paid more attention and been aware of my surroundings. I’m not a fieldwork kind of person—”

“I don’t blame you,” Harry said, cutting off my rambling. “It was a mistake. You made it, you hopefully learned from it, and I think you rectified it pretty well. I heard you showed impressive reflexes and spell-casting. Where did you learn that spell you did? The Animwhatsit thingy?”

“Animus Inpertio,” I corrected automatically.

“It’s not a spell they teach you in grad school, is it?” He looked at me with his mouth still chewing. “I can’t imagine somehow that schools teach that in between seminars and symposiums.”

“It’s not,” I laughed. “I can’t imagine my doddering professors ever managing more than a spell to warm a cup of tea. They’re no Dumbledore, even if they are brilliant in their own way. No, I learned it on my own. Came across mentions of it in some of my readings about blood magic and decided to learn the theory of it. I never really thought I would have to use it.”

“Well, I’m glad you did. Though Hermione did tell me it’s a dangerous spell … I’m glad you didn’t suffer any ill effects.” He looked at me seriously. “I hate to see you hurt.”

“I hate to see you get hurt, too.” Attraction tugged at us as our eyes met. The air grew heated; I became hyperaware of my body, the little itch at the seam of my shirtsleeve, how my chest rose and fell with every breath.

Harry shifted closer to me. “Sit a little closer,” he said, his voice switching to a huskier tone.

I obeyed, moving onto the bed as Harry put his arm around me. He was blazing hot, his natural body warmth amplified by the blankets surrounding him. I felt it through the fabric of his pajamas.

“You smell nice,” he said, nuzzling my neck. His stubble tickled my skin. This was deeply intimate for two people who were supposed to be in a casual sexual relationship. Bu it was a pleasant sensation, being held by Harry, and I swallowed my objection.

“I think I’m going to bring in my products from my flat,” I said. “Your shampoo is horrendous. Three-in-one? Seriously?”

“It works!” he protested. “My hair’s not falling out, isn’t it?”

“If you can call that nest hair. Ouch! Did you just poke me?”

“Serves you right for badmouthing my hair.”

We engaged in a brief tussle, poking and tickling each other until we were both left breathless.

I looked at Harry, my face burning with exertion and arousal. Just having my hands on him made me hard; I never expected that I would enjoy touching him so much. I never experienced this before, and it surprised me.

He looked back at me with eyes bright and face ruddy, his hands reaching down past my waistband. I groaned at the warm fleshly contact, and Harry grinned.

“Like that?” His voice came out a deep rumble that lit a pool of heat in my belly. He gave a little pull.

“Fuck.” I jerked at the movement, my hips moving in tandem with Harry’s hand. “Stop teasing.”

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” he laughed. He clambered over me; my hands reached up past his shirt, tweaked his nipples. “Can – can you do that again?”

“What, this?” I twisted one of his nipples again.

Harry emitted a guttural sound. “Yes, like that – harder.”

I chuckled. “I didn’t know you were into this, Potter. I kind of enjoy this side of you.”

His hands gave a forceful tug that almost had me coming. “I told you, you can call me Harry now.” He pulled at the waistband of my pants. “Gonna take this off now.”

I shimmied out of them in an inelegant manner, Harry’s hands attempting to unravel from the fabric as I kicked them off.

“Now this,” I gestured at his pajama shirt.

He obliged, removing in a fluid motion far more graceful than mine.

I gazed upon him, solid and real, touching him to reassure myself that this was all real. He caught my hands, flipping me in a quick maneuver onto my back.

“Where’d you learn to do that?”

“Auror training,” he said. “Though this was probably not what they had in mind.”

“You know,” I said, trying to affect a nonchalant musing even as his mouth worked magic, “I always wanted to try those Auror fantasy roleplays. Something about a man in uniform—” I shuddered as his hands squeezed my cock and he bit me lightly on my earlobe.

“I think I still have an old set of Auror robes somewhere,” he murmured. “Maybe I’ll use a restraining spell on you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Having me tie you down?”

A spark of arousal shot into my groin.

Harry noticed. “You’d like that, don’t you? Letting me have my way with you, do whatever I like?” He shifted up, his bulge direct in my face.

I thumbed over it, relishing the little grunts of encouragements. I dug my thumbs into the waist of his pajama bottoms, about to pull them down –

“Harry, we’re going home now. I don’t know where Malfoy went, so tell him he needs to make sure you have your pot – Merlin fucking Christ!”

My hands flew off Harry as the Weasley’s words ended in a surprised shout.

“What’s wrong? What happened? Is Harry alright? Oh --” Granger rushed into the room.

“Anyone else you would like to invite in?” Harry asked, annoyed. “Haven’t you two ever heard of knocking?”

“No wonder he was so quiet,” the Weasley said to Granger, ignoring Harry. “I guess my idea to send Malfoy up here was a good one.”

Harry moved off of me as I stood from the bed.

The Weasley gave a delicate cough. “Erm … Malfoy, can you put on your pants? I can see – well, sometimes things are better left to the imagination.”

I had forgotten my pants were off. Thankfully, I still had my briefs, though unlike what the Weasley said, not much was left to the imagination, with my erection straining against its material. I quickly slid back under the covers.

“We just came up to tell you we were leaving,” Granger said. She sounded even more amused than the last time she walked in on us. “We didn’t know where Draco was, so we came to find you. If we knew both of you were busy ….”

“Next time, I’m setting Warning Charms on everything,” I huffed.

“Well, we’ll leave you to your … activities,” the Weasley said, eager to get out of the room.

“Wait, I came up here to tell Malfoy something too,” Granger said. She eyed me and Harry. My shirt was unevenly buttoned and he was still shirtless. “Although I guess I can always come back later.”

“No, no. Just tell me now.”

“Well, just that I was thinking about how well you handled yourself out in the field,” she said.

I gestured at Harry. “You call this well-handled?”

“I bet Harry feels ‘well-handled’ right now.” The Weasley winked at me. I resisted the urge to toss a pillow at him.

“This incident aside,” Granger sent her husband a quelling look, “you displayed remarkable instinct and reflexes, not to mention your in-the-field analysis proved remarkably accurate, and better than the specialists we usually bring in.”

“I think I know where this is going.” I draped the covers over me to present a hopefully more composed appearance. “You’re going to ask me to work for you, aren’t you?”

“Only on a part time, consulting basis,” she said. “I understand you have many other commitments on your time, but we could use your talent.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of the offer. On one hand, it certainly would be a boost to my career, with greater opportunities and access to better resources. But after the near-fatal accident with Harry ….

“You don’t have to decide right now,” she interjected. “It was just an idea I had. I still need to go back to the office to flesh it out.”

I looked at Harry. “What do you think?”

“I was thinking of offering Harry the same, too,” Granger said. “The Head’s been on me for some time now to bring him back to the Ministry. Not necessarily back to the Auror Force, but we hate to lose a talent.”

Harry looked torn. “I’ll think about it,” he said finally. “I’m not fond of Ministry politics, and I don’t want to be some figurehead for whatever Department that needs me to make a play for a bigger budget. But if it’s some substantial work….”

“Just an idea,” Granger said. She looked at the Weasley. “Well, we best get home. I think these two have lots to talk about.” The Weasley gave us a parting wink as they left the room.

We were silent for a moment. After that interruption and the bomb of an offer Granger dropped, neither of us were particularly in the mood to do anything, though my cock twitched occasionally as I settled back against the swell of Harry’s chest.

“What do you think of Granger’s offer,” I asked him after a while. His arm was warm against my chest.

“I haven’t made up my mind yet,” he said. “And what of yours?”

“I haven’t, either. It’ll be an interesting job, that’s for certain, but I’m not sure if I can handle it.”

“They’ll put you through a training course, most likely. I think the reason why they didn’t do it during this raid was because of the need for secrecy. But ordinarily, anyone who has a remote chance of being out on the field needs go to through it.”

“I don’t like this idea,” I said doubtfully. “All muddy and sweaty. I don’t like sweat.”

Harry reached over and pinned me to the bed. “I’m kind of sweaty right now,” he whispered, “but you don’t seem to mind that much.”

My cock stirred a little. I revised my earlier opinion. Maybe I could be persuaded to be in the mood.

“No,” I said, pulling him down for a kiss. “I don’t mind that much.”

Chapter Text

I puzzled over the book-key, narrowing avoiding dropping yogurt on the cover. Then again, maybe it would help solve the mystery if I did.

True to her word, Granger had brought over piles of books from the Ministry on anything relating to memory magic. They filled one of the rooms on the second floor that I turned into a second study.

Unfortunately, Harry had learned his lesson since last time; he refused to help me with any more research. “I have faith in you, Draco,” he said, before beating an inelegant escape to his office.

Our -- whatever involvement we found ourself in – had progressed rapidly, now that we – or mostly me – had stopped denying our attraction. It certainly passed the time quickly. The wonders he worked with his mouth was reason enough to start an affair with him, if such a tawdry word could describe what we had.

And by deepening our relationship, I could sense that I was slipping quicker into the hole. A hole which I was willing digging.

It was strange, how much had stayed the same since I knew him from our school days. The same obstinacy and determination to do right by others that used to annoy me so much were now qualities that exerted a magnetic pull. Perhaps I just needed maturity to appreciate those traits.

We had all grown up. Harry had grown up, too. No longer as brash as I remembered, though still very much impulsive. Afterall, he leapt in front of me to take the hit from an unknown curse.

The fear that gripped me, the panic that came over which had wiped all thoughts from my mind when I saw him down –it was fresh and even remembering sent me in a terrified rage. They had almost taken my family away; I would never allow them to take Harry, too. Even as I tried to convince myself that what we had was a casual fling, it was becoming much more than that.

It was a stroke of luck that I remember the Life-Sharing spell. It was an even greater fluke that it worked. Blood magic was unpredictable, particularly one that I had never used before.

Blood magic – it was outdated and such a cliché, but its power was undeniable. Even as my strength ebbed away, the connection with Harry that my spell had forged took my breath away with its power.

I looked at the book-key with its unassuming appearance. Only Slytherin’s brood were able to activate it – perhaps it recognized the blood in me.

Almost instinctively, I cut open a small slice on the tip of my finger. I watched as blood welled up. I looked at it dispassionately as I let it drop on the book-key, careful not to touch the cover.

It glowed, filling the room with an unearthly green light. Whisperings came, from nowhere and everywhere at once, in a pianissimo that raised the hairs on my arm.

Then, just as quickly, it faded. The room returned into its gloomy self, the abruptness of it leaving me blind in the dark.

I rubbed my eyes. That had been … something. I wasn’t sure what I was trying for, but I provoked a reaction from the book-key. I knew I was on the right track if the book-key did something. Now I just had to figure out how to use what had happened.

Perhaps any spell cast on the book-key would be stronger with my blood. Since ancient times, blood had been used by wizards as a catalyst, a binding agent, and a source of power in its own right. It was a potent ingredient in potions and spell-casting. Maybe in this case ….

I squeezed the tip, making a face at the pain. Blood coalesced into a droplet. I dipped my wand in it.

“Revelio,” I whispered, tapping the book-key.

Again, that green glow. But this time, it did not fade.

I watched as shadows seemed to spill from the book-key like spilt ink, pooling under it. The book-key itself disappeared. In its stead was a liquid-like substance that seemed to absorb what little light there was in the room.

It didn’t look like any sort of memory I was familiar with. It looked — old. It was not the typical silver color, being dark in shade and more viscous, with the consistency of syrup. I conjured a bottle and drew the liquid that formed from the book-key in. It was warm to the touch.

This was interesting. I had never seen anything like this before; yet, it became apparent as day what I needed to do next.

I needed a Pensieve.

I would have to write to McGonagall for her permission to visit the school.

Hogwarts ... it seemed appropriate that I would find the location of Slytherin’s Grimoire there. It was the center of it all, wasn’t it — that old castle that still played such a large role in all our lives. I wondered if Slytherin ever felt any regret when he abandoned it and the other Founders.

I still had a fondness for the place, tainted as it was by the horrors of the end of the War. All those memories, happy and unhappy, were snarled together.

Nervous anticipation rose at the idea; I had no idea what I would face when I returned – for it did feel like a homecoming in a way.

I shook my head. I needed to concentrate on the task at hand, not be distracted by trivial counterfactuals. I took out my quill.

“Dear Professor McGonagall …”

“It’s always exciting for us professors to have our former students return,” McGonagall said. Except for her hair turning from grey to silver and lines etched deeper on her face, she was unchanged, looking as she did more than a decade ago, when she greeted us on the doorsteps of the Great Hall. “And visiting with Mr. Potter, no less. I understand you want to borrow the Pensieve?”

I nodded. We sat facing her at the enormous claw-foot desk, the portrait of Dumbledore snoring behind McGonagall, though occasionally I thought I caught a wink from him. Next to it, in a place of similar prominence, was Snape. Unlike the other portraits, he was not – or did not pretend to be – asleep, eyeing us with hawk-like eyes as he listened in on our conversation.

It was somehow comforting to know that, even after death, he was still here, watching over us, even with that slight moue of distaste which he regarded Harry.

I took out the bottled memory and set it on the table. McGonagall squinted at it with an academic’s interest.

“It doesn’t look much like a memory,” she said. “I wonder why it took on that dark color.”

“I suspect it has to do with the age of the memory,” I said. “I haven’t dated it, but it came from a very old source, as old as the school, in fact. It …” I hesitated. Do I tell her? McGonagall was as trustworthy as anyone can be, but knowing the truth might put her in danger. Too many people had already been hurt because of this – because of me.

“Don’t break any confidences, Mr. Malfoy,” she said. She tapped a tin can. “Biscuits?”

“What? Oh. No, no thank you.”

“I might be old, but apparently life still has surprises in store for me,” she continued. “You here with Mr. Potter being one. Perhaps the results of your inquiry can be another. I assume you’ll let me know after you’ve ascertained the results?”

She thinks I’m reluctant to share because I was unsure of my conclusions, I realized. Good. Let her think that. It would keep her from prying too much. No need to seek out trouble where none existed.

Besides me, Harry stirred in his chair. Unlike me, he had reached for a biscuit when McGonagall offered. I noticed Snape watching him coldly as Harry chewed noisily, and I almost smiled. Some things never change.

“I’ll include you and the school’s assistance in my acknowledgements,” I said, giving McGonagall one of my winning smiles. “If I find anything of note.” If I survived this. “You can be sure of that.”

“Perhaps you should come and give a guest lecture to some of our advanced students,” McGonagall said thoughtfully. “I kept up with your career in general terms, and it’s impressive. Perhaps some of the OWLs or above Defense students would appreciate your historical insights into the Dark Arts.”

Harry finally finished eating. “Thanks for the biscuit, Professor.”

“You’re always welcome to visit, too, Mr. Potter. How did you suddenly come by your interest in history?”

“Branching out from Auror work,” he said lightly. Like me, he seemed to agree that the fewer knew about our true mission, the safer it was. “Besides, Draco here is paying exorbitantly for the pleasure of my company.”

McGonagall nodded. She likely had heard about Harry’s exit from the Ministry, though probably not the actual reason, but she was much too discrete to pry.

It was always odd for an adult to return to school; it was even stranger, given the storm my last year had been. I forced myself to avoid recollections of the past and focus on my current environment. I had never been in the Headmaster’s Office before, and the details of it were fascinating enough to distract me.

Portraits of Headmasters past lined the way, apart from the two prominent canvases of Dumbledore and Snape hanging behind Professor McGonagall. It reminded me of my father’s study, but on a grander scale, the wood-paneled walls of the circular room punctuated with multiple windows. It was a cloudy grey outside. There were curios and books on the shelves, and a circular table held many other objects that I had never seen before.

In a cabinet off to the side, a silver light pulsed evenly through the crack of the closed door.

McGonagall noticed the direction of my gaze.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s the Pensieve. I’ll leave you two do it, then. I believe I have a meeting with the new Magical Creatures Professor. She’s just as bad as Hagrid. She asked if she could have a class on cockatrices and bring in a small one to the school. Cockatrices!”

“Where would she even manage to get one?” Harry asked. “I doubt the Magical Creatures Sanctuary would even loan a baby one.”

“I didn’t ask and I don’t want to know,” she said darkly. She stood up with a sweep of her robes. “Make sure to lock up once you’re done.”

The Pensieve glowed even brighter as we approached it, like it had sensed our approach, and the impending task we had for it. The bottle was warm, both from the memory inside and from where I clutched it tightly.

I carefully unstopped it, watching it pour into the Pensieve with one fluid motion. It was a strangely hypnotic sight, the Pensieve growing brighter as the dark liquid spread out in a swirl, slowly filling up the surface of the bowl.

It glimmered darkly. Harry looked at me. “Ready?”

I took a deep breath and steeled myself as I touched the surface of the Pensieve. It rippled, and suddenly I was falling, falling –

Then I landed. Harry dropped next to me, ungracefully, on his backside.

“I hate going into memories,” he grumbled. I pulled him up. “Where are we? It looks like –”

“—Hogwarts,” I finished for him. The stone walls were instantly recognizable, the castle’s silhouette towering over us in the afternoon sun. “The stones look newly cut, though.”

In fact, the entire castle appeared recently constructed. I noticed that the some of the battlements were still incomplete, and the high tower was missing its usual height.

We were standing on the banks of the lake, the water smooth and unbroken. The huge trees I was used to were only saplings, barely able to reach my shoulders. Even though I knew it was nonsense, the air itself seemed younger somehow, fresher and less ladened. Of course, a thousand years ago, there were no factories and power plants belching their filth out.

There were two figures standing in front of us, talking. I gestured for Harry to be quiet, straining my ears to hear what they were saying.
“You’re sure you are leaving the school, master?” A man in rough, monkish robes was addressing another in a tone of deference. “I don’t know if we can carry on without you.”

“You must,” the man he was addressing said. “I am charging you to be the next Head of my House after I leave. You will ensure that my House, at least, remains pure.”

The voice … that face. I recognized that familiar visage that had tormented me when I last touched the book-key.

“That’s Slytherin,” I mouthed to Harry. “Salazar Slytherin.”

“What? Really? He looks shorter than I thought he would.”

“Shh.” I was not sure if this was a memory that could interact with the living like the book-key. And in any case, I wanted to hear what they were saying.

It did not seem like they could. The two continued speaking.

“If need be, one day my heir will return to the school and cleanse it of all the blood traitors and Mudbloods,” he said. His eyes glittered intently. “And this heir will inherit all my powers, all the knowledge I have accumulated over the years. He will guide our world to its rightful course.”

“Yes, master.” Slytherin’s acolyte bowed his head. “I will do as you ask and ensure your legacy remains at this school.”

“Good.” Slytherin looked unseeingly at the lake. The setting sun lit the surface on fire, a fierce orange blaze that reflected off the water. “I will also need to task you with another matter, my friend.”

“Yes, my master?”

“I will hide my grimoire in the home of my enemy, under that Muggle-lover’s very nose. You will guard the key to it.” It was a command, not a request, and it was phrased as such. “My grimoire will contain my wisdom and knowledge, a source of guidance to my heir. Of course, do not make it so easy for my heir to find it. Test him, for many will seek my power.” Slytherin’s face was etched with lines of age, as unmovable and cold as stone.

“This place … it was once my home,” he said. I could almost detect a note of wistfulness in his tone. “But I am driven from it for my love of it. Such is the world we live in.”

“It is unjust, master,” his acolyte said, in a low voice trembling with fanaticism and awe. It called to mind the reverence with which my aunt Bella had regarded the Dark Lord with. I wondered at it, the quality that allowed one to so enthrall others so wholly, that they would devote their dying breath to you.
“Yes,” Slytherin said, his voice in a whisper as he turned to look upon the castle, what must be the culmination of his life’s work. “But hopefully, I give to you the seeds with which the injustice can be rectified.”

He said the last few words with such hissed vehemence that the hairs on my arm rose, almost appearing to look straight at us as he uttered them.

The acolyte shifted next to him. “Where will you go now, master? To the moorland where that barbarian calls home?”

“Do not speak so disparaging of Godric, my young apprentice,” Slytherin said, and although his tone was light, I heard the menace. The acolyte silenced. “He was once my friend, and a powerful wizard besides. You will do well to remember that. Especially as you carry forth my plans.”

“I understand.”

“Now,” Slytherin said. “Come. Let us go back to the castle and enjoy my final repast.”

They turned and walked back to the castle, the sight of them dissolving like mist as I felt myself lift ….

Then we were back in the current day.

Harry rubbed his head. “That was illuminating. So he put his Grimoire in Godric’s Hollow? Why?”

“Well, it’s a very old magical site, steeped in lore,” I said, settling into a chair, trying to shake the sense of vertigo. “West Country especially is a region heavily associated with wizards and magic. Glastonbury Tor is there, Stonehenge …. There’s a reason why my family settled there, too. And yours. And a large number of magical families.”

“And the Peverells.”

“Yes,” I said. “Also, it probably appealed to Slytherin’s sense of irony, putting his Grimoire so close to his enemy’s home.”

Harry looked doubtful. “Sounds like a sure way for it to be found.”

“Only if they know about it. But who could think of the audacity of such an action?”

“That makes sense, I suppose,” Harry said. “But how do we find it? Godric’s Hollow and its surroundings isn’t easy to search for a small book.”

“In my visions, I keep on seeing the book in a cave. Is there a cave around there?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m sure we can find out. That’s not the difficult part. The difficult part would be what happens after we find it. Then what?”

“I’m not sure …. But somehow, I don’t think the Circle will let us take it so easily. They’re doubtlessly keeping an eye on us.”

“Let them try,” Harry said fiercely. “I have scores to settle with them.”

I gave a cold smile. “Wait in line. When I see Cross ….” I flexed my fingers. How I would love to wrap them around his neck …. “In any case, we should be ready for a fight when we find it. I’m more than certain unpleasant surprises will be guarding the Grimoire, too.”

“We’ll be ready for them.” Harry put his hand over mine. Casually placed, it was warm and comforting. “Don’t worry. I’ll be with you. We can deal with whatever we find together.”

Despite the overcast sky, the lake was still beautiful to behold. I stared at it, the waters rippling slightly, and thought I saw the shadow of tentacles underneath.

“I haven’t been back here in a while,” Harry said. We sat side by side, our legs touching, on the embankments, not far from where we had watched Slytherin give his last directive before leaving the school.

“It’s beautiful. I miss this place. It’s funny, isn’t it? I’ve traveled all over the world, been to four continents, and yet I still think my old school is the best place in the world.”

“It was the first place that ever felt like home to me,” Harry admitted. “I … didn’t get alone with my guardians, and I dreaded the end of every term, where I had to return to their house. That was never home to me. Of course, later I went to stay with the Weasleys at the Burrow or Grimmauld Place. But even then, Hogwarts was always my first home.”

I watched the fading sun shine its rays on Harry’s face, the light catching in such a way that a halo illuminated his outline. It was going to be evening soon; already, I could see the moon peek out, the air growing chillier as the day finished.

We had politely refused McGonagall’s offer of dinner, as time was of the essence, and we needed to leave for Godric’s Hollow as soon as possible. Despite this, neither me nor Harry could resist the temptation to wander the grounds of Hogwarts one more time, even for only briefly.

I missed being a student here. Even my last year here, when it seemed that hell itself came to earth, this school provided me with a modicum of stability and safety that I craved. I could not bear staying in the Manor when the Dark Lord took residence.

I was out of places to run. I knew, as surely as the sun would set, that my past would be there wherever I looked from. Both the good and the bad, the memories I cherished and the moments I dreaded. They were interwoven, both taking up part of me.

And sometimes, our old certainties about the past are wrong, I thought, looking at Harry. He hummed some nonsensical ditty to himself as he leaned back on his forearms. And we find out about it in unexpected ways.

“What are you thinking about?” Harry asked.

“Us. How I wasted my time here disliking you when I could have gotten to know you better.”

“Well, it was mutual,” Harry said. He grinned at me. “You were kind of a little snot back then, though.”

“And you were an insufferable showboat,” I said. “‘Oh, look at me. I can catch the snitch with my mouth.’”

“That was an accident!” Harry punched me lightly. “Besides, how many times did I beat you again? Shall we count it? Who was the one that dressed up as a Dementor to scare me because he couldn’t beat me?”

I shoved him back. “Please. I would call for a rematch right now, but I don’t think your decrepit arse can handle it.”

He leered at me. “You seem to like my decrepit arse very much. And no more dressing like a Dementor. It makes me sad to think of you hiding all of your … assets … under those baggy robes.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” I laughed. “What would you want me to dress like? A satyr?”

“You’re more of a nymph to me,” Harry said, eyeing me. “All those long limbs and lean muscles ….”

I shook my head, chuckling at this ridiculous turn in the conversation.

“But we have come a long way, haven’t we?” Harry said. “I don’t think the school me would imagine myself sitting next to you even. Let alone – well – rolling around naked.”

“You did follow me around a lot,” I pointed out, ignoring the pang of hurt at Harry’s refusal to name our relationship. I ignored the fact that I didn’t know what we were, either. “I’m surprised you didn’t follow me into the baths, though I suppose I should give thanks to that. My virtue remains intact.”

Harry snorted. “What virtue? I didn’t see any virtue the other day when you –”

“Alright!” I clapped my hand over his mouth. “Point taken. Merlin, you’re so literal sometimes.”

He just grinned cheekily at me.

“We should come back more often,” I said, non sequitur. “I dunno about McGonagall’s offer to lecture, but I do want to visit again. It’s been a long time … ten years….”

“Same.” Harry looked up at the castle. “My godson will be starting here soon. Can you imagine? I was there when he got the letter. I had never felt so old.”

“We’re not old,” I said. I favored Harry with a small smile. “Just mature. And you more so than me – you’re the one that’s a father.”

“God-father,” he corrected. “I think he might be your cousin, actually. Teddy Lupin, Andromeda’s grandson.”

“Oh, yes. They live in London, don’t they? I’ve been meaning to reach out to them, but ….” My voice trailed off. I knew about the circumstances which befell their family. I was not sure if they wanted to see me, a reminder of the War and the scion of a family that abandoned them.

“Don’t be silly,” Harry, reading my mind. “She’ll love to see you. And Teddy would be excited to meet his family.”

I merely looked at Harry dubiously.

“Come here,” he said. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me in tightly. “You’re too wound up in the past. As always, his body pulsed in steady heat under his clothes, and I instinctively drew in closer.

“You need to forgive yourself,” he said, air from his mouth tickling my ear. “You were a child. But you’re not that child anymore. You need to let go.”

I turned to face Harry. His eyes were wide and clear, with an earnestness that prompted me to forget everything.

We kissed as the sun began its descent down the horizon.

It was nighttime when we reached Godric’s Hollow, having dawdled at the lake for longer than expected, too caught up in each other’s presence to pay much attention to the time. We got … distracted.

I blushed, rearranging my robes to look less conspicuous. Next to me, Harry tried to flatten his hair for the umpteenth time – not that anything short of a nuclear blast could flatten it – and rubbed at an angry red mark on his neck.

I grinned. He had looked so good writhing under me as I bit that exact spot –

Damn. Harry was looking at me like he wanted to drag me off to the alley ahead and have his way with me. By this rate, we were never going to get anything done.

“We need a place to stay for the night,” I said. “And someone who knows their way around here. Perhaps someone who knows the natural geography, the mountains and trails.”

“Maybe there’s a spelunking club in the village,” suggested Harry. “Or we could see if there’s a shop that sells outdoors sporting equipment, like tents and such.”

I nodded. Not a bad idea. “That looks like an inn up ahead. Why don’t we check in?”

It was small and cozy looking affair, the sign cheerfully proclaiming rooms available. We entered to see a cantankerous looking fellow and his daughter, a buxom blonde with a bright smile that lit up even more when we entered.

“Greetings! Welcome to Godric’s Hollow.”

Before we had left Hogwarts, Harry and I had decided that traveling under the cloak of anonymity was best. We had each cast glamours on each other, mine hiding his scar and changing his eyes to a dull and muddy brown, his dimming the platinum blonde of my hair and rounding the contours of the face. I refused, full-stop to do anything drastic. Vanity, I supposed.

“Hello. We’re two travelers who need a room for the night. I was wondering if you have a –”

“A single king’s available,” she said, giving us a knowing wink. “And might I just add, we’re very tolerant and welcoming here. In the warmer seasons, we get busloads of tourists from Brighton, all people like yourself, and they love it here. Something about the charming village life and the open air. Perfect for couples like yourself.”

Harry blushed. “We’re just –” he began.

“That sounds lovely,” I cut him off with a look. Again, that twinge of annoyance at his refusal to put a name on what we had. And it would be less conspicuous if the inn-keeper thought we were an ordinary couple here for the pleasures of country living. Particularly if they got ‘busloads from Brighton’ around here. Though I loathed Brighton – the last time I was there, visiting for Pride, I ended up in a great row with some fat American over the last table at the pub.

“We’re particularly looking for outdoors entertainment,” I continued, gracing the lady with a beatific smile. She positively glowed in response. Harry watched next to me in grumpy silence. “I’ve been trying to get him spelunking. Might you know if there are any caves or such around here?”

“Well, there’s one cave not too far,” she said, taking out a map and marking it for me. “But it’s rather dangerous to go, and I don’t see you bringing any heavy equipment. Our general store would carry them, but I think they’re out of stock at the moment. There are some nice trails nearby, though.”

“Ah, that sounds lovely.” I beamed at her.

“Wonderful. Let me just get my keys….”

“Why did you tell them that?” Harry demanded after she had checked us in with remarkable efficiency. He had paid with his credit card, me not having other currency except for great hubcaps of gold coins that would probably have sent her into a tizzy. We wanted to hide from wizards, not Muggles. I fingered the Galleons in my pocket. They were rather irritating to carry around. Maybe I should be like Harry and get some Muggle money.

I explained my reasoning to him. “And besides, what’s wrong with calling us a couple?” I asked. “It’s not like I said we were married.” I knew why Harry was annoyed. After all my insistence that we were simply having a fling, I had gone defining it with weighted meaning.

“I – there’s nothing wrong with it. I just – I thought you were the one who wanted to keep it casual.”

Hearing the truth of it stung. I sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s just – right now, it’s all a mess in my head. I’m not good at dealing with this.”

Harry sat down on the bed. “I honestly don’t mind, but I think we need to have a discussion about this soon. You and I both know that.”

I hung my head. I did. “Can it wait until after all this is over?” I asked with a small smile. “I think we have a lot on our plate right now. I’m not sure I would be able to handle the conversation while my life hung in the balance.”

“Don’t you know that’s the moment when you figure out what’s really important? It’s what all the novels say.”

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “I don’t want to know what you’ve been reading, Harry, but your taste in literature sounds appalling. I’m going to loan you some books from my shelves once I get back to my flat.”

Harry leaned back. “I have great taste in literature,” he said with wounded dignity. “I don’t think I want to read any of your boring histories. Although yours aren’t that bad – as far as historical writings go, they’re actually quite entertaining.”

“Thanks for the unqualified praise,” I said dryly, settling down beside him. “But in all seriousness, give me more time to think about it, okay?” He really was wearing down my resolve.

“Alright.” Harry gave me a peck. “Let’s take a nap. I want to get some food later, and then there’s a place I need to visit.”

I woke feeling much refreshed. Harry had already risen. He was not in the room.

I stretched out on the bed, luxuriating in the additional space, feeling the knots in my muscles release. A satisfying pop sounded as I cracked my back.

This was why I insisted on being single, I thought facetiously. Nothing compared to the luxury of an empty bed.

But that was not exactly accurate … I enjoyed Harry’s warm body pressed against me, the swell of his chest at my back as I curled into the crook of his arm. Sharing a bed with someone else, too, could be pleasant.

Contradictory emotions crested; my ribs were tight, squeezing the breath out of me. I didn’t want to have to choose, but I knew that the time to make a decision approached, as inevitable as the sunrise.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” I called.

Harry entered with a cup of tea and a wrapped sandwich. “I got hungry and already ate,” he said, handing them to me.

“How long did I sleep?” I asked, letting the sip of tea warm me. It was difficult to tell by looking out the window; we had arrived after the sun had already set. The streetlight had already turned on, washing the road outside with a soft glow. It was quiet, with nothing but parked cars and bikes.

“Only two hours,” Harry said. “I got tired of waiting and went to look around the village.”

“Have you been here before?” I asked. I knew the history of Godric’s Hollow, of course, as the site of the Potters’ former home. I wasn’t sure if he knew that.

“Yes,” he answered. “Once before. I came to visit my parents. That’s where I wanted to take you tonight, actually. Before we go off in search of the cave tomorrow.”

“Oh.” I was taken aback. “Are you sure? I mean … I might not have been born when they … died … but … my family and my past… Do you think it’s appropriate?”

“They were my parents, Draco,” Harry said with a touch of amusement. “I think I know if taking you to see them is appropriate or not.”

I could not help but smile at that. “You’re right. Sorry. You’re taking me to meet your parents.”

“That is …” Now it was his turn to look nervous. “If you want to, of course. If you don’t, there’s no pressure. I mean, I understand –”

“Harry.” I interrupted his increasingly incoherent words. “I would be honored. Just let me freshen up a bit. I don’t think I want to meet your parents looking like this.”

We walked in silence, the soft noises of the night – the hooting owls, the scratch of racoons – only serving to highlight it.

It was quiet enough that I almost wondered if Harry could hear my heart racing. This meant something, taking me to see his parents’ grave. No matter how I tried to justify my acquiescence as mere academic interest, or however Harry tried to play it off, it was monumental.

We stopped before an obelisk carved with words. They began to move, and the obelisk changed into a sculpture of a family. The Potters.

I had seen them before in old newspapers and history books, but coming face to face with them … the man had the same untidy hair as Harry did, and the woman shared with Harry the same eyes. Somehow, the sculptor had the skill to imbue them with a maternal understanding that touched me.

I was a former Death Eater. My actions had led to deaths and life-changing injuries. And yet, standing here with Harry, in front of a memorial to victims of the violence I had willingly, if unknowingly, participated in, I felt only peace. Guilt, yes, and shame, but none of the gut-wrenching sensations that I usually sought to turn away from. Only a grim determination to ensure that I never make those same mistakes again.

Next to me, Harry stayed silent. It might have been a trick of the light, but his glasses looked fogged, the green of his eyes concealed behind them.

We didn’t talk. We did not need to. We stood quietly, as the leaves blew at our feet. Faded words of encouragement and names were still visible on the statute. They had endured the passage of time, this testament to the human capacity to resist dark times.

Finally, we turned back. My shoes crunched as we walked along the street. It was a small town, and most of the residents were asleep. There were the odd house here or there with lights coming out the windows. Some, when we passed underneath, were accompanied by the muffled sounds of the television.

“Thanks for coming with me,” Harry said as we returned to the inn. The door was unlocked, though both the innkeeper and his daughter were nowhere to be seen at the front desk. I shook my head at their lack of proper security. Even in a small town, they should have much better sense.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“Strangely calm,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll ever stop wondering what life would be like if they lived, but I don’t do too badly now, do I?” He took hold of me as I closed the door to our room and locked it with a firm snick. If the proprietors of this fine establishment did not care for their security, that was their business. I would be certain of ours.

“No,” he said, “I don’t think I do too badly.” His hands roamed as he pulled me against his chest. I breathed in his smell, that very distinctive Harry scent, as he trailed a line of kisses up my neck.

I let my hands walk free under his shirt. Touching him was nicotine … the firm muscles beneath his skin, the flex and arch of his back as he handled me, his weight on me as we moved to the bed.

We fell together, my legs wrapping around his waist, fully clothed, as we lost ourselves to a flurry of kisses, our hands clutching at each other. I didn’t want to let go, even when we had to stumble up to avoid falling onto the floor.

Even through his trousers, I could feel his erection, rapidly thickening and hard, straining at the seams. He rutted against me, his breath hot on my neck as I arched to meet him.
“Let’s take this off,” he said, trying to pull my shirt off. I raised my arms, my body in a concave arc, reluctant to give up contact with Harry even for a second.

Cool air caressed my skin. Harry took advantage to touch every apart he could, as he kissed my hair, my mouth, my neck.

I thumbed the bulge in his pants, grinned at him as he gave a little gasp. “So eager,” I whispered with wicked amusement. His right thigh rested intimately on top of mine, and I became vividly aware of fabric’s friction, barely noticeable, on my skin. “You should take off your clothes, too.”

Harry stripped with fumbling motions as I did the same with my trousers. I ignored the loss of physical contact that announced itself like a blast of cold, as the sight of Harry naked hit me with the force of bricks.

I could get used to this …. Then I laughed at myself. I had several days to get used to it, and I still had not. He was magnificent in the moonlight, lithe and lean, sleek like a panther on the prowl. He gave me a look through hooded eyelids, one that lingered and hungered even as I craved him.

My throat dried. It was -- stirring. It sent me into a frenzied state with desire; I pulled Harry down to meet my lips.

His groin brushed against mine. We both groaned at the sensation. a jolt of electric went through me. My body was on fire, exposed as I was to the elements.

Harry’s callused hands kneaded my shoulders, my thighs. He took me into his mouth. My fingers twisted into the sheets, jerking as waves of pleasure rippled through me. I strained, pumping; Harry grazed his teeth against the skin.

He gave a low rumble of a chuckle. “You enjoy a bit of rough, don’t you?”

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response,” I said, with as haughty a reply as I could manage while one of Harry’s hands stroked me. His other pinned me down as I moved up.

“Really? Then you don’t like this?” He bit me rather sharply on the edge of my collarbone. I writhed. “Or this?” He moved his hand to pull back my hair, exposing my neck as he moved up, his erection in my face, almost thrusting in my mouth.

I tongued the tip, making a face at the taste of precum. Harry made a low noise, pushing; I almost gagged at the unexpectedness of it.

I swirled my tongue around it, my hands playing with his balls. I relished the jerky motions Harry made, almost in rhythm with my actions.

He moved away, with a small pop sounding. He reached out and a small vial flew into his hand from his duffle.

“Lube,” he said to my querying look.

I was not sure what left me more speechless, his foresight or his wand less magic. Anticipation was an aphrodisiac on its own; lust and want fired through my entire body as Harry’s finger toyed with my arse. A spasm hit me as a fingertip, nails bluntly cut, hit my prostate. I hissed in pleasure.

He reduced me to a bundle of sensations, before his finger was replaced by the real thing.

Sharp pain turned to pleasure as our bodies moved in tandem. I was awash in a sea of bliss, my world shrinking to the slap of his balls against my arse, the gasps we made, my nails scratching at his back.

I would never tire of this, Harry impaled in me. Slow and steady, like clockwork but infinitely more enjoyable. Sweat drenched us both, my hair sticking to my eyes as I cried out and my vision blurred. My knee weakened and splayed open as he came with a deep shudder.

I was wrapped in his arms. We were both slick with sweat and come.

“That was incredible.” He pulled out and laid his head on me. I could still feel his heat in me even as I was enveloped by his body.

I rolled my head back on his shoulder and relaxed against him. “It was.” I wanted to stay like this forever. Us holding each other, curled up against each other, staying still and never let go.

He watches them sleep, their faces so peaceful in repose. The stench of sweat and sex fill the room, and Cross cannot help but wrinkle his nose.

He has to stifle his laugh at the energies of youth. Is it possible that the Malfoy boy refuses his duty out of simple lust for the Potter boy? It’s possible. Cross always thinks that the short, distracted thinking is one of their hallmarks.

That would mean he needs to separate the two in order to persuade the Malfoy boy to bend to his will. Cross curses Malfoy’s obstinacy. If it were not for that, they would have possessed the Grimoire by now. That, and Lucius’ unexpected interference.

Cross scowls. That had been … unexpected. Cross knows he did himself no favors in the younger Malfoy’s eyes when he wounded his father, but Cross had been truly overcome with anger. The treachery of that man will be answered for – when the time came.

Cross is willing to try the soft approach, now that his display of force had so alienated the Malfoy boy. It should not be difficult – as this scene before him shows, Malfoy is still young, and hotheaded. He will want more than a simple, reclusive life in the bookstacks. There is much Cross can promise the Malfoy boy.

He takes one last look at them. The Potter boy stirs in his sleep. Cross permits himself a scowl. Potter would be the first one to die. But not yet. Flies are more easily tempted with honey than vinegar, and perhaps Potter’s life can be one of the sweeteners.

Cross knows that the Malfoy boy is close to the Grimoire. He rues the fact that their founder instructed no one but a descendant of his could wield its power. If he only has a free hand ….

But no matter. Cross is not the type of man to dwell in the past. Particularly on events that occurred a thousand years ago. Already, a plan is forming in his head for tomorrow ….

Sunlight streamed in and pooled at the foot of the bed. I rubbed my eyes. It had been a pleasant sleep, lying next to Harry. His arm, flung across my chest, weighed comfortably. The aftermath of sex still filled the air, and the little vial of lube that Harry had, in a stroke of foresight, taken with him, rolled on its side. I grabbed it before it fell to the floor.

“What happened?” Harry woke from my movement. He rubbed his eyes and growled at me. “Why do you wake up so early?”

“It’s not even that early. And besides, we have a big day ahead of us. It’s best to not wait ‘til midday to look for the cave.”

“What do you mean, ‘look for the cave’? It’s clearly marked out on the map,” Harry grumbled. “It’s not even difficult to get to.”

I remembered the vision I had of Slytherin setting the protection boundary around the Grimoire. “Even if the cave is easy to access, there’s still powerful enchantments guarding the place, most likely. When I touched the book-key, I saw Slytherin creating blue flames around the book.”

Harry furrowed his brows in contemplation. “That’s too vague. It could be a number of spells. There’s the Protectiva Azura, the Line of Separation, the –”

“Yes, we get it. You know your protection spells,” I interrupted. Harry mock-glared at me. “But how do we get past it?”

“Well, typically you use a counterspell or you overpower it with your own magic. Those are the two ways most wizards use.”
“Considering it’s Slytherin, one of the most powerful wizards of all times, I doubt we’ll be able to overpower it. And like you said, there are too many possibilities. Even if we had time to figure what the blue flames are, we don’t have the resources to figure out what the counterspell is.”

“Maybe his memory will offer a clue,” Harry suggested.

I thought of the bottle of dark-silver memory that used to be the book-key in my bag. It reminded me of liquid memory. I shook my head. “We don’t have a Pensieve to use.” And I was not sure if I wanted to touch it again. Like liquid mercury, Slytherin’s memory seemed dangerous to approach without safeguards.

“We’ll figure it out when we get there, then,” Harry declared. “There’s another way around protection spells. We’ll have to outwit it. Most magically powerful wizards lack creativity and intelligence to think of workarounds.”

“I should be grateful I’m not magically powerful, then,” I remarked dryly. “But I’ll take this as a compliment.”

Harry laughed. “Come on. I want some breakfast and coffee before we go exploring dark caves for long-lost books.”

We had a quick but filling breakfast at the inn’s dining room. I mentioned how I found the front door unlocked last night to the innkeeper’s daughter, and she apologized profusely.

“It’s my pa,” she said, shaking her head with exasperated fondness. “He refuses to think that this village has crime of any sort, even though Mrs. Muffe’s silver went missing a couple of weeks ago under ‘mysterious circumstances.’”

“There are ne’er-do-wells in even the smallest village,” Harry said, buttering his toast with an obscene glob of the stuff. “And you said that tourists come to the village all the time.”

“That’s true, and that’s what I told my pa,” she said, replacing our tea with a fresh kettle. “But he wouldn’t listen. He’s a bit daft about this sometimes, you know? But family’s family, and I guess that’s just something I have to live with. More eggs?”

“It’s true what she said, isn’t it?” I said to Harry, after we checked out. She had pointed out the quickest path to the woods as we departed for the cave, clearly under the impression that we were a simple couple with a particular proclivity for the outdoors.

“What? That Mrs. Muffe’s silver were pinched? Are you branching out into detective work now?”

I elbowed him lightly. “Don’t be daft. No, I meant what she said about family. It’s just something we’re stuck with, aren’t we?”

“You can choose your own family,” Harry said. “Blood is blood, but blood is not family. Family supports you, and they can be found, and formed when that group that shares your values and unconditional love comes into being.”

“But no one loves you unconditionally. Even the most loving of families: they love you because you are one of them, that you share – something, blood ties, relations – with them. They don’t do that with a stranger. Family bonds are conditional; it’s just that we choose not to see it or think about it most of the time.”

“I disagree,” Harry neatly avoided a low protruding rock. We reached the outermost edge of the moorland. Hills spread before us in waves of green, with tufts of grey and brown in between, and rocks jutting out. There was a small forest directly on the path. My map told me that the cave could be found if we followed the trail.

“You’re thinking about your father, aren’t you?” Harry asked, waving his wand. Instantly, the rocky roadstones flattened into to be more walkable. “What he said about you not fulfilling your family duties.”

“He’s right.” I kicked a pebble out of the way. “He’s not going to live forever. And then I’ll be the Malfoy. With all its attendant baggage. It’s not like there’s a cousin or a brother I could fob off the job to.”

The forest loomed before us, the trees stooped with age, their gnarled branches guarding the entrance. As we ducked under them, we were hit by a blast of cold air. My teeth clattered. Our eyes met with near pitch-black; sunlight did not penetrate this far into the leave’ thicket.

“This place is creepier than the Forbidden forest,” Harry whispered. “I wonder what kind of creatures live in here.”

I raised my wand. Light fell on the rough trail that led deeper into the darkness. “I hope mostly squirrels,” I said, though there was no conviction in my voice. The forest was old and abandoned, and I wondered why it was so clearly marked on a Muggle map. Perhaps we should have gone to stay at a Wizarding inn. The habitues there would have had more information on this clearly magical place.

Then again, that would have risked our anonymity.

I sighed, allowing Harry to take the lead. I could smell the mildew and decay, as well as the sharp scent of sap. It was eerily quiet, with not even leaves rustling or animals scurrying to break it up. In fact, the entire place felt as though it was suspended in limbo.
The path, though, was very clearly marked. It was surprisingly incongruous to the woods’ atmosphere, that I almost wondered if someone deliberately placed it for us.

This must be the nerves, I thought annoyedly, as I sought to disabused myself of these fanciful notions. It was clear, even to my urban eye, that this part of the world had remained undisturbed since likely Slytherin’s visit to hide his Grimoire here. There were no tell-tale signs of any other human activity – broken branches, unnaturally wide clearings, etc. – and the path was probably magicked to keep clear.

“Why can’t Slytherin hide his damn book in somewhere far more accessible?” Harry did not seem possessed with the same kind of anxiety that plagued me. He was more irritable, rather. Already, he had tripped twice on misplaced branches. “The church, for instance, with that nice road leading up to it. Or even the graveyard.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Harry? As I recall, you seem to be the one who always traipsed around the Forbidden Forest when we were in school.”

“I’m taller now and not as sprightly as before. The perils of old age.” He gave a dramatic sigh.

“I think I’m older than you by a couple of months.”

“Then I’ll need to give you a backrub when this is all over.” Even without looking at his face, I could hear the grin in Harry’s voice. “Maybe a foot rub, too. For your tired, old, aching bones.”

“You do realize I wasn’t the one complaining just now?”

“I wasn’t complaining,” Harry protested. “I was just – hey!”

He stopped suddenly. I bumped and nearly bounced off him.

“Is this it? It looks like a cave entrance.”

I squinted. It was the entrance to a cave. Cold air seeped out of what looked like a giant maw of darkness, and for a second, I quailed at the thought of having to enter into such a place.

Then I recovered my sense of adventure as I thought of the Grimoire in there, waiting to be found. Slytherin himself had likely touched those stones. It was thrilling, to stand in the same place where he stood a thousand years ago.

That thought dispelled my terror. I should be taking notes, writing all this down. And more than that, I needed to focus. I had seen the blue flames guarding the Grimoire. There likely would be more….

Harry did not engage in much introspection, but walked in, as blithely as I would into Harrods. I followed with considerably more caution.

We both lifted our wands, illuminating the cave. Stone walls rose all around, slick and glistening with the damp, and covered with lichen and moss. There was nothing else, to my disappointment. Not the plinth I had seen in my vision, not even a crack that marred the smooth rockface around us.

“There has to be more,” I said to Harry. “This can’t be a dead end. I know it. I can feel it in my bones that there’s more to this place than just this --” I waved my hand around the chamber.

Harry nodded. “I agree. I think there’s probably an entrance around here somewhere concealed by magic. But do you know how to find it?”

“So far, all the discovery and clues have been linked by blood,” I said slowly, thinking back on everything that had led us here. “It’s reasonable to assume that this would the same.”

“You Slytherins and your blood.” Harry shook his head. Before I could inquire further into that remark, he asked: “What do you propose to do, then?”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to bleed over the entire damn place.” I thought hard. I had never once thought of the practical matters of discovering lost artifacts – they had always seemed to theoretical in my mind.

Harry acted. He pointed at the wall with his wand. A white glow lit the chamber. A humming accompanied it, one that set my teeth on edge.

I blinked. “What did you do?”

“A little trick I picked up,” Harry said. “It’s a type of identifying spell that discerns what magic is in these walls. You were right – this does need blood. But only a little.”

As before, I tapped my wand to my fingertip. A cut opened, and a droplet of blood welled. By instinct, I lifted my finger, presenting it to the stone chamber. As I watched, the white glow changed to that unearthly green I had come to associate with the Grimoire. It was strange, how I used to be so fond of it as my House colors, I thought.

The drop of blood rose in the air. Gossamer thin threads issued out of it like silks of a spiderweb, forming a rune that I had never seen before as it went into the wall.

The glow disappeared. In its place formed an outline of an archway that beckoned in the darkness.

“Let’s go,” I said, holding my wand out at the ready.
It was brighter in the cave, but just barely. Luminous blades of grass provided the source of light, lining up on the sides like a path that led – straight to the dais.

It was the one I had seen in my visions, and sure enough, resting on top was the Grimoire. It was smaller than I remembered, fitting squarely on top of the plinth so unassumingly. And yet … even at this distance, I sensed its power like a blazing furnace in a closed room.

I looked around warily. There was no sign of the blue flames. I knew that meant little; they could still burst out in any minute. If we took the wrong step ….

Harry evidently thought the same. He stood behind me and grabbed my wrist. “Wait.” He performed a quick Summoning Charm.

Heat filled the room, so rapidly and with such intensity that I choked, the air in my lung burning out for a second.

I stepped back, my arms instinctively shielding my face. Even had I no inkling of magic, I would still have been able to see that this was far more dangerous than ordinary fire. Hotter and fiercer, with shapes of deadly creatures – a basilisk, a chimera, a manticore – reflected in the inferno.

Harry steadied my flailing body. His arms was a comforting presence.

“I knew it was too easy,” he muttered.

I gave a strangled laugh. “This does make it more interesting.”

“Do we have any idea what this spell is?” Harry looked at the sight with professional interest, though not daring to approach it. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this before. It reminds me of Fiendfyre.”

I studied it through watering eyes. “I’m glad it isn’t. We’d be dead if it were. Not that this is something we can warm our hands with.”

“Any ideas how to get past it?” Harry held his wand out cautiously. “I don’t think we can overpower this.” The flames seemed to react to his words, hissing and spitting as constantly mutating forms of monsters formed from them.

“I don’t either.” This was not something that could be overcome with brute force. I had never wielded such powerful magic in my life. And with a start, I realized this was what people desired when they searched for Slytherin’s Grimoire. Imagine being able to have this at one’s beck and call … I would be unquestioned. No one would ever dare look askance at my presence or turn his nose down at me ….

“Draco! What do we do?”

Harry’s face shook me out of my daydream. “I don’t know.”

There was no chance of me knowing a counterspell, and even if I did by chance knew it, I lacked the magical strength to perform it. Even with Harry here helping me would not be enough.

But then, Slytherin set this protection for a reason. For his heir to obtain his wisdom and accumulated knowledge.

Then, I knew what to do.

I took out the bottled memory that used to be the book-key and uncapped it. I touched the finger with the cut to the memory, wincing at the sting.

It seemed to suckle at the wound; I felt a pinch and wetness. My blood dripped into the mercury-like liquid, and it evaporated until it took the form of a silver gas.

I withdrew my finger, watching as the vapor flew out, slowly, into the blue flames.

Then the flames were gone. Darkness suddenly took over the cave again to eyes used to blinding blue, and the unexpected disappearance of the heat made me shiver. But the way was clear.

I approached the Grimoire slowly. My body tensed, ready for the reappearance of the fire at any minute. But none came and I reached the plinth which the Grimoire rested on with no incident.

It was curiously small and unassuming. The green cover with the ouroboros glistened in a gloom softened by the glowing grass, and I put my fingers on it gingerly.

I breathed a sigh of relief as nothing happened. Yet even my body relaxed, I was disappointed by the lack of further action. It was … anticlimactic.

“It looks smaller than I thought,” Harry said over my shoulder.

I nearly jumped.

“Merlin, Harry! Don’t sneak up on a man like that!”

He laughed, the first time I heard sounds of mirth since we entered the forest. It was a salve to my ears after the oppressive silence.

“Sorry. But it does.” Harry’s hand hovered over it. “Can I touch it?”

I nodded. I just — knew — that it would be safe.

“It doesn’t seem like much, does it?” Harry picked it up, gave it a little toss. I winced. It seemed somehow sacrilegious to handle it so cavalierly.

“It might not blow up in your face, but it still is a millennia old book, Harry.”

Harry stopped with a chastened expression. “Sorry.”

I took it, looking over for any signs of damage. It was remarkably well-preserved for a book that lived in the damp for the last thousand years. Likely, there were spells on it that preserved it against time.

Nonetheless, I still checked it over, my professional side exerting itself. I took note of the small signs of wear that likely occurred before Slytherin hid it here, the leather-bound spine, the thickness of the volume from the vellum.

We left the cave quickly, not caring to stay a second longer. I felt awkward making my way through the woods with a book in my hands, but it was far too large to fit in the pocket of my robes. Nor could I shrink it down to a manageable size, the Grimoire resisting all my attempts to do so. It was impervious to magic.

We were out in the open moors again, en route to Godric’s Hollow. From there, we would Apparate back to London, where hopefully we would have the time and facilities to examine the Grimoire.

Strangely, neither of us had suggested opening it. Both Harry and I knew it was a bad idea. For one, we had no idea what might happened. Dramatic pyrotechnics came to mind, and though we were in a desolate part of the moor, I shuddered at attracting the attention of all and sundry. It was already bad enough wandering around with an ancient book in my hand. It was obviously not what one carried around for light reading.

I was also terrified at what would await me when I did open it. Not so much because it might threaten bodily injury, but because of its contents. All this power in my hands … I was curious to lay my eyes on it. It tempted me; I remembered that flash of covetousness when I saw the blue flames – I wanted that power for myself.

There was no point in lying to myself about it. I thought of all the secrets in this tiny little book I held. After all the trouble I suffered to obtain it, there was no harm in drinking its wisdom…. And I would be able to pay Cross back for what he did to me.

No. I couldn’t.

I knew it was a slippery slope from settling petty vendettas to abusing this sort of knowledge for personal gain. It was like a fire: once the spark lit, there was little one could do to stop it from raging out of control.

Or was it the same?

I was older now than when I had taken the Dark Mark. I knew the pain of loss, the suffering of those who would be caught in the middle. I understood how to use power, far better than the Ministry or whoever’s hands the Grimoire might fall into. Certainly better than the Cross and his Circle minions.

My head hurt from the speculation. Abruptly, I shoved the Grimoire into Harry’s hands.

“What’s wrong?” He looked at me, startled. “Is it hurting you?”

“No.” I forced a smile. “Nothing’s the matter. I just got tired of holding it and wanted to give my hands a break.” It was a weak excuse; the Grimoire, though deceptively substantial in weight, was no trouble to carry beyond the possibility of it attracting unwanted attention. “And I wanted to use the toilet in the village,” I added. “I don’t want to take it in.”

“Afraid of letting old Slytherin spy on you in the loo?” Harry chuckled. “But I’ll hold it for you. Can you manage to find your way around?”

I nodded. “It’s not a big village; I’ll manage.”

“Then I’ll meet you in front of the church. There’s somewhere I want to go first before we leave.” Without asking, I knew Harry wanted to visit his parents before we went back to London. I bowed my head.

Wasn’t the Potters’ story reason enough to avoid using the Grimoire? I was no Dark Lord, but even if I managed to show a resilience to the temptation, unscrupulous individuals might attempt to take advantage and manipulate me. I was no fool, but I wasn’t infallible. My past made that clear as day.

I popped back into the inn. I hadn’t really needed to use the restroom, had only employed it as a convenient excuse so I had space to think. I would give Harry ten minutes of privacy with his parents while I bought a cup of coffee from the inn’s café before rejoining him.

“Oh, Mr. Malfoy!” The innkeeper’s daughter greeted me with a cry. There was no one else in the inn. I wasn’t surprised. From what I had gathered, not many visitors came to this part of the world at this time. “Thank goodness you’re here!”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s my father,” she said, with a loud stammer. “He was on a ladder trying to fix a broken tile, and he fell. I’m so frightened – he’s barely conscious and I can’t lift him, not by myself.”

“I’ll come help,” I said, breaking into a swifter pace as she ran towards the back. “Make sure your telephone is ready so you can call your Healer.”

I cursed at the slip-up – Muggles used the term doctors, not healers, but she didn’t seem to notice, as agitated as she was.

The innkeeper was lying on his back next to the ladder. Shattered clay littered the space around him. There was a nasty gash at the back of his head where it met the ground. There was no time to waste; I knew without the immediate intervention of magic the man will die.

“Go call your doctor right now,” I commanded. “He can’t be moved in his state. I know a bit of healing – I’ll stay with him until help comes.”

She scurried off. As soon as she was out of eyesight, I whipped out my wand and casted a quick healing spell that staunched the bleeding and healed the fracture in skull. He still needed medical attention, but at least he was no longer in any imminent danger.

I let out my breath. Well, that was my good deed of the day. I needed to remember Muggles don’t call it healing anymore – not that I planned to interact much with them in the future. But one never knew –

That was the last thought before my world turned black.

I came to consciousness groggily. My head ached. There was a nasty throb all over my body that I knew was the aftermath of the Stunning Spell.

I looked around in a panic as memory of what happened rushed to me. I was in a luxuriously appointed room, on a plush bed with plump pillows, but it was curiously impersonal. There were no effects that revealed any intimate details, nor were there any distinguishing sense of style. It gave the impression of a guest bedroom in a hotel.

“Ah! You’re up.”

It was Cross.

I jumped up, my hands eager to close in around his throat –

And was met with air as I was stopped halfway. There was an invisible barrier around the bed that blocked me from leaving.
Cross chuckled. His expression was genial as ever. “Dear Draco, don’t you think I would have expected that from you? Of course I would take precautions.”

I growled. My wand was nowhere to be found. Cross looked well for a man on the run, his robes freshly laundered, his face well-rested, without a wrinkle or furrow.

“When I get out….”

“My dear boy, I have no intention of harming you. But it’s best if you don’t make threats. For one, they are quite meaningless in your situation. For another, even my patience has limits.”

I subsided in impotent rage. I needed to think clearly. I could not perform magic effectively without my wand, and no sharp objects laid within my reach to use.

“Why did you bring me here? I suppose you already know I don’t have the Grimoire already, since you searched my person and took my wand.”

“You most likely gave it to Mr. Potter, didn’t you, Draco? He’ll come. If it’s a choice between your life and that, he’ll choose you.”

Something thumped in my chest at his words. Harry … choose me over arcane knowledge and power? It seemed a poor choice to me.

My expression must have given me away, because Cross laughed. “Potter cares for you much more than he does about the Grimoire. He’s a fool, unlike you and me.”

“He’s a much better man than I’ll ever be,” I said quietly.

“You two are infatuated with each other,” Cross said, shaking his head. “But I know you, Draco. You’re not like him. You’ll never be like him. You need to stop trying. Join me. It’s in your heritage. It’s in your blood.”

“I’m so tired of all this blood,” I snapped. “And if you think kidnapping me will help change my mind, you’re sadly mistaken. You and your men attacked me, my home, my family. You can’t seriously think I’ll be willing to aid you after that.”

Cross shrugged. Somehow, that gesture conveyed more menace than any threat he might have uttered. “I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot,” he said, with a small smile. “But I think I’ll be able to persuade you.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “You can’t break me,” I said, with a bravado I did not feel. “You need someone sane to use the Grimoire for you. And let me tell you, I’m already a bit unhinged even without torture.”

Cross’s amusement did not diminish; rather, his smirk stretched wider until it cartoonishly encompassed his entire face. “I hope you would have a better opinion of me. I’m nothing so crude.” He gave a dramatic sigh. “It must be a remnant your time with Voldemort. He was always so unsophisticated in his methods.”

He sat on a gilt-edged armchair. “Tell me, Draco, don’t you ever feel tired of people on the streets looking at you with disdain? That you’re still cut off and ostracized by most of society for something that happened ten years ago?”

His knowing gaze trapped me. His words struck a chord, even as I saw them for the ploy they were. The truth hits home, no matter if it is merely a lever used for manipulation.

Cross registered the effects they had on me. “If you help us, you would not have to endure that any longer. Think about it … you’ll be granted the respect you deserve. You and your family will no longer need to live in shame. The Manor, restored to its glory. Your family no longer having to be trapped in that one wing. Your father, no longer tainted with the shame of the past.”

His arguments glittered like jewels, shining with temptation … I imagined myself no longer having to suffer the cold glances of others, the Manor alive again, with every window lit as guests filled the Grand Hall.

“Think about it,” Cross said. He stood up. “When I leave, you’ll have free run of this room. This house, actually. But just the house. You of course will be watched and there are spells preventing your leaving. When you decide to help me, just let me know. And we have already owled Potter. He’ll come.”

True to his word, I felt the force preventing me from leaping at Cross dissolve as soon as he Disapparated from the room. I tried the door. It was unlocked.

The hallway was deserted and dusty. It reminded me in a way of the disused corridors of the Manor, with its air of dilapidated neglect. Unlike the Manor, this lacked the grandeur of bygone days. Thick carpet lined the floor and faded wallpaper covered the walls.

I sneezed. Then I tensed, waiting for ghosts and ghouls to attack me.

But nothing happened. The hall remained empty; there was no one, not even a guard.

I wandered around, trying to familiarize myself with the surroundings. I appeared to be a house that was similar to the hideout we raided. Blandly furnished (if one considered having torches placed at odd intervals furnished), it seemed to be unused for a long period of time. There was no clue or anything that could be deemed useful to be found. One aspect of the house held it apart from others: it had no doors or windows leading outside.

And unlike the place we raided, there was no cellar with magical artifacts that might help me escape.

Being held captive was surprisingly dull. I suppose I should give thanks that nothing worse happened to me other than the cold tray of food which appeared at the foot of the bed in regular intervals.

In fact, the awful part of being a prisoner was the anticipation, grinding on my nerves like dull steel against the whetstone. I had no idea when Cross would visit again; I knew he watched and listened to my every move. At first, I amused myself by yelling obscenities and making rude gestures throughout the house. When nothing happened, I was forced to confront the fact that I was well and truly stuck.

Cross’ words were the truth; denying it made no sense. I hated the scowls and chill that descended when I walked into the room. The way crowds parted away from me or how servers would inevitably ‘lose’ my orders. Strangely, I had found refuge in the Muggle world until the furor faded.

Faded, but not entirely disappeared.

And there was the stain from my past. The Circle had enormous influence, in society, in government. Gaining their support would be an enormous step in washing it off.

No. Stop. This was what Cross intended. To confuse me. To tempt me. The librarian attacking me showed that the Circle was untrustworthy, even if Cross himself was a man of his word. And I would not trust Cross with a piece of discarded rag, much less a matter on this magnitude.

I sat down and focused on my breathing. In … out … inhale … exhale …. I allowed myself to relax into my seat, letting the motion of air run through me as I rooted myself to my senses. I needed to remain calm. There was not much I could do without a wand. I could not Disapparate from this place. But I still had my intelligence, my arms and legs. I would not surrender so meekly.

I knew what I had to do. I could never accept Cross’ offer. But he needed me. I was the only one who could use the Grimoire – that I knew for certain. It was not out of some long-held loyalty to Slytherin’s directive that he refrained.

And that was my leverage.

I opened my eyes.

“I’m ready to bargain.”

Barely a second passed when Cross appeared.

“I’m glad you came to your senses so quickly,” he said. He gave me what must pass for him a benevolent smile. “You seemed so resistant to the idea that I thought I would have had to wait for a few more days at the very least.”

“There’s no point in delaying the decision,” I shrugged. “And besides, I’m just as curious to hear your terms. What is it you plan to offer me should I help you?”

“So you haven’t agreed.” Cross sounded disappointed.

“I’m giving it serious consideration,” I said easily. I tried to adopt what I imagined to be my father’s manner when he dealt with recalcitrant minions. “It’s progress. Don’t disdain it.”

“Very well then. Let’s talk terms.” Cross prepared to give what looked like a rehearsed speech, but I raised my hand. He frowned at me.

“I hope you don’t intend to just talk at me,” I said. “Let us discuss this like civilized people, over tea. I assume you are amenable to that.”

Cross looked – well, cross -- but he inclined his head.

“You’re right, of course. Where are my manners?” He waved his hand and a silver tea set appeared on the table. He motioned for me to sit as the pot began to pour into the bone china cups.

“Sugar?”

I shook my head. I noted with disgust he had dropped five sugar cubes into his own cup.

“Well, Draco, are we ready to talk now?” he asked, as we settled into the armchairs. I gripped the handle of my cup so tightly that I thought it might shatter. It was the only thing that anchored me in my tumultuous state.

“I’m listening.”

“We’re not simply asking you to read the Grimoire to us,” Cross said, taking a sip. “We need a leader. The Blood Circle of Slytherin needs his heir to lead us to create a new world for wizards.”

“I’m not Slytherin’s heir,” I replied. “The Heir of Slytherin is dead. Died not very pleasantly too, I’m afraid.”

Cross waved that aside, as though Voldemort’s death was a minor irritation. “I don’t think he was suited to have the book anyways. No respect for the wisdom of his elders. Of course, that came with his prodigious magical talents, and I have to respect that. But his rage and instability made him clearly unfit to lead. You, on the other hand –”

“The clear opposite?” I asked with a clear edge in my voice.

“I was going to say have endure hardships that tempered the arrogance,” Cross said, with disapproval at my interruption. “Not to mention, you’re talented and intelligent.”

“I suppose I should thank you for your high opinion of me,” I said, “though I believe some of your compatriots do not share it.” I thought of the librarian, now hopefully rotting away in prison, and his contemptuous looks.

“They’ll be brought to heel,” Cross said dismissively. “After all, with the power of Slytherin’s Grimoire behind you, I don’t think they’ll dare to challenge you.”

“I wouldn’t want to with one eye open and a wand under my pillow for the rest of my life. Speaking of, where is my wand?”

Cross produced it. I made to grab it, but he held it away.

“Let me keep it for now. As insurance.” He set it down on the arm of the chair. I eyed it, but made no further movement.

I leaned back, sipping my tea. My mind spun from my calculations. I had been — intrigued — by Cross’ offer. But the more he said, the more I realized I would be a fool to trust him. He’d discard me as soon as I outlived my usefulness.

And even should I choose to trust him, I could not live with myself helping a gang of ruthless criminals achieve their dream of pure blood supremacy.

“I have wealth and success,” I said finally. “Do you really think I need to risk everything to help you? Even with the Grimoire in your side, it isn’t a guarantee you’ll succeed.”

“Do you really doubt it?” There was a fevered conviction in his eyes, and his expression hardened. “I can assure you our support runs deep in the wizarding world. Much deeper than you think. And those who oppose us, well....” He set his cup down. “More tea?”

I shook my head. It was difficult to fear a man when the very sight of him ignited rage, but I forced myself to remember Cross was a dangerous criminal that evaded all attempts at capture so far. His cool calculations were deadlier than mere brutal thuggery.

“We have a plan in place,” Cross continued. “I won’t share the details of which with you, of course. Not just yet. But rest assured that you and yours will have an honored place in our new world order.”
“You don’t need me,” I said, finally. “Or the Grimoire. In fact, it sounds like we’re both extraneous to your plans. Why don’t you just leave me and the Grimoire in peace? If there’s anything of note, you can read about it in the next edition of the Magical Histories Journal.”

Cross laughed. “I own that publication, you know. How do you think I collect that all those objects of power? By the way, you lost me a very substantial collection with your raid. I think we can call it even, don’t you think?”

“If you really think recovering stolen goods is equivalent to attempts on mine and my family’s lives, then you really are deluded.”

Cross’ expression remained pleasant. “Is that a refusal, then? Have you made up your mind?”

“No, I’m just pointing out the fallacy in your reasoning,” I said, just as pleasantly. Chill crept down my spine. The anger vanished, replaced by fear. Cross was losing patience; I sensed it, humming under the edge, barely kept in check. “It’s my nature; I can’t help it.”

“You are as capricious as ever,” Cross observed, “though I believe you should moderate that habit. It’s vexing. It does not win you friends.”

A soft chime rang. Cross looked at me, his eyes cold even as his face stayed in that bland smile. “Speaking of friends, your Mr. Potter is here.”

A violent spasm shook me. No. Harry couldn’t be that stupid. I was not worth handing the Grimoire over for. He deliberately walked into a trap – for me.

Harry emerged through the door, his wand out in one hand, the Grimoire in the other. He entered warily. He started forward when he saw us.

“I wouldn’t make any rash movements, Mr. Potter,” Cross said. “Old and decrepit as I am, I can still cast spells quicker than you think. Besides, Draco and I are having a civilized conversation over tea. Would you care to join?”

“Let him go.” Harry’s voice was strained with fury and worry.

“Get out of here, Harry.” Seeing Harry drowned me in a tempest of emotions – relief, anger at him for being so stupid, always needing to play the hero, hope. My heart drummed a staccato beat. I wanted to shout at him, drive him away.

I wanted to hold on to him forever.

“I’m not leaving without you,” Harry said, his face stony. “Let him go, Cross.”

“Hand over the Grimoire, Mr. Potter.” Cross stood. “I don’t see the pointing of using unnecessary force.”

Harry’s grip tightened on the Grimoire. “Let Draco go and I’ll give you the Grimoire.”

“Draco is joining me,” Cross said, his eyes on the Grimoire, a hungry light gleaming in his eyes. His wand was out, pointing directly at Harry’s chest. “You’re also welcome to do so too, Mr. Potter, though I very much doubt that you want to.”

“You’re damn right I won’t,” Harry said, his own wand raised even higher. “You murderous bastard.”

“Such vulgarity, Mr. Potter,” Cross reproved languidly. “There’s no need to be so rude. A simple no would suffice. But Draco here will miss you, won’ you?”

I did not respond.

“Draco, with the Grimoire, you’ll have the power to persuade Mr. Potter here to join us. You would like that, wouldn’t you? Have him stay by your side? Without it, he’ll leave you eventually. You know he will.” Cross looked upon me with avuncular wisdom. “After all, your past and his are incompatible.”

I stared at Cross, unblinking.

“Think about it,” Cross said. “You know it’s true.”

I wanted to shut my eyes. My head throbbed. I was exhausted. All I longed for was to lie down, to not think, and let sleep take me where it may.

“You can’t be serious,” Harry said. “We’re not unchanging caricatures, no matter what you think. People change; they learn and see the error of their ways. Only you would have such a blinkered and uncompromising view of the world.”

“You know, Potter, that was very eloquent of you. But it doesn’t matter what I think here, does it? It matters what our dear Draco thinks. So what say you, Draco? Do you think because you’ve ‘seen the error of your ways’, that you’ll be welcomed by the sheep of society?

I looked at Harry. He looked at me with wide, hopeful eyes. Some might even call them naïve.

Then I walked over to Cross’ side.

“No!” The word tore out of Harry’s throat. “He’s using you! Don’t you see that? He’ll toss you aside as soon as you’re not useful anymore.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic, Potter,” Cross snapped. His mouth stretched in a gloat. “It’s obvious he knows blood and tradition and honor compels him to take the right side. But you don’t need to fret. I know he’s fond of you. With the Grimoire’s abilities, you’ll be at his side again soon enough.”

I ignored them both, stretching out for my wand resting on the arm of the chair.

“You should use a Body-bind, Draco,” Cross mused. “On Potter here. Stunning would be more efficient, of course, but I think that it would be best if he sees you pry the Grimoire out of his hand. To dissuade him from any further illusions he might have about you.”

The hawthorn of the wand handle was cool and familiar in my grasp. I curled my fingers around it. A warmth spread from the wood through my palm, my wand rejoicing at its reunion with its master.

Then I raised it.

“Stupefy!”

I shot a jet of red light directly at Cross. It caught midair before dissipating into nothingness.

Cross reacted, his wand slashing out at me before I could blink. A red heat caught on my chest, even as I hurriedly shielded myself.

I stumbled back, crashing into the table. The tea set fell to the floor, the pots and cups shattering with a wave of hot liquid, scalding my skin.

I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to stand through the haze of pain.

Harry released a jet of blue light at Cross, who brushed it away, almost lazily, with his wand.

“I’m disappointed this is your choice, Draco,” Cross said. His eyes darted between the two of us. We trapped him in the middle, yet it was not from fear with which he examined us. Rather, it had the look of a predator deciding which prey to attack first. “Clearly I had overestimated you.”

“You don’t know me as well as you think you do,” I said. One hand gripped my chest, trying in vain to squeeze out the pain. My wand pointed at his face. It shook, the tremors in my body affecting my ability to hold it steady. “I would be a fool to trust you.”

“True. I didn’t plan on you being the actual leader, of course.” Amusement colored his voice. “You would have been a mere tool. But at least you and your loved ones would be safe. But now –” Wisps of black vapor issued out of his wand, hissing like a thousand snakes as they flew towards me.

“Draco!” Harry yelled.

I ducked. They hit the chair behind me, an eerie howl sounding as the chair blackened into ash.

I waved my wand. The ash reformed into a sturdy black rope that coiled around Cross.

He laughed. The ropes disappeared.

“You need to do better than that,” he said.

Harry flicked his wand. The force of the spell was such that the hairs on my arms rose; there was no jets of light or bangs and flash, but Cross was forced to avoid the spell by Disapparating to the other side of the room.

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re more impressive than you let on, Potter.” All traces of the amused geniality were gone. A lance of green light aimed at Harry, who dropped and rolled out of the way.

The wall smoldered at the impact of the Killing Curse. I ignored the pain in my chest, running to Harry’s side. It smelled of charred paper.

“Are you alright?” Harry asked, his eyes on Cross as he stepped in front of me. “You’re a good actor, you know. Almost had me fooled.”

“You mean, did have you fooled,” I corrected. My chest throbbed nastily. “I would have given you a hand signal of some sort, if I thought this was one of those Auror comics.”

Harry gave a choked laugh. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t lose your sense of humor while you were capture.” He focused on Cross. “You’re going to pay.”

“I hardly think so, Potter. Numerical superiority is meaningless. This is my house, remember? I think I have the advantage here.” Cross prepared to curse us –

A loud bang and crash -- the wall cracked, hairline fissures widening, weblike, as the structure weakened. Large chunks of stone fell, and I jumped back to avoid my feet being crushed. A hole opened and men in the red of Auror robes jumped through.

“Hello, Harry, Draco.” Granger followed on the heels of her men and gave us a small grin. “My team is here to save the day.”

“You could have come in soon,” Harry groused. “Taking your bloody sweet time.”

“We had to deactivate the defenses on the house,” she said, tucking a stray strand of hair back. She looked at Cross. “Hello, Mr. Cross. I admired some of your work. It’s a pity that I have to arrest you.”

“Ms. Granger.” Cross made the facsimile of a bow. “I suppose it’s an honor that the Deputy Head of Magical Law Enforcement is here to arrest me in person. Though I much rather doubt that you will.”

“We have you surrounded,” she said mildly. “We’ve set Snaring Charms and Anti-Apparition Jinx all around the house, and we’ve disabled your house’s magical defenses. Ted Cross, you are under arrest for murder, terrorism, money-laundering, and theft of protected artifacts among other crimes. You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

Cross displayed no emotion. He looked around. He was hemmed in by a crowd of red. Battle-toughened Aurors watched him with flinty eyes, with wands directed squarely at his chest. His eyes belied his recognition that he was outmatched, flicking as he analyzed his chances.

He glanced at Granger ruefully. “Guess you did take all precautions. I have to say I am rather impressed. You did think of all the angles. Except for one.”

Granger’s face creased in puzzlement. Then —

“Get back! Everyone get back!”

A keening screech like nails clawing on a blackboard wailed throughout the room. I stuffed my hands to my ears, trying to shut out it out as we retreated.

Just in time — black flames erupted in columns, the very picture of hell. The air vanished from my lungs, burned away by the heat. I gasped, black spots dotting my vision. I smelled the incinerated fabric of my robes as they caught in the fire, and searing pain edged my skin —

“Draco!” Harry grabbed me, pulling me back. He severed the sleeve of my robe with a quick slash of his wand, tossing it back.

I caught a glimpse of Cross behind the dancing conflagration, his face lit and triumphant.

“My dear friends,” he said, calm and unaffected, “I don’t think we shall be seeing each other again. You can remember today as the day you almost caught me. Don’t be upset, Granger. It’s the closest anyone’s ever come so far.” He made a sardonic now.

Then he disappeared behind the black fire. The heat crescendoed, forming the face of a monster, teeth snapping at us.

“Quick, the shield charm!” Harry cried.

The black hit the shields with great force, the black blaze flaring as it fought to overpower our defenses.

Harry grabbed me by the cuff, pulling me out through the hole in the wall. We fell in a heap of tangled limbs, hitting the ground with a thud.

The house was collapsing as wood burned. Plumes of smoke rose to the sky. The roof tilted, one side blackened into coal, before it caved in.

The flames diminished, out of fuel and consumed by itself.

I looked up at Harry, his body on top of me, pressing me down as to protect me from the explosion. I kissed him, hard and fierce.

He responded with a hungry eagerness that drew the breath from my very lungs. I grabbed at every part I could touch, reassuring myself that he was alive, that I was alive.

There was a gentle cough.

“Umm ... I understand that you’re happy to each other, but can you do that later?”

Harry looked up, grinned at Hermione. “Want me to give you a kiss too?”

She grinned back. “No thank. Save all of it for Draco later. We need to go back and check the damage. Do you want to come?”

Harry shook his head. “I need to take Draco to the Healers. He took a nasty looking spell to the chest earlier. I assume you can handle it here.”

She nodded. “We can. Go. Make sure he’s alright.”

“Where’s Cross? And the Grimoire?”

Harry produced the Grimoire from under his robes. “This book can take a lot of damage. Not a scratch. I’m very impressed.”

“It’s Slytherin’s.” My eyes fixed on it. I felt it calling to me; my fingers itched to touch it, open it. I wondered what secrets hid there, what power it had that caused Cross to resort to such desperate methods.

“Do you think Cross survived that?” Granger broke into the train of my thoughts. She shuddered. “That spell. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t think anyone could live through that. And we had surrounded the house with Anti-Apparation Jinxes and Snaring Charms.” Her face paled for a moment, as the possibility she might have trapped Cross in the house occurred to her. Then she set her expression resolutely.

“We’ll take care of the situation here,” she said. “You take Draco to the Healers.”

I made no sound as Harry took me by the arm and we Disapparated.

Harry was extremely solicitous in the days after my rescue from Cross’s house. Despite my insistence that there was no pain, and ill-effect, the Healers at St. Mungo’s insisted on keeping me in their ward for close examination.

“The effect could be delayed,” a young Healer, one still sporting the spots of youth, informed me. “There have been many cases of curse effects kicking in even years after the initial contact. I think there was this one incident –”

“Yes, I know that,” I snapped. “I study the Dark Arts for a living. I’m very aware of delayed onset curses.” I purposely neglected to mention that my focus was on the history of their use, not their use itself, and I had no idea how to identify one.

I was amused at myself. Usually, I would be very particular on the fine gradients of my concentration, afraid of the association of a former Death Eater with the Dark Arts. I suppose this was progress, of a sort, that I was no longer as concerned with others’ perception of me.

“Listen to the Healer, Draco,” Harry said, walking in with an enormous bouquet of flowers. I relaxed my glare on the beleaguered Healer, who looked relieved to see someone interceding.

“I’ll give you two some privacy,” he said. “Mr. Potter. Mr. Malfoy.”

He left, though not without giving us one final curious look.

The news that a Malfoy and Potter were now friends -- and indeed, more -- spread across Wizarding society fast. Not one day passed without there being a photographer hiding outside the St. Mungo’s, waiting in vain to snap a picture of the famous – or infamous – couple. Even the Prophet devoted several inches speculating whether I had used my nefarious knowledge of Dark Magic to snare Harry.

It brought my only source of amusement while being stuck in the hospital bed. Some of them came with surprisingly well-drawn caricatures of me. I resolved to cut and frame them in my flat.
“How’re you feeling?” Harry asked, setting down the flowers.

“I keep on telling everyone I feel fine, but no one believes me, so I might as well pretend that I’m on the verge of death,” I said irritably. I pouted at Harry. “Are you sure you can’t persuade them to let me out? Bribery, lawsuits, the odd hand job ….”

“What?” Harry spun around to glare at me, almost dropping the vase.

“I’m kidding. As if spotty out there could stir my fancy.”

“Oh.” Harry relaxed and continued arranging the flowers. “I think you should stay a bit longer. After all, you heard him. Might be years before the curse’ effect kicks in.”

“I am most definitely not spending years in this damn hospital bed, Harry. In fact, I have a guest lecture next week at King’s College on the use of curses in notable assassinations.” I had thrown myself into my work, attempting to channel the restlessness I felt into productivity. I scowled at him. “I’m definitely leaving before then.”

Harry set the vase of flowers on the little bedside table. It was already cluttered with get-well cards from Blaise, Goyle, Millicent, and even one from Granger and the Weasley.

“Ron is really impressed,” Harry had told me, after they had left. “He actually thinks you showed yourself to be, and I believe his words were, ‘more of a Gryffindor than his git face lets on.’”

“I suppose that’s high praise coming from the Weasel – Weasley,” I corrected hastily, before Harry could scold me. “You didn’t have to get me flowers, by the way. Plants hate me. I can barely keep alive a cactus.”

“They’re not from me,” Harry said. “They’re from your aunt.”

“Andromeda?” I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice.

“Well, considering your other one is dead – and Heavens help us if she’s sending you flowers from beyond the grave – yes, it is Andromeda. She wants to invite you for tea sometime with her grandson, Teddy.”

“Oh.” Somehow, that made me more nervous than when time Cross held me captive. “Will you be there?”

Harry shook his head. “I wasn’t invited. I mean, I’m always welcome, but I think she wants to get to know you better. I can come if you like.”

His offer touched a raw, unguarded part within me, and I turned away quickly, blinking hard. “Thanks,” I said, staring resolutely at a spot on my hospital bed. St. Mungo’s really need to wash these sheets better. “I think I’ll be fine. Maybe I’ll ask my mother to come.”

“I think she would like that,” Harry said. He sat down on my bed. “Both of them.”

I turned to look at him again. “When do you think the Ministry will finish examining the Grimoire?”

I had not seen that book since Harry had taken me from Cross’ hideout. Right after he deposited me here, in the midst of astounded looking Healers and curious middle-aged witches, he had given me a quick kiss and left for the Ministry. I was fairly certain news of my involvement with Harry moved so quickly was because one of the gossipy hens was the aunt of the Witches Daily’s editor.

“It might take a while,” Harry said, “though Hermione told me they bumped it up to the highest priority when they failed to find Cross’ body in the wreckage.”

“He couldn’t have survived that, could he?” Those black flames, I had researched later, were kin to the Fiendfyre, a lesser known but more controllable version called Ignis Diablo. Cursed fires were a fascinating branch of the Dark Arts. Perhaps they should be the focus for my next project.

Harry didn’t answer. He looked out the window, at the silhouette of the Shard outlined in the setting sun.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Logically, it would be very difficult to. But my intuition – he didn’t seem like the man who would commit suicide, not even to take his enemies with him.”

I hated that I agreed with Harry on this. The thought of Cross out there ….

“At least he can’t reach the Grimoire any longer,” I said lightly. “Not with all the protection the Ministry has to offer.”

The Circle was still active, though, a voice quietly reminded me. Cross is or was not the only member. And now you’re one of the targets.

Harry placed his hand over mine. Somehow, he had an uncanny knack to predict where my mind was. In my more paranoid moments, I even questioned if he were using Legilimency.

“Don’t worry,” he said. He squeezed my hand. “No matter what happens, I’m with you.”

“I’m not worried,” I said, smiling gamely at him. I wasn’t. Not with him around.

Harry somehow managed to steady and unsettle me at the same time. Just his proximity was enough to set my stomach cartwheeling. And yet, when he was near me, I found myself not worrying about others’ opinions, about all the mistakes I had made haunting me in some way.

“Good.” He examined me closely. “You do look fine. I think if you’re certain about it, I can have a talk with the Healer and see if we can discharge you.”

“How come they’ll listen to you and not to me?” I complained, annoyed. “There’s a wing in this damn hospital here named after my great-grandmother, you know. Can’t believe this. So ridiculous.”

“I’m the Savior,” he winked at me. At my glare, he kissed me gently, his hand cupping my face. “Besides, I’m dying to have to you all to myself. The wounded soldier and the nurse fantasy has always been a favorite of mine.” His thumb traced circles on my cheek.

“I refuse to indulge in your perversities, Harry Potter,” I sniffed. I pulled him down to lie on top of me. “But the ward is empty except for me right now.” I wriggled one hand under his shirt. “And Healer and patient is one of my fantasies,” I whispered.

Harry’s firm grip caught my wrist. “Good thing I remember the first aid course from the Auror training,” he murmured as he bent down to meet my lips.

“You were caught in the middle of the ward of St. Mungo’s!”

My father’s face glared at me in the fireplace.

“These Healers have appalling manners,” I said. “Being a Healer does not exempt one from the simple courtesy of knocking before entering.” Although I had to admit leaving the door wide open was an oversight. But both Harry and I had been – distracted – at the time.

“That’s not the point, Draco! What would people think? No Malfoy has been caught in a compromising situation like this since the 1950s.”

“Yes, yes, I know.” I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. “Great-aunt Livia. But she ended up being married to the man. I don’t see what the problem is. If you’re so worried about it, perhaps I could ask Harry to marry,” I added snidely, knowing it would only goad my father further.

Our relationship had drastically improved. He still took every opportunity he could to lecture me on the duties of a proper Malfoy, but at least we no longer ended our conversations in screaming matches.

Though he did look on the verge of apoplexy right now.

He had called about the latest article in Enchantress Express, breathlessly reporting our latest escapades. This time, an intrepid photojournalist had somehow managed to slip in, and pictures of harried Harry and a sated me winking at the camera proliferated like the plague. It had done wonders for my career, the new publicity — I received more inquiries through my agent from publishers than ever. I guess sex sells, even for history books.

“You can’t carry on like this, Draco!” my father raged. “It’s one thing if you keep your predilections discreet. Merlin knows there are Malfoys and Blacks of your sort, but they’ve never had smut of them spread out in the papers!”

“My agent told me my books have been selling out,” I said. “Seems to have helped rather than hurt.”

My father glared at me. “And how do you suppose you’ll be able to find a nice girl if pictures of you and Potter are all over the news? You know no woman likes sharing, even for the most open of arrangements.”

This was one point I had avoided discussing with Harry. I knew my father right; I would eventually need to find a way somehow to carry out my family responsibilities — meaning having the heir and spare. But I also couldn’t deny any longer how much I cared for him, how much I craved his company. And sex was magnificent.

I sighed. “Are you objecting because I’ve been indiscreet, or because it’s a man? Or that it’s Harry?”

“All of it!” My father’s face soften He said gruffly: “Look, Draco, I would love to see you happy. But as the Malfoy heir, you have duties and a role to play that’s far bigger than just yourself. You’ll have to face that fact eventually.”

I knew that. But that day was not upon us yet.

“I’m having tea with Aunt Andromeda next weekend,” I said, changing the subject.

My father’s look of bad temper did not diminish. “You run entirely with the wrong crowds these days, Draco. First Potter and now Andromeda. Really – Andromeda? That bloody cow? Why can’t you become closer with the Greengrasses? You were engaged to their daughter once.”

I held back from reminding him that he never liked Astoria when we were engaged. “Aunt Andromeda’s family, father. Aren’t you always the one telling me to spend more time with family? Besides, mother is coming, too. We’re having tea in the Belgravia townhouse.”

“What?”
I really should stop needling my father. It was childish behavior, unbefitting of a grown man. But the look on his face just now – I couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Is that Draco?” My mother’s face appeared in the fire. “Hello dear. How are you?”

I gave her my stock response as my father turned on her with wounded outrage. “You’re having tea with Andromeda?”

“She is my sister, honey,” my mother said rather tartly. “I don’t see anything strange about that.”

“But – but –” my father sputtered, at a loss for words. “At the Belgravia townhouse? I forbid it.”

“It’s my house too, Lucius,” my mother said in an irritable voice. “In fact, I believe it’s still in my name, being part of my marriage settlement.”

Taking advantage of my father’s momentary (and very rare) speechlessness, my mother interjected, “Make sure you bring a nice gift for young Teddy, dear. I believe he just started at Hogwarts. He’ll probably miss home. Maybe sweets or something. That castle has dreadful cooking.”

“Yes, mother. Harry told me he particularly enjoys Nandos.”

“You’re not seriously thinking of having an owl carry grilled chicken.” My mother looked at me incredulously. “He’ll eat it before you can even tie the package on. Send something else. And how is dear Harry?”

“He’s well,” I said, a little miffed at my mother’s mocking. “I’m meeting up with him later with a couple of friends.”

My mother had taken the revelation about me and Harry with aplomb. If it was even be a revelation to her – she had not seemed surprised when she called, a copy of the Prophet screaming the headline: “POTTER AND MALFOY – A UNION OF OPPOSITES?” in hand.

“That’s good, dear.” My mother smiled. “Send him our love. And tell him he still needs to come over for tea sometime.”

“Absolutely not.” My father’s face was thunderous. “One time was bad enough. We can’t make this a regular occurrence.”

Like timing from a bad comedy, Harry entered the room at that exact moment. My father glowered at him.

“Hello Lucius,” Harry gave my father a curt nod. “Narcissa.” His greeting to my mother was far warmer. “How are you?”

“Potter, I need to speak to you. You can’t keep dragging the Malfoy name through the papers. You need to –”

“I’m well, Harry,” my mother’s voice cut off my father’s tirade. “When are you coming over for tea?”

“Let me know next time you’re in London,” he replied easily, ignoring my father’s furious look. “I’m sorry to have to cut this short, but I need to take Draco now. We’ve plans tonight.”

“Of course.” I could have sworn my mother winked at Harry. “Don’t let us old fogeys keep you from your fun.”

“Potter, I need to speak with you,” my father began, but my mother had already cut the connection. The green flames died down.

I assessed Harry from head to toe. “You look nice. Your hair’s in a relatively decent state for once.”

“Can’t be showing up for your big celebration without your approval,” he said. “Are you ready to go?”

He led me to a private room in the Leaky Cauldron. A number of our friends were already there: Granger, Weasley, Goyle, Blaise, Millicent. Luna and her husband sat in the love seat in the corner, in conference with a strained looking Pansy. I hid a smile.

Harry and I wanted to host this partly to gauge how well our respective friends could mix. With the exception of the irate Pansy, they seemed to get along. At the very least, no fistfights had broken out. Yet.

“Hello Draco.” Granger came up to me, a martini glass clutched in one hand. “Did you just get here?”

“I was on a call with my parents,” I said. Harry had gone to fetch a drink for me at the bar.

Granger made a face. “How was that?”

“Same as always. How are things with you?”

“It’s going well. Lots of paperwork, dealing with idiots, the typical day of a civil servant.” She fished the olive out of her glass. “Did you give any more thought to my offer? About consulting for the Ministry?”

Harry reappeared by my side and handed me my espresso martini. He himself was drinking his typical beer. “Cheers, Hermione. What are you talking about?”

“Still trying to convince Draco here to consult for us,” she said. She eyed him. “Go on, tell him you think it’s a good idea.”

“It is,” Harry said. “You’d be good at it. And you can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy the search for the Grimoire.”

I had, to my surprise. Perhaps it was the relief of knowing my life was no longer threatened by Cross, but upon reflection, finding the Grimoire had certainly been memorable, not to mention thrilling. It provided a much-needed outlet that I never even realized I longed for. And it did lead me to Harry.

“Well … I suppose an arrangement could be made,” I said slowly. “But only if you grant me unfettered access to the Grimoire. And of course, we need to discuss my compensation.”

“Where’s your sense of civic duty?” Granger asked with an amused look. “But yes. I’ll have my assistant owl you with times so we can finalize the details. I have to warn you, though: most of the work won’t be as thrilling as looking for the Grimoire.”

I waved it aside. “It’ll give me an edge my colleagues don’t have. And maybe it’ll be fun. You’ll have to bear with me, though. I’m a poor duelist.”

“You’ll get better after the training course,” Granger promised. “We make everyone who has the remote possibility of being in the field take it. And something tells me you’ll need it, especially since I’m placing you on the team focusing on dismantling the Circle.”

“Have you found Cross yet?” A few days after I had left St. Mungo’s, Granger had come with the news that they had found Cross’ body in the ruins. It was possible that his body had burned to ash by the fire, but Granger’s face creased with uncertainty even as she mentioned that.

She shook her head. “We have our eyes and ears out, but we’ve had nothing so far. If he’s out there, we’ll find him.”

Harry touched my arm lightly. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise. Oh. I have a gift for you.” He took out a small box of red sandalwood inlaid with silver.

“What’s this?” I opened it. Lying on satin stained with age was a pair of platinum cufflinks set with small sapphires. I looked at Harry. He had an air of a bashful child giving his first Christmas gift. “You didn’t need to buy me anything.”

“I didn’t,” he said, looking embarrassed. “I found it while I was cleaning out your room in Grimmauld Place. I thought it would look good on you. You wear suits better than I do.”

“Wow. Thanks.” I was at a loss for words. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

“I’m glad you like them,” Harry said self-consciously. “I wouldn’t know what to do with them. They’re not really my color, and I don’t really know how to put them on, you’ve seen me with a tie –”

“Harry,” I interrupted his rambling. “They’re wonderful. I’ll wear them for next week when I’m presenting the Magical Historical Awards. Do you want to come with me to the afterparty, by any chance?” Now it was my turn to be shy.

Granger had been watching our exchange silently. “Oh, you should go, Harry. They’re quite fun sometimes. Free food and booze, and you have the pleasure to see distinguished professors making a fool out of themselves when they’re drunk.”

Harry paused, considering. “Sounds like it might be fun,” he said. “And I’m never one to turn down free. I assume I have to wear a suit?”

I nodded. “And just so you know, you need to wear your own tie this time. I returned all of Blaise’s.” Blaise, on hearing his name, turned and gave a small wave and a wink. He went back to his conversation with Weasley, of all people.

Harry looked at me, his eyes shuttered. “We’re going as friends?”

I looked away, embarrassed. “No. As my boyfriend.”

I wasn’t sure what would happen next. I felt that this sort of occasion called for a kiss, or at least a hug. And Malfoys did not do public displays of affects.

Potters, on other hand, apparently did. He leaned in to kiss the tip of my nose. It was far too tame, especially by our standards.

Oh, what the hell. I grabbed Harry by his lapels in for a more thorough kiss that had the half the room staring. Someone wolf-whistled.

“Maybe I’ll lend you one of my ties,” I said, feeling my face flushed. I loosened my own. “I don’t think I trust your taste in ties, now that I think about it. And now that you’ll be seen with me, you’ll need to look the part. That means you’re coming with me to my hairstylist on Mond—”

Harry cut me off with another kiss, one even deeper than our previous. “Draco. Shut up.” He guided us to an alcove.

I sat down, a little winded, but very much on an emotional high. Harry had gone off to refill his beer and was immediately accosted by one of his Gryffindor friends at the bar. Setting my glass down, I looked around.

Everyone appeared to be enjoying themselves. The alcohol was free-flowing, the food appearing from the kitchen as soon as a plate was emptied. Granger and Weasley were chatting with another one of Harry’s friends, Goyle and Millicent huddled in a corner looking as though they were the only two who existed in the world, and Blaise was flirting outrageously with a thoroughly drunk Pansy.

I smiled to myself. I would have considered this night a success had no fisticuffs occurred; this was beyond my expectations.

I opened Harry’s gift again, looking at the cufflinks, little glints of blue winking at me in the dim. They were nice, very old, and I pondered their provenance. I forgot whose room I stayed at while I was hiding at Grimmauld Place; I should ask Harry later. Or Kreacher. That old elf must know; if anyone were privy to the Blacks’ secrets, it would be him.

“Hello, Draco.” Luna Lovegood settled down beside me. “It’s a great party. Thanks for inviting me. I don’t usually get invited to these types of things, you know.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.” I had long decided the way to enjoy Luna’s presence was to ignore the uncomfortable truths she was so fond of casually dropping. Then I was ashamed. That was no way to treat someone. And I had decided to put the coward who dodged the painful realities behind me. “It’s their loss,” I added awkwardly. “I like you and so does Harry. We’ll need to have dinner sometime, all four of us. How’s Rolf?”

“He’s good. He’s enjoying being back in England after spending so much time in New Zealand.” She smiled at me. “I’m glad you found the Grimoire and survived to tell the tale.”

Somehow, despite Granger having sworn her men to secrecy, knowledge that I had uncovered Slytherin’s Grimoire had leaked. Though Granger and the Ministry denied everything (as did Harry and I), there had been heated gossip both in the press and the academic world. It did not help that Ted Cross, eminent Head of the British Museum, Magical Section, vanished without a clue. My sneaking suspicion that the other reason behind my rise in popularity was due to those rumors. Of course, those stories paled in comparison to salacious tales of me and Harry, and had disappeared accordingly.

“You do realize that I have never once confirmed or denied anything, right?” The Quibbler had been one of the worst, reporting frequently – and to my vast annoyance, mostly truthful – on what had happened during my search for the Grimoire. I scowled. “My lips are sealed.”

Luna smiled. “I always knew you would be the one to find it. Call it a woman’s intuition. It’s because you have Salazar Slytherin’s blood, right?”
“You might think that. I couldn’t possibly comment.” Then I had to ask: “How do you know so much? You and your magazine.”

Luna cocked her head at me. “A journalist never reveals her sources, Draco. Though in this case I’m not the journalist, and I actually don’t know. But it’s a thrilling tale, isn’t it? Lost magical books, ancient societies and conspiracies, a love story blossoming. Oh! That reminds me.” She handed me a white envelope. “I wasn’t originally planning to come to the party, but this came for you, and I thought might as well enjoy some free food and booze while I make my delivery.”

I wondered idly if I should make Harry share the cost of tonight as I took the envelope from her. Then I decided against it. After all, half the fun of having a trust fund was spending it. “What is it?”

“I don’t know. We didn’t see who delivered it. It’s addressed to you, though. I reckon it might be a fan letter.”

I held it slightly away from me. “You’re giving me a letter from an unknown sender? What if there’s a curse on it?”

Luna shook her head. “We scanned it beforehand. It’s clean. And I have to say, you’re getting paranoid.”

“You would be too if you were attacked and kidnapped,” I retorted, tearing it open. I unfolded the letter.

And almost dropped it.

“Dear Draco,

I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help writing to you. You might as well know that not only I survived, but I’m very much hearty and hale. There’s no point in trying to trace this; I’ve already taken all the appropriate precautions.

I blame Mr. Potter and young love for spoiling my plans, of course. By the way, I feel I must claim some small measure of credit in pushing you two together. No matter; what blooms in the spring fades in the fall. I suppose I might as well inform you that I’m not done with the Grimoire – or you, for that matter.

All the same, stay well.

Yours truly,
Theodore Cross”

I closed my eyes, the effects of the alcohol combining with a nausea from reading the letter. Cross was alive. There was no shock; somehow, my intuition had warned me that it had all been wrapped up too neatly.

“What’s wrong, Draco? You look faint. Have you had too much to drink?” Harry appeared and handed me a glass of water. “Here, water. What’s this?”

I handed Cross’ letter to him without a word. Harry read it quickly, his lips disappearing into thin lines as his eyes scanned the words. Then he raised his head and looked at me.

“I’m with you, Draco.” He came and embraced me. “Whatever happens, I won’t let anything happen to you. Everything will turn out alright.”

Surrounded by his warm arms, I was certain everything would be.