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Chapter Text

Magic could be a fickle thing—this, even the most well-bred of pure-bloods would grant you. It could destroy, it could create—it could heal, it could maim. It could reveal truths, it could deceive, and as often as a spell worked exactly the way it was meant to, it also went horrifically haywire.

Animagecraft, Draco had learned through the course of his studies, was no different from any other branch of magic in this respect. It was perhaps a bit trickier to manage, requiring more dedication (or else desperation) to master than your average charm or jinx, and came with a whole host of regulations dictating its application. But it was, in the end, only magic—and thus a tool that could undo you or elevate you, depending entirely on how you wielded it.

The worst thing about being an Animagus, you see, was the fact that, after lengthy spell preparations that were entirely too time-consuming and convoluted, you didn’t even get to choose your form.

The best thing about being an Animagus, though, was that you never had to choose your form. It was always precisely what you needed, decided by your innate arcane humours and the needs inherent to the witch or wizard casting. Not everyone was capable of placing such trust in magical energies, but for the faithful, for the hopeful—for the achingly desperate—it always worked out in the end.

Which brought Draco here, to the Owlery atop the West Tower of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Now, he wasn’t meant to be here. Not in the Owlery, and certainly not at Hogwarts, where from his current vantage point through one of the dozens of open windows pockmarking the tower he could see several dozen black-robed students aimlessly milling about the Courtyard far below, appearing not unlike a recently trod-upon anthill.

But he was here, all the same, because some mad Dark Lord had decided his conquest of the wizarding world couldn’t wait one damn year, so what had been meant to be a welcome finale to years of education wasted on parlour tricks and outright hogwash had instead turned into a year-long siege under the thumb of Death Eaters so foul a Dementor would’ve spat their soul back out.

So Seventh Year had come…and Seventh Year had gone, the only light in the fog of war Draco could cling to being his Animagecraft studies, attempted under the guise of being his seventh-year thesis topic.

“And why have you chosen to explore the field of Animagecraft, Mr. Malfoy?” then-Headmaster Snape had asked Draco, who had sat there in the old Potions study and felt very small and very vulnerable and very exposed, because there was a fucking war going on out there, and who could concentrate on banging out that final half-inch of parchment for your Divination essay under these conditions? “And pray, do not lie to me. I’ll know.”

Draco had swallowed, drawn himself up in the best imitation of his father in his prime he could muster, and lied through his teeth. “A well-rounded CV will be key to ensuring I can find a good foothold in…whatever is to come next, Sir. I’d like to have options. A leg-up, if you will.”

Snape had nearly stabbed his quill through the parchment, so quickly had he scrawled his signature on the application—and then sent it sailing off to McGonagall for final approval as the Head of the Transfiguration Department. “I’m expecting smart decisions from you this year, Mr Malfoy. You’ve always been a clever student. Do not disappoint me.”

Draco liked to think he’d kept his word—he’d kept his head down the entire year, and every moment outside of the farcical demonstrations that had passed for lectures under the Dark Lord’s educational regime had been spent holed up in the deepest, darkest corners of the library, surrounded by towering tomes that shielded him from prying eyes as he poured himself into his Animagecraft studies under McGonagall’s reluctant tutelage.

Perhaps she might have been more eager to mould his young mind had he been forthright in explaining his reasons for pursuing Animagecraft in the first place—but it was best for the both of them that she assumed he meant to use such magics to mischievous ends…rather than to simply escape this ridiculous, stupid war. Really, how was the Dark Lord going to find him if he turned into a field mouse and scampered into a crack in the castle walls? Or a sea snake and went to live with the Merfolk in the Black Lake? It was hardly the noblest of ways to ride out the war—but no one would ever accuse him of being a Gryffindor.

His studies had been abruptly cut short, though, when a horrifically disfigured Harry Potter had jumped him in his own parlour and fucked off with his wand, and then when he’d convinced his mother to loan him hers so he could complete the final stages of the spell, the whole bloody war had crested on the castle grounds, and he’d nearly been reduced to so much ash on the wind by a carelessly cast Fiendfyre curse.

Which was all to say he’d necessarily been a bit delayed in finalising his ‘thesis research’, and so it had only been two months back—well after the war had wound down and any real need for an Animagus form had passed—that he’d completed his training. “You’ve come this far, Mr Malfoy,” McGonagall had said with her lips in a thin, tight line. “Unless you think perhaps Animagecraft might not serve you quite as well now as it might have six months ago?”

And though Snape was dead and the war over (gods above and below, he hoped) and his family’s reputation in shambles, the veiled accusation had stung fiercely enough to goad him into chewing on that revolting mandrake leaf for a month and standing about in an open field on the moors waiting to be struck by lightning.

Which was how he’d wound up here, in the Owlery: a place Draco Malfoy did not belong—but to which his handsome, sleek, white-as-death Barn Owl did.

It was, by any and all accounts, a much more respectable form than the field mouse or sea snake, Draco had to admit. Ubiquitous in the wizarding world, he would never stand out or be a source of curiosity or suspicion. One could likely not have asked for a better form for being able to while away the hours, unremarked, large enough he needn’t fear any predators but small enough he would draw no attention. He was, on consideration, glad he hadn’t been allowed to choose his form—he’d fucked up enough choices in his life, it was nice to be relieved of the responsibility for once. And trusting to fate had served him well in this instance.

Now, it hadn’t been his idea to come back to Hogwarts in the first place; had he had any choice in the matter, he might have sought a discreet transfer to Durmstrang or even Beauxbatons to finish up any remaining coursework, and even with the restrictions placed on his movements, he felt confident enough in his grasp of the curriculum he could have managed at least Es on any N.E.W.T.s he chose to sit through self-study.

But no, the Wizengamot in their gracious magnanimity and grand wisdom had seen fit to direct him to return to Hogwarts and participate in the newly instated ‘Eighth Year’ course that McGonagall had established to allow former seventh-year students who felt they’d been deprived an adequate final year of education to get in one last hurrah. As his attendance was tied to his probationary terms, and since declining to return would have earned him a quick trip to Azkaban to share a cell with his father, here Draco was, talons curled around his favoured roosting branch as he peered from one of the windows out into the Courtyard far below.

It wasn’t all bad, of course. The Wizengamot hadn’t gone so far as to say which classes he was obliged to take, so he’d enrolled himself only in courses he could have passed with his eyes closed—which he often did, catching naps in the far back corners of his classrooms while the professors delivered droning lectures, generally being a bother to absolutely no one. He didn’t want to excel. He didn’t want to stand out. He only wanted to survive long enough to escape this castle and all its occupants—after which his future was wide open. Some might call it ‘empty’, but Draco liked to think he was only still considering his absolute glut of options.

And when he wasn’t napping away lecture hours or trying to get through meals as quickly and quietly as possible, he liked to come here, to the Owlery, where he could sit in calm, comfortable silence and have all the privacy he might like. The owls generally kept to themselves, only occasionally hissing or snapping at each other if one encroached on another’s roosting space, and given his sense of smell as an owl was virtually non-existent, the stench of droppings and old, mouldy feathers littering the floor didn’t bother him at all.

Occasionally, students would wander in, calling to their own owls or else waving down one of the official school owls to send messages, and Draco was content to ignore them, as they were content to ignore him.

This was, however, only until one lazy Saturday afternoon in late September, when he was up to his most favourite pastime of late: napping.

In retrospect, this entire mess might have been avoided entirely had he simply chosen a different perch to roost upon. As it was, though, he’d been too lazy to hop up a few more branches, well out of striking distance, and thus sat just within arm’s reach of the odd student wandering into the Owlery in want of a delivery bird.

“Oi. Psst, you there.”

Something poked him in the breast feathers, and he gave a start, wings flaring—it hadn’t struck anything sensitive, thanks to the healthy layering of down, but he was less than accustomed to being disturbed in the Owlery of all places.

“Oh, sorry. Hullo there—are you free, Mr…Ms? Owl?”

There, just beneath Draco’s perch and peering up through a pair of wire-frame glasses from beneath a messy shock of black hair with a fringe in desperate want of trimming, stood Harry Fucking Potter, still brazenly brandishing the wand with which he’d just stabbed Draco in an act of entirely unwarranted aggression. Only a few years ago and Draco’s father would definitely have heard about this.

Wings half-flared for balance, he carefully shuffled further along his perch with a halting gait, glaring at Potter all the while with a slit-eyed disdain that he hoped said fuck off. “Fuck off,” he hissed aloud for good measure, but Potter probably couldn’t understand that either, the thick-headed knob.

“Hey now, don’t be like that—all the other school owls are off on post runs, and I need a letter delivered.”

How that was Draco’s problem, he didn’t rightly know. Potter extended his wand again, and Draco snapped at it, wings extended in a threat display—and that seemed to spook Potter a bit. He held his hands up defensively, standing his ground.

“Easy, easy, geez…” His eyes lit up, an idea striking him, and he stuffed a hand into the pocket of his robes—coming out after much rummaging with a handful of what looked like multicoloured kibble. “Er, I haven’t got any owl treats on me, but I do have some…Bertie Bott’s? I reckon this one’s coconut—” He held up a white bean. “And this one…maybe cherry? Or chili pepper…” Gingerly, he took a step closer, his offering cupped in his palm. “It’s a little bit of a trek—southern England, if you can manage it. But I can have some proper treats for you when you get back? Only it looks like the other school owls are in use and—” He made a quick scan of Draco. “Doesn’t seem like you belong to anyone else? So? What do you say?”

Draco made a grand show of thinking the offer over before slowly, carefully picking his way back down the branch, closing the gap between himself and Potter’s open palm. He perused the proffered sweets, leaning forward as if to get a better look, then locked his soulless black eyes with Potter’s and promptly bit the shit out of the nearest finger he could find.

The Bertie Bott’s Beans went flying everywhere as Potter jerked his hand back, shaking it and spitting out several very choice words. If only the Prophet knew what a filthy tongue their boy saviour had on him.

Potter glared up at Draco, murder flashing in his eyes, and then showed him two fingers—one of which was now a lovely shade of purple-red with little bitty beak-shaped indentations. “Right, fuck you. Vicious bloody bird…” Still muttering under his breath Should’ve just asked to borrow Pig, he then quickly shuffled his way out the door, heading for the fourth-floor corridor and leaving the Owlery once again quiet and peaceful.

Potter had never been one to learn a lesson, though—in class or outside of it. Draco supposed he should therefore not have been surprised when, three days later, Potter was back in the Owlery, one finger bandaged and scanning the branches with a wild sort of paranoia. Draco was three branches up this time, digesting lunch and feeling quite content in his superiority right about now as Potter plastered himself against the curving tower wall and carefully worked his way around to harass an unfortunate old Barred Owl who had been happily dozing in the warm noontime sun.

“Don’t worry,” Potter groused, one eye pinned to Draco at all times, as if fearful he might suddenly find himself swooped upon otherwise. He carefully fit his little scroll of parchment to the Barred Owl’s leg, which it tolerated with a sleepy blink. “I won’t be demanding your ‘services’ again.” Draco gave a rough, rasping hiss that came out in a stutter reminiscent of chuckling laughter. “Dunno how you could be expected to fly anyhow with that stick up your arse.” He stopped laughing.

Well that was just rude, and Draco knew Potter had been raised by wolves, but was that any way to speak to a defenceless animal who’d only lashed out instinctively when attacked by a creature five times its size? He was aghast. Absolutely aghast.

So he hopped up one more branch and shuffled, shuffled, shuffled, until he was perched directly over Potter’s head, which was bowed over the old Barred Owl still as he added a little ribbon to the scroll to ensure it stayed fixed to the bird’s leg. Draco sighted himself, took careful aim—

And then let fly a loose, wet shit right on top of Potter’s birds’-nest hair.

It was a lovely contrast, if you asked Draco. An elegant white splatter against a sea of inky black. One could have written poetry about it—Potter was delivering fantastic free-form verses at that very moment, in fact.

Seeming to forget he was a wizard and could, quite easily, Vanish the excrement from his person with a flick of his wand, Potter instead turned to Draco, pointing with not a wand but his bandaged finger and vowing in a grit-toothed growl, “I. Will. Barbecue. You. We’ll have roast fowl very soon; I’ll put in a special request to the house-elves in the Kitchens.”

Draco gave an easy shrug, fluffing his feathers with a shiver and getting comfortable on his new perch.

But Potter’s idle threats were just that: idle. No house-elves came to harass Draco while he napped, and though Potter declined to return to the Owlery for another week and a half after the ‘faecal incident’, Draco was under no impression this was because he was lodging a formal complaint with McGonagall to do something about ‘that nasty brute in the West Tower’.

Still, return he did eventually—and this time, he came armed with a wide-brimmed hat, hide gloves, and a healthy amount of wariness.

“Just try something, arsehole,” he challenged, though not without a slight tremor in his voice as he carefully approached an overexcited Scops with some student’s band on its leg. It looked like it was about to piss itself with glee, so Potter might have more to fear from the owl in the hand than the one in the bush, as it were.

When Potter turned, reluctantly, to focus on fixing his little scroll to the owl’s leg in earnest, Draco hopped down to the branch just above the one atop which the little Scops was perched, placing himself nearly at eye level with Potter. Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, Potter looked up, locked eyes with Draco, and then gave a startled stumble backwards onto his arse when Draco fluffed himself up in a threat display with a raspily hissed Boo!

He laughed so hard at the sight, he nearly fell off his perch—and his hissing guffaws only grew louder when Potter glared up at him, covered in dirty hay and feathers.

“Yeah, you’re a bloody laugh-riot…” He struggled back to his feet, brushing his robes clean (in the loosest sense of the word), and went back to trying to fit the Scops with his letter. “What’s your problem, anyway? I was minding my own business this time.”

Well, you told me to try something, so I did, Draco did not say, but he thought it very hard, entirely too pleased with himself. He made a few more aborted attempts to spook Potter, but the results were not quite as spectacular as the first time, and when Potter finally got fed up and brandished his wand in threat, Draco decided to leave off, hopping back up a few rungs with a disappointed huff.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Potter muttered—though he made sure not to turn his back to Draco, even as he shuffled from the Owlery after sending the Scops off on its delivery. “See you ‘round, tosser,” he said before he slipped out the door, showing Draco a couple of fingers (once more fresh and unbandaged; Draco would have to do something about that when the inevitable next time came around).

With each successive visit—now coming two to three times a week usually—Potter became more and more inured to Draco’s threats (toothless and otherwise), and somewhere around mid-October, he started showing up with of all things owl treats. For Draco. Perhaps he’d grown tired of having to faff about in a sunning hat in mid-autumn, or maybe Madame Pomfrey’s questions as to why he kept showing up in the Hospital Wing with bloodied fingers were getting too probing.

He’d started off placing one as what could only be a peace offering atop a knot carved into one of the lower roosting branches, and Draco had purposefully ignored it until Potter had done his business and fucked off. He’d thought they might be poisoned at first—it certainly wouldn’t have come as any surprise—so he’d let one of the other owls have at it. When his poison-tester had failed to promptly keel over in a dead faint, he supposed the little bit of kibble must actually be an owl treat, and he called first dibs on it the next time Potter left one.

Having never tasted owl treats before, for obvious reasons, Draco didn’t have much to measure the taste by—but it was passable. Savoury and filling, with a mineral-y bite that suggested Draco really didn’t want to know what was actually in the things.

When Potter brought an offering on his next visit, placing it atop the knot, Draco didn’t wait for the big Horned Owl resting on the same branch to steal it—he swooped down, still a healthy distance from where Potter was fussing with the excitable little Scops again, and inhaled it. The taste tended to grow on you was all, and you needed to let these stupid birds know who was boss, or they’d never let you have a moment’s peace, the territorial shits.

“…So you like them, then?”

Draco swivelled his head around in a manner he knew unsettled humans, staring at Potter with a half-lidded gaze that he hoped said Who gave you permission to address me?

Potter seemed to be waiting for him to actually speak, though, and when nothing was forthcoming, he sent the Scops on its way and shoved a hand into his robe pocket, rifling about for a moment until he came out with a handful of owl treats. Carefully, he began stacking them on top of the knot in a little pyramid—and once finished with his handiwork, he took several steps backward, plastering himself against the side of the tower with an expression of wincing hope.

And fuck it—the Horned Owl was already slavering at the beak, so Draco gave it a hissed warning, beating his wings imperiously to run it off. He then ever-so-slowly crept down the branch to claim his prize, taking care not to jostle the pyramid and send the delicious little delights tumbling into the filthy straw below, and nipped them up, one by one.

Potter’s shoulders relaxed a tick, though Draco kept him pinned with one eye—he liked fucking with Potter more than he liked these owl treats, and forced to choose between the treats and giving Potter another scar to go with the one he’d earned from the Dark Lord, he’d go for the latter every time.

“So whose owl are you?” Potter asked, daring to take off his ridiculous hat; a wise move, as Draco had been contemplating swooping down upon him and carrying it off, perhaps leaving it for Potter to find later atop the Gryffindor stands out on the Quidditch pitch. “You haven’t got one of the school crests, and you aren’t banded like the other students’ birds…” He frowned. “You don’t belong to one of the professors, do you?” He then paled with dawning realisation. “Oh god, you aren’t…you aren’t Snape’s owl, are you?”

Draco nearly choked on one of the treats, hacking until it popped from his gizzard and landed in the refuse littering the floor of the Owlery. What a waste.

“You’re certainly a mean enough little shit to make one suspect…” He scratched his temple, eyes screwing up in thought behind his glasses. “…Well you’re obviously someone’s. I mean, don’t let this go to your head, but you seem far too intelligent to be a wild owl that just wandered in. Besides—” He moved to place one hand protectively over his crown, chancing a few measured steps forward though still keeping out of range of Draco’s talons. “—I doubt wild owls bother to aim.”

Draco began to preen, and Potter sighed, defeated.

“Right, well, enjoy your treats. If you can manage some self-restraint on future encounters, there might be more where that came from.” He gave Draco a long, hard look—then shook his head, blinking at himself in bemusement. “…The hell am I talking to a bloody bird for? God, I really must miss Hedwig…”

Draco didn’t know who ‘Hedwig’ was, but he shared Potter’s concern about striking up conversations with random owls he met while going about his day: Potter was and ever would be absolutely fucking off his rocker underneath the unearned celebrity and passable Quidditch skills.

True to his word, though, like the honourable, noble Gryffindor that he was, Potter showed up on successive visits to the Owlery bearing gifts he offered up in an effort to convince Draco they had a reasonable rapport going now and he really shouldn’t muck it up by raking Potter across the face, even if he would look better that way.

As October stretched on and the lazy, warm days of summer at last came to a close, though, Potter’s “visits” became less frequent, until by Halloween, he might go a week without showing up at all. This, Draco was perfectly pleased with—except he’d grown fond of the brand of owl treats Potter seemed to have an endless supply of, and he was starting to get cravings even as a human, which was most disconcerting. Undoubtedly they’d be absolutely revolting to his human tastebuds, but the craving was there all the same and—of late—unquenchable.

It was therefore with no small amount of mortifying eagerness that he leapt to the lowest branch when Potter came barrelling into the Owlery one lovely Sunday afternoon in early November and began casting about the tower with panic writ large on his features. His eye fell on Draco, already perched patiently by the knot where it had been agreed Potter would leave his treats—and his expression fell with a sick sort of resignation.

He approached, carefully and cautiously, and scanned the branches above, a tiny little noise of defeat gurgling in his throat when he found the empty branches where the Hogwarts-owned owls usually roosted. His gaze then drifted, reluctant, to Draco, and he held before himself, clenched tight in his fists, a rolled up slip of parchment.

“…Now, all right, I know…I know you really don’t want to deliver things for me. But this—” He held up the parchment. “This is really important, and I need to get it sent off now, ‘cause it’s a time-sensitive kind of thing, and well—” He waved a hand at the empty roosts. “All the school owls are in use, and Pig’s already off making a delivery, so could you…could you maybe?”

Draco blinked slowly, looking first at the empty knot and then at Potter. He was getting the distinct feeling no owl treats were forthcoming and was rapidly losing interest in this conversation. He spread his wings, reading to launch himself up to a higher perch, out of reach of Potter’s whinging.

“Wait—wait, come on!” Potter lunged for him, and Draco lashed out with snapping beak and ripping claw—and that sent him reeling. “Right, right, sorry! You like your space, I know that. Sorry.” He waved the parchment weakly, pasting on an entreating expression that probably made Girl Weasley and her ilk go weak in the knees. “I swear, it’s just the one time, and you know I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important, right? I’ll get you a whole cauldron full of owl treats if you’ll do it? Do you have a flavour preference or anything? George said Eeylops started selling a new ‘Cinnamon Pumpkin Tripe’ flavour after the equinox, and that sounds absolutely disgusting to me, but I’m not an owl, so what do I know?” He slowly extended the hand holding the parchment. “Please.”

And now this was just sad. The Boy Who Lived, Saviour of all wizarding-kind (well, mostly the ones in England, but the Dark Lord would’ve probably gotten around to global conquest eventually, so there was a good chance Potter had saved the entire world)—reduced to begging an owl to pretty please deliver a letter for him. It was as sorry a sight as Draco had seen in many months, and he had to put a stop to it, he really did.

With as close to a huffing sigh as he could manage, Draco shifted his weight to balance on one leg and held the other out, waiting.

Potter just stared, blinking silently in bald confusion at the leg, until Draco snapped his beak at him in warning. Potter jerked, nearly dropping the parchment, then quickly slipped forward and began attempting to affix the letter to Draco’s leg with nervously trembling fingers.

“Please don’t bite me, please don’t bite me, please don’t bite me…” he muttered as a mantra under his breath, before switching to, “God, I really hope you don’t belong to anyone. This isn’t stealing, understand? If you’ve got an owner, I’d appreciate you explaining the situation to them. These are, er, extenuating circumstances.”

After a good ten minutes of tying and untying and re-tying, Potter finally seemed satisfied with the job, placing three owl treats down on the knot, perhaps as a down-payment, and instructing, “It’s for Quality Quidditch Supplies, all right? It needs to get to them before closing, if at all possible. I know it’s a long trek—” Draco barely managed to stifle a squawk; how the fuck was he meant to get to bloody London by eight?! Merlin’s saggy balls, he was already regretting this… “—so I’ll understand if you can’t make it, but…but just try? I’ll make it worth your while! Not…entirely sure how, but I’ll think of something by the time you get back!”

Draco tried rolling his eyes, but it was a difficult thing for an owl, so he instead shooed Potter away as best he could, fighting the urge to avoid shaking loose the uncomfortable weight of the parchment tied to his leg, and hopped up to one of the roosting branches nearer an open window.

“Oh, wow, thanks! Thanks a bunch! You’re a lifesaver, honestly! I take back everything I said about barbecuing you! Watch out for helicopters on the way, yeah?”

Draco launched himself through the window—if for no other reason than to escape Potter’s effusive prattling—and beat his wings with great sweeping strokes in an effort to quickly gain altitude.

Now, he of course had no intention of making his way to London—not for a lark, and certainly not for Harry Potter, no matter how dire his straits or pretty his promises.

He was, however, very curious about what had Potter so worked up. What could be so urgent that he would risk further maiming by what Draco was quite confident was the most ill-tempered (but best bred) bird in the Owlery?

He took a long loop around the castle grounds, killing time until he felt confident he wouldn’t run into Potter on returning to the Owlery. It was the only place he felt comfortable transforming—no one spent more time there than absolutely necessary, and it wasn’t a place groups tended to congregate. His Animagus abilities were a matter of public record, of course, and anyone could file a request to see his profile, but Draco certainly wasn’t about to advertise himself.

Once satisfied Potter would have fucked off back from whence he came, Draco sailed through one of the open windows of the Owlery, spiralling down until he landed gracefully on the dross littering the bottom of the tower. He awkwardly balanced on his free leg, using his beak to pick at the ribbon holding the parchment. He didn’t want to shift back and realise he’d trampled the parchment underfoot in the doing.

With some nipping, the parchment and ribbon fell free, and but a moment later, Draco was human once more, leaning down to snatch it up. He slipped the letter into his robes, the stench of the Owlery already wreaking havoc on his sensitive nasal passages, and quickly and quietly made his way for the fourth-floor corridor.

As he heard it, the returnees in the other Houses were all bunking together in much the same fashion as in previous years—but so few Slytherins had returned that Draco was blessed with a private room, which suited him just fine. It didn’t exactly have much of a view aside from a little porthole looking out into the depths of the Black Lake, but he was certainly not complaining, not after seven years sleeping between Crabbe and Goyle in the throes of puberty.

Draco toed off his loafers by the door, hanging his robes on a line of hooks jutting from the wall, and strode over to the handsome roll-top he’d brought from his room at home, shrunken in his pocket the first day of the new term.

“Right, let’s see what sort of emergency you’ve cooked up for yourself now…” Grabbing a pair of weights carved to look like Basilisk eggs, he unfurled the parchment and placed the weights to hold it open while he ran his eyes over what was, he was realising, an Owl Post Order form.

Potter was buying a new broomstick. Or attempting to, at least—he wasn’t buying shit if Quality Quidditch Supplies didn’t get this form by eight this evening.

Too good for his Firebolt now, was he? Not that Draco could blame him—the Nimbus line had passed the Firebolt’s quality two years back, claiming once more the title of best-quality broom on the market, and it seemed Potter was looking to get his hands on a Nimbus 2020. If nothing else, Potter at least had good taste in brooms—and it seemed this time he was going to actually use his own money to buy one, instead of having it gifted to him by adoring fans as had surely happened in the past.

But the further down the order form Draco read, the deeper the furrow between his brow grew, until he had to fight not to rip the damn parchment in half, fingers white-knuckled as he clenched the paper in both fists.

“This—absolute pillock, he’s getting the 2020 without the auto-braking charm?! And attaching the mount with Bulgarian Pine Pitch instead of a Permanent Sticking Charm?! HE’S GOING TO BREAK HIS FUCKING NECK TRYING TO SAVE A FEW KNUTS.” He snatched up a quill, spearing it into an inkwell, and immediately set to work, scratching savagely through Potter’s terrible decisions and scrawling much more sensible choices beside them. The 2020, with the auto-braking charm and the protective runes carved into the shaft, with a platinum mount (Potter could afford it) instead of brass fixed with a sticking charm that made Epoximise look like Spellotape. He only just held himself back from adding the Mooncalf-hide saddle seat—it would be a luxury wasted on Potter.

Once he’d adjusted the order to his satisfaction (though not before slipping in a request for a five-pack of owl treats from Eeylops; Potter had promised him after all), he rolled the scroll back up, measured out a length of handsome ribbon, and made his way back to the Owlery.

A sharp whistle rending the air called down his own owl, a particularly imposing specimen of an Eagle Owl named Xerxes bearing a flashy silver band on his leg etched with Property of D.L.Malfoy. He shuffled down along the lowest of the roosting branches, one leg bared to accept a letter, and Draco set to work affixing the parchment.

“Now, are you quite sure you can deliver this by eight tonight? It’s London, you know—hardly a hop and a skip.” Xerxes fixed Draco with a hard glare, ruffling his feathers in offence as if to say How very dare you doubt my ability to do my job. “All right, all right—I’m sure you know the ins and outs of this delivery business better than I do. Off with you, then.” He shooed Xerxes on his way—then caught himself, just before the owl took flight. “Oh! And—” He lowered his voice, speaking soft and close, for it was a bit scandalous. “…If they offer you a treat for your services, see if you can’t try the Cinnamon Pumpkin Tripe. I’m curious if it’s any good.”

Xerxes only gave him a long, unblinking stare, then shook his head, opened his impressive wingspan, and took off in a flurry of feathers and down.

Magical owls were, evidently, more capable creatures than Draco had given them credit for thus far, for the next day at breakfast, when the owls came through the Great Hall with the students’ morning post, a pair of Grey Owls flying in sync came swooping in, clutching between them a long, slender cylindrical package.

All eyes in the Hall swivelled to see who was the lucky recipient of what was, quite obviously, a brand new regulation Quidditch broomstick—and then they slowly tracked back to their respective morning meals when it became clear it was just Harry Potter, yet again, flaunting his fabulous wealth (really, if you were going to show off how absolutely loaded you were, you had to be generous about it—like by buying new brooms for the entire Quidditch team).

The owls deposited their package squarely into Potter’s lap, and he gaped at it in dimwitted surprise, perhaps having forgotten entirely he’d ordered the damn thing. Like a toddler at Christmastime, he tore into the wrapping, Weasley at his side helping him along in between swipes across his mouth to wipe away the jealousy-fuelled drool dribbling down his chin, and between them they shortly had unpackaged Potter’s lovely—legal and adequately charmed—Nimbus 2020.

Human ears were, alas, absolutely shite at hearing compared to owls’, but even over the dull drone of conversation, Draco still managed to catch Weasley going, “That’s a beauty, Harry!” and “Bloody gorgeous! What’s the mount made of?” and “First payslip’s definitely going toward one of these babies.”

For whatever reason, the remainder of Draco’s breakfast tasted just a little bit better than it had before the post had come.

“You know,” Potter said when he found his way up to the Owlery during their afternoon free period, “I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful or anything…” He stepped up to Draco’s branch, giving him a respectable berth but edging close enough it felt like they were indeed having a conversation. “…But it wasn’t quite the broom I thought I’d ordered. It seemed awfully fancy—and I don’t usually trick my brooms out quite so…extravagantly. Especially not for pick-up Quidditch.”

Draco gave him a slow, patient blink that suggested he ought to choose his next words very carefully, as the implication Draco was bad at his job (where ‘his job’ had been instructing his own owl to fly to London and back inside of six hours) was bordering on offensive—and Potter held both hands up.

“Right, no, never mind—must’ve ticked the wrong box on the form. Hermione says I don’t read important documents carefully enough before signing them. Nearly gave away my entire house once just contracting a housekeeper to keep it tidy.” What the fuck? How on earth did one— “Anyway, thanks. For not just shredding the parchment and fucking off. I was panicking, and it was stupid, because of course I could’ve just borrowed one of the school brooms—but it’s just not the same, flying on any old broom.” Well, Draco could understand that. He certainly wouldn’t have thrown a fit, but there was something to be said about zooming about on a fine piece of equipment you’d bought with your (father’s) own hard-earned coin.

Potter slipped a hand into his pocket, withdrawing a rather unremarkable pouch the size of his fist, and placed it atop the knot. “And, as promised, because I’m a man of my word…” He then unlaced the mouth of the pouch, leaving it open, before quickly backing away.

Draco watched, until Potter was far enough away for comfort, then hopped from the branch upon which he’d been roosting down onto the lowest-set branch, creeping along until he could peek inside the pouch to see what Potter came offering as tribute.

It was an absolute mountain of owl treats, all manner of different colours—suggesting an equal number of new and exciting flavours. Dare he hope some of these little morsels might be the much-vaunted Cinnamon Pumpkin Tripe?

“Now, don’t tell anyone,” Potter warned, placing a finger over his lips, “but it’s got an Undetectable Extension Charm on it, so there’s probably more owl treats in there than you could eat in your entire lifetime.” Oh but Draco loved a challenge. “Take as many as you like—I’ll be back for the pouch tomorrow, if that’s all right.” Draco ignored him, already visually picking over the treats he could spot nearest the lip of the pouch and trying to decide which he would sample first. “Er…if you could, though, please don’t…you know. Don’t shit in it or anything, please.”

Draco gave him a withering look.

“Oh don’t look at me like that! You’ve definitely shown a propensity for wanting to screw with me, so I’m entitled to a healthy bit of concern! I’m just making sure our little ceasefire here will last at least ‘til I can get my pouch back tomorrow. I’ve stored some things that are important to me in it, and I’d like to not have to Scourgify them of owl shit once you’ve gorged yourself on treats.” He frowned in thought. “…And please don’t leave any pellets in there either. If I see one little vole-sized femur…”

He let the threat hang, and Draco shooed him away with one wing, placing his back to Potter and wondering in the back of his mind as he began picking through the pile of treats if owls could be charged with postal fraud.

Chapter Text

In the wake of graciously helping Potter not break his neck dicking about with his friends—not that Potter deserved the thoughtfulness; it was only, Draco’s mother had risked her life to save the Boy Saviour’s skin, and he didn’t want her good turn to go to waste—Draco realised that convincing Potter he was willing to deliver his letters and parcels for the low, low fee of a handful of delicious owl treats was, in fact, an absolutely brilliant scam.

For one, Draco didn’t have to do anything beyond make a show of flying off (after extracting promises of ample compensation for his trouble), wait long enough for Potter to leave, and pass off the delivery to Xerxes, who of course got a cut of the ‘profits’.

For another, it was the perfect opportunity to snoop on Potter’s post. The dunderheaded fool never bothered to seal his letters or enchant them in any way, after all, so it was no trouble to skim the contents of anything Potter came begging to have delivered.

Most of the time, he was writing to a ‘Teddy Lupin’—the surname rang familiar, but Draco couldn’t place it. The letters were curious, and it took several deliveries before he divined that this Teddy fellow was either an infant or had been kicked in the head by a Hippogriff as a boy. Potter wrote to Teddy Lupin with almost alarming frequency—several times a week—and Draco wondered at their relationship. Potter was the celebrity of the moment, but surely he hadn’t sired any illegitimate get just yet. Still, Draco filed the knowledge away for later use—one never knew when one might need to blackmail a prodigious pain in one’s feathered arse.

In addition to the odd personal missive, Potter also responded to letters concerning a ‘No 12 Grimmauld Place’, which he seemed to have inherited but was now being contested by a trust, evidently because the previous owner had been a convicted felon and so ownership had reverted to the trust. He could usually tell when Potter was replying to one of these letters, because he didn’t bother making small talk, only offering a curt, “Delivery, if you don’t mind,” before yanking at Draco’s leg like he was a Christmas goose.

Going through Potter’s post was illuminating indeed, but Draco got the distinct and most unwelcome feeling he was learning entirely too much information about the boy wonder’s personal life. He didn’t feel bad about it—quite the contrary: he almost enjoyed it. He would find himself hunched over his desk in his room with the latest piece of parchment unfurled before him, mouthing the words to himself and hearing Potter’s voice in his head. Ron intercepted a cream puff I Accio’d at dinner and God bless the bloke who invented the Enchanted Razor and Seamus has decided to learn to play the bagpipes by graduation and it’s worse than baby mandrakes. These insignificant minutiae of Potter’s life were being burned into Draco’s mind, until he started catching glimpses of Potter in the hallway or across the courtyard and wondering the most insipid things, like Did he knot his tie himself today or are he and Weasley still practising on each other? and Did he choose a sensible toothpaste this morning or is he sticking with Bertie Bott’s Oral Adventure like a madman? and Has he found a suitable toy broom for Tedward yet?

It was only difficult to maintain a healthy disdain for Potter, was all, when one was being reminded on an almost daily basis that he could be stupid in a sort of silly way in addition to his usual infuriating way. That he Vanished foods he didn’t like from his plate when Granger wasn’t looking. That he had ever so many of the same flaws Draco did and was thus just as human and fallible. Just as touchable.

It unsettled Draco, getting so intimate a glimpse into Harry Potter’s life, to the point he was becoming less Potter and more Miss you loads and see you soon—Love, Harry. Enough had changed in these past few years for Draco that it would have been nice to at least have hung on to this one tiny scrap of acrimonious constance, like an irritating comfort blanket.

But here he was, all the same, and short of tracking down a Time-Turner and attempting a re-do of the past few weeks, there was little he could do but accept that Potter was probably never going to quite be Potter again.

On the bright side, Draco at least had no classes with him. Potter was on the Auror track, last Draco had heard—because of course he was—and Draco was on the ‘take as few classes as necessary to stay enrolled and try not to piss anyone off’ track. Between schedules that kept them out of each other’s lives (and fields of view) and the fact that House alignments were as strong as ever, the bonds forged in the war weakening once again as everyone returned to their proper corners, Draco didn’t really have to interact with Potter at all as a human.

But when he doffed his human form and slipped into his owl shape, suddenly everything at once became both less complicated and more.

Now, he could easily avoid Potter, of course—there were perfectly respectable roosts well out of Potter’s reach, and with one more well-positioned shit, Potter would probably never bother him again.

The only trouble was, he didn’t want to avoid Potter.

Potter didn’t treat him like Draco Malfoy—he treated him like a reliable if ill-tempered owl who was discreet enough to deliver letters to individuals who might or might not be secret lovechildren. And he smiled, a bright and squinty-eyed thing that had nearly knocked Draco off his perch the first time it had been shot his way.

It was a very strange feeling, Harry Potter liking him—not least of all because Draco was quite sure he’d given him no good reason to do so. But even stranger still was the fact Draco…well, didn’t feel as much like shitting in his hair or using a talon to carve a nice DLM into his forehead these days. That was the trouble with getting close to people you hated: you started to not hate them, and that just fucked everything up.

But it wasn’t as if Potter would ever find out these things, and you couldn’t be a real aristocrat if you didn’t have a few dark, dirty secrets rattling about inside your soul that you were bound to take to the grave. Between this and his heartsick passion for buggery, Draco was well and truly set.

Potter’s trips to the Owlery dropped off in frequency when the Hogwarts Quidditch season started, for though he was not allowed a spot on the team itself—not technically being a student any longer—he still packed the stands with the rest of the rowdy lot in House Gryffindor to cheer what he surely had to realise were rather pathetic displays compared to what he himself was capable.

When weekends came where there were no Interhouse Quidditch games, Potter took to the empty pitch to join his friends in pick-up games of their own, straddling the handsome new Nimbus 2020 Draco had graciously customised for him. Bored without fresh post to snoop through or new owl treat flavours to sample, Draco would perch atop the empty Slytherin stands to take in these more casual games, the owl’s eyesight better than even the finest pair of Omnioculars.

Potter would invariably spot him watching on such occasions (a big white Barn Owl was difficult to miss, admittedly), but instead of ignoring Draco and focusing on the game—rather, on the Snitch he was meant to be catching—he would hover there, a hundred feet up, waving stupidly at Draco as if they were best mates. The others on the pitch probably thought he was going mad, acting so chummy with a bird; Draco didn’t disagree with them. Potter was weird.

But ‘weird’ wasn’t the worst quality in the world, nor was Potter being weird any great shock. It was just another one of those foibles Draco was learning about, tearing aside the perfect facade others saw in Potter and exposing him for the ridiculous wanker he was underneath.

A wanker who, it turned out, liked to teeter halfway out of windows in tall towers while he did his homework.

It was by mere chance Draco noticed it. He’d taken, of late, to spending a few laps soaring around the castle after dinner to aid his digestion and quiet his thoughts. It was pleasant, really: the brisk night air ruffling his feathers, the sounds of all the inhuman nightlife scattered about the castle grounds, the twinkling dots of candles and lamplight in windows and bracketing doorways upon a sea of black. Things were ever so much simpler as an owl, and he found himself wondering, with a chill of foreboding, if any Animagus had ever been tempted to just…never turn back. To live out their life cocooned safe within an animal form, unbothered by the consequences of decisions—good and bad—made as a human.

Such dark flights of fancy never lingered—but still, they did crop up on occasion. On this night, though, his forbidden ponderings were interrupted by the glinting moonlight revealing an open window several stories up one of the towers bordering the front lawn—Gryffindor Tower, a quick check of his bearings revealed. And there, curled up on the sill to catch the gentle night breeze, one startled movement away from plummeting off the edge and losing that Boy Who Lived title he’d worked so hard to hold on to all these years, sat Harry Fucking Potter.

He had his knees drawn up, a long measure of parchment braced against them as he scribbled feverishly, and every thirty seconds or so, he would stop and nibble on the frayed end of his quill before evidently hitting upon some genius thought and going back at it.

Well, he would soon learn it was stupid and dangerous and stupidly dangerous to sit so perilously close to the edge of a window sill a hundred-plus feet in the air—and like a harpy out of the blue, Draco streaked down, announcing his impending arrival with a screeching hiss that had Potter’s head snapping up in fear. Potter quickly curled into a ball, the parchment and quill sent flying, as Draco zipped through the open window, flaring his tightly tucked wings at the last possible moment and coming to a tumbling landing atop one of the four-posters near the far wall.

“What the fuck?!” Potter shrieked, immediately on his feet and wand brandished. He was breathing hard, and Draco thought he could hear the rough, rumbling gallop of his heart. Draco was a bit dazed by the landing and drunkenly struggling back to his feet, when: “P—Petrificus Totalus!”

Oh. Fuck.

Draco’s body seized, going stiff as a board, and try as he might to wrestle his muscles back under conscious control, Potter’s spell held fast. From the corner of his eye, he could see Potter approaching, squinting to make out his attacker in the dim lamplight. He held himself with a wary caution, wand still trained on Draco, and it was only when he’d gotten within a few feet—good gad, what were those glasses for if he was still blind as a bat while wearing them?—that he released a rushed whisper of, “Oh shit oh shit oh shit—Finite Incantatem!”

Draco’s body relaxed, and he immediately righted himself, feathers fluffed and body language decidedly pissed off as fuck. What was it with Potter and his tendency to just wildly fling spells at Draco, entirely unprompted?! The nasty scars spidering across Draco’s chest, hidden underneath layers of feather and magic, pulsed sympathetically.

Potter chucked his wand away; it clattered against the floor and then rolled rattling under one of the beds. He held his hands up in a penitent gesture. “Shit, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was you! I—I—” He cocked his head to the side, brows knitting. “It…it is you, right?”

The fuck else would it be dive-bombing your window, you numb-nut? was Draco’s violently rasped hiss, but Potter didn’t seem to understand it, now wringing his hands in frantic worry. Shit, Draco could still feel the magic wracking his body, trembling from the strain to his muscles as he’d struggled against the spell.

“I—I’m really sorry, but you scared the mess out of me!” He scrubbed at his hair, and Draco could still hear his heart thundering in his chest. “You can’t just pounce on people like that! I dunno how much word gets around in the Owlery, but I’ve kind of had some bad experiences with people sneaking up on me trying to kill me!”

And all right, he had something of a point—but to Draco’s knowledge, none of them had been owls when they’d attempted murder, so this had been entirely uncalled for. He began to put himself back to rights, smoothing his feathers back into place and willing his own racing heart to calm. Fuck, coming here had been a monumental mistake. He’d only thought to spook Potter, perhaps get him to think twice before leaving his window wide open—not suicide-bomb the wizard whose modus opperandi was ‘cast first, ask questions later’, a fact with which Draco ought to be intimately familiar.

Potter was leaned over, hands on his knees to put himself at eye level with Draco, and behind his glasses, his eyes loomed large and did, at least, seem contrite. “…Are you hurt? If I try and touch you, will you scratch my eyes out?” Draco didn’t honestly know what he might do in this state, but when Potter took two testing steps forward, close enough to gently poke at Draco’s wing to see if it was sound, he endured it with a grudging reluctance. Evidently emboldened by Draco’s indulgence, more poking ensued, until Potter had satisfied himself his hastily cast spell hadn’t ruined Draco. A good thing for the both of them, really, as Draco would not have wanted to limp his way to the Hospital Wing to explain to Pomfrey why he needed a few broken bones discreetly mended.

“Right.” Potter gave a relieved sigh and straightened up. “Everything seems to be in order.” He turned back toward the window, but kept his eye on Draco, gesturing to the now-empty sill. “Did you…just pop in for a visit? Or did you eat a drunk mouse and lose your way back to the Owlery?”

Draco tried to show him two fingers, but it didn’t really work when feathers entered the picture. Damn, he was useless indoors—there were no roosts to perch upon and glower down imperiously at Potter from. In fact, there wasn’t much in here at all, aside from the—he counted—five beds, all empty at the moment.

Potter must have noticed him surveying the room, for he promptly explained, “The others are down in the Common Room—probably won’t be back up until curfew. I had a Charms essay to finish. It’s my week to let Ron crib my parchments, see, so I’ve gotta have it finished by the morning—oh!” He rushed over to a wardrobe standing beside one of the four-posters and began rummaging through, eventually pulling out a bulging purse that he shook enticingly. “It’s not from Eeylops, but the Post Office in Hogsmeade had a few boxes on hand that customers could purchase. Peace offering?”

Draco opened his wings, tail wiggling as he prepared to launch himself and snatch those delicious little nuggets right from Potter’s hand—when Potter yelped, “Wait—wait!” and quickly hid the bag behind his back. That fuck-tart. “Let’s maybe try something a bit less risky than flying in a very cramped tower dormitory room, yeah? Let me see…” He cast about, tapping his chin in thought—then released a soft Ah! and raced across the room, throwing open another wardrobe and digging through it until he drew out a moth-eaten knitted jumper in a faded red. “It’s too small for him anyway, and Mrs Weasley knits us new ones each Christmas—he won’t mind.”

He hastily wrapped his forearm with the jumper, then held his arm out and approached Draco expectantly. “H-here, you can just…hop up here, and I’ll carry you where you like. That way you don’t risk another crash landing.”

The feathers around Draco’s neck fluffed in offence; he hadn’t crashed. He’d made as respectable a landing as could have been expected in the tower’s close quarters, and then Potter had assaulted him so he couldn’t even get his bearings again. Oh he was going to take a finger for this, he really was.

Potter brought his arm down level with the bed, and Draco waddled across the plush bedding that nearly swallowed him whole until his talons found purchase on the cabled yarn. He dug in, hoping for a wince that said the material wasn’t quite as thick as Potter had imagined, but no such luck, and he shortly found himself hoisted into the air. Potter held Draco at an angle that had their heads level, which Draco thought was both very brave and very stupid (Gryffindor through and through, this one), and he barely reined in the urge to bite his nose.

“Please don’t bite my nose…” Potter said, evidently now able to read minds. He then held up one of the treats. “Or my fingers.”

Draco lashed out, snapping up the treat but leaving Potter’s fingers intact; the satisfaction would only be momentary, he reminded himself, and Potter would raise a stink about it. The last thing Draco wanted these days was attention; oh how far he’d fallen since First Year.

Potter jerked his hand back, frowning down at his fingers. “Are you this bad-mannered by nature, or am I just special?” He sighed when Draco began craning his neck, trying to see where Potter had stashed the purse full of treats, and shuffled his way back over to the sill and its still-open window. “You really don’t belong to anyone, do you?” He lifted Draco up, getting a good look at his feathered arsehole. “No band, no crest or anything… And I’m sure you aren’t wild. Who are you?”

None of your fucking business; now make with the treats. When Potter wasn’t quick enough on the draw, Draco began to climb up his arm to Potter’s whoa whoa whoa protests, and he quickly found himself set gently down onto the window sill, with Potter prodding him to move from the makeshift falconer’s glove to the cold stone bricks.

Potter tossed the ruined jumper aside, then reached down to collect his discarded parchment and quill, sliding back onto the sill beside Draco. From his pocket, he extracted the purse of treats, placing it close enough that Draco could take nips whenever he so pleased. He so pleased right away, taking two at once.

“Don’t choke,” Potter warned. “I don’t know how to perform the Heimlich on birds.” Draco hadn’t a clue what ‘the Heimlich’ was, nor did he care to have Potter attempt to perform anything on him, so he swallowed carefully.

Evidently satisfied Draco was in no more imminent danger—that was twice now he’d nearly died in this tower; Potter was and ever had been hazardous to Draco’s health—Potter laid the parchment between them and returned to his scribbling. A casual glance between wolfing down treats that tasted like Chicken Surprise (was the surprise ‘cannibalism’?) and Boeuf Bourguignon showed Potter to be badly bullshitting his way through an essay on nonverbal spells.

“If you haven’t got an owner, I suppose that means you haven’t got a name, either.”

Preposterous; Draco had a name, and a very fine one that spoke highly of his pedigree. Perhaps it wasn’t going to open quite as many doors going forward, but the name ‘Malfoy’ still carried some weight, even if that weight was down to infamy rather than fame these days.

“Should we try some out? It’s a bit of a pain, not knowing what to call you, honestly.” Well that was hardly Draco’s problem, and Potter calling him at all was nothing he wanted any part of. He munched on a treat that tasted like Raspberry Liver and Onions—a less-than-successful flavour, he made a mental note—and wondered how Potter had managed to make it into any N.E.W.T-level classes at all if this was how he approached his schoolwork. Rank favouritism, that was what it was. “How about…Snitch? Since you seem to like Quidditch.”

Draco made a retching sound—how pedestrian—and Potter quickly pulled his parchment away, perhaps fearing Draco meant to sick up a pellet onto it. Now there was a fine idea. “All right, all right, not quite your style, I see…” Potter tapped his chin with his quill. “…Richard!” he hit upon brightly, and Draco gave him the worst look—this was somehow an even worse name than ‘Snitch’—but Potter only waggled his brows. “And, you know, for convenience we could shorten it to Dick.”

Draco stamped one clawed foot squarely on Potter’s shitty essay—and then raked his talons through it, shredding the bottom-most few inches where Potter had really started rambling (“…so by reciting the spell in one’s mind rather than with one’s lips, one can eat and drink while casting, which improves convenience as well as enjoyment and thus makes the caster happier and therefore less likely to perform any Dark magics…”). Potter squawked in whining protest, scrambling to rescue what had no doubt been whole minutes of half-arsed work.

“Dammit, you little—” He pinched his lips into a thin, tight line, forcing his breathing to even, and Draco wondered if he was practising some of that nonverbal casting himself right about now. He released a laboured breath, shaking a finger in Draco’s face (brave, brave man). “No. I’ve got the perfect name for you.” Potter leaned forward, and with his excellent vision, Draco could see the beginnings of a spot just above his left nostril. “Alabastard. ‘Cause you’re a great white tosser.”

Well. At least that was almost clever.

Despite his pitched fit, Potter managed to restore his parchment with an easily cast Mending Charm, though he kept it well out of Draco’s reach for the remainder of their time together. After gorging himself on owl treats, Draco didn’t entirely trust his flight capabilities, and he settled down on the window sill, lulled into a light doze by the soft scritching of Potter’s quill.

Something brushed wrong against the stiff, heart-shaped pattern of feathers ringing his face, and he startled awake, instinctively snapping his beak—and Potter jerked his hand back. “Oh. Sorry. Just, Hedwig liked that sort of thing.” Good gad, this man really had a death wish. Twice he’d courted death and come back swinging; was he trying for a trifecta?

Draco squinted at Potter, who drew his hand back, miming putting it away so as not to bother Draco anymore. “You’re awfully jumpy. Most owls I’ve known have been pretty laid-back. Well, barring Pig. But he’s just excitable by nature. You act like everyone’s out to get you.” Potter gestured around the room. “There aren’t many safer places than inside these walls, you know. Even the Owlery’s protected by the castle’s charms. You don’t have to be so uptight.”

He was not uptight. He just didn’t like people taking liberties with his person. He took a step back, settling back down on the sill’s flagstones—body language he hoped impressed upon Potter the fact he didn’t want to be petted or poked or stroked or in general touched. They had an accord of sorts; no sense in ruining it by getting sappy.

“…I suppose I miss having a pet. Not that I ever really thought of Hedwig as a pet—she was just Hedwig. She could be a little moody at times, kind of like you—but mostly only when I deserved it. So not like you at all, really.” Draco clicked his beak in warning, and Potter snorted softly—then the fond smile on his lips tightened, and his gaze went a bit distant. “…Animals are great, though. They never judge you—not the way humans do at least. They just know if you’re a good sort, or a bad sort. That’s all they usually care about.” He trailed off in thought, staring down at Draco but not really seeing him, it felt. More seeing through him.

And now, Draco recalled that Potter had at one point had his own owl. A lovely Snowy Owl that had swooped into the Great Hall bearing fantastic gifts he shouldn’t have been allowed. What had happened to it that Potter was resorting to using school owls or borrowing friends’ birds to deliver his post? Had it died, then? He certainly spoke of it as if it were a dearly departed loved one.

“It’s nice is all. Having someone just listen. Not try and fix things, not tell you you’re being stupid, not lie to you and tell you everything’s going to be fine. Just someone to sit there. Eating owl treats while I do my homework.”

And oh. Potter missed his old owl, who was almost certainly very dead. That was why he was being ridiculously friendly towards Draco when, by all rights, he should have made good on the barbecue threat ten times over by now.

Fuck. Draco did not want to be someone’s agony aunt, least of all Harry Potter’s—Merlin knew the dark shit he had to complain about. Maybe that was what had done in the last owl, even. Draco wanted peace, he wanted quiet, and he wanted to be forgotten. None of those things was going to come to pass sitting here lazily digesting owl treats on Harry Potter’s window sill, watching him stumble his way through a Charms essay poor Flitwick really didn’t deserve to have inflicted upon his person.

There was that feeling again—the odd sensation that turned his stomach, realising he was learning more about Potter than he wanted. The old saying was hogwash; familiarity did not breed contempt. Quite the opposite, in fact, and the sad sort of hunch to Potter’s form and hollow, distant look in his eye did not fill Draco with vindicated glee but an uneasy anxiety. This close, he could see all the chinks in the saviour’s armour, and it was scaring the fuck out of him.

He’d always wanted to tear Potter down—to make everyone see he wasn’t some teenage god. He was just a spoilt wanker who was too full of himself by half, a waste of celebrity. But then the Dark Lord had risen and proven there were very real things out there to be frightened of, and having to share the spotlight was not one of them. He’d thought, on some level—a dark and secret one, buried deep—that Potter might be a little bit of a god. The way he fought, with every last breath in him; the way he put Draco’s pathetic little private rebellions to shame with real to-the-death battle; the way he stood and spoke and everyone listened not because he deserved their attention but because he commanded it.

He was everything Draco had ever aspired to be. Hopes and dreams and ambition and desire. A hero, really—a hero whose face you wanted to stomp into a formless mess because that was how mature, well-bred wizards expressed their feelings.

But now, with each passing interaction, that veneer was flaking away, crumbling to dust, leaving Harry, just Harry behind. It was almost too much to bear.

Almost too much.

Draco had never been able to ignore Potter before; why should he be surprised that now was no different?

He waddled, still stuffed from overeating, several steps along the window sill until he bumped up against the still-open window. Leaning, he shut it—there, no chance of any clumsy Gryffindors unwittingly tumbling to their overdue deaths—and then shivered to fluff up his feathers, making himself comfortable at Potter’s side.

“Ohhh…” Potter said, with a whining groan. “This feels like a trap.”

Good; the conditioning was paying off. But he only nipped Potter’s trousers lightly; after all, there weren’t many safer places than inside these walls, didn’t Potter know? He didn’t have to be so uptight.

After several tense moments of Potter waiting for Draco to do something nasty but nothing nasty forthcoming, he finally chanced returning his attention to his Charms work, and at length, Draco found himself drifting off once more to the soft scritch scritch of Potter’s quill.

“I once blew up my aunt nonverbally, you know.”

Draco started, then turned his face, unblinking, up towards Potter. Owls didn’t have eyebrows, but Draco’s were really doing things on whatever plane his human bits were banished to when he transformed.

“Not, you know, blew her up. Was an Inflating Charm, I think. And I didn’t mean to. Just happened accidentally—but to be fair, she was saying some really nasty things about my mum.” Oh. Well that didn’t sound half as interesting. Whose magic hadn’t gone a little wild when they were younger? Draco had blown up one of the peacocks himself. Like, actually blown it up—none of this Inflating Charm business. Reducto. Poof! There’d been feathers everywhere, and his father had been utterly distraught.

Potter sighed, running his eyes over his parchment with a pinched frown, nose wrinkling. “…I feel like I should’ve chosen a different topic for my essay. Do you think Flitwick would let me have an extension if I sent a Patronus to ask him? Might impress him, at least.” Draco gave a rasping, derisive hiss—of course the knob was looking for special treatment. “…Yeah, suppose you’re right. This is only meant to be a rough draft, anyway.” He tapped his chin with his quill, then pressed the nib back to the parchment, scribbling. “‘In conclusion…nonverbal spells…are actually more useful…than wandless ones—’” Draco nipped his hand, and Potter hissed in pain, jolting. “Wh—what was that for?” Draco gave him a look, and Potter frowned. “…What, you don’t agree?”

Of course he didn’t agree. What an absolutely insipid take—what happened when you were disarmed in the midst of a duel, as certain boy wonders were so fond of doing to their opponents? Draco had gotten quite adept at wandless casting himself, because some fucking wanker had nipped his wand right out of his own hand not too long ago. Nonverbal casting was useful for stealth—but what happened once stealth failed you? What happened when they snapped your wand in half? What happened when it was just you and your magic against the world?

“…I mean, don’t get me wrong, wandless casting can be pretty nice. But it’s way more difficult than nonverbal casting, and if you can’t do something, period, what does it matter how useful it would be if you could do it?” He looked back to his parchment, then scratched through several lines. “‘In conclusion…while wandless casting…might be more useful in a pinch…nonverbal casting…is easier…for the unstudied witch or wizard…to master.’” He glanced down at Draco, waiting for a reprimand. None was coming; it was a fine enough conclusion, and Draco was not here to do Potter’s homework for him.

It was Draco who heard it first: the distant sounds of footfalls clomping up stone steps and raucous conversation following students from the Common Room to their respective dormitories. He shivered to rearrange his feathers—after leaning against Potter, a whole swathe of feathers down his side was now pressed flat in what seemed to be the avian version of bed-head. Potter startled, stiffening at Draco’s sudden movement. “What? What’d I do?”

Draco directed his attention to the currently closed door leading into the dormitory, shifting from one foot to the other and clacking his beak. Potter followed his gaze, then seemed to finally twig to what the issue was, tugging up the sleeve of his robe to check his watch. “Shite, look at the hour… They’ll all be piling in here any moment now.” He twisted around, unlatching the window again and opening it just wide enough Draco could squeeze through.

A breeze found its way inside, crisp and beckoning, and Draco wiggled his tail as a surge of adrenaline pumped through his system—he didn’t think he’d ever get tired of the thrill that preceded a leap from such great heights, mind awhirl with the knowledge that all that stood between himself and a broken bag of blood and bones strewn across the ground was his own two wings.

Something poked his shoulder, though, and he swivelled his head around, locking eyes with Potter, who gave him a weak wave. “Thanks for keeping me company. And if it’s all the same to you, I don’t think I’ll credit you on my essay. Flitwick would probably want to know who ‘Alabastard’ was, and my sanity’s always been a tenuous thing at this school.”

Heh, indeed it has, Draco laughed with a raspy hiss, a string of fond memories playing through his mind, and buoyed by these thoughts and his own widespread wings, he took off into the night, belly full and bound for his soft, warm bed down in the Dungeon.

Only out of curiosity, the next night on his evening soar about the castle grounds, Draco checked Gryffindor Tower again—and found Potter tempting fate once more sitting on the sill of his dormitory’s window with the pane wide open. What a pillock. Draco ignored him.

But the next night as well, there was Potter, curled up next to the window as he pored over another lengthy strip of parchment. This time, Draco buzzed the window, buffeting it with one wing to startle Potter, who jerked to attention. A moment later, the window was eased further open as Potter poked his head out. “You coming inside? Or just doing a flyby to harass me? The others are downstairs again, if you want to pop in.”

Draco did not want to ‘pop in’, but there was always the promise of more treats if he deigned to favour Potter with his presence, so another evening keeping Potter from tumbling out the window to his untimely (or was it overdue?) death it would be. It was certainly a more enjoyable way to pass the time than listening to Pansy and Blaise bicker back and forth about who was the more promiscuous, a fierce competition they’d been embroiled in since Third Year.

Potter leaned out the window, like an absolute fool, and held out his arm, wrapped once more in the hideous red knitted jumper. “C’mon, so you don’t break your neck getting in.”

Instead you’ll break your neck getting out, Draco huffed to himself as he made an angled approach, catching himself with a bout of furious flapping to alight as gently as possible onto Potter’s arm.

He was immediately drawn inside, and the chill of the evening was chased away by the tower’s cosy warmth. Gryffindor House had its charms, he supposed, as far as amenities went. The Dungeon could be draughty if you weren’t bundled up under the bedclothes, and even the likes of Blaise, who preferred to sleep in the buff, never went to bed without at least one pair of wool socks on.

Potter brought his arm down so that Draco could hop off onto the sill, then tossed aside the protective jumper and grabbed the quill and parchment he’d been working on before Draco’s arrival. “So. It’s a Transfiguration essay tonight. What do you know about Animagi?”

Thenceforth, Draco came by fairly regularly in the evening after meals in the idle hours before curfew. Some days, Potter’s roommates were present, and others, Potter wasn’t around at all. But on the odd nights when Potter actually used his free time to put forth a bit of effort instead of sailing through his classes, he allowed Draco to join him, taking critiques in relative stride and offering treats freshly procured from the finest shops in Diagon Alley as thanks.

Draco told himself this was only a new and exciting way to harass Potter in a form he could never be prosecuted in. What was Potter going to say, after all? “A great bloody owl shat on my parchment and nipped off my nose”? Not likely. Meddling with the mail was entertaining enough, but pestering Potter in person—in bird?—was always going to have its own allure.

It was here he decided to really lean into the owl thing and see just how much Potter would let him get away with all for the promise of a feathery companion to share a window sill with him on occasion. The Hogwarts grounds were crawling with all manner of vermin, and though the very idea had disgusted him at the outset, Draco had become in the months since mastering his transformation a rather adept hunter, if he did say so himself, and he began to bring fresh kills to Potter’s window, just to see what he might do. A mouse here, a vole there, and even—just once—a little white stoat that reminded Draco uneasily of the weasel form he’d been shunted into back in Fourth Year for Moody the Misanthrope’s delight.

But disappointingly, Potter wasn’t disgusted by these thankless gifts at all—quite the contrary, he actually praised Draco for each disturbing delivery, patting him smartly on the head and calling him fantastic. Thinking perhaps that the likes of Harry Potter might have seen far worse in his years than a dead mouse or two, Draco had gone so far as to hack up a pellet once, and this had finally been enough to make Potter recoil in horror, but he’d only used the old red jumper to carefully pick up the pellet and chuck it out the window, giving Draco a wincing smile and asking if he felt better now.

Treats were always forthcoming now, stored secreted away in a fat little owl-shaped pot that was hidden in Potter’s wardrobe outside of visiting hours. Potter had learned that veggie-anything would be spat back in his face, and fish-based flavours were pushing it as well. Draco would try most anything—the owl’s tastes were worlds away from his own, after all—but he still had standards, and if Potter for whatever reason wanted the pleasure of his continued company, he would note what was and wasn’t acceptable to serve a guest.

The ratty red jumper had been quickly changed out for a scrap of leather poorly sewn together into something resembling a glove, and sometimes Potter would lay it across his drawn-up knees and invite Draco to perch there. Never one to miss an opportunity to glower down imperiously, Draco often took him up on it, and so passed the evening hours. Potter had even learned—through trial and many, many an error—where Draco would allow himself to be stroked and where would otherwise earn a swift retaliatory bite or scratch. He was no one’s pet, but a gentle brush of the finger along the feathery ridge over his beak felt marvellous, and if Potter caught him in a post-prandial doze, how could he be expected to react in any manner other than to sit there and melt under the attentions? Preposterous.

Several weeks of this had left Draco, on this morning, in a particularly fine mood. It was a Saturday, and Saturdays meant Potter would be spending his afternoon playing pick-up Quidditch. In the past, Draco had watched these antics perched atop the Slytherin stands, preening at what a fine broom he’d bought (well, kind of) for Potter. Today, though, he thought he might get in on the action. Even as an owl, Draco’s Seeker skills were not diminished, and he had far more manoeuvrability now than he’d ever had on a broomstick, if a bit less speed. Between his human instincts and the owl’s excellent senses and flying prowess, Draco intended to find the Snitch first, capture it before Potter, and then take off into the wild blue. The game would be ruined, Potter would be in a snit, and Draco’s afternoon would be made.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d pulled one over on Potter, not like this, and he was practically bouncing on the Slytherin bench in the Great Hall as he wolfed down his breakfast. Potter might withhold treats for a few days out of spite after this stunt, so he would need to ensure he ate proper portions as a human for a while.

“Can’t these bloody birds aim?” Pansy moaned, lifting her morning copy of The Daily Prophet from the communal porridge bowl where it had been dropped by a delivery owl passing overhead. She waved her wand over the soaking wet paper, Vanishing the goopy mess with a pinched scowl.

“When they want to,” Draco said, distractedly sipping his coffee as he watched Potter from the corner of his eye. Over at the Gryffindor table, he was deeply entrenched in conversation with Finnigan and Weasley, trading excited whispers that no doubt concerned their strategy for the afternoon’s game. A pity they wouldn’t get to implement it; Potter did have decent game sense. Perhaps next time.

“Well they’d better start wanting to, then. That’s the third time in as many weeks the morning paper’s landed in a dish—I’m going to cancel my subscription, I really am.”

“Why do you subscribe to that rubbish anyway, Pans?” came Blaise’s drawl from behind the both of them as he plopped down beside her, twisting to straddle the bench, one elbow propped up on the table. “It’s dead boring these days.”

“Well of course it’s boring”—she dropped her voice, leaning in close—“and after that shit show last year, I’m glad of it.” She shook the paper open with a huff. “We should be so lucky for the most exciting thing on the front page to be an exposé on the ludicrously wasteful spending by the knobs in the Department of—bloody hell.”

Blaise frowned. “Department of Bloody Hell? There’s a new one.”

Pansy whirled around, grabbing Draco by the shoulder and shoving the newspaper in his face. He moved to bat her away, but she refused to relent, hissing, “Draco, look!” with a squeaky yelp.

He took her by both wrists, pushing the paper back enough that the bold print of the front-page boilerplate finally came into focus, and it was to the sound of rising scandalised whispers rippling through the Great Hall that he read, over a picture of himself, haggard and glaring up dejectedly from the pit of Courtoom Ten, “DRACO MALFOY, YOU-KNOW-WHAT TO YOU-KNOW-WHO, REVEALED AS OWL ANIMAGUS: HOOT-WINKING THE PUBLIC!”

Chapter Text

“While many of our readers may have felt they could rest easier in the wake of the Battle of Hogwarts, with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named having been dealt a resounding defeat by Harry Potter and his band of rebels who so valiantly placed their lives on the line for the sake of all wizarding kind, we at The Daily Prophet regret to inform you that justice has not been laid down equally upon all those who would have seen our very way of life torn asunder.

“Though indeed a great many of You-Know-Who’s followers were sent off to Azkaban to pay for their heinous crimes against the wizarding world, a number were granted more lenient sentences for reasons unclear to the author of this article.

“One of these fugitives from justice is Draco Lucius Malfoy, the first subject to be discussed in our six-part series on the forgotten fiends, those foul few who, despite being avowed Death Eaters, documented and witnessed serving readily at the hand of You-Know-Who, have managed to haggle for leniency, receiving probationary sentences or else fines or community service assignments to serve their penance.

“Youthful Indiscretions? You Be The Judge!

“Draco Malfoy could not be any more different from his contemporary and classmate Harry Potter if he’d tried. Despite being born to the same wealth and privilege as the Saviour of the Wizarding World, young Malfoy’s interests turned instead toward the Dark Arts, following in the footsteps of his father. Malfoy was questioned thoroughly by Ministry officials concerning his role in the death of the late Headmaster Albus Dumbledore and injury to several Hogwarts students in his Sixth Year, and eye-witness accounts place him amongst the ranks of You-Know-Who’s Death Eaters during the Hogwarts occupation. Given his chequered past and these known dark dealings, you might expect Malfoy to be sat in an Azkaban cell next to his ne’er-do-well father—but dear readers, you would be mistaken!

“No; as our crack team of investigative reporters has recently uncovered, Draco Malfoy is not only being allowed to complete his Hogwarts schooling, attending lectures alongside the very same students whose murder he gleefully plotted, he recently completed his Animagus training under the tutelage of Minerva McGonagall and has been licensed to practise his magic in the form of an owl (readers are reminded that Animagus forms and markings are a matter of public record and available to review upon request; please direct requests to receive a detailed accounting of Malfoy’s Animagus form to the Improper Use of Magic Office under the Department of Magical Law Enforcement).

“Why a marked Death Eater has been allowed to return to these hallowed halls of erudition at all is a mystery our board can’t quite wrap its mind around, try though we might—but the move to permit Malfoy to study a branch of magic that has now granted him a form with which he can quite easily evade authorities is absolutely baffling. We can only hope that this decision doesn’t come home to roost any time soon.”

Draco’s stomach sank, plummeting like he’d swallowed a lead nugget. His innards churned as his breakfast tried to claw its way back up from his gullet, and a cold sweat broke out over his forehead.

Fuck. Fuck.

“Draco—darling, what is this?” Pansy, still speaking in a frantic hushed whisper, as if at least half the Hall hadn’t read the same article in their own morning copies of the Prophet just now. “An Animagus? But you never said a word!” She ran her eyes over the article again, brows knitting. “And—and this is just a horrid hit piece on you! What’s this rubbish about not having ‘served your time’? You’re on probation, not a holiday!”

He wasn’t listening to her, though—couldn’t hear her, not over the sound of his blood rushing in his ears as his heart pumped feverishly. He shoved his plate away, scrambling off the bench and nearly tripping over his own two feet as he quick-walked—oh, he wanted to breakneck run, but he’d only draw more attention that way—from the Hall. He kept his gaze resolutely ahead, feeling the weight of hundreds of eyes on his back and praying (futilely) none of them belonged to Harry Potter.

Oh he was fucked now. He hadn’t imagined his Animagus abilities would remain secret forever, but he had at least hoped they wouldn’t be splashed across the front page of the fucking Prophet! But of course they would—of course word would get out. Someone from the Improper Use of Magic Office would have seen him filing his paperwork, dropped a hint to a reporter, and that would’ve been that. The problem with public records was that they were public. And it didn’t matter that their public nature inherently meant that he wasn’t trying to hide his abilities—the fact was he clearly hadn’t been punished severely enough for his crime of ‘not standing up to the Dark Lord because he didn’t want to die, thank you very much,’ and he’d never be allowed to forget that.

He’d let his guard down. He’d let himself get complacent, thinking all it would take to keep a low profile was a suitably unremarkable form—but that had never been the case. The only way to keep from being noticed was to be someplace where no one could notice him, no matter how hard they tried.

This meant no more shifting. No more Owlery, definitely no more visiting Potter. No more free treats either, and that was a tragedy, but if he absolutely needed to indulge the occasional craving, well he could probably convince Pansy or Blaise to file an Owl Post Order for him. They would look at him strange, sure, but he was beyond caring that his Housemates might think he was taking after his Animagus form a bit too keenly.

He would stay in his room, within the Dungeon tucked deep beneath the castle, just hiding away and finishing school, head down and desperate to be forgotten.

The worst of it was, he knew he deserved being outed in this fashion. He was lucky to have gotten off with just probation, and some self-flagellatory part of himself agreed with the Prophet that yeah, he probably ought to have been chucked into Azkaban. Not for life, but perhaps long enough to shake him of the yellow stripe painted down his spine.

Still, he’d vainly hoped he might be able to complete his probation and graduate without issue, and then go on to find a job somewhere that wouldn’t ask too many questions about what he’d been up to for the past few years, where no one could bother him. He was handy with Charms, he’d learned, and he had a knack for repairing magical items (never mind where that experience had come from…). Surely there was a shop in Knockturn Alley that would be willing to take him on, even if they might not pay the best wages.

That was looking less and less likely now, though, for it would only be a matter of time after being hired before someone caught him commuting to work and outed him again to the Prophet. No shop owner, Knockturn-based or otherwise, would want to put up with that sort of heat being brought down upon their heads.

Maybe he could spend the remaining few months of school brushing up on disguise spells. It would be a waste of good breeding to walk around looking anything less than himself, but needs must and all that.

He stopped attending meals in the Great Hall, instead taking them in his room—he hadn’t set foot outside of the Dungeon in nearly two weeks other than to attend classes, and it was doing a wondrous job of keeping the riff-raff from harassing him too much.

This meant, however, that the task fell to Blaise to deliver to Draco the letter that had been found sitting at the Slytherin table when the students filed into the Great Hall for dinner. Addressed simply to ‘Malfoy’ in a chicken-scratch scrawl, it seemed innocent enough with its crisp white envelope and wax seal bearing a stag’s head. Still, looks could absolutely be deceiving, and Draco had considered burning it on the spot, for who knew what manner of curse had been laid upon it, and it wasn’t as if Draco could go running to the Headmistress begging to have his mail monitored for the foreseeable future.

But that would have been the coward’s way out, and perhaps he could scry for who sent it if it turned out to be something really horrible. With a lump in his throat, Draco settled down before his roll-top desk, clearing away anything irreplaceable, in case the letter was a Howler, and carefully broke the seal.

/I need a letter delivered and am prepared to pay as many treats as it takes for my private owl’s services. Please advise at your earliest convenience./

Oh fantastic. Draco supposed he should have been relieved he was being targeted less by nasty sorts wanting to punish him for imagined (and not-so-imagined) offences and more by pranksters who derived pleasure from puerile taunts.

And then his eye drifted down to the signature—initials only: HJP.

Fuck it all. This was just what he needed now. It wasn’t enough he had to deal with the greater wizarding world at large judging him for how he’d chosen to cope with the poor choices he’d made in the war—now Potter wanted a piece of him too.

He’d half hoped Potter might’ve ignored the gossip; it was the Prophet, after all, and they’d rarely printed anything the Boy Saviour might deem ‘fit’. Maybe he would have heard the words, “Did you hear what the Prophet said about…” and immediately tuned out.

Alas, though, it seemed no such luck. Besides, after going on two weeks, Potter couldn’t have missed the news even if he’d wanted to. If nothing else, Weasley would’ve made sure he heard.

No, there was nothing for it. He would have to take his lumps and apologise. The last thing he needed now was Potter getting it into his head to write a tell-all corroborating the public’s worst fears, detailing at length the heinous acts and mischief managed by Draco using his Animagus form.

He’d considered a letter at first—it was formal, he could compose his thoughts more easily, and there was no chance of emotion getting the better of him and him winding up cursing Potter (or getting cursed). But after spending an entire afternoon trying to decide how to even open the letter—‘Dear Potter’? ‘To our gracious saviour’? ‘Oi knob’?—he decided to have done with it and just go.

Not in person, of course—unlike Potter, he didn’t have a death wish—but they had an understanding, so under cover of night, he poked his head out of the Dungeon, checked to be sure he wasn’t liable to be jumped the minute he showed his face outside of his House, and made his way to the Owlery, where one quick transformation had him winging his way to Gryffindor Tower.

The window to Potter’s room was closed, as it usually was this late in the year with winter on the horizon, and Draco quietly buzzed the tower, softly buffeting the pane with his wings on each pass. He could catch the sounds of muffled conversation within and amorphous forms obscured by the glazing of the glass as they moved in and out of the light.

Shortly, one figure loomed larger than the others as it approached the glass. With the click of the latch being drawn, the window was eased open, and Potter’s stupid head poked its way out. He glanced to and fro in frowning confusion, and Draco had to release a rasping squawk before he was finally noticed, doing his level best to hover just above the window and feeling the strain of the effort quite keenly.

“Ah!” Potter drew his head back inside for a moment, then poked it out again. “My roommates are in—I’ll meet you in the Owlery, ten minutes.” And giving Draco no chance to protest—though he couldn’t rightly do much more than hiss and scream, and while that was satisfying in its own right, it wouldn’t really help just now—he shut the window and locked it tight.

With the closest thing he could manage to a frustrated groan, Draco adjusted his angle to make his way back to the Owlery, strings of expletives going off in his mind like fairy lights. He’d wanted this over and done with—fuck it all, he should have written a letter. He could have delivered it himself, just now, and that would’ve been the best of both worlds. A calm, collected letter of apology—presented with a personal touch so Potter understood that despite everything, Draco still had his breeding to fall back on.

As expected, he was the first to arrive in the Owlery, and he took his time, entering through one of the highest windows and spiralling his way through the rafters. Most of the perches were empty, with many of the owls either being out on deliveries or hunting, and the few that remained only sparing him brief glances before going back to their naps or grooming.

Draco landed on the lowest branch, where Potter had often left him treats, then steeled himself before hopping down onto the detritus-covered ground below and ballooning back up to his respectable human height.

Merlin’s balls but he hated the Owlery as a human. It reeked, you always came out covered in down or birdshit or both, and these days it felt like all the owls were watching him. They’d always given him a wide berth before, sensing he wasn’t quite one of them, but now when their eyes fell on him he sensed sneering judgement in their gazes, as if they’d read the Prophet as well and were scandalised he’d used their form to try and hide from his problems.

“Oh. Wow. It really was you.”

Draco jumped, he was certain, a good three feet in the air, whirling around with one hand already reaching for his wand while the other was raised in what he imagined to be self-defence but what probably looked to be an offer of forfeit. He couldn’t go five minutes without humiliating himself before the blessed Saviour, it seemed.

For it was, indeed, Harry Potter standing there, leaned casually against the weathered stone arch marking the doorway to the Owlery. He’d doffed his robes for the evening, wearing only his favoured Muggle trappings (really, Draco ought to have slipped in an order to Madam Malkin’s for him by now; it was just sad for a grown-arse wizard to be running around dressed in such rags), and was giving Draco a curious look. Bemused, mostly—but also a tiny bit impressed, albeit with the pinched tension of annoyance peeking through around the corners of his lips and eyes.

Draco drew himself up, tugging on his robes and taking a step back. He disguised his still-racing pulse with a gruff, derisive huff and forced a curl to his lip. “Thought the entire school was pulling one over on you, then? Slow news day at the Prophet so why not troll the wizarding world?”

And the pinched annoyance grew tenser, edging out the impression and bemusement as Potter took several steps forward, enough now the moonlight streaming through the windows began to bring his form into view. Human eyesight was shit; Potter’s glasses, hideous though they were, didn’t seem like such useless accessories now.

“Of course not. I just found it difficult to believe, despite all evidence otherwise, that you’d willingly put yourself within five feet of me.” He wrinkled his nose. “…I still don’t get it, to be honest.”

And this was not the conversation Draco wanted to be having—with anyone, least of all Harry Potter himself. He crossed his arms over his chest, spitting out with as much venom as he could muster in his flustered state, “I’m not delivering any more of your silly letters, by the way.”

Potter shoved his hands into his pockets, giving a bobbing nod. “No, I didn’t figure you would.” His gaze drifted over to the knot where he’d made so many offerings, begging after Draco’s services. “…Did you really deliver them before?”

Draco made a face, grinding an old pellet into dust beneath his loafer. “…No. I had my own owl deliver them.” And before Potter could accuse him of laziness, he continued, “I wasn’t going to work myself into an early grave flying all over the British Isles. Good gad, you were posting shit at least four times a week at one point there!” Never mind that Xerxes had never turned his beak up at a request to deliver Potter’s post. He was an owl owl—a real one, not a pretend one. Those animals were bred for this sort of crude work, whereas Draco had been bred for finely brewed afternoon tea imported from Japan and extravagant gala exhibitions and overly furnished centuries-old cigar rooms.

But Potter was only smiling, a little self-deprecating thing that put Draco on edge—perhaps the shock of realising that Alabastard was only Draco Malfoy in transformation had pushed him over the edge, and he was about to finish the job he’d started in the sixth-floor boys’ bathroom the previous year.

Well that wouldn’t do. He took another half-step back, angling away—he had enough scars on his chest from Potter as it was, no sense making things worse. “...You don’t seem half as pissed off as I’d have expected. Dare I hope you’ve finally learned to act your age?”

“You did give me plenty to be pissed off about, true.” He scrubbed at his hair distractedly. “I can’t believe you shit on me.”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t deserve it. I gave you all manner of warning signs to leave me the fuck alone. Be grateful I didn’t scalp you.”

“I wasn’t anywhere near you when—” He sighed, wiping his face, then shrugged to himself. “Well. I wasn’t actually that surprised when I found out, really. You never acted like a proper owl—even a magical one. More like what you’d expect Draco Malfoy to act like if he were an owl. When I saw the article in the Prophet, I mostly just thought, ‘Oh. Well that makes sense.’”

Reliving the rather rocky (but still terribly amusing) start to their interactions was a cool reminder to Draco of what he’d confronted Potter for in the first place this evening, and he squared his shoulders and steeled himself to once more bow his head. He’d gotten very good at it these past several months, and he expected there was room yet to grow even further. Such a bright future to look forward to, nose pressed to the ground and apologies on his lips until his dying day.

“At any rate, I suppose you’ll be wanting an apology. I will admit I might have…taken some liberties with my Animagus form.” He began ticking off the mental list he’d prepared for this moment. “…I apologise for reading…well, all of your post. If it helps at all, I only understood perhaps half of the contents thanks to your absolutely horrible handwriting. If you’re still looking for a toy broom for Tedward for Christmas, check with Broomstix—not Brigg’s Brooms; Brigg retired five years back, and his son’s absolutely ruined their good reputation. And if you’re still having trouble with the Black property matter, I can refer you to my solicitor. By all rights it ought to be mine, but I’d rather see it in wizarding hands than goblin ones, so I suppose you’ll have to do.”

Potter blinked stupidly, mouth half-agape, and when Draco stopped speaking, the silence seemed to snap him back to his senses. He startled, shaking his head. “I…oh. That’s…” He scrubbed at the back of his head—his hair was getting longer and more unruly. It hadn’t been this bad since Fourth Year. Perhaps he was letting himself go, now the war was over. What a waste of celebrity. “No, that’s fine. The post business, I mean. I don’t really care about that. After all—” He shrugged. “They weren’t all that private, aside from the exchanges with the bank. And you don’t seem half as eager to go running to Rita Skeeter with stories about me these days.”

Fuck it all, was he wanting an apology for that too? Well he could rot ‘til kingdom-come waiting; Draco wasn’t budging.

“…It does make me wonder, though.”

Fantastic; the conversation was to continue. Draco let his eyes drift up to the rafters. He’d made his apology and was, to his mind, no longer obligated to stick around. The judging stares of the other owls seemed far more bearable than a heart-to-heart with Potter. Especially when Draco was in a form where he might be expected to participate in the baring of souls that Gryffindors surely expected.

“Why’d you do it?”

“Why did I do what? I’ve done rather a lot these past few years to prompt such a question—you’ll really have to be more specific.”

“All right, I think it’s pretty obvious I’m referring to the thing that has us freezing our bollocks off someplace that absolutely reeks—” Potter covered his nose. “God, how do you stand it in here? You’re here all the time.”

“Owls have shit for a sense of smell. Can’t sense a thing.”

“Huh. Really?” He squinted at Draco. “…What about sense of taste? You seriously like those treats? ‘Cause full disclosure, I did try one after everything came out, just to see if maybe even humans might find them tasty, and…” He shook his head. “Haven’t been able to get the taste out of my mouth since. Definitely not one of my brighter ideas.”

“Harry Potter making a poor decision. Shocking,” Draco drawled.

“Oi, you’re one to talk.”

“Let’s alert the Prophet. Perhaps it’ll take some of the attention off of me.”

“Draco Malfoy spurning attention. Call the Healers.”

This little shit.

Potter leaned back against the tower wall, keeping clear of a white line of owl shit streaking down the stones. “So: why’d you do it?”

Clearly Potter wasn’t going to let this go, when it would have been ever so much easier for the both of them to forget this had ever happened and simply move on with their lives. Draco fixed his eye on one of the owls resting upon the second-lowest branch. Another Barn Owl, this one so dusty brown she looked black in the shadows cast by the tower.

“To mess with you, obviously. I’ve made a reputation of it over the course of our schooling, I think you’ll agree.”

Potter nodded slowly, humouring him. “Right. So, sitting with me while I did my Charms work—”

“Did it badly.”

“While I did my Charms work badly…was messing with me?”

Right, this conversation was over. Apologies had been delivered, gestures had been made, and Draco was late for…well, nothing now, really. Damn. He really was going to have to start buying his own owl treats…

“Listen, if you aren’t going to punch me or curse me or write a tell-all and send it to the Prophet, then can we possibly just forget this ever happened? I think we’ll both be happier that way.”

“Hermione already punched you, I already cursed you, and someone else’s tell-all in the Prophet is why we’re here in the first place.” Draco could feel Potter’s eyes on him, picking him apart, and kept his own gaze resolutely on the Barn Owl slumbering peacefully. Some birds had all the luck. “Why Animagecraft? Seems like an awful lot of work for a bit of privacy. You could’ve invested in a nice Demiguise fur cloak or bought a Headless Hat from the Wheezes shop or done about, I dunno, a dozen other things that were infinitely easier to accomplish than studying some of the most difficult magic out there. And flattering as it might be to think you did it just to make my life a little more hellish in your own special way, I’m disinclined to believe you.”

Something soft hit Draco in the temple, and he flinched. “What the f—” An old pellet fell at his feet, instantly disintegrating with the impact.

“So?” He whipped his head around, and Potter already had another pellet in hand, tossing it in bald threat. Were there no depths to which he wouldn’t sink? Disgusting. “Why Animagecraft? Thinking about using it for a career? It’s a rare enough skill, I’ll give you that.”

Draco gave a harsh, rough bark of laughter, fighting the urge to roll his eyes all the way out of his head. “Career? What career? Who in their right mind would hire me now? I have no career. I have no future. And while I had privacy for a time, that’s now—pun intended, I suppose—flown the coop!”

Potter did not bother fighting his own eye-rolling urge, indulging merrily. “Oh don’t be so dramatic—” And had he met Draco? “Of course you’ve got a future—and a career, if you wanted one, I’m sure. You’re only on probation until graduation. At least it’s not Azkaban.”

“Think I deserved Azkaban?”

“Obviously not, don’t be dense. I’m saying if you want to do something—if you showed some effort, maybe asked for help from friends who’d probably be very happy to oblige—you can still come back from”—he waved vaguely—“all of this.”

Draco recoiled, giving Potter a wary once-over. “Good gad, Potter. We aren’t friends.” Those trips to Gryffindor Tower had been a monumental mistake. These sorts could be clingy as Hufflepuffs, evidently.

Potter looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “…Never said we were? But surely you do have some, yeah?”

Draco wanted to swallow his tongue. It was difficult to tell if Potter had been deliberately attempting to goad him into that embarrassing slip, or if he was genuinely that thick and Draco had only given him too much credit. “I do,” he said, though it came out far too defensive, and he could feel his self-worth plummeting in real time. He did have friends, of course he did—but he also had his pride. And indulging in one meant necessarily sacrificing the other. He cared dearly for both Pansy and Blaise, though they could truly test his patience at times, but there were some things you just didn’t ask your friends to do. It simply wasn’t done. They would look at him differently, if he debased himself so, and he couldn’t have that. He just couldn’t.

“You aren’t some hopeless cause, you know. You’ve only got a few more hurdles than others might. Maybe if you stopped feeling so sorry for yourself and moping about, you’d see that.”

“Stop mopi—” He clenched both fists tight at his sides, knuckles gone white, and reminded himself that decking Harry Potter would feel good for about five seconds only, and then he’d be explaining himself to his Ministry-appointed probation officiate. “You think I just sailed through last year? Think I wasn’t just as horrified as any of you about what might happen to me and mine, however things turned out?” He took a step towards Potter, almost impressed when Potter held his ground—but then, this was the wizard who’d faced down the Dark Lord. He wasn’t so much brave as just stupid. “You want to know why I studied Animagecraft? Because it was the only way I could think of to well and truly escape. I just wanted to leave. To get out. Because I knew no matter which side won, I’d lose.”

Potter stared up at him, and Draco appreciated those precious few inches of difference in their heights; it wasn’t much, but it helped. “That’s what happens when you don’t pick a side at all. You’re left with nothing to hope for. Nothing to work for. I thought you Slytherins were supposed to be cunning or something. You ought to know by now that if you want your side to win, you’ve got to commit to it. You can’t do things like lie to your loony aunt’s face when I’m sitting in your parlour, or hold your goons back from finishing what Voldemort started. You can’t do the bare minimum and just hope for the best.”

“I wasn’t hoping for the best!” Draco snarled, and several of the owls on lower-set roosts scattered in fright. “I did the only thing I could to make it happen!”

“And did it? Did it happen?” Potter’s eyes drifted around the Owlery. “This is the best?” And Draco had nothing to say to that, so he didn’t. Potter sighed. “…You weren’t a very good Death Eater, you know.”

“Because I didn’t want to be a Death Eater, you fucking dolt.”

“Well, with your name being what it is and that lovely ink on your arm, a lot of people are going to make inappropriate assumptions. So you can either change your name and start wearing long sleeves or grow a thicker skin about it. And then maybe start becoming something you do want to be. Not everyone will respect the choices you made, but they might respect you at least.”

Draco stared at him for a beat, boggling as Potter’s words really set in—along with his poorly disguised intentions. Subtlety was not in this one’s repertoire, and it spoke to Draco’s preoccupation and discomfiture with the events of late he hadn’t seen it coming from a mile off. “Wait—are you here to lecture me? Is that what you were after, luring me out here? You’re trying”—he donned his best disgusted sneer—“to save me?”

Potter bobbed his head, ducking into a rakish shrug. “Well, I do have a pretty good track record, saviour-wise.”

Draco wished he had a pellet too, now, that he might chuck it at Potter’s stupid face. “Oh fuck you. I’m not your newest project now you’ve slain a Dark Lord. If you’ve got the hero itch in you still, there’s probably a couple thousand pathetic war orphans you can go coddle or ‘Harry J. Potter’s Earwax and Toe Gunk Peace Memorial’s to christen, but leave me well out of it.”

“Earwax and Toe Gunk? Do you hear yourself?”

He did; that was the trouble. He felt his face heat and struggled to keep his voice even. That he was getting so emotional was humiliating enough; he certainly didn’t need Potter realising the effect he still had on Draco after all this time. The idea Potter could do anything but bring out the very worst side of Draco was laughable. ‘Saviour’ his great white feathered arse. He took a measured breath, biting out in his most vicious whisper, “I’ll handle my business my way, and let the consequences be on my head. I don’t need your I-told-you-sos, I don’t need your sanctimonious speeches, and I certainly don’t need to be here.”

Potter’s glare was cold and empty, and Draco could sense the disappointment radiating off of him. Good. He deserved a bit of disillusionment to counter all that unaccounted optimism. “I liked you better when you couldn’t talk.”

Draco flashed him a pinched smile. “Happy to oblige.” And then in a swirl of robes, he slipped into his owl form and took off through the nearest open window, into the darkness and out of sight.

Chapter Text

Following their illuminating little chat, Draco decided the best way to ensure he didn’t have a stroke from how absolutely infuriating it was interacting with Potter when they both knew who and what the other was, was to simply avoid him altogether. This was a markedly easier task now they didn’t have any classes together, helped in spades by Draco being able to just turn into a bird and fly away whenever he wanted.

Potter poked his head into the Owlery a few times, casting about the lower branches while worrying his lip and looking like he desperately wanted to continue their tête-à-tête, but Draco was having none of it and so kept well away. He delivered no more packages for Potter, made no more visits to Gryffindor Tower, and no longer spied on Potter and his pals during their pick-up Quidditch games. He was practically a ghost these days, only out of his room for as long as strictly necessary.

Potter invited trouble wherever he went, and so long as Draco continued consorting with him—regardless of his reasoning—he would invariably be swept up in that trouble. He’d let his guard down, thought perhaps he could have a bit of fun and reform his reputation (or at least keep it from sinking any lower than it already had), but now he was seeing ever so much more clearly. If he wanted to repair the damage he’d suffered from the string of staggeringly poor choices made in his brief time on earth thus far, he could afford no more distractions. And Harry Potter was the worst sort of distraction imaginable for someone like Draco.

“What have you got there?” Pansy asked, leaning into his space as he frowned down at the box that had just been dumped in his hands by Xerxes during the morning Owl Post deliveries.

In the time since the debacle with the Prophet, Draco had had a nice sit-down chat with himself, reminding that he couldn’t hide away from the world forever, and the longer he cloistered himself away in the Dungeon, the more people would talk, until he couldn’t ever reemerge without creating an entirely new scandal. He needed to suffer their probing gazes and hushed whispers until they found someone new to gossip about. He hadn’t done anything wrong (barring Potter’s testimony), and the sorts who were liable to take out their anger and frustration on him physically were going to find a way to do so whether he made himself available to them or not.

So he’d reclaimed his spot at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, meeting no one else’s eyes and focusing solely on his meals. Someone had jinxed his spoon to wilt in his hand whenever he tried to ladle a sip of soup the first dinner back, and Pansy had had a fit, vowing swift and unflinching retribution on whoever the culprit might be. His spoons had behaved ever since.

This morning, though, there’d been…an anomaly. Draco didn’t get packages—not from anyone but his mother, and she would’ve sent her own owl, not Xerxes. Really, no one would have sent Xerxes unless this was return post, and Draco hadn’t sent a letter to anyone in weeks. Just yesterday he’d seen the Eagle Owl snoozing in a warm beam of afternoon sunlight—so what in the name of all the ancient fae lords was this?

“Gonna open it?” Blaise asked around a bite of croissant. “Reckon it’s cursed? Want me to check it?” He raised his wand in offer, but Draco waved him away. “Your funeral.” Blaise shrugged. “Maybe literally.”

“At least you’ll have an excuse to have your mother buy you a new set of mourning robes.”

“Mm, good point. Carry on, then.”

Carefully—because it might be cursed, after all—Draco lifted the lid to find…a wand.

His wand.

Not his mother’s. His. Hawthorn, unicorn hair. Ten inches. Reasonably springy, Ollivander had told him. The last time he’d seen his wand, it had been clutched in the grimy paws of…

A card lay underneath the wand, scrawled in blotchy ink with, /Sorry I evidently suggested we were friends. Rather rude of me. Promise to never do it again. - HJP/

His eyes snapped overhead, where he could see Xerxes lazily winging his way back to the Owlery. “…Traitor,” he muttered under his breath. No more treats for that bird.

He cut breakfast short, slipping the wand—box and all—into his robe pocket and scurrying back to his room in the Dungeon. Once assured he was alone, he finally allowed himself to sit down on the edge of his bed and study the wand with a closer eye.

He could still remember his mother, eyes wide and white, pressing her wand into his hands even before the echoing POP of Potter Disapparating had faded. The hilt had been warm, and her fingers so cold and trembling. “Take it, Dearest—protect yourself.” He’d been ashamed as he’d accepted it, knowing in his heart of hearts that Potter hadn’t stolen his wand from him. He’d let it go. Not consciously—he hadn’t been stupid enough to leave that for the Dark Lord to root out of his mind—but still, his fingers had loosened and his grip weakened, and then Potter had taken it and fled. Gone in a whirl of magic, off to parts unknown.

He’d fantasised for a bit after that, wondering what might have happened if he hadn’t let go—if Potter had Disapparated and necessarily taken Draco with him. He would have finally been free. He would have been with Potter, granted, but Potter wasn’t the Dark Lord, and that would have been enough.

It had only ever been a fantasy, though. He wouldn’t have been able to leave his mother there to fend for herself, defenceless and alone, without even Lucius to stand between her and the Dark Lord’s vengeful fury at Potter once more slipping his grasp.

…Potter had been right: Draco hadn’t been a good Death Eater.

But he’d never wanted to be one. Not really. Not once he’d understood what that meant. What he’d be expected to do.

He’d had dreams. Real, actual ambitions—ambitions to do something beyond simply collect on the interest the Malfoy name earned. And all because he hadn’t had the stones to tell his father to fuck off, to take his mother and Apparate away, he was sitting here, alone in the Dungeon, holding a wand that wasn’t even loyal to him anymore and utterly bereft of prospects. With Harry-Fucking-Potter feeling sorry for him.

He fell back spread-eagle on his bed and stared up at the iron chandelier turning overhead, candles softly flickering in their cups.

Circe’s tits, he was moping.

Someone knocked softly on his door, and he muttered a gruff, “Come in, if you must…” He could count on one hand the number of people who’d dare disturb him when his door was shut, and they were all relatively tolerable presences. He supposed he could stand being seen moping by any one of them.

It was Pansy, it turned out. She paused in the doorway, and he could feel her eyes on him, trying to work out just what was going on. Then, carefully and warily, as if she thought he might have been Petrified and perhaps the Basilisk that had rendered him thus was still lurking about, she approached. Her feet whispered softly across the plush area rug, and then she was there, settling down beside him on the mattress. He rolled over a little as the bed sank.

“…Draco, you’ve been acting funny ever since breakfast. What’s wrong, Darling?”

Mutely, he passed over his wand hilt-first, and she accepted it with a frown—then a small gasp of recognition. “Oh! Oh, it’s your wand! But you said you’d lost it during the occupation! Wherever did it get off to?”

He let a beat pass, and then just had out with it: “...Am I a coward?”

The silence that followed was deafening, more so because Pansy interrupted it with an offended huff of, “Absolutely not! Why on earth would you think such a thing?” He could hear the heat in her voice, and it was touching—they might’ve made a fine pair if he’d at all been enamoured of female favours and if she hadn’t been so devoted to throwing off the shackles of tradition.

He threw an arm over his eyes. “…I never picked a side. I picked my family, and I did all I could to help myself and to help them, but that’s hardly the same. For all their sanctimony, at least the Gryffindors stood up for what they believed in. And even the Dark Lord’s most faithful truly trusted in him and gave their lives to see his will done. There was no place for cowards on either side, so if I didn’t pick a side at all, then logically…I must be a coward.”

“Bullshit,” Pansy spat, grabbing his wrist and jerking his arm away. She shifted until she was leaning over him, her pinched features filling his entire vision. “Everyone fought for what was important to them, back then. That’s all there is to it. We were all fighting. All of us. The Gryffinfreaks worshipped Potter and Dumbledore and their holier-than-thouness, the Death Eaters worshipped the Dark Lord and all the pretty lies he promised them. You said to hell with other people, I’m standing up for my own, and you fought. Just because you weren’t in the thick of it, throwing about flashy spellwork, doesn’t mean you weren’t handling your own battles.” She shook her head shortly. “I would never call that cowardice. It’s not cowardice to want to live, to do all you can so that you and those you love survive. We were all doing that. Don’t let anyone dare suggest otherwise.”

He blinked up at her. Her cheeks were red now, flushed with emotion, and she leaned down to give him a short, sharp smacking kiss square in the centre of his forehead.

She drew back, still frowning down at him, and said, “…I’m glad you got your wand back,” before hopping off of the bed, whispering back across the rug, and swanning from his room. Like a storm, that one was—a cloudburst, there one minute, harsh and beating and overwhelming, and gone the next. Yes, they definitely would’ve made a fine pair, though Draco didn’t think he would have survived her. It would’ve been fun while it lasted, though.

He mulled over her advice—it sounded lovely to his ears, of course. He wanted to believe her, really he did. It seemed counter to human nature not to want to live. Not to do everything it took to survive. And if it only counted when you were fighting for love, well hadn’t he fought for love? For his family? And still Potter managed to make him feel like shit for doing so.

He wanted a life, but Potter seemed to only think he deserved one if he was willing to beg for it. Paying for that life with probations and restrictions and condemnation clearly wasn’t enough.

Well too fucking bad. Because he wasn’t going to beg—and he also wasn’t going to sit idly by and let people take potshots at him and what was left of his family. There was keeping his head down, and there was hiding; the former was smart, and he was getting really tired of doing the latter.

So he woke up early the next morning, scrawled out a memo on a scrap of parchment and tied it off with a length of thread before walking himself to the Owlery, a pep in his step and a whistle on his tongue. No one was up just yet, outside of the ghosts and the odd Ravenclaw already bustling their way toward the library to get in a bit of preprandial study, so he had the Owlery to himself. By the time he’d transformed and taken a few laps around the castle to wake himself up, it was nearing time for breakfast, and he followed the line of other owls through the skylight of the Great Hall.

With precision he hadn’t felt the need to practise since shitting on Potter’s head, he angled for the Gryffindor tables, swooped low, and dropped his parchment (and the dead mouse Spellotaped to it) right on top of Harry Potter’s Eggs Benedict.

Draco did not stick around to hear the scandalised screeches and appalled gasps that rippled down the Gryffindor tables, instead winging back out the way he entered. Still, he knew that once Potter managed to dispose of Draco’s lovely gift and unfurl the parchment, he would be met with just two lines: /Fight me. Experimental Charms classroom, Midnight/

It was as good a site as any for an after-curfew duel, Draco figured. Warded against spellfire damage and soundproofed to boot, there was little chance of them being disturbed while they worked through their issues. Issues that included reacquainting Draco with the sound of Potter’s nose crunching as he laid into it.

“…Of course you’re already here,” Draco sighed, slipping into the classroom at five minutes ‘til to find Potter sitting on one of the desks shoved up against the wall. His legs dangled down, swinging back and forth in a manner that left him looking terribly bored, and Draco tamped down the flare of irritation. He’d said midnight and he’d meant midnight; was it his problem Potter couldn’t read a clock or perform a basic Tempus?

“Easier to sneak out while everyone’s getting ready for bed than to wait ‘til they’re already asleep. My room’s full of light sleepers, and I didn’t want to deal with questions.” He gave Draco a once-over. “How’d you get around your roommates?”

“Haven’t got roommates.”

“What?”

“There’s only three of us back; we got private suites.”

“You—private suites?!” Potter’s tone went tinny and tight. “How come you get suites?!”

Draco shrugged. “I suppose there’s more real estate to spread around when you don’t have to accommodate an entire extra year’s worth of students. Were none of your lot ready to leave the nest?”

“Oh piss off; we needed N.E.W.T.s, and last year was hardly conducive to studying properly.” He squinted at Draco in the low lamplight, like he was trying to figure him out. “…How’d you know I would come? That wasn’t a very pleasant invitation.”

“It wasn’t an invitation at all. It was a challenge. Everyone knows you can’t resist those. Besides—” He shrugged. “You didn’t manage to off me the last time we faced off within these hallowed halls; I thought perhaps you might like another go.” Potter’s expression went a bit queasy, and then he coloured and opened his mouth, but Draco gave a bark of derisive dismissal. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m the one who nearly died, not you.”

“I did die,” Potter said, or at least that was what it sounded like.

Draco blinked, frowning. “What?”

“Never mind,” he continued in a rushed mumble, rubbing at his eyes. “So—what does ‘fight me’ mean, then? You can’t seriously want a duel.”

“Think I wouldn’t win?”

“Not without cheating, no, if we’re being honest. And I won my last duel against someone who was pretty experienced, so I’m still riding that winner’s high.” He palmed his wand from his sleeve, twirling it between his fingers. “But if you’re gonna insist.”

Draco’s expression went tight. Snarky little shit—he really did think Draco couldn’t take him, with fists or a wand. He held up the Hawthorn wand for show. “It’s not listening to me. Pretty sure it’s because I didn’t win it back from you proper.” He tossed it at Potter, who scrambled to catch it, dropping his own in the doing (hah! Bet he saw the use in wandless magic now)—and then rushed forward. He swept Potter’s leg with his own, sending him onto his arse, then quickly followed him down onto the flagstones with a knee on Potter’s chest to hold him in place.

“What the—hell are you—” Potter rasped, wincing and grunting in pain.

“It’s midnight. The fight started.”

“Thought we—were duelling—”

“Did the card say ‘duel me’? No? Then I can’t imagine why you’d think that.” Draco reached for his wand, still weakly palmed in Potter’s hand, and snatched it back for himself. He gave it a snapping swish, Conjuring a wispy silver Snitch that zipped around Potter’s head, hovering tantalisingly over his nose and making him go cross-eyed as he tried to focus on it, before winking out. Draco nodded, satisfied. “Good. That seems to have done it. Your help is appreciated.”

Potter only groaned in pain, releasing a sharp oof as Draco pushed off of him, standing. He brushed down his robes to adjust the line, and Potter stared up at him dazedly from behind his glasses. Draco frowned at him, then scoffed. “Get up so I know you aren’t concussed.” He reached down, grabbing Potter’s wrist and jerking him back to his feet.

Potter wobbled unsteadily, barely catching himself before he went tumbling back down when Draco shoved him away. “I’m not concussed,” he protested—but winced when he touched the back of his head. “I don’t think.” He cast about for his wand, catching it where it had rolled under one of the desks. He slipped it back into his sleeve, then groused, “You could’ve just disarmed me with whatever wand you’ve been using, you know. I don’t think wands are that picky about loyalty. All I did was grab yours out of your hand and it obeyed me fine.”

“Oh, I know. This was more satisfying, though.”

Potter made some noises under his breath that were probably rude words, then crossed his arms over his chest, shrugging. “So? Is that all? If you just wanted to deck me quickly, I could’ve made myself available to you between classes.”

Draco paused, looking him over. Potter was an utter chore to interact with, but for whatever reason, Draco felt compelled to defend himself, so interact they must. He recalled Pansy’s words, her firm conviction—though he knew she’d been defending herself and her own actions in the war as much as Draco. Still, he agreed with her, took strength in her cool logic. He sniffed, reminding himself not to sneer. It put Potter on the defensive and made him even more difficult than usual. “…I’m not a coward.”

Potter’s expression was impassive. “I never said you were.”

“You implied I was,” Draco said, and he knew he was whining as he did so.

“No,” Potter said, gently as if correcting a toddler, “I implied you were indecisive. And that you needed to get a thicker skin. Which you are, and you do.”

“I’m not indecisive,” Draco snapped. “I know precisely what I want, and I’m going about getting it, in my own time and in my own way. The easiest way I know how. Just because it doesn’t fit how you think I ought to be living my life—”

“The easiest way you know how,” Potter repeated in monotone. “That doesn’t mean it’s the easiest way. Just means you don’t know better.”

“So now I’m stupid?”

Potter was getting irritated—which meant he was getting emotional, which meant he’d shortly storm out of here, and Draco would have won. “No, I know you aren’t stupid. I know you’re actually reasonably clever, but you can’t read minds, so maybe stop assuming you know what I think of you and let me tell you instead.” When Draco didn’t manage a clever quip in response quickly enough, Potter continued on, all that pent-up emotion driving him like a steam engine. “You’re a pill, a right pill. I know that better than anyone. But I don’t hate you.” Potter’s lips did something funny, like they wanted to say something but he wasn’t letting them. “To be honest, you never really mattered enough to me to hate.”

And oh fuck. That stung for some reason. It stung deep, and he felt his throat tightening with offence, but Potter was still rambling.

“But I never wanted you in Azkaban, or shunned from the public eye for life or anything like that. Because I know what you did in the war. And I know what you didn’t do as well. That’s something not a lot of people outside your immediate family can say, I reckon.” He took a step toward Draco but kept well out of leg-sweeping range. Potter was a quick study, whether he was faced with an owl with pinpoint shitting accuracy or a humiliated pure-blood who’d been spending his free time reading too many books about how monastic wizards in Tibet channelled their magic for use in hand-to-hand combat. “You deserve better than this—better than probation and a bunch of doors slamming in your face. It’d be a monumental waste, you just fucking off after graduation, never to be seen or heard from again. And maybe it’ll make me sound full of myself, but given what we’ve been through, I reckon you ought to value my opinion over a bunch of randos on the street.”

Draco didn’t quite know what to say to that, so he went for the lowest hanging fruit. “…You’re right, it does make you sound full of yourself.” Potter rolled his eyes and made some more noises under his breath. Well what had he expected? “…I did pick a side.” Potter’s frown was less offended and more confused, so Draco painted him a picture. “You said I didn’t, and that’s why everything went to shit for me. But I did. I picked my family.” He drew himself up tall, not at all ashamed. He wasn’t a coward. “We always pick each other.”

Potter stared at him for a long, uncomfortable beat, then hung his head, nodding. “…I guess loyalty’s a pretty fine quality to have. My family’s mostly shit, so I can’t really relate.”

Draco tried to discern if Potter was fishing for sympathy or had genuinely suffered a less-than-wholesome upbringing. Sure, there were the dead parents, but it wasn’t as if Potter remembered them enough to mourn them. Someone had to have reared him—and there were the letters, of course. “…Who’s Tedward?”

Potter lifted his head, brows knit in befuddlement. “Huh?”

“Or—fine, Teddy I suppose is what you called him.”

Potter mouthed Tedward slowly, then shook his head, blinking. “I—where’d you hear about Teddy?”

“Hear about him? You only wrote to him every other day, practically. About the most inane shit, too—honestly, I read your letters to fall asleep some nights. Just—” He snapped his fingers. “Sent me right off.” He wrinkled his nose. “…Is he not family, then? Your bastard, mayhaps?”

Potter actually laughed, then quickly covered his mouth, looking appalled at himself and throwing a horrified look at the door before evidently recalling the chamber was soundproofed. He cleared his throat, but when he brought his hand away, he was still smiling with entirely too much amusement, and Draco got the sick feeling he’d just embarrassed himself again. “Not quite—but not not quite.” At Draco’s confused expression, he clarified, “Godson.” Oh. Well, he’d been close—it’d been an understandable misconception, with Potter’s celebrity in the stratosphere these days. Potter nodded again, smile gone a little soft around the edges now. “…Yeah, loyalty’s a good quality.” He raised a finger. “But you need more than family watching your back sometimes. I mean, I love Teddy, and I’d do almost anything for him—but I can’t exactly trust a six-month-old to help me take down Dark wizards, now can I?”

“Isn’t that what your fan club’s for?” Draco sneered, because here he was again, learning entirely more about Harry Potter than he wanted to. This was starting to sound like another effort at reformation, and Draco was growing bored.

“Well, those of us without fan clubs might consider the merit in having people around willing to watch your back as fiercely as you watch theirs. Just a suggestion.”

Think I haven’t got any friends? was right there on his lips, but he could already hear Potter telling him to, ‘Stop assuming you know what I think of you,’ while his eyes rolled around the room, up the walls and across the ceiling.

“How’d you get here, anyway?”

“What?”

Potter gestured around the room. “It’s well past curfew, and you’ve never been all that good at sneaking around. Pay off Filch or something?”

Draco’s lip curled at the suggestion. “No. If you hadn’t noticed, I’ve learned a few new tricks for getting about undetected. It’s a dodgy business, flying through the halls, but I’m not likely to get caught, at least. Mrs Norris wouldn’t dare tackle something my size.” Though he wished she might try; he could do with letting off a bit of steam. He jerked his chin in Potter’s direction. “You? Or does McGonagall just give you the run of the castle these days?”

“Of course not,” Potter huffed, though amiably enough, and he reached into the mokeskin pouch around his neck to dig out a cloak that seemed to glitter and shift in the low light from the torches flickering in the sconces around the classroom. The fabric flowed through Potter’s grip like water, swishing and pooling until he spread it out fully—and then it seemed to vanish.

Draco closed the distance between them in three strides, already reaching for what had to be the most fantastic invisibility cloak he’d ever seen. “This…what is this?”

“A Hallow.”

“A what?”

He seemed to search Draco’s face for recognition—which he was welcome to, for he’d find none. What the fuck was a ‘Hallow’? Evidently satisfied Draco had passed—or else failed—his test, he said instead, “Invisibility cloak.”

“Obviously. I meant where did you get it.”

“The Marauders.” And now he was just making things up to fuck with Draco. If he didn’t want to discuss something, all he needed was to say so. He drew the cloak out of Draco’s reach, draping it over his shoulders—then seemed to consider something. “…Want to come under?”

“Wha—no,” he spat, recoiling a step lest his body betray him, because of course he wanted to get under. It was a fucking invisibility cloak. Really the best ‘nobody bother me’ magic you could come by. “I can’t fit under there with you. You barely fit alone. Besides, we’re going different ways.”

“Well one, I was thinking I could carry you, as an owl. And two, I was going to sneak you back to Gryffindor Tower with me. Then you could slip out the window and head back to the Dungeon that way without having to worry about running into Filch or Mrs Norris. Plus no risking breaking your neck flying through the hallways.”

Fine time for Potter to start worrying about necks being broken. Draco mulled over the invitation before admitting privately that he hadn’t had fun getting here and he wasn’t looking forward to flying back. The moving staircases had nearly clipped him, and that was a long tumble to take in so fragile a form. “…Fine,” he said, then shook a finger in Potter’s face. “But this never happened.”

Potter gave him a look of bemused indulgence. Draco didn’t like it one bit. “…Who would believe me? You spent the better part of five years here convincing everyone I was mad.”

And he had a point, so Draco shrank down into his owl form and allowed himself to be scooped into Potter’s arm, talons at the ready in case Potter got handsy.

Potter held Draco gently clutched against his chest as he crept along the corridors, unremarked by even the portraits. On occasion, he’d pause to pull out a folded piece of parchment, consulting it with a frown, but then he’d put it away again and they’d continue on. After what felt like an interminable amount of time, Potter finally prodded the portrait of the Fat Lady that marked the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, giving the password and ignoring her sleepily mumbled reprimands against breaking curfew as he carefully crawled into the Common Room and made his way for the stairs.

His bedroom was dark, though Draco could see clearly enough with the faint moonlight filtering in through the windows, and he winced inwardly when Potter seemed to unerringly manage to trip over every object possible, hissing oaths under his breath. Draco nibbled on his fingers to remind him to be quieter, as just because people couldn’t see him didn’t mean they couldn’t hear him, and Potter finally buttoned up.

After much trial and error and several stubbed toes, they finally reached the window sill, and Potter set him down with one hand while he reached to unlatch the window with the other. “I wish I could say it’s been fun—but I’ve got a goose egg on the back of my head that would argue otherwise.” He unthinkingly reached out and scritched Draco right under the ruff of feathers ringing his face, as if he were a proper owl and not only hiding in this form for reasons. Wanker. “G’night, Alabastard.”

And then Draco was off, winging his way quick as he could back through the courtyard and headed for the Dungeon—but not before his keen hearing picked up the faint strains of Weasley, sleep-drunk and raspy, asking, “...Did you just smuggle an owl into our room?”

Chapter Text

Draco was never going to know peace at mealtimes again, he was starting to accept. It was just a fact of life. There were certain immutable truths to the world—peacocks were always going to shit on anything that stood still long enough, Borgin was never going to part with that lovely emerald jewel he kept in a glass case over the register in his shop no matter how many times Draco’s father asked after it, and breakfast in the Great Hall was always going to be a fraught affair if your name was Draco Malfoy.

Xerxes, you see, had been turned. He was no longer Draco’s owl. No—he would evidently deliver letters for anyone who waltzed into the Owlery and beckoned him down with a large enough handful of treats.

Draco frowned down at the letter he’d just been delivered with the morning post. Sealed with that damn stag motif again, there could be no doubt about who had conned Xerxes into doing his dirty work.

“Another love letter from your admirer?” Pansy asked, ribbing him gently as she buttered a slice of toast.

“What?” he said, distracted. Where had Potter even got wax? He hadn’t spotted any writing desks in the dormitory (hence the window sill), and he found it difficult to believe the Gryffindor Common Room was just stacked with stationery stores.

“The admirer who’s clearly sending you all manner of post. That’s the second delivery in as many days, and then there was the letter addressed to you waiting on the table not so long ago…” She waggled her brows at him. “So?”

“It’s not from an admirer,” he grumbled, popping the seal and carefully angling the contents so that Pansy couldn’t see. “Quite the opposite.”

“Ho now,” Blaise called from the other side of Pansy. “You aren’t getting anything nasty in your post, are you? If that stupid article’s prompted Howlers or anything of the sort, you ought to file a compl—”

“Thank you, but it’s nothing I can’t handle,” Draco said, quickly, because while he appreciated his friends throwing fits for him, he didn’t appreciate them doing so in the middle of the Great Hall. They could be nearly as bad as Potter sometimes.

He frowned at the note Potter had sent him, mouthing the words to himself: /Tutor me in Charms? It’s definitely not something a friend would do./

Slowly, his eyes crawled from the chicken-scratch writing to the Gryffindor table, where Potter was stuffing his face with a bright yellow scramble. He must’ve felt Draco’s gaze on him, for his head snapped over just in time to catch Draco watching, and his brows lifted in a way that said How about it?

Draco showed him two fingers. How about that?

Potter just looked perplexed and went back to his scramble, which was just rude. He had no right looking perplexed. He was the one making unreasonable—and unfathomable—demands of Draco. Tutor him? In Charms?

“Well, in lots of stuff, really. Not just Charms,” Potter clarified when Draco came calling at his window that evening. The rest of his roommates were downstairs caught up in a riveting game of Exploding Snap that evidently involved a few side bets—as if Weasley had any Knuts to spare—so they had a bit of privacy for the moment. Potter cast a long look at his trunk—which looked brand new and not like it had survived six-plus years being toted to and from Scotland—and sighed. “N.E.W.T.s are gonna be here sooner than I’d like, and Hermione can really only handle helping one of us at a time. Them being together, it seemed only fair I let Ron have at her, and honestly I’d rather not get in the middle of all…that…so I’m content to self-study. But I could always use a study buddy!”

Draco gave a warning click with his beak, and Potter inhaled sharply.

“Right, right, sorry. Poor wording on my part. Of course I meant to say that, if you were to agree to give me the occasional pointer on my studies for the core N.E.W.T. modules I need, you’d receive the pleasure of…getting to watch me struggle to grasp the most basic of magical theorems and lord over me how massive your intellect is, and I wouldn’t be able to say a cross word one? Come on, surely that’s got to hold some allure.”

Oh, Potter could drive a hard bargain, and with little else to do to occupy his own evenings, Draco found himself reluctantly agreeing to be the Chosen One’s taskmaster. Only until Draco got bored of it, mind you; he was committing to nothing, save a few nights a week with a front-row seat watching Potter demonstrate in living colour that he’d bested the Dark Lord by sheer luck only and certainly not by a superior grasp of magic. It was the sort of affirmation that made Draco feel a tiny bit better about himself.

He did reluctantly find himself correcting the odd form, though, when Potter practised spellwork, and if Potter’s essays got too rambly, he demonstrated his disappointment with the lack of any evident work ethic by slashing the parchment to ribbons so that Potter had to start over. Several times he was threatened, again, with being barbecued, and Potter even once tossed him back out the window in a pique—but he was generally back in good humour by the next evening, which Draco supposed was a sign he’d finally matured.

It was an odd thing, slipping back—or trying to slip back—into the space he’d occupied before: where fucking with Potter had been a fun past time and he’d largely been concerned with ensuring his grades were promising enough he wouldn’t have to endure his father’s withering glare of disappointment and exasperated reminders that We have a reputation to uphold, Draco at the holidays. Swanning about the halls with Umbridge’s blessing, Inquisitorial Squad badge gleaming on his chest, now seemed like distant, fond memories of a rosier time. One to which he could never return, not without a Time-Turner.

All of this left him feeling rather out of sorts now, and even the thrum of superiority that flushed through him after sharply clicking his beak in irritation at Potter’s repeated misspelling of Tarantallegra was not enough to stifle the feeling that this just wasn’t the same as before…and it never would be again.

He needed to do something, he decided. Something to shake off this mood, whatever it was, and put him in brighter spirits. And there had really only ever been one way to do that: ruin Harry Potter’s good time.

Oh, he’d been wanting to do this for a while now, and he was rapidly running out of opportunities with the shortening days and dipping temperatures making outdoor play less and less appealing, so it was now or never. As soon as he’d wolfed down his breakfast, he gave Pansy and Blaise smacking kisses on their cheeks, told them not to wait up for him, and rushed from the Hall in a flurry of robes, heading straight for the Owlery. If tradition held, Potter would still be stuffing his face for another ten minutes yet, at which point he’d saunter back to Gryffindor Tower, change into something suitably moth-eaten and stained, and make his way down to the Quidditch pitch, laughing and shoving and engaging in all manner of machismo-infused power play like the Golden Boy he was.

He would be riding the high that came only to students just out of school for the weekend, with nothing but open skies and dazzling sunshine waiting for him. He would don his gear, toss his brand new Nimbus 2020 over one shoulder, and stride out onto the pitch before kicking off for fun and fancy free.

Or at least, that would be his plan.

Unfortunately, Draco was about to take aim and drop a wet, sopping dollop of owl shit squarely on his plan.

By the time Potter arrived at the pitch, Draco had already taken his usual position perched on the railing at the front of one of the Slytherin stands. He was making no attempt at stealth, but this distance from where Potter and his friends were discussing the terms of the morning’s game down in the centre of the pitch, he doubted he’d be spotted too quickly.

Impatiently, he waited for greetings to be made, niceties to be traded, and the game to just start already, because really, it wasn’t fun sitting around outside in early December, even if you did have a plush downy coat to help ward off the chill. He envied Potter and the rest of his ragtag team, bundled up in jackets with mittens and knitted hats and probably at least three Warming Charms applied to their persons apiece.

The trunk containing the Quaffle, Snitch and Bludgers was trotted out, and as everyone began to take their positions, the Snitch was released, darting off into oblivion. The Bludgers would be next, and then the Quaffle tossed—but Draco really didn’t care about those. Well, he cared a little bit about the Bludgers, as one strike from one of those to his fragile bird body, and he’d shortly be joining Snape in the Hereafter. But beyond their immediate threat to his life, he was unconcerned—no, his attention was fixed wholly on the Snitch.

Which was, he could see, currently hovering just behind a string of pennants looped under the awning of the Gryffindor stands. Potter was still all smiles as he traded what sounded like needling banter with Finnigan, oblivious to the whereabouts of the most important piece of this mid-air chess match they were about to play, which was just how Draco liked it.

He took off, keeping his distance so as not to spook the Snitch into fleeing. He would have to hit it on a straightaway dive—it was the only hope he had of gaining the speed necessary to catch the damn thing.

A whistle sounded, and a whoop went up as the game began. Potter kicked off, and Draco drifted into position. Once Potter saw him, there was every chance he would catch on to what Draco was trying to do, which would ruin the surprise, so he had precious few moments of leeway to get this done. Below, the Snitch had zipped out from under the awning and was now flying in spiralling loops toward the Hufflepuff stands. Potter was taking a lazy turn around the pitch, eyes peeled, and he seemed to have spotted neither Draco nor the errant Snitch.

It was time.

Draco drew his wings in tight to his body, angling down and shooting like a bullet, talons outstretched. Yes, he told his owl brain: this was just a plump, delicious little golden morsel—and he was a fierce hunter about to pounce upon it and carry it off for later enjoyment. The biting wind whipped around him, screaming in his sensitive ears, and he had to squint to keep his eyes from hurting.

A flash of sunlight glinting off of rapidly beating wings, and then—

“What the—oi, there’s an owl on the pitch!” someone yelled.

“What’s a bloody owl doing out here?”

“Ooh, look, it’s caught something, I think.”

“Hah, maybe it’s Malfoy, come to spy on us!”

“We aren’t even on the House team, you dolt. And neither is he. What would he be spying on anyone for?”

“Hey, are we gonna play, or what?”

“Yeah, all right. Anyone see where the Bludgers got off to? I don’t wanna—hey, where’re you going, Harry? Harry??”

Shit. That was his cue to get the fuck out of here.

No sooner had his talons closed around the feverishly vibrating Snitch than he was off again, wings flapping furiously, not for height now but for sheer break-neck speed, because from the sound of it, Potter had seen the stunt and was in hot pursuit.

Well, he was welcome to give it his very best shot.

Draco was never going to outfly Potter, not in this puny body and with Potter astride a broom that Blythe Parkin, Seeker for the English National Quidditch Team, had called, “The next-best thing to riding a fudging dragon onto the pitch!” But he wasn’t trying to. He was only trying to get back to the castle and its imposing Gothic architecture that was just perfect for disrupting straightaway flight patterns before Potter ran him down. Which, he was now realising as his straining muscles began to ache, would be far easier said than done, because when had the castle been so damn far from the pitch? It hadn’t seemed more than a few minutes’ flight before, but now, with Potter practically breathing down his neck, it felt leagues away.

Was it just his keen hearing, or was Potter right behind him? Not chancing it, he took a hard bank, flitting through a stand of trees, and came shooting out the other side, hoping he might have gained a few precious seconds.

“Give back the Snitch, you wanker!” Potter roared to be heard over the whipping wind. “I can still call in the barbecue favour! Come on!”

And did Potter really think Draco was going to be amenable to negotiation, after all this? Had he learned nothing? He was a slow study, but surely even he ought to know Draco wasn’t going to just drop the Snitch he’d worked so hard to capture. If Potter wanted it so badly, he really should have had his eye on it sooner. No wonder he hadn’t been invited back to the team proper this year.

Jumping into the trees had bought him precious seconds of time, but he’d also necessarily had to slow down to ensure he didn’t break his neck slamming into a branch, so everything about evened out, and Potter was still gaining on him steadily. He had one final card to play, one last weapon in his arsenal to deploy, and he felt it was time. With a quick glance behind himself, locking eyes with Potter through the thick goggles he wore, he took aim—

SPLAT

“Oh—oh god, it’s in my fucking—mouth—I’m gonna murder you, Malfoy, I swear to—”

Promises, promises, Draco said to himself with a hissing sort of cackle. The sight of Potter hovering midair, a bright white splotch of owl shit covering his face, gave Draco a renewed burst of strength, and by the time Potter had cleaned himself off and kicked his Nimbus into high gear, Draco was already passing over Gryffindor Tower. If he could get back to the Owlery, he could transform and take shelter inside the castle proper—Potter couldn’t follow him through the castle halls on the fancy broomstick that Draco had (kind of) bought for him.

But the West Tower was still a good ways from Draco’s current location, and Potter was nearly on him. A change of route was in order, in that case, and Draco dived down, arrowing for the struts underneath the Charms Corridor and banking along the southern wall of the Great Hall, through the windows of which he could still see students milling about, the tables having been given over to studies and genial conversation. This was where they would find out who was truly the more capable flier.

He shot back out around the eastern side of the castle, dipping under another set of struts to enter the quad, where gaggles of students pointed at him—and Potter—in scandalised voices. He flared his wings to keep from slamming into the tall windows flanking the Hospital Wing, shooting up and over and relishing Potter’s loudly spat oaths as he narrowly avoided a quick trip to see Pomfrey himself.

He could see the West Tower now, and the Owlery sat atop it, with owls swooping in and out. He began flapping frantically for the nearest open window—

“Oh no you don’t!” Potter crowed, taking a swipe now he was within reach, and Draco felt something catch on his tail feathers and yank, hard. “Get—back here—”

In a pique of adrenaline-fuelled anger and surprise, he lashed out with everything he had, and he screeched in triumph when he felt his free talon strike flesh. Potter yelped, and Draco was free. He took a tumble but managed to catch himself, soaring through one of the windows on the opposite side of the tower and transforming back before he’d even made it to ground level. He collapsed onto his knees as his feet hit the straw-covered ground with a sharp thud, the Snitch still struggling in his grasp.

Breathing heavily, he scanned the tower above—and saw Potter, leaned through one of the windows but too large to fit fully inside. He couldn’t make out details from this distance with his shitty human vision, but he was pretty sure the lovely red line now scarring Potter’s left cheek was his own handiwork.

“Give it back, you knob!”

Draco waved the Snitch for show. “Come and take it, if you want it so badly.”

In a flash, Potter whipped his wand out. “Accio Snitch!”

The Snitch stayed put, and Draco tutted softly, slipping it into his pocket. “Come now, Potter. That’s basic rules and regulations. You can’t summon a Snitch.” He gave a little wave. “Enjoy your game!”

“Remember I’ve got an invisibility cloak, Malfoy! I sneaked into Slytherin’s Common Room once, and I’ll do it again if I have to!”

Draco had been halfway to the door, trying to tune out Potter’s rambling, but that had stuck, and he slowly turned back, one white brow arched. “You did what?”

Potter’s eyes were wide behind his Quidditch goggles. “…Nothing. Anyway, screw you!” And with that, he was gone, leaving Draco alone with his new Snitch and a sudden urge to have the password on the door leading down to the Dungeon changed.

The next morning, Draco trudged back up to the Owlery, the Snitch safe and secure in his pocket. He gave a silent nod to Xerxes, who after a steady diet of treats from Draco’s hand had learned he was to accept no more letters or parcels from Potter, and quickly and quietly assumed his owl form. The Snitch in talon, he winged his way around to the Great Hall, slipping through the skylight along with the other owls making their morning deliveries to the students feasting below, and dropped the Snitch directly over Potter’s head.

Potter had spotted him gliding in, though, and was ready—easily snatching up the Snitch the moment it fell within reach. Draco took a long loop around the hall, eyes trained on Potter as he made his way back to the skylight. Huddled amongst the Gryffindor scrum below, Potter held the Snitch close, frowning at the little note threaded through the ribbon Draco had used to tie down the wings when it wouldn’t stop flapping.

/I knew I could still beat you to it,/ it read, and Potter threw a dark glower up as Draco passed overhead, the bright red line still painting his cheek evidence he hadn’t gone to Pomfrey to get himself sorted. Probably because it would’ve been a tad embarrassing to explain how he’d come by the scratch.

Whether because the odd snowfall made flying a rather hazardous business or because they didn’t want to risk errant owls swooping in and stealing their Snitch any more, the Gryffindors’ games of pick-up Quidditch fell off, depriving Draco of one of the few forms of entertainment left to him. Potter had never let him near the Snitch again after his humiliating dogfight versus Draco, but it had at least been fun (after a fashion) just watching.

Potter’s roommates, as well, had begun complaining about open windows letting the chill in, so more often than not, Draco was turned away when he came calling, which was doing nothing to improve his mood as the days grew shorter and the term drew to a close. Potter had tried to compromise by turning up in the Owlery more often, but it was a far from pleasant environment for a human, with the cold and the stench, so they were at an impasse.

“We could just meet somewhere else?” Potter suggested, teeth chattering and getting nowhere with his Potions essay. Even with Slughorn’s favouritism, he still needed to turn in something the man could at least pretend had shown some degree of effort before slapping a gold star on it and calling it Inspired!

“You’re the one begging for aid,” Draco huffed, stamping his feet and rubbing his arms. This was getting ridiculous, especially when Potter kept insisting he stay human when they met in the Owlery because he felt ‘just weird’ talking to an owl all the time. Draco had news for Potter: that ship had sailed long ago. “You find someplace else.”

“What about that Charms classroom where you took a sucker punch at me?”

“You mean the Charms classroom where I physically disarmed you and regained my wand’s loyalty?”

“Yeah, you remember: the Charms classroom where you gave me a concussion.”

“Oh, yes, yes now I recall: the Charms classroom where you reassured me several times you did not have a concussion.”

Potter made a face. “…I don’t think we’re talking about the same Charms classroom.”

“Well,” Draco shrugged. “It wouldn’t matter. A gaggle of seventh-year Ravenclaws is using it most evenings to prepare their senior theses.”

Potter cupped his hands around his mouth and huffed into them. “Maybe another tower, one that’s not open to the elements? I know Astronomy classes are focusing on book learning until a new professor can be hired to replace Sinistra since she retired after last year, so the Astronomy Tower might be free.”

Draco could feel the blood freeze in his veins, and it had nothing to do with the winter chill. His expression went slack, and he said, very calmly and slowly, “…I don’t go to the Astronomy Tower.”

Potter, to his credit, went pale and looked a bit queasy as he nodded, quickly and sharply. “…Yeah, yeah I suppose you wouldn’t. Sorry, wasn’t thinking…” Draco didn’t know why he was apologising. It wasn’t as if he’d been there—seen that sad, stupid old man begging for Draco to reconsider, to allow him to hide Draco and his family, to give them sanctuary. How much would have been different had Draco had the courage to take his hand then? How much would be better? Could anything possibly be worse?

But much like the daydreams wherein he escaped the manor with Potter and his band of renegade war heroes, this was just another flight of fancy. He’d done Dumbledore in as surely by his actions as if he’d cast the Killing Curse himself. So no, he didn’t want to go back to the Astronomy Tower, whatever Potter thought his reasoning might be.

Potter’s face lit up as he hit upon another idea. “How about the Room of Requirement, then?”

“The what?”

“Oh, um—” Potter seemed to think, then said, “Er, remember where you caught me and my friends training back in Fifth Year and then snitched on us to Umbridge?”

“I did not snitch on you—you had an illegal gathering, in direct violation of Educational Decree Number 24. If you want to complain about being snitched on, then direct your ire at Edgecombe, since she was the one who went to Umbridge in the first place.”

“You certainly didn’t seem at all reluctant to break into the room and round us all up for punishment.”

“Did I not? Strange, it’s one of my greatest regrets.” Draco tapped his chin. “Oh, wait, no it’s not. Of course I was absolutely giddy at finally getting to put you in your place. You might not agree with school rules, but they are rules, and even you must abide by them.”

“Because you’re such a stickler for rules.”

And Potter was treading on dangerous ground now—but then, so was Draco. Extended bouts of talking really did not serve them well. This business had to stop. “Do you really want to tug at that thread?”

Potter had the grace to look abashed, and he ducked his head, scrubbing weakly at his hair with a wince. “…Well, I’m not sure it would work anyway, not after Crabbe blew up the Room of Hidden Things, seeing as they shared a pocket dimension.”

Draco frowned. “You can’t wrap your head around the Glacius triad, but you know about pocket dimensions?”

“I don’t know about pocket dimensions; Hermione does, and she tells me things, and sometimes I pay attention.” He sighed and crossed his arms. “…You know, we’re spending an awful lot of effort trying to find someplace private for you to help me study. Why not just use the Library, like everyone else? I certainly don’t want to spend any more time around books than necessary, but at least it’d be quiet there. And warm. And it wouldn’t stink.”

Oh yes, it would be all of those things—and it would be where anyone could wander by and see them. It was difficult enough getting any respect amongst his peers these days; to be seen practically arm in arm with the Boy Saviour would be social suicide, at least in the circles Draco tended to travel. And sharing Draco’s company would certainly do Potter no favours either, though Draco was far less concerned with Potter’s social standing than his own.

He didn’t want to seem a coward, but that wasn’t happening. “…That’s quite possibly one of your worst ideas yet, Potter. Have the kitchens already closed for the evening?” He reached forward to flick Potter across the scar on his forehead, only to be roughly batted away.

“Fine, you start coming up with ideas. At least I’m making an effort! I thought Slytherins were supposed to be ‘cunning’—use your brain to think of something useful for once, instead of new ways to piss me off.”

“Ways to piss you off come to me in flashes of inspiration, Potter—it’s never any trouble. And I should think Vince and Greg’s abysmal marks would have been evidence enough that cunning does not equate to booksmarts.”

Potter gave a half-shrug. “…All right, fair point.”

Draco sighed, breath coming in a steamy puff of fog. “…The Greenhouses.”

“What?”

“You need Herbology N.E.W.T.s for your ill-advised pursuit of an Aurorship, no? So you’ve got an excuse to ask Sprout for permission to be there, and they’re warm enough in the winter.”

Potter tapped his chin, thinking. “…Pretty sure Neville’s working there some evenings for his thesis, but I can ask after his schedule, find out which days he won’t be there. And if I run it past Sprout, we won’t be disturbed at least.” He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, that could be good.” He gave Draco a superior look. “See? Now was that so hard?”

Draco scowled. “If it was so very easy, why didn’t you think of it?”

“Because you kept shooting down all my ideas, so I had to wait for you to suggest something yourself, of course.” Potter leaned back against the chill stone of the tower walls, shoving his horrible Potions parchment into his pocket. “I’m getting good at this.”

“At what?”

“Playing you. You’ve always been kind of simple.”

Draco felt his face heating up, and he spat back, “Oh you’re one to talk. You’re ready to take heads off the moment someone disparages the good name of Weasley or Granger.” He then allowed himself a superior little smile. “Or steals your Snitch.”

Potter’s lips twisted into a frown. “You ruined our morning that day, you know. You don’t have to go out of your way to be a knob. Clearly you can be a decent sort when you want to.”

Draco raised a finger. “That’s getting dangerously close to suggesting we’re friends, Potter, and I believe I’ve already made my feelings on such insinuations well known.”

“Right, right, of course.” Potter sighed. “Greenhouses, then, yeah?” He made a face. “You know it won’t smell that much better than here, what with all the fertiliser.”

“Now you’re going to shoot down my ideas?”

“I’m only saying: the Library’s warm, quiet, and the worst thing you’re going to smell in the stacks is Madam Pince’s hair spray.”

Draco brushed down his robes, fixing Potter with a hard look, then said only, “Greenhouses,” in a very meaningful tone that brooked no argument.

He supposed, in retrospect, this would have been the perfect opportunity to leave off with this ‘study-partner-slash-tutor-slash-taskmaster’ business altogether and begin rebuilding the crumbling walls meant to keep Potter well out of his life, and had Draco been thinking beyond the next weekend, he might have done so. He would have seen that getting more involved with Potter, actively looking for ways to let Potter worm his way more intimately into Draco’s existence, was just begging for trouble to find him.

If he had, he perhaps wouldn’t have been so shocked when it did.

“Right, so applying the second principal exception to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration…?”

Potter winced. “…Which was…”

Draco slumped back against the creaky wooden chair they had scrounged from one of the greenhouse sheds, palm going to his forehead. “This is the third time, Potter… At least have enough respect for me and my time to scribble it on your palm and sneak a glance at later!” He slapped a hand over Potter’s open Transfiguration text. “The second exception is that non-magical creatures cannot be transfigured into magical creatures. You cannot create magical essence where there is none inherently—Squibs and Muggles will always be Squibs and Muggles, and efforts to imbue non-magical creatures with magical talent are doomed.”

“See, I just don’t see how we can know that—”

“We know it because Gamp fucking said it.”

“But how do we know he’s right? He might’ve just not figured out how to do it is all.”

“You think, in his two hundred-plus years of study, he simply didn’t manage to crack it?”

“Gamp’s from, what, the 13th century or so? And a pure-blood, probably?”

Draco’s expression went tight. “…What’s Gamp’s blood status got to do with anything? Think a pure-blood can’t—”

“Oh leave off. Don’t get so wound up. I’m saying: here’s a bloke, the Holy Crusades popping off all around him, Muggles going crazy, and he’s a pure-blood. Seems to me he’d have plenty of reason to think there was no saving the Muggles and that wizarding folk ought to leave well enough alone with them. Maybe he just made that exception up, so no one would try.”

Potter seemed pretty proud of himself, and Draco privately commended him on actually applying historical context to his line of logic. “Well, much as you may want to think this little exception can be put down to sheer prejudice and a scandalising centuries-old cover-up, others throughout history have indeed tested all of Gamp’s exceptions and come to much the same conclusions as he. Now, if you’d like to give up on this Auror business and direct your attentions to the study of Transfiguration with the lofty goal of bringing Muggles into our magical fold, by all means let’s march up to McGonagall’s office this moment and inform her of the good news.”

Potter slouched in his chair, just as creaky and threatening to collapse under his weight as Draco’s, and crossed his arms over his chest. “…Was just a thought. I’m not stupid.”

“No, you aren’t,” Draco sighed. “You’re a Gryffindor, which is ever so much worse.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, taking a deep breath. Blessedly, the faint stench of Mooncalf manure that permeated Greenhouse A was largely overpowered by the night-blooming moondew blossoms and a flower Draco didn’t recognise but which smelled strongly of honeysuckle and lavender. He made a mental note to poke around later and see what it was, because it smelled divine.

“Why am I even here, Potter?” he asked, because since he couldn’t answer the question himself, perhaps Potter could. He claimed Draco was an open book, easy enough to read, after all.

Potter gave him a funny look, like he thought this was a trick question. Maybe it was. “To help me study, obviously. Think we’ve done this enough times you can tell I need all the help I can get.”

Oh indeed he did. “And that needs to be me because…?”

“Because…” Potter frowned, a line of worry forming between his brows. “Because my friends are either busy with their own studies or need a tutor themselves. Plus you hate me, so I can at least trust you to be strict with me. And your marks were always only second to Hermione’s so…I mean, you know your shit.” He made a face, nose wrinkling. “…You aren’t going to put this memory in a Pensieve or something so you can dive in for instant replay whenever you want to hear me saying you’re smarter than I am, are you?”

No, he wasn’t. Or he hadn’t been at least—not until Potter had made the proposal, and now it didn’t sound like a half-bad idea at all.

“There’s hundreds of students at this school, Potter. I asked why me. Not why not one of your sycophants.”

Potter swallowed. “Because, like I said, you don’t like me—”

“If you think I’m the only one in this school who doesn’t like you, it would be my absolute pleasure to disabuse you of that notion.”

“…If you don’t want to be here, you don’t have to be.” Potter met his eyes, sharp and green and certain. “And you know that. Which means you want to be here, so maybe let’s stop playing stupid, since we know neither one of us is stupid, and get back to studying?”

Well shit. If Potter was actually going to call him out, then this was going to be a disaster. Didn’t he realise you couldn’t do that with Draco? He was a fickle beast, liable to be spooked by the slightest false move. Potter wasn’t playing the game fairly now.

“And what do I get in return?” he asked, edging them back into corners he was comfortable occupying.

Potter only rolled his eyes, throwing his hands in the air. “As I said before: you’ll get the pleasure of telling me, multiple times an evening I expect, that I’m thick, a dunderhead, and quite possibly beyond salvaging. That should give you lots of happy memories to add to that Pensieve.” He shrugged. “And if that’s not enough, well then I promise to never ever attempt to befriend you, since you seem above that business.”

“I’m not above friendship—I’ve got my friends, and I keep them quite close. I am, however, not accustomed to offering friendship again after it’s already been rejected once. If you think I’m any different now than I was at eleven, I’d have another think about it, if I were you.”

Potter’s lips thinned into a tight line, and Draco thought he could see a little vein popping out at his temple. “Then I’ll not only not try to befriend you, I’ll continue being a right wanker. I won’t coddle you or take pity on you or comfort you or anything a friend might do. I’ll be absolutely straight with you, because I don’t give enough of a shit about you to lie.”

And though Draco knew Potter was saying these things to be contrary, his way of acting out…he didn’t entirely hate the suggestion. Draco didn’t have anyone like that, was all. Someone who just tolerated him, who might wonder where he’d gone if he disappeared but probably wouldn’t miss him. Someone he could be a terror to who’d blithely come back the next day as if nothing had happened, because he didn’t care enough about Draco these days to hold a long grudge.

He’d spent so long seeking attention, now that Potter was offering it so sweetly, so casually, it was overwhelming.

He couldn’t handle that, no, but this…this might do.

He fixed Potter with a hard look, relishing the way he squirmed. “…Do you promise?”

Potter’s expression went funny, probably trying to figure Draco out. Not so easy to read as Potter thought, now was he? “I…I guess?”

Draco nodded, satisfied.

The Greenhouses were a step up from the Owlery in amenities, and despite being a fair bit further of a trek—for Potter at least—than Gryffindor Tower, they managed well enough. These clandestine meetings for tutoring sessions that would have scandalised the wizarding world at large were actually working out well enough for the both of them. Potter’s marks were definitely improving—though still not up to snuff—and Draco was free to critique and criticise to his heart’s content. Which he did, at every available opportunity.

It wasn’t quite as fun when it didn’t really rile Potter up the way he might have hoped it would, but there was still a certain sort of satisfaction, watching Potter’s shoulders slump, or his head droop, or his lips twist into a frustrated moue and knowing it was all Draco’s doing.

It was a bit…odd, though. Unsettling in a way he hadn’t felt since those early days of annoying Potter. Perhaps, he thought, because he was spending so much of their time together now as himself, a human, and not an owl. Here he was once again, getting entirely too familiar with Potter, and now without the comfortable barrier of his Animagus form to shield him from Potter’s idle chatter, his Did you read that interview with Brankovitch in Seeker Weekly?s and You think the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws feel weird at Christmas, seeing all the red and gold and silver and green everywhere?s and George said Eeylops has started selling ‘Peppermint Ginger Goose Gizzard’ treats for the holiday season—did you want me to put in an order?s came with distressing frequency.

And yes of course he wanted an order put in, but he was capable of procuring his own owl treats, thank-you-very-much. In fact, he planned to do so on his very next trip to London, which was to take place just this afternoon.

It was Wednesday the twelfth, and that meant it was time for his bimonthly Floo trip to the Ministry to meet with Probation Officiate Wentsworth of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Juvenile Penal Affairs subdivision. The Wizengamot had wanted to bump his case up to be handled by the Wizarding Penal Affairs subdivision, seeing as he was of age, but his barrister had argued that, seeing as the crimes for which he was being placed on probation had been committed as a juvenile, he should be allowed to be treated as such, present age notwithstanding. It didn’t make any sense at all to Draco, but he certainly wasn’t going to argue otherwise.

Probation Officiate Wentsworth was, Draco supposed, a decent enough fellow, at least as far as Probation Officiates went. Older than Draco’s father even, he was a short, stout wizard, balding on top with hideous glasses that held lenses the size of tea saucers. Draco could swear they got bigger at each check-in, and he had to wonder why otherwise respectable wizards would do this to themselves. It was a harrowing vision of Potter’s future, and Draco wondered if there was a way to somehow present Wentsworth to Potter as a dire warning of what awaited him should he persist in this stubborn refusal to simply pop by St Mungo’s and get his vision professionally adjusted.

“Good to see you again, Draco,” Wentsworth said after his secretary had ushered Draco into his office, and he waved his wand, encouraging a chair that had been sitting in the corner to gallop over and scoop up Draco, depositing him in front of Wentsworth’s desk, which was presently drowning in paperwork. Catching Draco taking in the state of his desk, Wentsworth gave a wry chuckle. “Well, it’s a busy time of year, you can understand. Parole hearings, petitions for family leave, and enough visitation requests to choke on.”

“I see,” was all Draco said, suddenly conscious of just how close he’d come to being part of that mountain of paperwork Wentsworth had yet to tackle.

Wentsworth swivelled around in his chair, tugging out a drawer from a filing cabinet behind him and picking through the contents until with an Ah hah! he pulled out a folio. With a sweep of his burly forearms, he cleared off a bit of desk space and slapped the folio down. “Now, let’s get caught up, shall we?” He frowned at the pages as he flipped through, muttering encouraging sounds under his breath. “So have things settled down since October, then?”

“I’m—sorry?”

“October—the Prophet’s piece. I’m still poking around, trying to see who might have tipped them off about your registration, but the Prophet isn’t saying anything, and the attendants over at the Registry desk can’t divulge petitioner logs without a warrant. If you’d like to file a report, get a case file started, we can discuss that after we’re finished here, but otherwise—”

Draco was already waving him off. “Good gad, no. No, thank you. That would…only make things worse, I’m sure.” Whoever had tipped off the Prophet either wanted a reaction out of him or to encourage others to take their revenge on him, vigilante style. He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of either being so easily accomplished. “Things have largely calmed down on campus. The Headmistress has made it clear she won’t tolerate any…well, extrajudicial anything under her watch.”

Wentsworth gave a nodding grunt. “Right. She’s a good egg, McGonagall.” He tapped his wand on a rune drawn on the folio’s tab, and a sheet filled with tabular scribbling popped onto the top of the stack. “Let’s look at your marks, now…” He muttered under his breath as he read, lips thinning into an impressed half-smile. “Sure you aren’t a Ravenclaw, son?”

“To my father’s great relief, no.”

Wentsworth gave a gruff chuckle. “Well, you’re keeping your marks up, that’s good to see. Any plans for the upcoming holiday?”

“Well, seeing as our yearly shopping trip to Paris to clean out Place Cachée is, shall we say, arrested, no. No plans in particular.”

“Plenty of time for travel after you’ve graduated,” was Wentsworth’s bland response. “And what about N.E.W.T.s?”

“N.E.W.T.s?”

“Yes, will you be sitting the exam?”

“…I’m not taking any N.E.W.T. classes, so no, I expect not.”

“Well, you’re free to sign on to take them, even without having completed the coursework. You’ll only be expected to have done a bit of self-study if you hope to pass, that’s all.” He closed the folio, leaning across his desk to fix Draco with an expression bordering discomfitingly on pity. “Have you given any thought as to what you’d like to do once you’ve graduated and your probation’s up? You’ll be free to travel as you please, of course—but there’s plenty of work to be had or higher education to pursue here in Britain.”

Draco made a noncommittal noise, certainly not prepared to discuss his current complete and utter lack of prospects going forward.

Wentsworth only took this as encouragement to continue his suggestions. “If you were amenable to it, I’d be happy to set up an interview with one of the case workers over in Administration Services, get your profile in the system so you can begin to be contacted for temporary contracts. You know, just something to keep you busy—keep you out of trouble—until you find what really suits you.” Wentsworth laced his fingers together, fixing Draco with a meaningful look. “I’d like to help you land on your feet, do what I can in the short while we have left together. These next six months will fly by before you’ve realised it, and then you’ll be very much on your own. You’ve still got your entire life ahead of you and those who’d like to see you not waste this second chance you’ve been granted.” Draco just sat there, slack and unable to muster so much as a nod of his head. “…Well, think it over, won’t you? We can discuss it more in the new year.”

After another twenty minutes of reviewing the terms of his probation and scheduling his next ‘visit’, Draco plodded down the hall, past reception and back to the lift, with a heavy weight across his shoulders.

What he wanted to do? Well that was a loaded question if he’d ever heard one, and Wentsworth wanted to send him off to Administration Services? Because of course he couldn’t find gainful employment on his own (he couldn’t), he needed the Ministry to beg someone to take him on (he did).

He smashed his fist against the button for the Atrium when the lift finally came, face so hot he was surprised there wasn’t steam shooting out his ears. Harry-fucking-Potter had his life more together than Draco. He had plans—terrible ones, but plans. Sure, he’d probably get himself killed within the first week on the job, but at least he’d go out doing what he did best: playing the hero.

Draco had known it wouldn’t be easy making his way in life after Hogwarts. Inside that castle, he could still pretend at being a student, ignore the looming threat of adulthood and the responsibilities inherent therein. He could earn ten House points in Arithmancy, laugh at Potter’s shitty thesis statement, and reassure Pansy her new dress robes didn’t make her arse look fat, and that was a day well done for him. He could just be Draco for a little bit longer—six more months—before he had to live with Malfoy and all the baggage that came with it thenceforth.

He really was a coward, and Wentsworth was here, evidently, to remind him of that fact on a bimonthly basis.

His mood was so soured by the turn in conversation that he marched straight to the Public Floo Corridor on reaching the Atrium, heels clacking loudly as he brooked his way across the tiles.

It was only after stepping back through the fireplace nestled in the corner of McGonagall’s office that he realised he’d forgotten entirely to drop by Eeylops and pick up a sampler of the Peppermint Ginger Goose Gizzard treats.

“Everything all right at the Ministry, Mr Malfoy?” McGonagall asked, glancing up from her marking to see what Draco supposed must be a rather nasty frown on his features. He could have curdled milk with a glance.

“Only business as usual,” he muttered, ducking a nod at her and quietly excusing himself from her office.

Chapter Text

The Christmas holidays were upon them sooner than Draco had expected, which was surprising, seeing as the halls had been well and thoroughly decked with the absolute tackiest decorations Galleons could buy since December 1st. You couldn’t walk ten paces without having a poorly tuned carol screeched at you by one of the statues or getting pelted by Peeves with projectile ornaments or nearly slipping in puddles of indeterminate liquid as the Ravenclaws tried, as they did every year, to tweak Aguamenti to produce eggnog.

Despite the stress of it all, though, Draco found himself strangely wistful. These last few months had not been quite as insufferable as Draco had imagined they would be when he’d first been handed his probationary terms, and now he was standing here in Greenhouse A, loafers caked in Mooncalf shite, about to bid goodnight to Potter for the last time before they broke for the holidays.

It was only, you weren’t allowed to miss people like Harry Potter when you were Draco Malfoy. You couldn’t say it out loud, even if you wanted to (and you definitely did not want to), because that simply wasn’t something you said to the person whose life you’d personally made or helped make a living hell for the past seven or so years. Especially when you had not apologised to them—and even more especially when you had no intention of doing so, either.

You would not miss them, no. You might be bored without the distraction they served, but that was all. And that was precisely how Draco felt on the matter.

So he did not say anything stupid like Have a good Christmas or See you after the holidays; instead, he said something stupid like, “Try not to forget everything over break,” and, “I’m not starting over from the beginning come next term.”

“Oh, leave off,” Potter snorted, grabbing their chairs and toting them back to the little shed near the doors to the Greenhouse. “I am paying attention, you know. Learning things.”

“I didn’t know that, actually. The thought is comforting, though.”

“I’m doing so well in Charms, Hermione thinks I’m cheating.” He said this, beaming with pride, and Draco was reminded that he really didn’t understand Gryffindors.

“…You aren’t, are you? Because if you’re wanting to cheat, then I should really be tutoring you in an entirely different skill set.”

“Wh—of course I’m not cheating!” He made a face. “…Lying’s not really something I do well.”

“Mm, yes, I agree. You look even more oafish than usual when you try. Legilimency’s wasted on you—one could read you like a book.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Everything’s rich coming from me. I’m loaded.”

“That’s not wh—” Potter scrubbed his face. “Forget it,” he sighed. “…See you next year, I suppose?”

Draco shrugged. “Barring any unfortunate incidents of vigilante justice perpetrated upon my household over the holidays, I expect so, yes.”

Potter’s brows knit, and he stood straighter, shoulders squared. “Wait, have people been messing with you? Sending threats?”

“Oh stand down. You aren’t an Auror yet. And no one needs to send me threats; they’re unspoken—that’s the point.” He made a shooing gesture. “I’ve a nasty habit of slipping through unscathed when my life’s on the line.”

“Yeah, usually ‘cause I’ve just saved it.”

“That was one time—” He cut himself off, lips pursed in irritation. He refused to let Potter end off this year with one over on him. “I’m not your owl, not your friend, and not your problem. I can handle my own business—you worry about yours.” And before Potter could protest otherwise or remind Draco of yet another humiliating moment in his life, Draco shouldered past him, out of the Greenhouse, and pelted off into the cold winter night in a flurry of feathers.

Home, such as it was, was rather dreary this year. Certainly not as bad as the previous year, but at least then they’d all been together. A broken, beaten family—but still a family. This year, though, there were no tasteful but festive decorations in the entry hall, no evenings nursing hot toddies by the ancient crackling fireplace in the parlour listening to the paintings tell stories of Christmases past, no Boxing Day luncheons with his friends spent bragging about what extravagant gifts their doting parents had bestowed upon them.

Instead, it would just be himself, his mother, and this dank, dark manse that hadn’t been entirely reclaimed since the Dark Lord had used it as his personal estate those months ago. Never before had the manor felt so empty, so…unfamiliar. Halls he’d zipped through on toy brooms as a child were now tainted by memories of captured foes being dragged along, screeching and begging for mercy. The drawing room rug had been so stained with old, black blood they’d had to Incendio it and buy a new one. He thought the new rug looked somehow a little blood-stained too and hadn’t set foot in the room since the final battle.

Even his own bedroom seemed somehow too big, too open to the elements. The balcony window he would leave thrown open during summers he now kept shut, locked tight with a bolt and five different warding spells. Three days into the holidays, he found himself wishing he were back at Hogwarts already, tucked away safe in the bowels of the castle with only the peeping eyes of the merfolk peering in through the thick glass windows in the Common Room to worry about.

Nightmares plagued his sleep, and paranoia dogged him while awake, and he imagined he could still sense lingering Dark magic in everything around him now. The manor had always been a bit dangerous if you weren’t careful—but it had been their danger. Blood rites tied to the Malfoy line and ancient curses and charmed objects that would work all sorts of nasty mischief on meddling outsiders. But now—well, who knew what the Dark Lord and his more maniacal followers had left behind, whether intentionally or otherwise, for unwitting fools like Draco to stumble upon later?

With this house feeling nothing like a home anymore, Draco took to spending more time than was perhaps appropriate roosting as an owl in the bell tower. He could see for miles from up there—nothing was going to sneak up on them, not with the grounds freshly warded against uninvited Apparition as they were. It was the only place on the property he could actually sleep—light though his naps were—and he did so daily, for hours on end, popping down only for meals and aborted attempts at sleeping in his own bed. And absolutely positively not wondering what Harry Potter was doing with his holiday.

He was startled from one of these naps late one morning when an excited fluffball of an owl dive-bombed him from out of nowhere, missing Draco by a mile and tumbling end over head into the tower. Shortly, it scrambled back up to roost beside Draco, hooting merrily and shifting from one foot to the other with a manic rhythm. Draco eyed it warily, then shuffled to the other side of the tower, hoping to give it space until it decided to move along on its way.

This only encouraged it to scoot closer, and though Draco dwarfed it by several fold, clacking his beak in warning, it seemed unperturbed, fluffing its feathers importantly. Draco snapped at it, but it handily dodged, continuing to burble friendly chirps at him and making a real racket that was getting on Draco’s very last nerve.

He was clearly not getting back to his nap so long as this interloper was hanging around, so he spread his wings and leapt from the tower, gliding around the property until he found his bedroom window, reluctantly left open on days he roosted in the belfry. His mother had complained about a draught, but he’d only told her to stoke the fires higher, in no mood to explain why he was whiling away his winter break in quiet solitude underneath a layer of feathers and down.

The little owl did not appear capable of taking any hints, though, for it followed him as he sailed back through his window, alighting on his desk as he smoothly transformed and whirled on it, wand brandished. “What the fuck do you want?”

The little owl cocked its head at him, gazing up with big brown eyes, and then held one leg out, awkwardly balancing on the other. It was only now Draco realised there was a scroll tied to it, itself almost as large as the owl delivering it, and his arm dropped, shoulders slumping. Fuck, paranoia was exhausting.

Warily, because he still didn’t know where this owl had come from or what it wanted with him—especially as it had sought him out as an owl—he approached, then reached for the scroll with twitching fingers. The owl only shook its leg excitedly, chirruping and fluffing itself up with such enthusiasm, Draco thought it was just this close to launching itself at him.

“…Excitable little creature, aren’t you?” he muttered—then frowned when the owl beamed up at him. He knew this owl—had seen it somewhere before.

In the Owlery at Hogwarts. This was the Scops Potter had been fiddling with in those early days before he’d worn Draco down and made a mess of his lazy afternoons.

“…I suppose you’ll be Weasley’s owl, then?” he said, scritching it under the chin with one hand while he untied the scroll with the other. He ought to have known; something that insufferable had to have been a Weasley, or Weasley-adjacent at least. The owl melted under his attentions, and he rolled his eyes, then turned his focus to the letter, which was—predictably, because Weasley certainly wasn’t going to be writing him—from Potter.

/So first off, I’m not writing because I’m bored or anything. It’s only really depressing this year at The Burrow, for obvious reasons (or are they obvious? If you didn’t know, one of Ron’s brothers didn’t make it through the battle back in May, so Christmas is hitting their family hard), and I was wondering if it was the same at your place. Probably a shitty thing to think, and even shittier to ask, but seeing as we aren’t friends, I figured I was actually obligated to write.

What do people like you even do for Christmas anyway? And before you get your knickers in a twist, I mean rich knobs. Not Death Eaters.

Wait, now I’m kind of curious what Death Eaters did for Christmas. Another shitty thing to think and ask, but as we’ve agreed: we aren’t friends.

Regale me.

—Potter

P.S. Pig gets excited when we ask him to deliver letters. Sorry if he’s a little annoying. Excellent to hear if he’s a lot annoying./

Despite claims he wasn’t ‘bored or anything’, Potter absolutely sounded bored, and Draco could almost sympathise. Stuck somewhere you weren’t comfortable being, while others around you mourned and made the general atmosphere dark and dour, until at wits’ end, you did the unthinkable…

Oh, he had a mad idea now. Really just absolutely terrible, but Potter had started it. Stupid snap decisions were not the sole purview of Gryffindors—and Draco had never been one to sit idly by and let Potter best him at anything.

“Wait here,” he told the little owl, then strode over to his bedside and reached for a thick length of cording hanging by the quilted headboard.

With a bright CRACK, one of the house-elves popped into existence, head bowed and ears flopping forward. “Yes, Master Draco?”

“Where is my mother?”

“Mistress Narcissa is taking her tea in the solarium.”

He waved his hand, and the house-elf disappeared with another CRACK, with Draco striding through the puff of arcane smoke left behind as he made his way to the aforementioned solarium.

He entered with a soft knock on the door for her attention, and she turned to smile at him—not so very bright, but warm enough—as she beckoned him inside. She was sprawled out on a chaise longue with a thick green-and-red tartan blanket thrown over her knees, and as he approached, she set aside the book she’d had open in her lap: Exorcising the Earth — Ten Steps to De-cursifying Your Daffodils.

“…Dabbling in Herbology, are we?” he probed lightly, and she chuckled under her breath.

“The house-elves have proven themselves hopeless in bringing the gardens back to a seemly state after that nasty business last year. It’s clear I’ll have to take matters into my own wand if we’re to see colour on the grounds come spring.” She tilted her head at him, lifting a brow. “Now, to what do I owe the honour of you descending from your grand tower to grace me with your presence, Master Malfoy?”

The warmth in her voice, worlds away from the strained terror and panicked tones she’d spoken in all of last year, was both comforting and an unwelcome reminder of what they’d been through, the contrast jarring in its own way. He wasn’t the only one who felt trapped here, like this wasn’t his home anymore. She was struggling similarly.

But it wasn’t something that could be pushed—and judging from the book in her lap, she had her own way of coping. So Draco would continue coping as befit him too. “…I’m going to spend a few days at the Zabinis’. Blaise has invited me over—only for a short visit. I’ll be back before Christmas Eve, so you needn’t worry.”

He’d lied to his parents more times than he could count—but it had always been a fraught thing, lying to his mother. His father had never really cared about him or his business enough to notice if he was lying. His mother, though, was a sharp one, and he imagined sometimes he could feel her poking about in his thoughts, searching for the truth when she asked him questions like How is school going? and Are you getting on with your classmates? He thought he could feel it now, too.

But if she doubted his plans, she didn’t show it on her features, and her only response to his declaration was, “That sounds lovely, Darling. Give Lady Zabini my regards, won’t you? The elves ought to have a batch of scones fresh-baked for tea—take a few with you to share.”

She held her hand out to him, and he took it and laid a kiss on her knuckles. Her skin was chill from sitting here, surrounded by tall walls of thin glass under a greying sky. “Shall I have one of the elves bring in a brazier?”

“Mm, I think not. The sun’s been peeking in and out; I expect the afternoon to be quite pleasant.” She shooed him away. “Off with you. Let me get back to my reading. I mean to have roses again come spring, if those damned peacocks haven’t dug up the beds.”

And so, he left his mother to wage war against the peacocks, returning to his room with a pep in his step. The little Scops was still waiting for him on his desk, and seeing him stride through the door, it broke out into an excited jig, claws tip-tapping on the polished mahogany.

“Stop that,” he said. “You’ll ruin the varnish.” It froze, staring up expectantly, and he sighed. “…You’re waiting for a response, I suppose?”

It gave a chirruping hoot.

Draco caught a look at himself in the full mirror next to his wardrobe: he would have changed into something a bit sharper, were he truly going to visit Blaise as he’d told his mother, but for the likes of Potter, this was more than fine. Anything nicer would surely be wasted on him, as he was no doubt living from one crumb-covered pullover to the next on his winter break.

He stepped out onto his balcony, suppressing a shiver at the chill that hit him, and crooked a finger at the Scops. “Come on, out with you.” In a zig-zagging flash, it had joined him on the balustrade, one leg held out in clear anticipation of a letter to be delivered.

Draco closed the window behind himself, then turned to the owl. “…Right, I don’t have a response. You can go back now.” The owl cocked its head at him, looking somehow dejected, and Draco felt a curious little tug of discomfort in his midsection that he belatedly recognised as guilt. “I haven’t got any letters for you. If you want to do something for me, go back and shit on his head. He likes that sort of thing, finds it terribly amusing.” It nearly turned its head upside down in confusion, and he shooed it away. “Go on, go.”

The owl gave him one last long look, then seemed to sigh and turned, wings extended, and leapt from the balcony. It tumbled several times over before it managed to right itself, wings fluttering furiously, and then began making a drunken sort of wobbly attempt to leave the manor grounds.

Draco took a breath, granting himself one final chance to come to his senses, then shifted from slick, straight trousers and a wool jumper over a button-down into a fluffy coat of pristine white feathers that nicely matched the cold marble balcony. He hopped up onto the banister, sighting the little Scops still making a wobbling attempt to gain altitude, then spread his wings and took off after it.

It was an odd experience, trying to keep up with the Scops. The creature was nearly a quarter Draco’s size but seemed to fly ever so much faster than its tiny wings were capable, and as Draco kept pace with it, never trying to overtake it and instead keeping a lazy distance, time…seemed to have an odd flow to it. The clouds made everything around him feel hazy and distorted, and he couldn’t tell if they were very high or very low. He worried what might happen if he tired—he would surely lose the Scops and then be truly fucked—but he never did, and though it felt like he’d been flying for hours, it also felt like he’d only been flying for but a few minutes. Which was true, and which was an overactive imagination? Or was the truth neither of those things?

Whatever the magic at work was, the Scops eventually broke through the heavy clouds around them, and a tall, rickety building came into view. It seemed…off, oddly constructed, and Draco had to wonder how it didn’t fall over with a stiff breeze. There was a small vegetable garden just in the front, while out back was a field Draco assumed, from the home-made goal posts, was used for casual Quidditch games.

He continued to follow the Scops as it took a long loop around the house, until it spotted an open window around the back and tucked its wings into a dive. Draco banked his lift, drifting down at a safe distance, and where the Scops zipped through the window, Draco instead chose a branch from one of the trees surrounding the property on which to alight.

Was this Weasley’s home, then? Or Potter’s? It certainly didn’t scream ‘Grimmauld Place’ to him, nor did it seem like something worth staging a legal back-and-forth over, so Weasley’s home it must be.

“Hey, welcome back!” came a familiar voice, and Draco’s head swivelled around, peering through the foliage. Just inside the window where the Scops had entered stood Potter, hair a mess and glasses askew, but what else was new? The Scops had perched on his shoulder and was nibbling on his ear, and Potter had to gently cup it in his hands and move it down to what Draco could now see was a set of several perches of varying heights. He gave the owl’s legs a once-over—and then frowned, face falling when he saw it had returned empty-taloned. “…Well, thanks anyway, Pig,” he said with a tight smile, reaching into his pocket and feeding it a treat (dare Draco hope these might be Peppermint Ginger Goose Gizzard?) with one hand while he stroked its head gently with the other. “Nice job on the delivery, mate.”

There he went again, talking to owls like a madman. And here Draco was, seeking him out, also like a madman.

But at least Draco had a perfectly sound excuse, in that he was absolutely bored out of his skull, and annoying Potter had proven a perfect remedy for such doldrums in the past, so it stood to reason. The only question was how to go about surprising Potter this time. There was no Snitch to steal—even if that pitch out back got put to use, Potter had wised up to Draco’s antics by now and would probably turn him into a turtle dove before he so much as looked at the Snitch. Perhaps if he could get Potter outside, Draco could engage in faecal warfare. It was quite literally toilet humour and therefore low-brow, to be sure, but also a tried and true way to really piss Potter off.

Hm, he really should have given this a bit more thought before leaving the manor. What time was it now, anyway? The sun suggested it was still mid-afternoon, so they couldn’t have been flying for more than an hour, or two at most—did Weasley live very close to Wiltshire? Or was there magic afoot? Seeing as he was going to be spending a fair bit of time as an owl going forward, it might behove him to do a bit of research into the ins and outs of owls, magical and otherwise. That would be his personal winter break project, he decided, and then once he returned to Hogwarts, he could—

Something slammed into his back, knocking him from his roost onto his back on the ground—and suddenly something was on him, crushing his slight form with its weight, claws digging and swiping and needle-like teeth snapping in his face. Instinct took over—the owl’s or the human’s, he couldn’t tell—and he began flailing and flapping, talons raking but only catching air, finding no purchase, and when he opened his mouth to scream, all that came out was the owl’s awful, rasping hiss. Jaws clamped onto his throat, pressing and holding until his lungs burned for want of air and the screeching hiss began to fade—

“Fuck—fuck, Crookshanks, no! He’s a friend! Getoffahim, you stupid—F-Flipendo!”

The beast that had assaulted him was sent flying in a blur of claws and orange, and suddenly he could breathe again. Someone reached down, hands slipping under his back to pick him up, and Draco began lashing out again, wings flapping in an effort to right himself and get the fuck away— “Jesus, calm down, you—shit, it is you, isn’t it?” Potter’s face loomed large, mooning over him from behind those horrid glasses he always wore. “Did you break anything? Fuck, that’ll be difficult to mend… Change back so we can—wait, no, don’t change here—”

Draco’s mind was still reeling, too confused to know up from down, and was Potter even speaking English right now? His little bird heart felt like it was about to explode, and something hurt, but he thought—hoped—it might just be strained muscles or bruising. His wings were still spread, flopping about as Potter clutched him to his chest in a mockery of a hug, and this close, with the owl’s keen senses, he could hear Potter’s heart, itself racing.

Suddenly, he was somewhere dark, and quiet, and Potter was gently setting him down on something soft, carefully stroking the top of his head, the way he’d been petting the little Scops only moments ago. “There, you can change back now, if you like. Er, assuming it is you, and not some random owl.”

Of course he wasn’t ‘some random owl’. He wasn’t an owl at all, and he didn’t want to be one either, especially not right now. His mind began to slow, to calm, and he could no longer physically feel his heart beating in his chest, which he supposed was good. Draco, that was who he was. Draco Malfoy, Draco Lucius Malfoy. He closed his eyes, trying to centre himself, and slowly—worrisomely so—he shifted back in drips and drabs, until at length he was finally fully (he hoped) human again.

Patting himself down to check for injury, he collapsed down onto what turned out to be a burlap sack of something soft. Dirt, hopefully; fertiliser, probably. He blinked, sight adjusting to the dim light of the shed Potter had furtively bundled him off to. A shed—Weasley’s shed, then. “What…” he said, still panting, “the fuck was that?”

“Er,” Potter said, giving Draco a comfortable berth of several steps. “That was Crookshanks. Hermione’s cat. We’re gonna watch him while she and her folks are in Germany for the holiday to visit family in Dusseldorf.” He frowned to himself, brows knitting in confusion. “I thought he could see through Animagus transformations, though. I’m not sure why he’d attack—oh. Guess he recognised you.”

Oh, indeed. Draco ran his fingers through his hair—he probably looked a fright now. “I suppose it’s going to hold a grudge against me for all nine of its lives, then.”

“He might cut you some slack if you were to, I dunno, apologise to Hermione for being an absolute shite to her all these years.”

“She punched me in the face; I should say we’re even.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think Crookshanks sees it that way.”

“I don’t give a fig how the damn thing sees it. At any rate, I’ll be ready the next time it tries something.” He’d only been taken by surprise this time, that was all. If Granger’s cat wanted to try and maul him again…well, she’d need to find a new pet for next term.

“Next time…” Potter repeated flatly, shaking his head. “…What are you doing here? How’d you even find this place?”

Draco shrugged. “It was dull at the manor—no one comes to call anymore, not that I can blame them. Then that little Snidget of yours showed up, and I thought to see if I could follow it. Figured it might be a fun challenge.” He glanced around, taking in the sad, shabby state of the shed for the first time; definitely Weasley’s. “Where am I, anyway?”

“Ron’s dad’s garden shed.”

“And where is that?”

“Ottery St Catchpole. Devon.”

Devon? He’d flown to fucking Devon? It was nothing to Floo such a distance, and Apparition wouldn’t have been fun, especially for someone like Draco without much experience in performing such magics, but it would’ve been possible. Just flying though? He couldn’t outfly Potter on a broomstick, not on a straightaway, so a trip of that distance ought to have taken him hours. Well over a day, even. And here it was, not even dusk.

“…How’d you get here?”

“What?” Draco asked, still distracted by the fantastic feats of which his owl form was evidently capable. Could he fly like that at any time? Or had he only managed it by tailing a regular owl?

“How’d you get here?” Potter repeated.

“Flew, obviously.” He leaned around Potter, wondering where the little Scops had got off to. “Followed that bird you sent to harass me.”

“…All right.” Potter seemed to be having a devil of a time wrapping his mind around what was, as far as Draco could tell, a rather simple concept. Perhaps he too was only astounded by how far Draco had flown in such a short amount of time. Perhaps he was thinking How in the bloody hell did I ever manage to catch him on my fabulous new broom, then? This was a legitimate question, so Draco decided to be gentler with his mockery. “…So you came all the way here, not by broom, not by Floo, not by Apparition…because you were bored?”

“Well,” Draco said, feeling a bit of offence at the implication, “You said you were bored too.”

“I did not. In fact, as I recall it, I explicitly said I was not bored—”

“One learns to read between the lines with you. As I said before, you’re a very easy mark.”

“All right,” Potter said, too easily, then crossed his arms over his chest. “And…what exactly were you expecting to do here? You can’t be here—you know that, don’t you? I’m the Weasleys’ guest, so I can’t just say, ‘Hey Ron, Ron’s family: here’s my absolutely not friend who’s made your lives, either directly or indirectly, hell for the past however many years—he’s just dropped by to hang out. Maybe shit on your heads. Steal your Snitches. You know, whatever dark fancy strikes him. That sound all right?’. I mean—” He laughed, though he didn’t sound amused. “Ron’s folks are polite, but not that polite. It wouldn’t be an enjoyable stay for anyone involved.”

And because Draco was very sharp, he finally saw what Potter was trying to do: tell him, gently, politely, that he wanted Draco to leave.

Which, of course he was. Because Draco shouldn’t have come. Fuck it all, he really shouldn’t have come, because now that he was here, Harry Potter was having to tip-toe around telling him to fuck off, that he wasn’t wanted, and that was just the worst. Draco told other people to fuck off—he didn’t get told to fuck off himself! That was just absurd.

That sick churning feeling in his midsection was back, but it wasn’t guilt this time. It was embarrassment, because he’d been so stupid. He’d thought, for whatever reason, that Potter might find his sudden pop-in amusing. That he’d be startled, or perhaps irritated Draco had managed to find him. He would angrily hiss for Draco to leave him be, that he was spending time with people who actually wanted to be friends with him, and Draco would ignore him and perhaps shit on Weasley’s head before returning to the manor in better spirits than when he’d left.

But that had been, he could see now, a terrible plan. Which he supposed he should have seen coming; he’d had about one good idea in seven and a half years of schooling thus far, so the odds had been stacked against him.

He ran his tongue over his teeth, lips twisting as he struggled to collect himself. He needed to play this off, needed to scrape back some smidgen of respect, needed to—

“Harry? Where’d you get off to, mate?”

“Harry! Are you out here?”

Fantastic. Because he hadn’t been humiliated enough for the afternoon. Potter whirled around at his friends’ summons, while Draco instinctively popped back into owl form and flitted into the shed’s rafters, hunkering low and cursing his moon-bright white plumage. Stealthy he was decidedly not.

Granger and Weasley appeared at the door to the shed a moment later, peering around warily. “Er…what’re you doing in here, mate?” Weasley asked. “I thought you’d gone to see if Pig was back with a response from Tonks’ mum.”

Granger, though, had Draco already pinned in her sights, pointing. “…Harry, what’s that?”

“That—” Potter followed her gaze, forcing a smile and an unconvincing laugh. “Oh, that’s—that’s my new owl. I went to check Pig, like I said, when I heard a commotion outside, and I found Crookshanks attacking him. I guess he didn’t recognise him, seeing as I only just got him and all.”

“Where’d you get a new owl?” Weasley asked around a bite of some pastry. “‘S that the one that’s been banging at our window?”

“Er—yeah, I bought him down in Hogsmeade.”

“They sell owls in Hogsmeade?” Granger asked, because she couldn’t just take Potter’s word for it, evidently. Had to be an insufferable snoop.

“Yeah, sometimes. Anyway, I left him back at school over the break, but er, he can be kinda clingy. I guess he followed me here.” Potter glanced up at Draco with a meaningful look in his eye that said he’d better play along. “He gets bored pretty easily and likes to come annoy me for fun.”

“Huh. Guess you’ve got a thing for white birds, eh?” Weasley said, squinting to make out Draco in the dim light of the shed. “What’s this one’s name?”

“Oh. It’s…it’s, um…” Potter fumbled, and Draco could see in the panic behind his eyes that he was itching so badly to just say ‘Alabastard’.

Weasley didn’t bother waiting to learn how he ought to address Draco, though, instead just walking right over and reaching up, beanpole that he was, to try and pet him. Delighted at the audacity, Draco gave him a warning hiss, then nipped with intent to remove a finger—but Weasley jerked his hand back with a yelp, and that was almost as satisfying.

“Geez, mean old blighter, isn’t he?”

Potter’s glare went cold now, and Draco shivered, feathers fluffing up. “He…takes some warming up. But hey, at least this way no one’ll mess with my post, yeah?”

Weasley gave a noncommittal grunt, and Granger wouldn’t stop staring up at Draco, giving him a hard, appraising look. He could hear the rusty gears clanking about in her head as she tried to pick Draco apart, and in a desperate effort to put her off his scent, Draco took a wet shit on Potter’s shoes, doing his best impression of a disinterested owl. Potter squawked in bright offence, and Draco just blinked slowly, getting comfortable on his perch.

“Oh, gross, mate…” Weasley groaned, one hand over his eyes while he blindly Vanished the shit from Potter’s shoes with his wand in the other.

“Yeah, he…does that sometimes. I think he’s got digestion issues.”

“Right…” Weasley said, keeping an eye on Draco and taking a measured step back, as if fearing he might be the next target. A wise move. “So, er—were you coming back inside, or…?” He jerked a thumb back towards the ramshackle home. “Mum’s wanting our input on what to make for Christmas lunch.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be right in, just—” He gestured up to Draco. “I wanna make sure he’s not hurt. I think Crookshanks only spooked him, but I don’t want him developing a complex or something and winding up shredding my post.”

Weasley nodded. “All right. Well you can set him up in the roosting room with the others, if you like? He won’t hurt them will he, do you think?”

“No, no, I expect not. He’s always gotten along with other owls. Just has a tetchy relationship with humans. Maybe give him some breathing room when he’s around.”

Another nod, and Weasley then looped his arm through Granger’s and tugged her back toward the house. Once they were safely out of earshot, Potter turned on Draco with fury in his eyes. “Seriously?! Again with the shitting on me?!”

Draco hopped down, reassuming his human form, and made himself comfortable again on one of the burlap sacks. “Well, you deserved it.”

“For what?!”

“Earlier,” Draco sniffed. “You called me your friend. We agreed that wasn’t on.”

Potter’s gaze went distant as he tried to recall just when earlier was, but he quickly gave up, shaking his head. “You are—just—so—” He made a very angry noise in the back of his throat, and his hands tightened into white-knuckled fists—and then he took in and slowly released a long, shuddering breath. “Well,” he said with a tight smile. “I hope you’re prepared for a little stay, at least.”

“What?” Draco laughed. “I think not. I came to fuck with you; I’ve done about as much fucking with you as is possible, circumstances permitting, and I intend to be on my way now.” It hadn’t been part of the original plan, but Blaise would put him up without much fuss. “You can’t possibly expect me to stick around and pretend to be your pet.”

“No, I can’t expect that, but that’s what’s going to need to happen. If you leave now, Ron might get suspicious, and Hermione definitely will get suspicious. I’ve just finished telling them what a clingy, needy owl you are to explain why you’re here at all, so if you disappear, there’s going to be questions. And those questions are liable to lead to trouble. Now, you might not care about causing me trouble, but I should think you’d care about causing trouble for yourself.”

Draco’s lips twisted into a pinched, sour frown. This was not the holiday he’d pictured. “I can’t stay here for the rest of my winter break—”

“Give it, I dunno, three days? Hermione’s leaving this evening, and Ron’ll have forgotten about you by then, so I can just say you got over your issues and flew back to Hogwarts.”

Fuck. Fuck it all. He really should have just sent a letter back if he’d been feeling that bored. Or actually done as he’d told his mother he would and gone to visit Blaise, or even Pansy. He couldn’t have bolstered his spirits by shitting on them or causing havoc, but comfortable furniture and pleasant conversation over warm drinks were almost as nice.

He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms, groaning inwardly, then transformed back into his owl and hopped onto Potter’s arm, allowing himself to be toted inside and pretending very fiercely that this whole mess wasn’t humiliating. He didn’t even have the soothing balm of being able to blame Potter for this cock up, because the arsehole was right, of course. Disappearing now would only arouse suspicions that would follow him back to Hogwarts, and Granger and Weasley would leap at the opportunity to inform the rest of the student body just what sort of owl Draco favoured as an Animagus, and then he’d really have no peace.

“The Burrow”, as Draco (quite against his will) learned the Weasleys called their home, was as much a mess on the inside as it appeared on the outside. Cluttered and cramped quarters, the design left Draco with the unsettling feeling of being trapped inside living walls, though he supposed a certain sort might find it cosy. Draco was no such sort.

Weasley’s mother, a round, apple-cheeked woman who clearly thought of Potter as one of her own brood, seemed delighted with Potter’s new ‘pet’, hastily wiping her hands on her apron when he entered the kitchen with Draco on his arm. She bustled over and cooed at Draco warmly, calling him a handsome fellow and gently stroking the heart-shaped crest of feathers around his face in a way he found he didn’t mind at all. When she pulled a few strips of ham off of what Draco suspected was to be the main dinner course come evening, Draco endured the humiliation of being hand-fed because it was fucking delicious, and he was only human. Potter had a panicked look to him the entire time, perhaps thinking after Draco’s earlier reaction to Weasley he might lash out at Weasley’s mother equally viciously. But Draco had manners, and mothers were off limits.

Once Weasley’s mother had finished fawning over Draco, Potter brought him into the roost room, where two other owls were presently either slumbering (“That’s Errol. He’s older than the pyramids, Ron reckons.”) or devouring a bowl of owl kibble (“…And you’ve met Pig.”). He gently placed Draco on one of the empty perches, far from the excitable Pig.

“…Right, I’d better get back, or those two’ll come looking for me again. I know it goes against your very nature, but just try and keep a low profile for now? I’ll come back later, once everyone’s gone to bed.” He nodded to the open window. “You’re welcome to come and go as you please, but I’d refrain from roosting outside anywhere on the property, unless you want to get acquainted with Crookshanks again.”

He did not wish to have another run-in with the demon cat, but so too was he not looking forward to being literally cooped up here. The wincing look of apology on Potter’s face as he crept out, shutting the door behind himself, did nothing to soothe Draco’s ruffled feathers, and he passed the rest of the afternoon and early evening in a quietly brewing furor.

When the doorknob jiggled again and Potter poked his stupid face back through, it was well after nightfall, and he was ravenous. He’d been just about to chance leaving the roosting room to hunt for mice or voles or maybe even some of the garden gnomes that surely populated the property when Potter appeared with a plate of leftovers from what looked to have been a sumptuous dinner.

“I’m not going to just sit in here on my feathered arse for the next few days, you know,” Draco said around vicious bites, hunger blunted by the meal but mood still dark and dour. “Either make up an excuse for me to leave or find something for me to do. Say that dreadful cat got me if you must.”

“Well, if I’d known you were coming, maybe I could’ve planned something. You can’t just drop in on someone’s winter break without warning them and expect to have your every whim catered to. Impromptu appearances strike me as something you pure-blood types would frown on.” He gave Draco a twinkling side-eye. “…Flying by the seat of one’s pants is rather Gryffindor of you, I think. Maybe we’ve been spending too much time together.”

“On that we can definitely agree…” Draco muttered, tearing into his pot pie with vigour. Weasley’s mother seemed partial to the kind of cuisine that stuck to the ribs, and Draco was living for it. He was going to be in a state three days from now when he had to go back to the house-elves and their pint-size portions.

“…So, what am I meant to call you?”

“What?”

“Your name. Or, the owl’s name. Ron’s already asked after it, and Mrs Weasley’s curious as well. If you’re going to be ‘around’ for a bit, I’ll be expected to have named you by now.”

“Mm…” Draco said, chewing thoughtfully. Around a swallow, he said, “Abraxus should do nicely. Was my grandfather’s name.”

Potter made a face. “Abraxus? I’d never name my owl that.”

Draco beamed at him with a sharp smile. “Well, I’m not your owl. So I really don’t give a fuck how you feel about it.”

Potter rolled his eyes, accepting the empty plate when Draco shoved it into his midsection. “I’ll see if I can’t make up an excuse for you to hang around with me while I’m out. I figure that ought to at least be more entertaining than sitting in here.”

“Out? Out where?”

“Out wherever. It’s Christmas holidays—there’s lots of shopping to do, and I’ve got friends and family I’ve been wanting to go visit since…well, everything. I haven’t been sitting on my arse here, you know.”

Draco felt himself wilt, just a hair—he’d absolutely fucked up, coming here. He’d been bored—but Potter hadn’t, he really hadn’t. He’d only been thoughtful, and maybe a tiny bit bored, all right, but certainly not enough he needed Draco in his hair, bird’s nest though it was. Potter had friends by the bucket-load, and Draco was the one who’d pushed everyone away.

Potter was the hero, and Draco was the villain, and that was just how it was.

“…If it makes any difference,” Potter said, rudely interrupting Draco’s self-flagellation, “I don’t hate that you’re here. A heads-up would have been appreciated so I could’ve come up with a convincing story, but…I mean, it’s not like you’ve ruined my holiday.” He flashed a smile that was too bright by half for Draco at the moment. “Especially seeing as you’ll be spending most of your visit not being able to talk.” Draco showed him two fingers. “And you won’t be able to do that either.”

“…Maybe I wanted to ruin your holiday. Now you’ve just put me in an even darker mood.”

“See? We’re having fun already. Aren’t you glad you came?” And then he was gone, and Draco was alone once more with just Pig and Errol and his thoughts.

Chapter Text

When Potter arrived with breakfast the next morning (kibble for the owls, what he’d evidently told Weasley’s mother was “thirds, ‘cause I’m famished!” for Draco), he brought with him news that there was to be a trip to Diagon Alley for lunch and to visit ‘George’ to help him prepare for the Christmas rush. “Seeing as, you know, he lost half his help…” Through awkward and not entirely sincere condolences, Draco divined that George was one of the Weasley twins who’d made Umbridge’s short time at Hogwarts a living hell (and ruined his own Fifth Year) before going on to open the joke shop in Diagon Alley that Draco himself had patronised in Sixth Year to aid his aborted efforts at murder.

“So, er, did you want to come along?”

Draco frowned around the last bite of his scramble. “…You’re going to bring an owl with you? And just walk around with it?”

Potter shrugged. “You know as well as I that I won’t be the weirdest sight people see that day, and I’m sure I can think up an excuse to have you along.”

“Thought you said you were pants at lying.”

“Didn’t say it’d be a good excuse.” He took Draco’s plate. “So? You coming or not?” He then held up a piece of tattered cloth that looked familiar—and on closer inspection, Draco realised it was a scrap from the ratty cable-knit sweater Potter had used to protect his arm when Draco perched on him. He placed it on his shoulder and gestured invitingly.

Draco weighed his options—sit around the Burrow all day, with nowhere to go and nothing to do except perhaps try to find Potter’s room and rifle through his things (tempting!) or at least get out and see a bit of civilisation, even if he had to do so as an owl and pretend to be Potter’s stupid pet the entire time. It was a difficult decision indeed, but Potter sweetened the deal with a reminder that Eeylops was having a holiday sale—3 scoops of their Merry Mix treats for 10 Sickles—so he resigned himself to an afternoon veritably stitched to Potter’s shoulder.

Potter earned several confused looks when he toddled out of the roost room with Draco perched on his shoulder, though one of Weasley’s half a dozen brothers had his head buried in the morning edition of the Prophet and didn’t seem to notice.

“…Er, everyone, in case you didn’t have the chance to get acquainted yesterday, this is…A—Abr—” Potter sighed, shaking his head. “This is Alabastard.” Draco dug his talons into Potter’s shoulder and considered ripping his ear off so he’d have to wear his glasses funny—that was not the name they’d agreed on. But Potter only shrugged, nearly sending Draco toppling off, and he had to hold his wings out to regain his balance. “He’s been a bit lonely since I bought him, being away from the shop with the other owls, so I thought I might keep him around a bit to help him get acclimated.”

“That’s nice, dear,” Mrs Weasley said, smiling as she wiped down a serving dish.

Weasley frowned up at Potter from his seat on the sofa, a copy of Which Broomstick? in his lap. “‘Alabastard’? What kind of a name is that?”

For once, Draco quite agreed with Weasley, and he nipped Potter’s ear in irritation. Potter batted him away. “Well, it fits, don’t you think?”

“Yeah… I guess so.” Weasley wrinkled his nose. “Not quite ‘Hedwig’, though, is it?”

“Not quite Hedwig, though, is he?”

Weasley gave a short, snorting laugh, going back to his magazine. “Yeah, that’s for sure.”

Despite his announcement, the Weasleys seemed quite understandably confused at Potter’s insistence he bring his owl along with them to Diagon Alley, and Mrs Weasley even offered to watch him if Potter was so worried he might be lonely (Draco gagged, feigning a pellet in his craw). Potter insisted, though, that ‘Alabastard’ was very particular about his owl treats and wanted to pick them out himself.

As a group, they Flooed to the public fireplaces near Gringotts, from which they made their way along the cobblestone path to visit the remaining twin Weasley at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

Diagon Alley was much more crowded than when Draco had last visited—and filled with many more large, bustling witches and wizards too. He stuck close to Potter, head snapping this way and that at unfamiliar sounds, and twice he was nearly knocked from his perch as the crowd around them jostled Potter rudely. It was with no small measure of relief that they finally ducked inside the gaudy, colourful storefront—only to find the shop’s interior nearly as chaotic as the bustling Alley waiting outside.

All previous purchases having been made through Owl Order, Draco had never actually been inside Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, but it was…somehow exactly how he had imagined it would be: curious and scandalous and terrifying all at once. Flash and flimflam and pure unadulterated fun, as was written in bold letterhead on a sign hanging over the register. His head was whirling with such snapping vigour, he worried it might pop off as he tried to take everything in, and he found himself wishing, with a twinge of regret, that he could come back in human form and browse the shelves at his leisure—though he doubted he’d be welcome.

Potter must have noticed him struggling to get his bearings, for he slipped away from the mass of Weasleys, feigning interest in one of the corner displays, and said quietly as if speaking to himself, “I’ll make my way around the shop so you can see the shelves up close. If there’s anything you’re particularly interested in purchasing, then…I dunno, maybe nip my ear gently—emphasis on the gently, got it?” Draco clacked his beak; as if he were going to make a scene in the middle of this scrum.

Potter then began worming his way through the crowd to each display around the shop, quietly explaining what the different products did—though there were the occasional few items he wasn’t familiar with. “So, you know. Buyer beware and all that. Might make your chest hair turn purple. Might make your bits fall off.”

At the end of the tour, Potter wound up checking out with a bulging bag of what the Weasley running the shop had called ‘the works’, a personal recommendation. Draco prayed that these Weasleys were fond enough of their Potter that they wouldn’t knowingly sell him something that might de-cock him. Draco had no idea what he was going to do with it all, but he expected the house-elves would hate it. At the very least, he was unlikely to be bored the rest of his holiday.

“How are you gonna get this stuff back to your home, anyway?” Potter asked while the girl behind the counter bundled up the goods, and Draco gave a low, deflating hiss. Fuck it all, he hadn’t thought of that.

Potter only laughed, though, earning a bemused look from Weasley, who was hanging in the doorway leading to the back room while his mother chatted up his brother. “I can probably just cast a Levitation Charm on it, and you can drag it back that way. You are an owl, after all. We need to get you practised with deliveries.”

Draco nipped his ear—not gently this time—and Potter hissed, wincing. “Fuck, cut that out—can’t take a joke…”

As Potter had already announced his intention to visit earlier, their next stop was Eeylops Owl Emporium, where Potter loaded down a burlap sack with every flavour of treat in the shop, including the seasonal specials, and even grabbed a tin of expensive imported treats that included flavours like Parisienne Foie Gras and Caspian Sea Caviar. Potter’s eyes boggled at the price, and he reminded in warning tones that he was expecting to be repaid for this purchase. “If you stiff me on this, I’ll grind you into owl treats myself.”

It was only as they were preparing to make their way to the till that Weasley, helpful little cherub that he was, urged Potter to head over to the ‘banding station’, which didn’t sound at all like anything Draco wanted to be involved in.

The banding station, it turned out, was where a bored-looking young man in an Eeylops uniform magically applied an engraved metal band to owls’ legs to mark them as property of a given witch or wizard. Potter was a smart man who liked his ears still attached to his head and not shredded into a bloody mess, so he declined several times over until Weasley insisted, “Someone could steal him, though! He sticks out like a sore thumb—and it’s free with every purchase over a thirty Galleons, and I’d say you’ve definitely spent that…”

“I…guess…” Potter said, and Draco was already storing up shit for him.

It took three people to pry Draco from Potter’s shoulders, so deeply did he dig in his talons, but as he was an owl and these were grown wizards, he was eventually bested and magically fitted with a solid silver band on his right leg etched with Property of H.J.Potter that sealed itself shut with a flash of arcane light.

“I’m sorry!” Potter mouthed, wincing as he gingerly held his arm out for Draco to mount up once more, and Draco spent a good thirty seconds really considering just tearing off out the door and flying back home. It was only the recognition that he’d be humiliated even further having to explain to his mother or Pansy or Blaise just how he’d wound up branded as Harry Potter’s property that stayed him.

He spent the rest of the afternoon quietly sulking from Potter’s shoulder while the group flitted from shop to shop snapping up last-minute Christmas gifts, and dinner was a quiet affair in the Leaky Tap. Draco was starving by this point, but his pride would not allow him to accept the hand-fed scraps Potter offered him in what he probably meant as an apology for the harrowing experience at Eeylops. Draco made a mental note to never patronise them again, no matter how tasty their treats.

As soon as they ducked through the Floo returning home, Draco launched himself from Potter’s shoulder and made a beeline for the roost room, impatiently waiting for Potter to join him so he could get this fucking band off his leg. His dark mood followed him like a storm cloud, such that even Pig didn’t dare offer him anything beyond a welcome back burbling hoot before hiding behind the wheezing feather duster that was Errol.

Potter finally deigned to grace Draco with his presence five minutes later, quietly shutting the door behind himself with apologies already on his lips. “I’m really really sorry about that, but I couldn’t think of how to say no!”

By fucking saying NO, Draco hissed, but Potter just stared at him, helpless, and Draco bit back the urge to scream, instead holding his leg out meaningfully and giving it a good shake that said Get this off me NOW.

Potter pulled his wand from his pocket, readying it for casting. “Right, right, er, let’s see…” He bit his lip. “Um, Alohomora.”

Nothing.

Potter’s brows drew together. “Emancipare.”

Still nothing.

“Ah, shite…” Potter whined. “Liberare.” Nothing. “Relashio!” Nothing. “Fuck it all, I’m running out of spells here!” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Maybe I can find some bolt cutters…” Draco didn’t know what ‘bolt cutters’ were, nor did he wish to find out, clacking his beak at Potter in an effort to keep him on task. “I know! But that’s all the unlocking and unbinding spells I know. Do you know any others?”

He knew three, as it happened, but he somehow doubted any of them would work. These bands had clearly been magically sealed so as to be tamper-proof, so he was well and truly fucked. How was he meant to transform back now? The band was surely made of strong enough stuff it would cut into his flesh before the metal gave if he tried to shift back into his human form, and he wasn’t yet so desperate.

He slumped in place on his perch, awkwardly trying to work a talon between the band and his leg to tug it off, and Potter winced. “Ah—no, c’mon, don’t do that…”

He hopped down from his perch onto the floor, then executed a waddling turnabout to show Potter how very much an owl he still was and how very much he did not want to be.

Potter was staring at his leg in pinch-faced thought, scratching at his chin. “Maybe,” he said, “you should try…just try transforming back. Really slowly. I mean, maybe it’s charmed to expand—otherwise if you put one on a young owl, you’d have to keep going back to the caster to get it changed out when it got too big for the band, right?”

It was an absurdly astute assumption from a Gryffindor, and he heard Potter’s voice saying again Maybe we’ve been spending too much time together.

…Nothing to do but chance it. He took a bracing breath, then focused on keeping a tight leash on the transformation, ready to pull himself back into the owl’s body at the first sign the band wasn’t going to give—

But it did expand, growing along with his ballooning form, until he’d drawn up to his full human height and it now sat comfortably about his ankle, a gleaming silver monstrosity with Property of H.J.Potter writ larger than life.

“Hey!” Potter cheered. “That’s brilliant, then!”

“How the fuck is this ‘brilliant’?” Draco hissed, keeping his voice down but injecting as much venom into his tone as possible. He tugged at his trousers. “I’m still walking around branded as your property!”

“…Yeah, okay, that’s unfortunate, but…” He shrugged. “I mean, at least you’re not trapped, right? We can just go back to Eeylops later when it’s not so suspicious and get it removed.”

“Later?!” he shrieked—as quietly as he could manage. “You expect me to walk around wearing this thing indefinitely?”

“Not indefinitely,” Potter said in that tone parents took with unruly children, and Draco wished he could still shit on him in this form without breaking several unspoken social protocols. “Just…you know, a little while. For sure we’ll get it sorted before term starts—”

“We sure as shit will!”

“—and until then just…” He gestured to Draco’s lower half. “Keep wearing trousers and no one will notice.”

Draco’s response was to slip back into his owl form, hop up onto his designated perch, and turn his back to Potter as he fumed silently for the remainder of the evening.

The morning brought apologies and another fantastic breakfast spread, and though Draco’s temper had cooled overnight, he was still in a foul mood and so disinclined to jump for joy at Potter’s proposal of another fun outing.

Draco viciously speared a sausage with his fork. “Going to clap a collar ‘round my neck this time? Be still my beating heart.”

“No, but I’m considering a muzzle…” He rubbed at his ear ruefully. “Anyway, just trust me. We’ll have privacy at least, so you can stretch your legs a bit, and I swear it’ll be a lot more fun than Diagon Alley was.”

Draco glared up at him from his seat on an old chair that was in desperate need of reupholstering. “…That’s hardly difficult.”

“Come on,” Potter wheedled. “George’s shop wasn’t so bad. And at least you got out in the fresh air. Plus, you’ve got some disgustingly overpriced treats to choke down now, so I’m sure all the other owls will be terribly jealous.”

“I struggle to see why you’re going for an Aurorship rather than a career in the arts, seeing as you’re so skilled at painting silver linings.” He sighed, levitating his empty plate back over to Potter. “If I come back from this little jaunt wearing more new jewellery, I will shit in your coffee. You won’t know when, you won’t know how. It will just happen, and you’ll take your chances with every sip from now ‘til graduation.”

Potter gave a tight nod. “…Right, noted.”

He had Weasley’s mother prepare two lunches to take on their outing (“I’m still a growing wizard, what can I say?”), and with a salute and promise to be back before dinner, he scooped up Draco and ducked the both of them through the Floo to, “The Tonks house.”

When they came tumbling out again, it was into a cottage similarly cramped to the Burrow but much more modestly appointed, with a charm Draco could actually appreciate. Muted colours, grand windows letting in the wan winter light, and a massive family portrait hanging over the fireplace through which they’d just arrived, showing a portly man with fair hair, a brown-haired woman who had a stirring familiarity to her, and a beaming young girl between them, one parent’s hand on each shoulder and sporting a shock of vibrant bubblegum-pink hair.

Potter followed Draco’s gaze and smiled up at the portrait with a sad sort of fondness. “Tonks said they’d always meant to replace it with a magical one that moved but never got around to it. I think I like this one better anyway.”

There was that name again—Tonks. And this was the Tonks house. Whatever that meant.

Draco’s head snapped around at someone calling from down a hallway, “Harry? Is that you?”

“Yeah, sorry for just Flooing straight away without calling first.”

“I’m just changing Teddy’s nappie—I’ll be right out.”

Draco perked up: Teddy? Was he finally going to get to meet the mysterious definitely-not-Potter’s-bastard-child Tedward?

“You need any help?”

“No no, I’m old hand at this by now—give me two shakes.”

Draco nipped Potter’s ear for an explanation but only received a sharp look. “Be patient. You didn’t even want to come, remember?”

Wanker.

Two shakes turned out to be five minutes, and then the same woman from the painting, still eerily familiar to Draco’s eyes, though he couldn’t place why, came swanning out with an infant on her hip that she immediately pressed into Potter’s outstretched arms. “Thank you ever so mu—oh, my.” She jerked the baby back, boggling at Draco. “…Did you know you’ve got an owl on your shoulder, Harry?”

“Yes, I had realised, but thanks for the reminder.” Potter reached up and gently stroked the shoulder of one wing, and Draco felt himself melt a little before he forcibly straightened back up. Mustn’t let his guard down, no no. “New owl. He gets a bit anxious if I leave him alone for too long, so I’m indulging him during the holidays. He’s well-trained, though, don’t worry. I won’t let him near Teddy.”

“I’d say that’s as much for his good as for Teddy’s,” the woman laughed nervously, passing the baby over to Potter but keeping one eye on Draco. Where had he seen this woman before? He didn’t think he knew anyone named Tonks—it certainly wasn’t a pure-blood family. “He’s at that grabby stage, you know. Your poor owl wouldn’t make it out of playtime with Teddy without losing a hunk of feathers in the doing.” She glided over to an end table where a handbag waited, rooting around in it to be sure she had everything she needed. “I shouldn’t be too terribly long—three hours is a more than generous estimate. But you know how Gringotts can be. If it seems I’ll be very late, I’ll Floo call straight away to let you know.”

“Don’t stress about it—take your time, I’m more than happy to spend an afternoon with my favourite godson.”

She fixed him with a fond look, cupping his cheek. “You’re a lifesaver, Harry, really.” She then flicked her eyes over to Draco. “Make sure these boys don’t get into any trouble, won’t you?” Draco cocked his head in confusion, and the woman laughed, tapping him on the beak. “Pretty boy. Right, I’m off!”

And then, in a puff of Floo powder and cry of, “Gringotts Public Floos,” she was gone, and it was just Draco, Potter, and a fidgety infant who was already making grabby hands for his recently departed caretaker, face scrunching up in a manner that said he was about to start caterwauling.

“Nooo no no, let’s not start that now, Teddy…” Potter sharply shrugged one shoulder. “Oi, getoffame. Go on, change back—it’s just us here now.”

Draco spread his wings and hopped off, gliding the short distance to the sofa cushions before slipping back into his human form, one leg thrown over the other and an appraising eye tracking the room. “Are you quite sure it’s a good idea letting your secret love-child in on my true identity?”

“He’s not my secret love-child. He’s not my anything love-child. And don’t be ridiculous, he’s all of eight months old. He’s not going to remember you let alone recognise you.”

“Asking me not to be ridiculous is a tall order.” He hopped to his feet, pacing the room and its contents. It seemed so…Muggle. But it had a Floo, and evidently a witch. A witch named Tonks. “Where are we, anyway?”

“The Tonks house.”

“Yes, I gathered that when you barked it into the Floo. Is that Tedward?”

“No,” Potter said with some insistence. “This is Teddy. Short for Edward. Teddy Lupin.”

“Lupin? Not Tonks?” Draco made a face. “Wait—Lupin? Wasn’t that…”

Potter was already nodding. “Third-year Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

“Oh,” Draco said, mind drifting back along the stream of Defence teachers that had passed through the hallowed Hogwarts halls over the years. “The werewolf.” This recollection cast young Tedward in a new light, though, and he fought to keep from physically recoiling. “…Is that one a werewolf, too, then?”

“No, he’s not, so don’t have a fit. He is, however, a Metamorphmagus, just like his mum.” Potter sat down in one of the easy chairs, bouncing the baby on his knee. Tedward broke out into delighted giggles, and his hair, which had been a dirty sort of dishwater blond, began to blacken and curl like straw thrown on a fire.

Draco boggled, even though he knew the expression didn’t suit him, because well, he’d never seen one of these before. He’d read about them while studying to become an Animagus, but he’d never met one in the flesh. “…So this is your godson, then?”

Potter nodded. “His dad was one of my dad’s closest friends. And something of a father-figure to me, too. I thought it only right to return the favour.”

“Was that his mother you were just speaking with, then?”

“No,” Potter said, with a wince. “…Grandmother. Andromeda Tonks.”

Draco opened his mouth to ask where the boy’s parents were, but the sad sort of twinge to Potter’s smiles, and the way he spoke of these people in the past tense, said he shouldn’t. Then again: they weren’t friends, and not-friends didn’t trod on eggshells around one another, so he asked anyway. “His parents?”

Potter kept his eyes fixed on the bouncing baby on his knee, grinning for show and not sounding at all like he meant it. “Died in the final battle, protecting the school.” And Potter didn’t carry any judgement in his voice, but Draco heard it all the same: the school wouldn’t have needed protecting had Draco grown a fucking spine and got out while he could, taken up Dumbledore on his offer and run if nothing else. Every life lost that day was, at least indirectly, blood on his hands. From this child’s parents to Weasley’s brother to Vince, and everyone in between.

“So I’ve decided,” Potter continued, forced brightness in his voice, “that I’ll never let Teddy feel unloved, or let him grow up not knowing how great his parents were.” His tone carried the sound of someone speaking from experience, and Draco wondered, not for the first time, how much of the Harry Potter story was real, and how much was trumped-up fiction. But Potter wasn’t his friend, so he really didn’t care enough to ask.

Still, something niggled at the back of Draco’s mind—a little worm he couldn’t shake. He frowned to himself. “…Tonks, you said was her name? The grandmother.”

“Yeah.”

“Married?”

“Widowed.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “…She wouldn’t have been Andromeda Black before, would she?”

“Yeah?” Potter said—then his eyes widened behind his frames. “Oh—wait, you’re related to her then, aren’t you? Bloody hell, I didn’t even think…”

No, he clearly hadn’t thought, despite their frequent sniping arguments about the old Black property Potter was attempting to wrest back into his grasp. Draco reached over to snatch up young Tedward, which Potter shockingly allowed without a fuss. He held the baby out at arm’s length, studying him with pinched lips. Yes, yes now that he looked he could see those stately Black features and carriage—good genes stood the test of time and poor breeding.

Tedward squirmed in his grasp, and Draco gave a sniffing chuckle. “Cheer up, young one. You’ve had a rough go of it so far, but you’re already better than 90% of the riff-raff you’ll meet in your long life going forward, so there’s that to take pride in.”

“Oi, don’t go putting any of that bullshit into his head.”

“He can barely hold his head up on his own; you think he’s listening to a word I say?” He made a funny face at Tedward. “Can you say, ‘My father will hear about this’? Come on, give it a go.”

Tedward burbled his unintelligible response around a toothless grin—and then in a flash, his hair went stark white-blond. Potter gave a panicked yelp, making a wild grab for the baby to draw him back into his arms. “Oh bollocks, look at his hair!”

Draco patted his own hair with a frown. “…Doesn’t look so bad.”

“I mean Andromeda’s gonna wonder where he got the idea for the colour from, you knob.” He began bouncing Tedward on his knee again, scrubbing his hair. “Come on, Ted. Let’s go back to black, yeah? Or maybe we can try some other colours! Maybe Mum’s pink? Think you can manage that?”

It took some convincing, but Tedward seemed easily distracted and was happy to run through a veritable rainbow of hair colours, though Potter couldn’t seem to get his nose back the way it had been before, and for the remainder of the afternoon, it held a distinctly patrician shape that Draco heartily approved of.

After a rather boring storytime—“You should be reading him proper wizarding children’s stories, like Babbitty Rabbitty.” “Are you his godfather? No, so pipe down and let’s find out what the caterpillar’s going to eat on Thursday.”—and another round of nappy changing (that Draco was content to let Potter handle all on his own), Tedward was finally put down for a nap, and Potter came plodding back into the sitting room, flopping onto the sofa next to Draco with a great sigh of relief.

“I love that kid, but god can he really wear you out. And he isn’t even walking yet! I can’t imagine what he’ll be like once he’s puttering around under his own power.”

Draco lazily flipped through a two-week-old issue of Witch Weekly he’d found in a basket placed under his aunt’s end table. “Our in-house Astronomer dishes on the top 10 ways to make your wizard see some stars!” Riveting stuff, really. “And you want to get him a broom for Christmas? You Gryffindors really are gluttons for punishment, aren’t you…?”

Potter kicked him lightly in the shin. “Well you’ve gotta get ‘em started early if you want to make good fliers out of them.”

“The late start doesn’t seem to have hurt you,” Draco said, the words out of his mouth before he realised it wasn’t quite the cutting remark he’d meant it to be, and Potter’s insufferable grin only made it worse.

“Was that a compliment?” he said, and Draco could hear the waggling brows in his voice, despite burying his nose in the pages of Witch Weekly. His horoscope said Not good timing for new adventures—stick with tried and true companions and activities or risk dire consequences. Somehow more useless than Trelawney, this thing was.

“It was simple statement of fact. Think I’m complimenting you when I tell you your hair looks like shit?”

Potter patted his hair with a frown, opening his mouth to shoot something back, then seeming to think better of it. With a sigh, he relaxed back against the sofa, eyes closed and breathing slow and even. Perhaps he meant to take a nap of his own while his godson was out.

“So, why’d you really come find me?” Draco tried to feign engrossment with the article on brewing your own beauty potions with ingredients from your kitchen garden. “And for that matter, why’re you staying?”

“You begged me to, or don’t you recall? Threw a great fit, saying people would ask questions.”

“So they’d ask questions. The only ones who might draw any connection would be Hermione and Ron—and Hermione’s out of the country, and Ron doesn’t care enough about my pets to delve too deeply into it, I’m sure.” He straightened up and pinned Draco with a narrowed gaze. “What do you care if it’s awkward for me to have to explain to everyone why my clingy owl suddenly disappeared?”

Draco closed the magazine and tossed it onto the coffee table with a sharp whap. “I don’t care.”

“Then tell me what you’re doing here.”

“Why?” Draco sneered. “Think I’m up to mischief again? Think I’m waiting for you to nod off so I can go and sacrifice your godson in a blood ritual to make my skin glow and my hair glossy?”

Potter made a face. “…I didn’t before, but I kind of do now.” Draco scoffed, reaching for the magazine again, and Potter’s hand snapped out, grabbing him by the wrist to stay him. “…What’s it take to get a straight answer out of you?”

“Manhandling me certainly won’t help,” Draco said, tone one of dangerous calm that he hoped sounded threatening. It was difficult to intimidate Potter these days. Slaying Dark Lords tended to go to one’s head.

Potter released him all the same, though. “Well if manhandling you won’t do it, and asking you straight won’t do it, I’m out of ideas.”

“Taking ‘no’ for an answer’s always an option.”

“Yeah, not so much for me. But you already know that. So you either do want to answer my question, and you’re just waiting for me to ask it the right way, or you don’t want to answer it, but you don’t want to tell me why.”

And the poor simple fellow didn’t realise it was entirely possible for both to be true at once. More training was clearly necessary. He settled back against the sofa cushions and ran his hand over the soft fabric of one of the throw pillows: a plush crushed velvet of deep emerald with silver and gold ticking. “…I needed to get out of there. Just—for a spell.”

“‘Out of there’?” Potter parroted, brows knitting. “Where? Your home?” His expression darkened further. “Wait—it’s not…there’s not, like, curses and stuff around still, right? It’s safe for you to live there and all, yeah? I would’ve thought the Ministry—”

“The Ministry?” Draco snorted. “You think the Ministry did anything to the Manor beyond dick around just long enough to tally up the dead bodies piled up in the dungeon before fucking off?” He shook his head—poor, poor simple fellow. “They lost their claim to the property once the charges against Mother were dropped. Why would they waste their time on cleansing when it would be so much more expedient to just sit back and wait for any lingering curses or maledictions to get rid of Mother and me for them?” Potter looked absolutely appalled, and Draco waved down his self-righteous wrath before he could really get going. “I mean in a more metaphysical sense.” He shrugged. “…Only doesn’t entirely feel like home anymore.”

Potter’s shoulders slumped a bit, and he seemed to grow smaller, fitting back into his Potter-shaped shell instead of the visage of an avenging angel he adopted when he meant to see justice meted out. Draco wasn’t sure which Potter he preferred—the Boy Who Lived, or just the boy. “…I guess I can see that.” He wrinkled his nose. “…What made you go back at all? Why not give it up to the Ministry, after all the nasty shit that happened there? I mean, I get it’s your home, ancestral lands and all that, but…no offence, I always assumed you had, like, three other homes.”

Draco lifted a brow. “Why on earth would that offend me?” Potter only stared at him in blank confusion, so Draco moved on. Potter’s head was a strange space; no sense in wasting time trying to pick him apart. “Those ‘like, three other homes’ are scattered around the globe, meant for holidays and business trips. How exactly were we meant to pop over to wizarding Paris when we aren’t allowed to leave Britain? Besides—” He gave a sniff, fixing his eyes on the issue of Witch Weekly so he didn’t have to see what expression Potter pulled when he said, “Mother would never leave Father behind. Despite all he did and the mess he dragged us into, he’s still family.”

There was a long, heavy pause, and when Draco dared flick his eyes back, just for a peek, he could see Potter’s lips pressed tight together, probably wrestling with the urge to say something nasty about Lucius, and Draco instinctively readied his own needle-sharp retorts. At least I’ve got a father. At least I can still trade letters with him. At least I have a family and home to go back to, instead of one I cobbled together. But even in his mind, they rang hollow. Protesting too much, a vain attempt to convince himself things weren’t all that bad. Harry Potter had it worse, right? Of course right.

Potter seemed to rein in his emotions, though, standing and shuffling into the kitchen where he grabbed an everwarm pot and began to brew a cup of tea in a little mug hanging from a hook over the sink. After a moment’s consideration, he grabbed a second mug and returned, shortly, with a cup for Draco, too. When Draco stared at him like he’d grown a second head, he shrugged and set the mug down on a little coaster next to Witch Weekly.

“Are you going back, then? To the manor.”

“Why should I want to? We’re having so much fun.”

Potter rolled his eyes, sipping blithely from his mug. “I know it isn’t comfortable for you being here—in more ways than one. Is there nowhere else you can spend your holidays? Somewhere, I dunno, people weren’t murdered?”

And while he had something of a point, he was missing the bigger picture. “There could be, if we really wanted there to be.” He reached for the mug, wrapping his chilled fingers around it and inhaling the aroma. It wasn’t the good stuff, but it was tea, and that was enough. “But we aren’t going to be driven from our home.”

Potter snorted softly. “Only going to run away?”

Draco heard the teasing in his voice, though only because he thought to listen for it. Clearly Potter’s Latin studies had failed him, as he hadn’t yet learned it wasn’t wise to tickle a dragon. “…For a while, at least. And then I’m meant to be back. I told Mother I’d return before Christmas Eve.”

“Wait.” Potter choked on his tea. “She knows you’re at the Weasleys’ home? She didn’t find that in the least bit odd?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I told her I was staying with the Zabinis, obviously. Blaise will cover for me if she thinks to ask—he always has.”

Potter made a strange face, half-surprised, half-impressed. “…Huh.”

“What?”

“So you do have friends.”

“What?”

Potter waved him down when it looked like Draco might chuck the mug of tea at him. “No, I just thought maybe they were all more…lackeys. You know, like Cra—” He quickly cut himself off though with a wince, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. “…Never mind. Sorry.”

Draco let him stew in his self-loathing for only a heartbeat, then gave a derisive scoff, staring down into his half-drunk mug of tea. “…Don’t try and feign sympathy, and keep your condolences to yourself.”

“I wasn’t trying—”

“He wasn’t my friend,” Draco said, as much to remind Potter as himself. “You saw as such.”

Potter gave a nod that was just this side of patronising. “Well… I mean, lots of us didn’t act the way we might usually during the war, so…” He shrugged. “I wasn’t going to judge.” He took another sip of his tea, then paused, brows knitting in confusion. “Wait, if you’ll be friends with the likes of Zabini, then why’re you so against being my friend?”

‘The likes of Zabini’. Well there was his answer, right there. “Because we don’t get on,” he said instead, because simpler was always better with Potter.

Potter glanced around the room, then down at the mugs of tea they were holding. “…Right, of course not,” he deadpanned.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Just because we can be civil doesn’t mean we’re suited to any manner of congeniality. Even my father could be civil with you. Want to be pen pals with him, then? I could deliver your letters.”

Potter’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “…Thanks, but I’ll pass.” Draco raised his mug in a cheers gesture. “I rather think we’re being more than civil, though. Don’t you?”

And it was as testing a question as Draco had ever heard. He locked eyes with Potter over his mug, and though the expression he found was even and passive, he’d been around this man long enough to know he had hidden depths to him that could drag you down if you underestimated him. Not that Draco had ever admitted as such aloud—he still had his pride, after all.

So he said, careful but insistent, as a parent to a child who might erupt into a tantrum at the slightest provocation, “…No, I don’t. You’re using me, and I’m using you. We’re convenient at the moment, and once term ends, I don’t expect our paths will cross again soon. So do away with silly thoughts of reforming me or making me one of your merry band of misfits.”

Potter carefully set his mug onto the coffee table between them, frowning. “…Hold up, you don’t think we’ll see each other again once school’s over?” And he had absolutely no place sounding so disappointed. He’d taken down the Dark Lord, against all odds—pouting no longer suited him.

“No, likely not,” Draco said with a sniffing indifference. “You’ll go off and continue playing the hero and saving the day—this time with the Ministry’s blessing—and I’ll be doing my level best not to piss off the wrong sorts through whatever means I can manage. If I see you again at all once we leave Hogwarts, I dare say it’ll probably be when you’re picking over my freshly murdered corpse looking for fingerprints.” He knocked back the last of his tea, setting down the mug on its coaster next to Potter’s. “Whatever any letter I leave behind might say, hear me now when I say I didn’t take my own life, and do avenge me if at all possible. As a token of our not-friendship.”

Potter looked absolutely stricken, face gone peaky, and it certainly didn’t bode well for future assignments if he was already balking at the grisly scenes he’d have to investigate as an Auror.

He swallowed thickly, then squared his jaw. “…That won’t happen,” he said, and he sounded so sober and serious that Draco almost wanted to believe him. But that was just the Boy Saviour in him. That ineffable quality that made people want to believe him capable of silly, impossible things, despite themselves. More fantasy.

Draco settled back on the sofa, arms thrown over the back. “I suppose we’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?”

“No,” Potter said with more conviction and a harder expression on his features. “I’m telling you, that won’t—”

But then the Floo flashed brightly to announce an incoming visitor, and cursing softly under his breath, Draco popped back into his owl form and launched himself at Potter, scrambling up onto his shoulder as Andromeda Tonks, née Black, strode through the fireplace with a bright smile, dusting Floo powder from her robes.

“So! Did I miss anything exciting?”

With Andromeda returned, Potter excused them to return to the Burrow just in time for dinner. Weasley refused to leave Potter’s side once they got back, insistent they listen to a Cannons game on the Wireless together. Why someone who claimed to be a fan of the team would want to listen to them being soundly trounced in real time was beyond Draco, but Weasley was an odd duck who perhaps got off on humiliation. It would certainly explain a fair few things.

With Weasley looking on, though, Potter couldn’t dawdle in the roost room when he came to give the owls their dinner—no sumptuous spread from Mother Weasley, alas; only owl kibble could be spared tonight—and Draco got the distinct feeling he’d worn out his welcome.

Potter, perhaps sensing the same, used the guise of giving him toe-curling scritches under his chin to whisper, “…Are you heading back home in the morning?” Draco bobbed his head. “Well. Say ‘hi’ to Zabini for me.” What an odd thing to ask; Draco turned his head nearly upside down in confusion. “It’s a figure of speech. I’m being civil, see?” Draco cuffed him with a wing, and Potter blocked it, tutting softly under his breath. When Draco began to pick at the band on his leg again, Potter sighed. “Yeah, I know. I’ll send Pig with a message when we’re heading back to Diagon, yeah? We’ll be going back to stock up on supplies for the new term a few days before we head back to Hogwarts. You can meet me there, and then we’ll get Eeylops to remove it.”

Potter dared a glance over his shoulder at Weasley, who was tapping a pocket watch impatiently, and then reached into the pouch he wore around his neck and drew out a bulging little satchel that he carefully hung on the perch Draco had claimed. “All your Wheezes goodies, shrunken down for easy transport. Be sure to use them only for mischief.” Draco clacked his beak as if to say Give me some credit, and Potter snorted softly. “See you ‘round, Alabastard,” he said, with a final pat on the head, then slipped back out the door with Weasley, who promptly launched into a rundown of the Cannons’ gameplay this season and how they were ‘poised for a comeback’.

Draco sat there in the dark of the roost room, straining to eavesdrop on their game commentary, for much longer than was probably appropriate.

Chapter Text

In the early morning hours, just as dawn was breaking and with the rest of the Weasley household snugly abed, Draco departed. He’d waited for first light out of habit, only belatedly recalling he had excellent night vision and could have overnighted in the comfort of his own bed instead of on a perch alongside a wheezing Errol and Pig, who seemed to have some form of owl night terrors and woke up squawking at odd hours.

The satchel full of shrunken-down Wheezes products clutched tight in his talons, he launched himself from the roost room window and flapped fiercely to gain altitude, wondering how on earth he was going to navigate his way home but trusting to whatever magic had brought him thus far that he’d figure it out along the way.

And true enough, as soon as he’d broken the low, dreary cloud cover that blanketed the countryside around Ottery St Catchpole, he felt the same odd shifting of the air around him, his wings parting the breeze with ease and carrying him with a preternatural speed he couldn’t claim to understand. It was difficult to tell how much time had passed, but when an innate tug urged him down through the clouds once more, the landscape had brightened to a dull mid-morning, revealing Wiltshire and, in the distance, the sprawling, snow-mottled grounds of Malfoy Manor.

Owls were fucking amazing, he marvelled, and decided to devote the bulk of the rest of his holiday to figuring out just how this all worked. Could he pop down to London at the weekends instead of pissing around Hogsmeade with the rest of the riff-raff? Even Apparition had its limitations, after all, and a fair share of risk for the inexperienced.

He circled the grounds in a long, gauging loop, and after a moment’s consideration, he bypassed his bedroom balcony altogether and made for the bell tower where he’d spent much of his holiday thus far roosting, safely stowing away his satchel of contraband to dig through later at his leisure. He really ought to check in with Blaise before returning, he decided, just in case his mother had asked after him. Blaise would have covered for him, of this he was certain, but he wanted to be prepared in case she’d left any messages for him.

After ensuring his goodies wouldn’t be disturbed, he took off again, this time bound for the Zabini lands on the coast. Now, he hadn’t had chance to visit Blaise at his home too often over the years, and on the rare occasion he had—usually for a dinner party or holiday gala of some fashion or another—he and his parents had always Flooed. He therefore did not, in all honesty, know where on the coast the Zabini lands were—only that they lay somewhere to the west.

This didn’t seem to matter to the owl, though, as whatever magical energies it was attuned to seemed to ping true, and so long as Draco kept above the clouds and flapped until he felt in his gizzard or craw or whatever body part birds navigated by that it was time to descend, he felt confident he’d make it to his destination eventually.

And as hoped, an indeterminate while later, he cut his lift and began drifting down through the cloud cover, finding himself high overhead an estate that, while not quite as impressive as the Malfoy lands in Wiltshire, was respectable in its size and relieving in its familiarity. He circled the main manor house several times, trying to recall which window was Blaise’s, but was saved the effort when he floated low enough he caught Blaise in the rear courtyard, in the midst of duelling practise. He alighted in an evergreen overlooking a frozen-over bird bath to watch them work.

Blaise’s coach was an older woman, dark hair greying at the temples and pulled back into a severe bun. She barked orders at him in an accent that said she was probably an instructor at Durmstrang, and the ease with which she fired off hexes and curses that Draco himself would have hesitated to cast seemed to confirm as such. Blaise wasn’t the worst student, parrying and shielding and riposting where necessary, but his movements were jerky and predictable, so much so even Potter probably could have bested him—and this was the wizard who’d slain the Dark Lord with Expelliarmus of all spells.

After another ten minutes, the coach called time. The pair bowed and saluted, and then the coach disappeared in a CRACK of Apparition, leaving Blaise alone in the courtyard. He took a few moments to collect himself, then with a huff began marching back to the manor proper. Draco swooped down upon him and smoothly transformed to fall into step beside him—taking great care to ensure that his trousers covered the ghastly cuff on his left ankle.

“Your form is shit. I’d fire that coach if I were you. She’s undoubtedly bleeding you dry.”

Blaise gave an inelegant yelp, arms pinwheeling as he nearly toppled into the iced-over pond on their opposite side. Draco snapped a hand out to grab him by the collar and yank him back onto steady feet, and Blaise reached up to shove him hard across the chest, barking, “Don’t do that! Fuck, you scared the shit out of me!”

“See? The first thing a duelling coach ought to teach a student is to always be on their guard. You’d have been better off Incendioing the small fortune your mother’s pouring into this hack’s vault.

Blaise was bent over at the waist now, hands on his knees and breathing heavily. He ticked his head up, glaring at Draco from under deeply furrowed brows. “It’s fucking rude to Apparate right in front of someone.”

“Didn’t Apparate. Transformed.”

“Same damn difference!” He straightened up, wiping a hand over his face. “Is the Floo too good for you now? And what are you even doing here?”

Why was that always the first question people asked when Draco deigned to grace them with his presence these days? The nerve. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his robes, chilly without all the downy fluff. “I told Mother I was staying here for a few days. Thought I ought to pop in and at least make it a little legitimate.”

Blaise lifted a brow, and they began walking back to the manor together this time. “Meaning you don’t actually plan to stay here?”

“Meaning I’ve already been staying elsewhere and am on my way home.”

“Ooh…” Blaise threw an arm around Draco’s neck, drawing him close, and they stumbled as they passed under the awning fronting the courtyard. “Dish.”

Draco rolled his shoulders, shaking him off. “It wasn’t like that,” he said, insistent—oh, if Blaise only knew! “I just…needed to get out of that house.”

And Blaise just gave him a sidelong look, declining to tease any further on the point. He knew as well as Draco what the past year had been like—how perhaps the most dangerous place in the wizarding world to be had been the Manor, Dark Mark or no. “…So, where did you go, then, if not here—where you would have been perfectly welcome to visit had you shown up and rung the front bell like a normal wizard instead of buzzing me unawares?”

Draco sighed, exhaling loudly through his nose. “Making terrible decisions. What else is new?”

Draco didn’t feel the need to elaborate any further, and Blaise didn’t prod. He was a better partner for conversation than Pansy like that. She would have put him on the rack until he cracked and told her every sordid detail, from his infant cousin to the bundle of contraband he’d hauled home to the lovely silver jewellery clapped round his ankle. Blaise was content to just enjoy a fellow aesthete’s company.

They made their way inside, Blaise leading them to a well-lit library warmed on one side by the wan sunlight streaming through the bay windows and on the other by a roaring fireplace. As they settled in for tea and sandwiches provided by a stream of house-elves, Draco couldn’t shake the odd feeling that…he wasn’t supposed to be doing this. Sitting around as a human, doing human things, with other humans. It was just so…unnatural.

Now, it wasn’t that he preferred being an owl—only that over the past few months, and the past few days in particular, he’d gotten used to it. Was that dangerous, he wondered? It had to be, didn’t it?

It was just, things were so much simpler as an owl. No one bothered him. No one looked askance at him. He could find places, places where no one else was, and sit there for hours on end.

Hours and hours on end. Alone. Because that was how he preferred it, obviously.

“What are you doing after school?” he asked, apropos of nothing, and Blaise choked on his scalding tea.

After batting his lips with a handkerchief, he cleared his throat and gave Draco a funny look. “Usually one works up to those sorts of questions in conversation. Surely a passing comment on the weather or discussion of Christmas plans should come before diving headlong into ‘what’s the next ten years looking like for you?’ no?”

Draco waved him off with a derisive bah. “When have we ever beaten around the bush?”

“Well never, Darling, but certainly not because I haven’t offered.” Draco showed him two fingers, and Blaise showed him a bright white smile, settling back against the plush wingback upholstered in a rich purple fabric embroidered with silver fleur-de-lis patterns. “I’m thinking of going abroad.”

“Abroad? To the continent?” Surely he couldn’t mean the Americas. Even Draco wasn’t that desperate.

Blaise shrugged. “Thereabouts. Pans has mentioned something about enrolling in a wizarding cosmetics program in Uppsala, and we’re thinking of flatting together.” Draco arched a brow, and Blaise gave a barked laugh. “Oh, not like that. Don’t be ridiculous.” He took another sip of his tea, one finger raised. “We have discussed the subject of sharing any conquests either of us might bring home, though.”

Draco nodded. “Of course you have.”

“What? It seems terribly convenient, if you ask me!” He smiled to himself. “I’m actually looking forward to it.” He cocked his head at Draco, studying him fondly. “…What about you?”

And what about Draco indeed?

A great wave of shame washed over him. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but it certainly hadn’t been to be shown up so eagerly and inexpertly, in the span of a breath. Still, there it was: even lascivious layabouts like Blaise and Pansy had dreams and ambitions—to some degree at least. They had plans. They might not have goals, but they were on their way to finding them, and they were going to have an adventure along the way.

Meanwhile, Draco was sitting here wallowing, his greatest goal in life at the moment to lie low enough to survive to his next birthday.

“Forget it,” he said into his teacup, short and sharp. “It was a silly question.” Blaise looked like he very much wanted to protest, so Draco smoothly shifted the conversation to topics of Christmas and parties and lavish banquets for the sole purpose of pretending everything was as it had always been. Was there to be a New Year’s to-do? Well of course there was, they weren’t barbarians, now were they? And of course Draco and Narcissa were invited—it wouldn’t be a party without a Malfoy or two in attendance, now would it? Would Pansy be there? When had Pansy ever missed an opportunity to show off the newest gown or dress robes her daddy had bought her? And so on, and so on.

As the afternoon wore on and conversation grew thin, Draco decided it was finally time to return home. And he meant to really return home—no more of this spending the better portion of the day sitting in the belfry, avoiding the dark, disturbing parts of his ancestral home. He would use his mother to buffer the unease of the house and perhaps do some research in the library on ways to purify the foundation. He needed a thesis topic, after all, so maybe this could be two birds with one stone (disturbing as the turn of phrase was now).

After bidding Blaise farewell until the New Year’s party the Zabinis were planning, Draco returned to Wiltshire, finally getting the hang of this strange time-slipping flight of which magical owls seemed capable. He didn’t think he was ready to try heading all the way back to Hogwarts with only his instincts to guide him, but perhaps with time.

He scooped up his bag of contraband from the bell tower, then swooped down and around to his bedroom window. The elves had cleared the balcony of the snowfall that blanketed the countryside, and when he touched down and shifted back, his polished black loafers squeaked against the smooth marble tiling.

He found his mother precisely where he’d left her: lounging in the solarium, though this time she was leafing through a book entitled So You’ve Got Glumbumbles In Your Garden. “Blaise sends his love. And an invitation to the Zabinis’ New Year’s party, if you’re up for it.”

She marked her place in the book, then carefully closed it, setting it aside and holding her hand out for Draco to kiss. “Welcome back, Dearest. I trust you had a nice stay with Blaise?”

“It was good to get out—as out as I can get, at least.” She gave him an indulgent smile, and he squeezed the hand he’d just pecked. “But I was ready to come back. I thought I might help you see if the gardens can’t be saved.”

She lifted a brow. “You? Toiling in the dirt?”

“You toiling in the dirt?”

“Touché,” she tittered, then cocked her head. “What’s brought this offer on? You’ve been a veritable ghost ever since you returned from Hogwarts, and now you want to be underfoot?”

He ducked his head, ashamed she’d not only noticed his avoidance but called him on it. “…A bit of perspective, that’s all.” He shrugged. “And also, I need a thesis topic. A study on the effects of curses and Dark magics on local plant life as well as restoration efforts ought to earn me passing marks, I think.”

“There’s my opportunistic young wizard,” she laughed. “I’d be delighted for the company, if you really think it’s for you.”

And it wasn’t for him, not by any means—but if he moped about much longer, he was going to be sucked under, never to be heard from again, and that was a horrible legacy to leave behind.

Three days before Hogwarts classes were set to resume with the new term, the excitable little Scops showed up once more, dive-bombing Draco’s head while he helped his mother parcel out the choicest bits of garden real estate that hadn’t been ruined by boot tracks and werewolf piss so they might plant a few Angel’s Trumpet bulbs.

“What the—piss off, Pig!”

“Pig?” his mother frowned from under her sunbonnet, squinting at the bundle of fluff and feathers presently haranguing Draco. “Is that someone’s owl?”

“Unfortunately,” Draco growled, snapping a hand out and grabbing the owl by its feet. It continued to beat its wings senselessly, chirruping delighted greetings despite being trapped in Draco’s fist. “…Excuse me for a moment, Mother,” he said around a tight smile, and he could feel her amused gaze following him all the way back to the manor steps.

Once in his room, he relieved Pig of the letter he’d come bearing and tossed him onto the bed, where he landed with a plop, rolling around merrily on the fine duvet. “Shit on my bed, and I’ll feed you to the Venomous Tentacula.” Pig didn’t seem remotely fazed by the threat, and Draco sighed as he slid into his desk chair, unrolling the letter to see what Potter could possibly want with him now.

/Heading to Diagon Alley for a final back-to-school shopping trip tomorrow morning. Maybe meet me at Eeylops around noon to get your jewellery removed? Pig’s missed you terribly, as I’m sure you’ve discovered. Maybe shit on his head a few times, see if that won’t turn him off./

“Hasn’t worked with you; why would it work with the damn owl?” Draco muttered under his breath.

Pig launched himself from the bed and fluttered, unsteadily, over to land on Draco’s head. When he wouldn’t stop nibbling on Draco’s ear, he reached for a little cask of owl treats (which he kept around for Xerxes, not for himself, of course…his personal stash was up in the belfry) and offered a handful, which was greedily accepted.

“You’ll get too fat to get yourself off the ground, you know,” Draco warned, stroking the tuft of feathers over his beak, and Pig’s eyes fluttered shut in bliss. He turned back to read the letter again, lips twisting into a scowl. Potter had certainly taken his sweet time getting around to rectifying the mortifying business of the cuff Draco had been doing his level best to hide from friends and family. He’d probably had a perfectly restful, restorative holiday, even, while Draco had turned his family’s library upside down trying to find a way to remove the cuff himself. Oh, he was going to shit on Potter so much after this was sorted. So much.

Once Pig had worked his way through his pile of treats, he hopped onto Draco’s desk and began to do a funny little dance, clearly waiting for Draco to entrust him with a letter in return. “No return post,” Draco said, and Pig seemed to wilt. “Well you evidently won’t shit on him for me, so what else can I possibly ask?” He leaned in close and said, conspiratorially, “He told me to shit on you, you know. I think he quite deserves it.” He then stood and walked over to the balcony doors, opening one and gesturing through it. “Just think it over on your way back.”

The next morning, he considered Flooing to Diagon Alley like a civilised wizard—then considered again after recalling that he’d need to find a private space to shift (the Eeylops staff would have questions if pressed to remove one of their patented cuffs from a human, surely), a task that would be difficult if not downright impossible the weekend before students would be returning to Hogwarts for the new term. He therefore kissed his mother on the cheek after wolfing down a quick three-course breakfast and winged his way to London, not knowing at all how much time he ought to allot for the journey and therefore arriving nearly two hours before the appointed meeting time.

Well, bollocks.

With nothing better to do, Draco spent most of the morning perched upon the newly repaired dome of Gringotts, watching the crowd of last-minute shoppers milling below and feeling very glad he was not puttering about amongst the unwashed masses.

And speaking of unwashed masses—Potter and his herd of Weasleys found themselves spat out of the public Floos near Gringotts at precisely 11 o’clock. As Potter had suggested they meet up at noon, Draco held back—reining in any urges to buzz him with a literal dung-bomb—and instead quietly watched the group wriggle their way through the throng, stopping first by the Wheezes establishment before continuing on to shops like Scrivenshaft’s and Wiseacre’s and Slug & Jiggers.

As the hour approached noon, Draco swooped down from his post atop Gringotts to perch on the sign hanging just over the door outside of Eeylops. A few passersby gave him funny looks, but they quickly moved on about their business, clearly thinking him part of the shop’s merchandise. Potter was, at the moment, just exiting the newly reopened Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour (“Now Under New Management!”), making his excuses to the rest of the pack of redheads (and the now-returned Granger, Draco noted with some trepidation) as he squeezed through the rowdy scrum of shoppers over toward Eeylops.

Draco gave a low, raspy hiss when he drew within earshot, and Potter’s head snapped up, one hand raised to shield his eyes against the wan noonday sun. When he saw who’d just squawked at him, a smile broke over his features—oh what a different expression he’d be wearing once Draco rained faecal-fire down upon him—and he gave a stupid little wave, as if expecting Draco to wave back.

Instead, with a mental sigh, Draco hopped down to perch on his shoulders—and Potter only winced a little bit when Draco dug his talons in to keep purchase.

“Sorry it took so long—Ron always wanted to come whenever I mentioned needing to go to Diagon Alley, so I had to wait until I could get a big enough group together he wouldn’t feel obligated to come along if I wanted to slip away for a bit.” He was in a fine enough mood, so Draco doubted Pig had shit on him. Another traitor. “Been doing okay, otherwise?”

Draco nipped his ear in a manner he hoped said Enough with the small talk, and Potter rubbed at it ruefully. “Right, right, fine…” Draco didn’t appreciate the long-suffering tone that said cleaning up his mistake was such a chore for Potter, and he squeezed Potter’s shoulder just a little harder to impress upon him his eagerness to be rid of the cuff.

This kicked Potter into overdrive, and he quickly flagged down what looked like Eeylops himself once inside the shop, explaining through teeth grit in pain that he very much would appreciate the cuff on his owl being removed.

“Removed?” Eeylops blustered. “Why on earth would you want it removed? Anyone could up and claim this fine specimen for their own without you marking him as your property.” Nice try, Eeylops—flattery would get you nowhere with Draco (not just now, at least).

“Er, well I’m…I’m getting rid of him, see. Giving him to a friend, and he’ll probably want to tag his new owl with his own band.”

“Oh that’s an easy enough fix,” Eeylops said, raising his wand. “I can simply switch out the owner’s name. What would you like it to read instead?”

Draco squeezed tighter and thought he might be drawing blood. Good. “NO! No, no, uh, I just—” He grunted. “Just—please take it off. Please please take it off, I think I should let my friend get him rebanded when he’s ready. Really that’s—just please—” He slapped down a coin purse on the countertop, and Draco knew the sound of a hefty amount of Galleons when he heard it. “Take. The band. Off.”

In the end, Potter had to bribe Eeylops to just remove the band without asking any questions by purchasing a variety-flavour barrel of treats, but that was his problem and not Draco’s. In fact, Draco had really no problems at the moment, with the silver band now sitting safe and unassuming in the palm of his hand.

Potter glanced over his shoulder at the crowd passing by just on the other side of the Concealment Charm he’d thrown up to give them some privacy. The alleyway into which he’d ducked once his business in the Owl Emporium had been completed was by no means a glamorous place for a rendezvous, but Draco could at least transform back without fear of being caught out.

“There. Happy now?”

Draco frowned down at the band, nose wrinkling. He could still see neatly etched into the metal Property of H.J.Potter. “These things have Tracking Charms on them too, did you know?”

“What?” Potter looked like he might be sick, and he shook his head sharply. “No, of course not. How could I?”

No, Potter was too stupid to do something that underhanded. Draco tossed the band into the air, then whipped his wand out and hissed, “Incendio.” A lash of flame snapped out, encircling the band and reducing it to a glob of molten metal that fell to the ground with a sizzling plop.

Potter stared down at the ruined remains of the band with a forlorn expression. “Wha—I paid for that thing!”

“Yes, you did,” Draco said. “Now we’re even.”

“We aren’t even at all! You owe me for the mountain of treats I’ve bought you over the past few weeks!”

“Consider it a down-payment for my continued tutelage.” He studied Potter carefully. “…Have you been keeping up with your studies? I told you I don’t want to have to start back at the beginning come Monday.”

“Er…” Potter hedged, eyes darting about in a most suspicious manner—before falling on the wand clutched in Draco’s grasp. “…Nice to see your wand’s behaving,” he said, and that had absolutely nothing to do with the topic at hand, but Draco let it be, enjoying the sight of Potter squirming.

He twirled his wand about his knuckles. “Mm, yes. I suppose roughing you up had additional benefits beyond fleeting vindication.”

Potter gave a grunt of acknowledgement, pride probably still smarting. Good; it was time the tables were turned.

An awkward beat passed, and Potter scuffed the toe of his dirty trainer against the gob of silver now frozen solid to a cobblestone. “…Have a good holiday, then?” he asked, clearly bereft of any passing understanding of remotely acceptable conversation topics, given what they’d just been through.

Draco stared at him, expression blank. “Do you have any idea how mortifying it is to be the only wizard at a party wearing slacks with your dress robes instead of formal breeches because you’ve got a great big silver cuff on your leg you can’t explain away?”

Potter arched one brow. “…No?” he said, not sounding very sure of himself.

“Then it’s none of your business how my holiday went,” Draco huffed, crossing his arms. Pleasantries were the worst, and he absolutely didn’t want to share them with Potter. “I expect it shall go better now, though. All forty-eight or so hours I have left.”

“I told you, I tried to get away sooner—” Potter started, then seemed to give up. He sighed, rubbing his jaw. “…Did you get to try out any of the Wheezes goods at least? What did you think?”

“Hm. The headless hat was amusing for five seconds or so.” Draco frowned to himself. “I’m still trying to sort out what exactly the Demon Box is.”

“…I would’ve expected a box of demons?”

“You’d be incorrect.” He shrugged. “The self-scribing quill should prove useful, but I’ve noticed it tends to insert expletives every so often.”

Potter gave a wincing smile. “Yeah, that sounds about right. Maybe don’t write your mum any letters with it—oh!” His expression brightened as a thought struck him, and he dug into his pocket before pulling out a small paper bag. There was steam wafting off of it, and this close, whatever was inside smelled absolutely delicious. Potter opened the bag and held it close for Draco to check its contents. “Here.”

Draco took the bag, peering inside as he gave it a shake. “…What are they?”

Potter’s brows quirked as if they had a life of their own. “Weasleys’ Roasted Dragon Nuts.” Draco took a close look at the branding on the side of the bag, which clearly said Weasleys’ Dragon-Roasted Nuts, and Potter shrugged. “Whatever, close enough. The point is, I thought they might satisfy that savoury tooth you’ve got.”

“My what tooth?”

“Your savoury tooth! You’ve clearly got one—”

Draco’s expression twisted into one of abject offence. How dare Potter presume such familiarity. “I—have not got—”

Potter held up the barrel of owl treats, giving it a shake. “Yeah? What’s this?”

“Part of the bribe you had to pay because you didn’t have the stones to just demand that buffoon undo his staff’s shoddy handiwork.”

Potter just shook his head in quiet amusement, and that was not allowed. “Stop being contrary and just take them.” He inclined his head back toward the busy thoroughfare. “Anyway, I’d better get back. I told the others I was just popping in to check something and would be right back. I don’t want them to come looking for me.” He tucked the barrel back under his arm. “I’ll bring this back to school for you, shall I?”

“Choke on it.”

“Yeah, was good seeing you too,” Potter snorted, palming his wand, and Draco only had a moment to, panicking, duck down behind a pile of crates before Potter dispelled the Concealment Charm. “Enjoy your nice warm sack of dragon nuts,” he called in sing-song before stepping out into the milling crowd, and Draco mentally flipped him two fingers, nose full of the enticing scent of roasted chestnuts salted with some tantalising spice mix that all right he wanted to stuff his face with right this moment.

Potter was treading on thin ice, really he was. These sorts of thoughtless gestures were the things friends did for each other, and that was simply unacceptable.

He stared down at the solid gob of silver still melded to a cobblestone—then reached out to tap it with his wand, detaching it from the cobblestone and slipping it into his pocket. Perhaps he could fashion it into a pea shot and lob it at Potter’s head from across the Great Hall.

He threw a long look through the stack of crates sheltering him from the view of passersby, wondering what Potter and his Weasleys (plus one Granger) would be doing with their afternoon and reminding himself, sternly, that he really didn’t care.

Chapter Text

With the new term and new year upon them, Draco decided it was time for one of those ‘resolutions’ he’d heard of. They’d seemed like silly, insipid things before, meant for frail, frightened sorts who lacked conviction in what they were doing, the path on which they found themselves. But he was coming around to the idea of them being a sort of self-proclamation. A way to say he was in charge of his own life, he dictated his own future, and bleak though it might seem just now, he would not roll over and die.

First, though, he needed to speak with McGonagall.

“I must say, Mr Malfoy, this is rather out of the ordinary…” McGonagall said, her brogue even thicker than usual as she mulled over his marks with a tight-lipped frown. “You aren’t taking a single N.E.W.T. course, yet you want to sit the exams all the same?”

“Yes, Headmistress.” If he kept his responses succinct, maybe he wouldn’t come off like ‘a patronising little wanker’, as Potter had informed him he often sounded—and as Blaise and Pansy had both confirmed. He’d never really liked McGonagall—she’d had it out for Draco (and Slytherin by proxy) since the moment she’d placed the Sorting Hat on his head—but he needed her on his side if he was to make anything of these final few months of schooling before he was chucked out on his arse.

“Would you care to elaborate on why?”

Drats. There went his ‘succinct response’ strategy. He took a breath, practising his lines. If he couldn’t convince her to submit his application for him—weeks after the official filing date—he’d be N.E.W.T.-less and looking at, at best, a job slinging frozen treats for whoever owned Fortescue’s now.

“I don’t know what I want to do with my life. I was lucky enough to scrape by with a second chance, a final year here, and I’ve squandered half of it wallowing in self-pity. I no longer care much for what my father might think of me, but I know well enough he’d be disgusted with what I’ve let myself become…and I share the sentiment. All I’m asking…is for the chance to set myself arights. I won’t ask for any tutoring or extra time to prepare or anything of the sort—I just…” He tried biting back the words, but they came anyway. “…There are people I don’t want to disappoint. People who still think I’m worth something. So with your permission, ma’am.”

“Due respect, Mr Malfoy,” McGonagall said with a tiny hint of a smile as she reached for an eagle-feather quill and began scrawling her name over a line on the parchment application form, “There’s quite a few people who still think you’re worth something.”

Draco gave a small grunt of acknowledgement, sinking low into his chair and trying to ignore the heavy gaze of a pair of twinkling blue eyes staring down at him from the portrait on McGonagall’s wall.

With permission to take his N.E.W.T.s secured, Draco allowed himself to—only casually, and as surreptitiously as possible—look into higher wizarding education. He limited his enquiries to the British Isles; sure, he would receive a warmer welcome abroad, where his name would carry less baggage, but he couldn’t leave his mother to deal with his father all by herself, and International Floo Travel was a bitch to plan. England and England-adjacent it would have to be.

There were also apprenticeships to consider as well—work-studies and internships and everything in between. There would be a lot of doors slammed closed in his face, but if he cast his net wide enough, he was bound to hit something. He wasn’t going to be picky, not for a first job. He just needed something at which he could prove himself, show he had skills that merited overlooking his chequered past, and then he could make a name for himself, something that wouldn’t draw as many frowns as ‘Malfoy’.

Naturally, he didn’t breathe a word of these efforts to Potter. No, Potter would only get excited and want to have a hand in Draco’s redemption—because he was just that way—and like an untrained Crup, he’d piss all over everything and muck it up.

His relationship with Potter—or lack thereof, rather—therefore remained much the same in the new term as in the previous one. Draco continued to keep a low profile, never acknowledging Potter in the halls or at meals and taking care to ensure no one caught Draco flitting off for their late-night assignations. The clandestine nature of their meetings, under other circumstances, might have thrilled Draco, but as it was, they mostly made him sick with worry. If the wrong sorts caught them fraternising in the Greenhouses or connected the dots on their one-sided conversations in the Owlery, life could be made very difficult for Draco, which would really just be unfortunate, seeing as he’d finally started giving a shit about that life.

Still, Potter needed all the help he could get if he wanted to have a prayer of getting at least Es on his N.E.W.T.s, so to the Greenhouses they awayed, or the Owlery, or—on evenings when Potter’s roommates had other plans of their own—to Gryffindor Tower, where Draco would perch on Potter’s knee and harass him while he worked.

As the weeks passed, Draco continued to steadily work his way through the Wheezes grab-bag that Potter had procured for him. He found he was partial to most of the sweets—the Shimmering Silver Salt Drops were his favourite, but he could have easily lived without the Edible Dark Marks. He’d yet to try the Kissing Concoction or Flirting Fancies, though; he didn’t know what they were, nor was he very keen to find out.

It was funny. He’d always thought the Weasley twins an abject embarrassment, a waste of good pure wizarding blood—but he’d now come to appreciate their entrepreneurial spirit and generally clever ideas. They’d seen a niche and filled it, and they hadn’t given a fig who thought they belonged there. Then there was Mother Weasley, who’d called him a ‘handsome fellow’ (well, his owl form at least) and probably looked the other way while Potter pilfered leftovers for Draco’s meals. Like Draco was just another of her herd of children in need of stuffing with good, filling food.

Potter’s own personal Weasley aside, Draco was actually warming to some of these folks.

Harry Potter surrounded himself with so many passionate people. Granted, they could be equally hot-headed at times, but that was only the dark side of passionate, now wasn’t it?

And what place did Draco have amongst their number?

Well, he didn’t have one. That was it. It was just like Potter said: they worked best when one of them wasn’t speaking, whether because they weren’t human at all, or because they were focused on a task. When they dared try and have a conversation, it always went tits-up, so this was really all they could ever hope to have. A handful of weeks, a few months—and then quietly returning to their proper orbits, never to pass into each other’s spheres again for fear of destroying one another.

This fragile, fleeting time they had together was really all they ever could have, and despite himself, despite knowing they weren’t fit to be friends or even acquaintances, it still stung. Like he was eleven years old again and Potter was staring down at his offered hand like it was covered in Hippogriff shit.

He considered—for only a heartbeat—simply stopping being such a prickly shit and just letting himself enjoy what it might feel like to really actually be Harry Potter’s friend. To pretend, for a while, that they could stand each other, maybe even enjoyed one another’s company as boys and students and would continue to do so as adults with jobs and real working lives.

But he was quick to dismiss such flights of fancy, for Potter would never let him hear the end of it. He’d ridicule—or at least tease—and Draco had never responded positively to Potter poking fun at him or embarrassing him.

After all this time, all he’d been through, all he’d clawed his way back from…he really was still a coward, at least when it came to some things. Potter’s opinion of him stupidly meant something. And it probably always would. Like the Mark on his arm, he’d never be rid of this urge to prove to Potter he wasn’t the snivelling little weasel he somehow always made himself out to be.

The gloom of winter passed quickly, though, and spring was bearing down upon them—which meant it was time for another bimonthly check-in with the Probation Office and Officiate Wentsworth.

Wentsworth had been, predictably, delighted to learn Draco was planning on taking his N.E.W.T.s and filled Draco’s arms with pamphlets for all sorts of career paths, urging him to reconsider Wentsworth’s previous offer to set him up with Administration Services—

“Oh right right, that does remind me…” Wentsworth began digging through his inbox, reaching for the wire-frame spectacles on top of his head and placing them gently on the bridge of his nose as he peered at the seemingly unending pile of paperwork awaiting his perusal. Was it just Draco’s imagination, or did the man somehow have more work now than he’d had before the holidays? “There was a request from Thomassen…” Wentsworth muttered under his breath for a bit before releasing a bright Aha! and pulling out a memo folded into the shape of a paper crane, which fluttered weakly in his palm. He unfolded it to check its contents. “Thomassen—Auror Thomassen, that is—has requested you stop by his office in the Bullpen once we’ve squared away our business here.”

Draco felt his stomach drop. “Auror Thomassen…?” he repeated, voice faint. “The…the Bullpen?” Wentsworth seemed preoccupied with his distressingly deep pile of paperwork, and Draco swallowed. “Um, about what?”

“What?”

“What did he want to speak to me about?”

“Oh, I can’t be certain. I’m sure it’s nothing serious, though, or he would have sent a summons directly. This was only an inter-office memo.” He held the wrinkled crane up for Draco to see, but it was impossible to make out the writing. Damn useless human eyes.

Wentsworth smoothly navigated the conversation back to discussion of Draco’s schoolwork and how his mother was doing, idle chit-chat, but Draco’s thoughts had already strayed down the winding, snaking halls that made up the bowels of Level 2, wondering what an Auror might possibly want with him. Surely they didn’t mean to interrogate him or anything of that sort—he agreed with Wentsworth: if this was anything ‘official’, Draco would have received a formal summons. But what then? Was his father doing poorly in Azkaban? Did Draco even want to know if that were so? Or was his case being reevaluated? In the chaos of the post-war rebuilding efforts, it wouldn’t have surprised Draco to learn they’d forgotten to charge him with something and were going to discuss what new measures were needed to help him wipe his slate clean.

Draco’s stomach, full of lead, twisted in on itself when Wentsworth pronounced their meeting over and bid Draco farewell until their next appointment, reminding him to pop in to the Auror Division and see what Thomassen might want with him. Draco gave a mute nod, shuffling from the room and wiping his sweaty palms on his robes, feeling like he might sick up if he opened his mouth. Would the Aurors ship him off to Azkaban for puking in their Bullpen? Well, he was about to find out.

Legs trembling beneath his robes, he shambled back down the quiet, unassuming hallways of Juvenile Penal Affairs back to the Level 2 reception desk, where he spoke to an older witch who looked very much like she’d been an Auror once herself, so steely was her gaze and sharp her tongue as she demanded his paperwork. After firing off a quick note for confirmation, she reluctantly ushered Draco down a different but still-winding corridor that, after several hairpin turns, opened into the Auror Bullpen.

It was a madhouse. Several dozen scarlet-robed witches and wizards were hunched over desks packed cheek-to-jowl, some feverishly scribbling what were likely incident reports, some deep in discussion with colleagues while Self-Scrivening Quills took notes, some taking statements from harried civilians who looked nearly as frightened as Draco felt to be in the midst of it all, and the open room with its high-vaulted ceilings seemed to hum with the low droning roar of multitudes speaking at once, not unlike the Great Hall at mealtimes.

Not that there’d ever been any doubt in Draco’s mind, but Potter was absolutely barking for wanting to work here. Just out of his gourd. He hoped it wasn’t catching.

He kept tight on the reception witch’s heels, and though the cooler logical centres of his mind reminded him patiently that he was only imagining things, he was somehow certain that all the Aurors in residence were presently marking him and plotting ways to entrap him so he could rot in a cell alongside his father where he ought to be. He kept his head down, taking great care not to make eye contact with any of them, until the witch stopped short in front of a door bearing a plate that read Auror J Thomassen in large letters, with Sr Stealth And Tracking below.

She knocked on the door and announced, far more loudly than necessary, that ‘Draco Malfoy’ was here to see Auror Thomassen, and several heads from the Bullpen definitely swivelled around to stare at him now. He tried desperately to sink into the volume of his robes until he could slip inside the door once the witch opened it a crack, longing for a hood but knowing it would only make him seem more like a Death Eater.

“Come in, come in,” Thomassen said when Draco dawdled too long at the threshold. His thick Scandinavian accent somehow settled Draco’s nerves a bit. Surely the powers that be wouldn’t have entrusted the chucking-another-Malfoy-into-Azkaban to a foreigner. If they could have, they probably would’ve had Potter do it and made a public spectacle of the whole thing.

Thomassen nodded to the seat in front of his desk, and after shutting the door—and finally blocking out all the curious glances thrown his way—Draco shuffled his way over and gingerly settled in. He prayed he wouldn’t be asked too many questions, because his stomach was still feeling out of sorts, and he didn’t want to ruin what looked like important case-related paperwork covering Thomassen’s desk.

And blessedly, he was not asked any questions, at least not for a full ten minutes while Thomassen sat, engrossed in a file, so long that Draco wondered if he had perhaps forgotten he’d summoned Draco at all.

But then: “You’re graduating Hogwarts soon, yes?” When Draco didn’t immediately reply, Thomassen looked up from the file and lifted his brows expectantly.

Draco softly cleared his throat. “Y—yes, sir. June. I was meant to graduate last year, but…my coursework was interrupted.” Thomassen laughed at this, a short little snorting bark, but it didn’t sound entirely cruel, so Draco continued on. “When Headmistress McGonagall invited students back to complete their studies under less-fraught circumstances, I...took the Ministry’s good advice and accepted.”

Thomassen narrowed his eyes a tick, probably because he knew Draco was bullshitting him, but he didn’t call him on it, merely slapped the folder shut and placed it on his desk. Leaning back in his chair, he steepled his fingers and studied Draco closely. “Show me your arm.” Draco’s heart stopped. “Show me your arm,” Thomassen said again, more slowly but with ever so much more demand, and Draco licked his lips and quietly rolled up his sleeve. He didn’t need to be told which arm.

The Dark Mark was still a nasty blotch on his skin, and Draco had to turn away from it. He’d stared at it enough over the summer holidays; he knew what it looked like. Thomassen reached over the desk and grabbed his wrist to tug him closer, studying the Mark with a frown before releasing Draco and leaning back again.

“Your father is in Azkaban, is he not?”

“I…yes, sir. A life sentence.”

“He was lucky to avoid the Kiss.”

“…Yes, yes he was. So was I.”

Thomassen cocked his head. “You think you deserved the Kiss? Or Azkaban at all?”

Draco frowned. Was this some sort of test? An interrogation? Were they hoping he incriminated himself? “…I think had I been the one meting out punishments to Death Eaters…I wouldn’t have been quite so lenient.” It was an honest answer, and it probably said a lot of things about himself that he was really better off not knowing.

“And you were a Death Eater?”

“Got the Mark, haven’t I?”

“That’s not what I asked.” But he moved on with a sigh. “Slytherin House?”

“…Yes, sir.”

“Quidditch team, too. What position?”

“…Seeker.” If Potter had gone and filed a fucking complaint about the stunt with the Snitch…

Thomassen nodded at this, scribbling a note to himself. “What was your record?”

Draco couldn’t fathom what relevance his Quidditch skills had to his probation. He struggled to recall—such inane minutiae were the first to go. “Well I won every game I played,” he said, trying very hard—and failing—not to sound snooty. He then pushed himself to amend, “…Bar those versus Gryffindor when Harry Potter was Seeking.”

Another note. “And are you friends with Harry Potter?”

Draco choked on air. “Am I—what?”

“You’ve been seen in his company,” Thomassen said, expression even, as if he didn’t know the fraught relationship Draco and Potter had had. Which, Draco supposed, he probably didn’t. Draco Malfoy was a footnote in Harry Potter’s biography, a ‘former classmate’. That was all.

Draco carefully collected himself, being completely, baldly honest when he said, “I’m not—we aren’t friends.”

Thomassen cocked his head a tick to the side. “You don’t get on with him?”

“Not strictly, no. Our personalities tend to clash. Oil and water and all that.”

Thomassen leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. “How do you think you’d get on with others who might also have ‘clashing personalities’?”

“What?” Draco didn’t follow. This whole conversation was a maze, really.

“How are you at working with a team? Being a ‘team player’, as it were.”

Draco hedged, not entirely sure what Thomassen was trying to get at. “…I told you, I won every game—”

“That wasn’t what I asked.” Thomassen flipped through the file with a frown. “You seem to have impressive marks, so I know you aren’t stupid.” He glanced up, locking eyes with Draco again. “Now: how do you function on a team?”

“…Not well, generally.”

“Generally?”

“…I don’t like being given orders.”

“That Mark on your arm says otherwise.”

Draco tugged at the cuff of his sleeve in nervous habit, bringing his arm around to clutch over his stomach. “I’m here at all because I was reluctant to follow the orders I was given.”

Thomassen nodded at this, evidently satisfied with his response. “And how do you function when left to your own devices, then?”

Draco let his mind drift back, back to the broken Vanishing Cabinet in need of mending. To an impossible task he had no business taking on. To a frail, rasping voice telling him he wasn’t a killer, that he could be protected. “That hasn’t really worked out too well for me either.”

“Can’t work on a team, can’t work alone…” Thomassen sighed, flipping to another page in the file. “You’re an Animagus.”

This didn’t sound like a question, but Draco answered anyway. “…Yes. I’m certain you’ve got my registration information on file.”

“An owl?” Thomassen continued, as if Draco hadn’t just told him to check his fucking Animagus registration if he wanted to be that nosey. Thomassen looked up when Draco didn’t answer quickly enough. “Care to demonstrate?”

“Demon…strate?” Draco blinked. “…You want me to transform, right here?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.” He said this in a tone that said Draco really ought to do it, because this was an Auror asking nicely.

Draco swallowed, mind whirring as he tried to determine just what the DMLE might possibly get out of this. Had he filed his paperwork incorrectly? Was he about to get clapped in manacles—or worse, a birdcage—because he’d misdated his application or some such nonsense? His heart was racing, thudding so hard against his ribcage he worried it might just burst out and start flopping all over Thomassen’s cluttered desk.

He took a deep breath and eased to his feet—then shifted, whirling down into his little bird body that, just now, felt impossibly fragile and vulnerable. There would be no shitting his way out of this one, if things turned sour.

Thomassen leaned way over his desk, far enough he could peer down at Draco, who hopped back up into the seat he’d just vacated and waited for further instruction. Thomassen only hmmed to himself and scribbled something else in his file, waving Draco off with, “All right, you may change back.”

Draco did so, very pleased to return to a form that would allow him to at least hold a wand. Being an owl was really fucking great most of the time, but there were just some things that you could only manage as a proper human.

Thomassen gave the file a final once-over, then closed it—and slid it across the desk to Draco. “Have a look.”

Carefully—still wary this was all some sort of a setup—Draco reached for the file and brought it to his lap, opening to the topsheet.

/The Department of Magical Law Enforcement (hereafter ‘Employer’) is pleased to offer Draco Lucius Malfoy (henceforth ‘Hiree’) employment in the role of Junior Auror (S/T). The purpose of this letter is to confirm the offer tendered as well as the terms under which the Hiree would be employed, including: Starting Date, Roles/Functions, Benefits, Station, Hours, Salary, Holidays, Pension Details.

This offer of employment is conditional on—/

Draco’s head snapped up, brows knit so tight his forehead looked like someone had scribbled all over it with a PermaQuill. “What the fuck is this?” he spat, quite forgetting himself.

“Pretty sure it’s exactly what it looks like—an offer of employment.” Thomassen pointed to the topsheet. “I’ve already filled out most of it for you, and I’ve spelled it to add my signature once you’ve completed the bits you’ll need to sign yourself.”

Draco shook his head. “But—no, that’s ridiculous, I’m not going to sign on with the—” He waved the topsheet around. “What the fuck is ‘S/T’ even?”

“Stealth and Tracking,” Thomassen said, calm as anything, unfazed by Draco’s harsh language. “We had a recent retiree, so we’re short on avian Animagi. Owls are a plus, since they’re everywhere these days, so you’d be a decent fit. You’d have to complete the training, of course, like all the Junior Aurors, and even getting as far as training would require the appropriate N.E.W.T.s, but contingent on all that…” He nodded to the file.

“I…I don’t…” Draco stared at Thomassen like he’d grown a second head—and really, that would’ve shocked him less right about now. “Why on earth would you want me? Even if I were desperate enough to accept—and I am not, let’s be clear; I do have standards—why would I even be at the bottom of the list of candidates?”

Thomassen leaned back, lips twisting into a wry smile. “If we’re being honest, you weren’t anywhere near the list I prepared.” Well thank fuck for that. “But you came with a weighty recommendation, and after reviewing your case file, while there’s a lot to take in, I don’t think it’s anything training and an intensive psychosocial evaluation can’t manage.”

Draco just stared at him, blank and helpless. “…But you know who I am. You know what I’ve done.” If Thomassen needed to see the Mark again, Draco was ready to show him, if it would get him out of this office all the sooner.

“Oh indeed. I probably know more about that stuff than you, actually.” The wry smile twisted tighter, curling in on itself. “But we in Stealth and Tracking tend to operate on a somewhat looser scale of morality than our friends on the front lines. So like I said, you’d be a decent fit.” He nodded. “We’d have to work on your team integration, probably”—Oh yes, because a bunch of seasoned Aurors were just going to love a Death Eater tromping about in their midst, free as a literal bird—“but I don’t see that it couldn’t be managed.”

Draco slumped back in the chair, glaring at Thomassen, who seemed entirely too amused with the (well-deserved) strop Draco was throwing. “…And if I refuse? If I don’t want to be an Auror? Going to make my continued freedom contingent on signing this stupid sheet of paper?”

“What?” Thomassen laughed. “Oh, boy. This is a favour—I was asked by the Head Auror to give you thorough consideration and to move your application to the top of the pile. This isn’t a threat. This is an opportunity, and one I would’ve leapt at when I was your age. And I didn’t even have a criminal background I wanted to get past. You want to take your chances elsewhere, then be my guest.” He settled back in his chair. “Someone way above my pay grade told me to see if we could use you. So I did—and we can. What you do with that information is your business.”

Draco’s eyes fell back down to the file in his lap. An Auror. Of all the careers! Even without his dodgy past, it would never have been something he would have considered—and he wasn’t considering it now. He wasn’t suited for it—this was the sort of business that people like Potter got involved with, people with hero complexes and a do-good streak a mile wide. What had given Thomassen the slightest idea Draco was the type to rush into battle, wand blazing…

Well, not that he’d necessarily be rushing into battle anywhere. Thomassen had said Stealth and Tracking, and Draco didn’t know the particulars of that little subdepartment, but it sounded like his duties would be more reconnaissance-oriented. Spying and the like, perhaps tailing marks or keeping watch over suspects and reporting back—

Noooo, no. No. It didn’t matter what he would or wouldn’t be doing, because he wasn’t taking the job. He’d sooner clean the Ministry’s toilets than don those ghastly scarlet robes the Aurors swanned about in. No, whoever had put Thomassen up to this, they—

“…you came with a weighty recommendation…”

Draco looked up, gaze slowly climbing from the file in his hands to meet Thomassen’s eye. “…Who put in the recommendation?”

“What—for you?” Draco nodded, and Thomassen shrugged. “Told you, it came from high up. I just did as the Head Auror asked. None of my business. If you’re so curious, Auror Robards should be back from his lunch break around 1. You’re welcome to take it up with him.”

No, Draco didn’t need to ask Robards. Because there was really only one person who gave enough shits about him and who might have the gall—the sheer fucking temerity—to go behind his back and tug on the Minister for Magic’s robes hard enough to beg such an astronomical favour in an ill-advised effort at reforming Draco’s image.

He was so absolutely furious, he thought steam might start spouting from his ears as he marched back to the lift and punched the button to take him back to the Atrium. He imagined he could hear the tile cracking under each stomping step he took, stalking toward the public Floos, and when he barked, “Headmistress Minerva McGonagall’s Office!” as his destination, several people threw him frightened looks, one witch even pulling her young daughter close to her side.

McGonagall’s absence from her office when he arrived suggested the Houses were still at lunch, which suited Draco just fine. He wanted an audience—it perhaps wasn’t wise to have an audience for what he was about to do, but good sense had been lost through the Floo, and now, he just wanted to scream.

So he did.

“POTTER!” he roared, as he stormed into the Great Hall, and the tables nearest the doors fell quiet, staring at Draco in bald shock with Was that Malfoy?s and What’s with him?s rippling in hushed whispers through the space. “What gave you the fucking right?” he snarled, voice raised to be heard over the drone of rising murmurs at the scene building. “Was I not crystal clear? Did I not tell you—in no uncertain terms—I didn’t want you sticking your pock-marked nose where it didn’t belong? Did I not dumb it down enough for your pea-brain to grasp?”

And now there was evident commotion at the Gryffindor tables as Potter scrambled to his feet, shoving his way through the tightly packed students and waving his hands hissing God shut up shut up shut up you stupid knob—

Then Potter was on him, grabbing his shoulders and whirling him around to march him from the Hall. “What the fuck, Malfoy?!” he said, low and frantic in his ear, like he didn’t know precisely the fuck.

Draco let himself be manhandled into the entryway and down the front steps, even put up with Potter grabbing him by the wrist and practically dragging him over the front lawn and into the little skulking entrance at the base of the West Tower. The long march up to the Owlery, Draco held his tongue while Potter panicked at the display they’d just escaped, because he could be patient. Just a different way of storing up shit.

“What the hell was that?!” Potter snapped once they’d made it to the Owlery and he’d locked the door securely behind them. His face was flushed and his hair in disarray—though what else was new? He gestured towards the Great Hall with a manic energy. “I mean—what the hell? What’s got into you? I thought you were trying to keep a low profile?”

A low profile—that was rich coming from someone who’d just vaulted him into the spotlight. Draco took a long, bracing breath, back turned, and reminded himself it would be much more satisfying to eviscerate Potter slowly than to rip his head off from the outset.

“What…did you do?”

There was a beat of silence, and then Potter sputtered, “I…I didn’t do anything. I don’t think?”

“Then think a bit harder,” Draco grit out, patience waning. “Use what little wits you were blessed with and think what you might possibly have done to screw with my life.”

“I—Malfoy, seriously, I don’t have the faintest clue what you’re—”

Draco whirled on him, and that was about all the slow evisceration he could stand. Time to rip some heads off. “What the fuck did you do?!” he roared, the volume and impressive timbre sending several of the owls overhead flapping away in fright. A shower of feathers drifted down, several clinging to Draco’s robes and one landing in Potter’s stupid hair.

Potter took a step back, then seemed to find his Gryffindor courage and squared his shoulders, straightening. “Nothing. What the fuck do you think I did?”

“I think,” Draco said, deathly soft and threatening, “that you went behind my back and did precisely what I told you not to do: meddled where you were neither wanted nor needed.”

“And what am I supposed to have meddled in? There’s rather a lot of places I’m neither wanted nor needed, so a bit of specificity would be appreciated.”

“I told you I didn’t need you to reform me. I don’t need you leaning on any Ministry officials or whisking off letters of recommendation or any of that shit. I don’t give two fucks how many Dark Lords you fell or how many Orders of Merlin you’re presented with or how many holidays they instate in your honour. This is my life, my fuck-ups, my mess to clean up. And I will, on my own terms.” He stabbed Potter in the chest with a pointed finger. “So you can fuck right off with your saviour complex.”

Potter, for his part, managed to restrain the offence that usually manifested when they had a row and instead just looked absolutely baffled. “…What?” His mouth flapped open and shut like a fish a few times, and he made little huffing sounds. “Leaning on Ministry officials? Letters of recommendation?” He shook his head, expression spasming. “I—what?”

Draco clenched his fists, driven to physically knock some sense into him. “Just because you’ve got the Minister for Magic at your beck and call, ready to indulge whatever whim strikes you, doesn’t give you the right to dick with other people’s lives—”

“Minister for Magic?” Potter looked like his head was about to turn upside down, brows bunched together. “I haven’t seen Kingsley since—” He seemed to consider. “My birthday, I guess? And at my ‘beck and call’? Listen—” He brought an arm up, knocking the finger still poking his chest aside. “I seriously dunno what’s crawled up your arse, but I haven’t got the slightest clue what you’re talking about. I haven’t spoken to Kingsley since last summer, and I certainly haven’t been sending him any—what’d you say, recommendation letters? Recommendation for what?” His shoulders slumped. “I’m lost, really I am. What the fuck’s going on?”

And for the first time since Thomassen’s office, Draco paused to consider that, as little sense as it made, perhaps Potter hadn’t said fuck Draco’s feelings on the matter and tried to pull some strings to get him an Aurorship. Potter did have a nasty track record of acting first and thinking much, much later, but he was also shit at lying—like really bad at it—and for whatever it was worth, he seemed genuinely confused right now. So he’d either had himself Obliviated (entirely possible; word was that sort of magic was old hat for Granger now), or he hadn’t been involved in the push for Draco to join the Aurors at all.

Draco narrowed his gaze, trying to pick Potter apart. “…And when’s the last time you spoke to Robards?”

“Robards?” Potter frowned, nose wrinkling. “The Head Auror?” Draco nodded. “…Never. I’ve never spoken to him.”

“And yet you know who he is.”

“I want to be an Auror, you dolt. Of course I know the name of the guy who I’m hoping will be my boss one day.” He now gave Draco a funny look. “…How do you know who he is?”

Draco took a step back and shoved his hands in the pockets of his robes. His face still felt hot with anger, and he could feel his blood boiling in his veins. He knew he ought to be angry with someone. It was only he was a bit unclear on who that someone should be. “…I had my bimonthly meeting with Wentsworth this morning.”

“Oh, your Probation Officiate?”

Draco gave a small nod. “It went well enough, the usual business—and then at the end of the meeting, he told me an Auror wanted to speak to me.”

Potter’s expression went stiff. “An Auror? Surely they weren’t—” But Draco waved him down before he worked himself into a sanctimonious snit.

“As it turned out, it was for an interview, rather than an interrogation.”

“Oh,” Potter said, relaxing a tick—then: “Wait, a what?”

“An interview.”

“Wh—for a job?” His voice went high with disbelief. “With the Aurors?”

“Yes,” Draco said, tone cold. “Because evidently someone had encouraged them to give my candidacy thorough consideration. A candidacy, of course, I had never submitted. Someone very high up and with a lot of standing had encouraged the DMLE to look past my youthful indiscretions and name me to their ranks.” He fixed Potter with a flat glare. “So you can imagine who I immediately thought of when I asked myself, ‘Now who might ignore my explicit instructions not to try and reform me or restore me to some imagined good standing, who might get it in their head that I needed a white knight valiantly galloping to my aid, who might have enough sway—who might have fought side-by-side—with senior Ministry officials to pressure the Aurors to hire a Death Eater’.”

And Potter started sputtering again. “Wai—what?! You think I had anything to do with this? That’s why you came bellowing into the Great Hall and called me out in front of all and sundry? Which, absolutely bang-up job on the low profile, there.” Potter shook his head with a derisive snort. “You’re out of your bloody mind. I had nothing to do with this! I swear!”

“Then who did it?”

“I don’t know! But it certainly wasn’t me—why would I? It’s not as if we’re friends, as you’re so keen to keep reminding me.” He made a face. “I know you’ve got a shit opinion of me, but give me some credit. I’m not gonna blow any good will I’ve got with the Ministry on someone who doesn’t want it, especially not when I haven’t even got myself sorted yet.”

Draco grunted to himself. “…Good to see you’ve got some sense, then.” Potter let a beat pass, giving Draco a look. “What?”

Potter blinked, as if ‘what’ should be obvious. “Well—are you gonna take it?”

“Take what?”

“The job of course!”

Had Draco been an owl just now, his feathers would have been sticking out every which way as he puffed himself up in sheer bald offence. As it was, he could only sputter, “Fuck no! You think I was ready to string you up with your own innards because I was just giddy with joy at the prospect of being an Auror of all things? You’re the one out of his mind…”

It was Potter’s turn to round on him now. “Wh—but it’s a job. And more than you’ve got right now. And the pay’s decent, plus there’s benefits, and people would look up to you—”

Draco poked him in the chest again. “Did I not just finish reminding you I didn’t want you trying to save me?”

“I’m not trying to save you—”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m not! I’m just telling you that it’s not the most terrible idea.” He straightened, hardening his gaze. “And I think you should consider it.”

Draco studied him, just long enough to see if Potter was really being serious—and to his great frustration, he was. “…I did consider it. It wasn’t for me.”

“Like hell you actually considered it—you probably said no before the offer had even been made!”

“Astute of you.”

“So why not give it some thought? There are worse places to work!”

“Oh,” Draco said, a mirthless smile tugging at his lips. “I see what this is. There are worse places to work—so I ought to gleefully accept a position with a force I despise, loathe to my very core, and who likely hate me with just as much vitriol because there are ‘worse places to work’.” He shoved Potter back with the finger poking his chest. “And heavens know I can’t afford to be picky!”

Potter glared at him, and even in the shadows, Draco could tell his cheeks were darkening in frustration. Any moment now they’d come to blows and this insipid conversation would be over. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. I only meant it’s not as bad as you make it out to be.”

“Then it’s only the second-to-last place I’d ever want to work.” He glared down his nose at Potter. “It’s none of your fucking business what I choose to do with my life once I leave this place.”

“Then does that at least make it my business before you leave?” He took Draco’s wrist and gently pushed his hand away. “I didn’t put you up for that position, I swear it. But that doesn’t mean it’s a bad fit for you.” Draco opened his mouth, more venom on his tongue, but Potter persisted. “I know you think you’d hate it, I know you’ve got as much reason as anyone to have some…we’ll say mistrust of the Aurors. But that doesn’t mean you wouldn’t make a good one. Plus…” He weaved a bit in place, chewing on his lip. “…Ron’s kind of getting cold feet about joining. He thinks he might be better served staying on at the Wheezes shop and helping George. His family’s been through a lot, and for him to take on such a dangerous job…” Potter reached a hand up, rubbing at the back of his neck with a wince. “I mean, I can’t fault him at all. I don’t, even. But—I still think there’s good yet that I can do, and…well…” He winced, eyes flicking up to meet Draco’s. “Well, Aurors generally work in pairs. They have partners, and Ron and I were ready to get in there, kick arse and take names and all that, but he’s not gonna be applying anymore, and you—”

“And I what?” he said, all velvet fury, and everything seemed to have taken on a red hue. He could hear the blood pumping in his ears. “And I’ve got nothing better to do? Got no future otherwise?” He released a ragged, grating breath. “Think I don’t fucking know that?”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Potter said, too calmly and evenly for Draco to take.

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“I wasn’t!” he protested with a bit more heat this time. “I was going to say…” He took a bracing breath. “I was going to say that you…might have been a better fit regardless.” This put Draco on his back foot, and he found his eyes searching Potter’s hairline, looking for signs of recent bruising or blunt-force trauma. Potter was mad. “I mean, I know who I am. I know what my strengths are…and I know what my weaknesses are, too. I know what I like, I know what I don’t like. And I know what I need. Which is...” He shrugged. “Probably someone like you. To keep me in my place—tell me when I’m not thinking straight.”

Draco clasped his hands together with a bright gasp. “Oh stars above, I would get the honour of being a nanny for the Auror Who Lived? Blessed day! It’s all I’ve ever wanted! I shall have to write to Mother straight away!”

“No,” Potter insisted with a huff. “You’d be my partner. That’s the point of Aurors working together—to keep each other honest. To watch each other’s back.”

And enough was enough. “…My mother risked her life to save yours, and you’re still determined to go out there and play hero? Enough that now you want to involve me, because your better half wised up and got the fuck out while he still had all his limbs intact?”

“What’s your problem with my being an Auror, all of a sudden? You’ve spent the past six months helping me study for my N.E.W.T.s! Complaining all the while, sure, but helping despite yourself!”

“That was before you thought it a grand idea to drag me into it—”

“I’m not dragging you in, I’m telling you it’s got some merit, so you should consider it, and then I stupidly mentioned I might be in the market for a partner because somehow I forgot we weren’t fucking friends.” He held up a finger, pointedly. “And I’m not ‘playing hero’ either! There’s real good I can do out there! Just because Voldemort’s gone doesn’t mean there’s no more Dark wizards and evil’s been vanquished. There’ll be another Voldemort or Grindelwald or whoever, and I mean to help stop them, as long as I’m able to.”

Good gad, could this man not hear himself? “Fantastic! Another worthy cause for our Saviour to champion!” he spat, then leaned in close and said, because it seemed like Potter didn’t realise it, “You don’t owe the wizarding world shit anymore.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Potter said, with a manic sort of laughter, and he threw his hands up. “I’ve been used to some end or another for most of my life. Been betrayed more times than anyone ought to be by my age—sometimes by people I didn’t know. Too often by people I did.” He shrugged. “Personally, I don’t think it’s ego to say I deserve a commemorative medal, all the gold in Gringotts’ vaults, and a private little cottage on some faraway beach where no one ever bothers me again.” He crushed an old pellet beneath the toe of his trainer. “Of course I don’t owe them anything. I fucking died for this world.”

A long beat of silence passed as Draco processed what he’d just said, lump lodged in his throat. He swallowed hard, and said with a soft, wary rasp, “…That’s the second time you’ve said that.” Potter only gave a flippant shrug, and Draco shook his head. “But—you weren’t dead. I saw him bring you out, he said you were—my mother even told him you were—but you weren’t. You weren’t—you were there, fighting, and…and…” He trailed off, hearing his own words in his ears and the desperation in his tone, like he was trying to convince himself of what he’d seen with his very eyes.

Slowly, Potter brought his eyes up to meet Draco’s, and it was a hard stare, full of cold emotion and unpleasant recollection. “‘Either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives’,” he quoted, tone flat and dead. “It’s a tricky thing, killing a Dark Lord bent on immortality. You have to be prepared to sacrifice a whole fucking lot.” And then he looked away, like he couldn’t bear being that open and naked for so very long; Draco thought it impressive he’d managed it at all. Potter crossed his arms, shoulders hunched. “The point is, I’m making this decision with my eyes wide open, right? I’m not doing it out of any misplaced sense of obligation. I know better than anyone what I do and don’t owe this world.” He jerked his chin in Draco’s direction. “You seem really invested in self-actualisation, so if you don’t want me dictating what you do with your life, then don’t tell me what I ought to be doing with mine.”

And that set something off inside Draco, hot and acidic, and he nearly ground his teeth down to dust as he bit out, “Fine. Fuck off and die, and stay dead this time.”

“I might just,” Potter said, too nonchalant once again. “But I might not die too. Especially if I’ve got a capable partner watching my back.”

Draco laughed—he hadn’t thought he could still, but there it was. He shook his head. “Oh no. No, you may think this world deserves more of your blood yet, but I’m quite content to be quit of it, personally. I think I’ll find a nice little corner to keep myself to and give no one cause to look my way.” Potter might have a cavalier relationship with death, but Draco was certain that once it came for him, it’d stick. He wasn’t going to go out there and tempt fate in a set of bullseye-coloured robes.

“They’ll look your way regardless,” Potter reasoned. “Go out of their way to find you. Maybe nasty sorts. Maybe just nosey reporters. I’d say your best bet is to refuse to give them more ammunition to use against you.”

“They’ll turn whatever they can find into ammunition,” Draco said, and then added because he was an arsehole: “That’s the way the world works. I’d think you’d know that better than anyone.”

Potter gave a wincing smile. “…All right, yeah. Suppose you’ve got a point there.” He shrugged. “In which case your only real choice is to just disappear entirely. Maybe find a nice cave in the Bavarian Alps to spend the rest of your days in.”

“I might just,” Draco said, turning Potter’s childish threat around on him. “I hear it’s nice this time of year.”

“No you won’t,” Potter said, far too sure of himself for Draco’s liking. “Because you don’t actually believe the wizarding world is worthless or that there’s nothing left for you here. You know the easy way out is to just say ‘fuck it’ and leave it all behind the first chance you get—but you also know how that would make you look. And there’s little more you hate than being called a coward.” And Potter had him pegged true, for Draco could feel his face heating at the mere implication. “Besides, if you really wanted to get away, if you wanted to be left alone with your thoughts and have no one in your business anymore…” Potter spread his arms. “You wouldn’t be here talking to me. You’d have continued shitting in my hair from up in the rafters, and that would’ve been that.”

“That—” Draco sputtered, “I was bored—”

“And maybe”—Potter said, mollifying—“maybe that doesn’t necessarily mean you want to come and take down Dark wizards with me. But I think it does mean you want more than to just sit alone in a nice cave in the Bavarian Alps for the rest of your days.” His tone waxed earnest, too much so for comfort. “I want that for you too.” He gave a little half-shrug with a crooked smile. “…It’d be nice to see you again after all this, outside of standing over your freshly murdered corpse.”

Draco could feel fraught emotion clutching at his throat. Potter wasn’t allowed to say things like that. Especially not when he meant them, the absolute tit. Draco didn’t know what to say in the face of such frank openness bordering uncomfortably close on affection, so instead he just said, whining a little, “…I don’t want to be an Auror.”

“You sure? You’re half-decent in a duel, I can vouch for that.”

“Half-decent nothing. I kicked your arse in that duel and you well know it.”

“Yeah, all right,” Potter said, easy-going like they were best mates taking the piss out of one another. “Who’d you talk to?”

“I don’t know…” Draco said, rubbing his face. “Some balding fellow—Thompson?”

“Thomassen?” Draco shrugged in an I suppose? fashion, and Potter frowned to himself. “…Isn’t he in Stealth and Tracking?”

“I vaguely recall that being mentioned.” Draco rolled his eyes when Potter gave him a look that said Care to elaborate? “Something about a recent retiree so there was an open spot on the team.”

Potter wrinkled his nose. “You’re pants at stealth though; you got caught back in First Year, even. Plus I followed you everywhere in Sixth Year and it was no difficult task.”

Draco straightened. “You what?”

“Nothing,” Potter said quickly, eyes wide and voice high—then he scrubbed at his hair and sighed. “Listen, you were acting suspicious, all right? And you were up to something, so my actions were entirely justified!”

“Up to something,” Draco said, rolling the words around in his mouth, as if he’d been sneaking extra dessert from the Kitchens or trying to recover contraband from Filch’s stash. “…You’re being awfully casual about my murdering our former Headmaster.”

“You didn’t murder him,” Potter said, sounding so certain Draco was incapable of such violence it made Draco want to punch him, just to remind him he’d smashed Potter’s face in once and could easily do it again.

“Didn’t I?”

“You didn’t.”

Draco frowned, because now Potter didn’t sound like he was speaking from blind faith—but from sure knowledge. “…How do you know that?”

“I just do, let’s leave it at that.” Draco did not want to ‘just leave it at that’ when it came to what had been one of the most emotionally traumatising moments of his young life, but Potter seemed disinclined to elaborate. “Besides,” he shrugged, “I made my peace with his passing a long while back, and so did he.” He fixed Draco with a hard look. “So you’re not going to get me to hate you, no matter how hard you work at it.”

Potter was speaking in riddles, so Draco latched on to the bit that made the most sense right now. “Don’t be so sure. I haven’t yet begun to try.”

“No? What’s the past six months been then?”

Draco shrugged, disaffected. “Only passing the time. As I said, I was bored.”

Potter gave him a slow, patronising sort of nod. “Seems like an awful lot of effort to stave off boredom.” He arched a brow. “Sure you don’t like me even a little?”

“Oh yes, that must have been it,” Draco drawled, crossing his arms over his chest. “Clearly I only wanted to flirt with you.”

As soon as the words had left his tongue, Draco felt the urge to physically reach out and snatch them back. As it was, he buttoned up, jaw snapping shut, and a strangled little whine of mortification died in his throat as Potter stood there, just blinking, dumbfounded and—for once—blessedly bereft of words.

Oh hag tits.

That was what he’d been doing. All this time, all this this. He’d been trying to pick it apart for months, to figure out just what had been driving him, why he couldn’t leave well enough alone. He’d thought he’d been bored at first, but this…it was too proactive. Too aggressive.

He’d felt out of sorts for so long, wondering if it had just been the war that had changed his priorities, making schoolyard rivalries suddenly seem petty—and it had changed things, it had, but really in a rather different way than he’d assumed it might. He’d thought he might draw inward, close ranks, not open himself up to whatever this was, not fly from Wiltshire to Devon on a whim, and suddenly he was seeing his antics for just that: antics. Teasing. Hoping to get a reaction. To get attention, and he’d always wanted attention from Potter, but this…

Fuck. Fuck. He’d been flirting with the Boy Who Lived.

He didn’t want to be Potter’s friend. He wanted to be his boyfriend. Oh fuck it all to the nine hells and back.

Potter was still standing there while Draco quietly had his mental crisis, blinking slowly like he’d just been kicked in the head by a Hippogriff. After a moment, he released a long, laboured breath, then in a choked voice, “…Were you? Flirting with me?”

And of course he was going to make this difficult. But no, this was salvageable, Potter was stupider than a bag of Gobstones, and Draco huffed in exaggerated exasperation, “Good gad, Potter, it was sarcas—”

“Because I’m told I’m pretty thick and don’t generally recognise that sort of thing even when it’s right in front of me. So…” He clicked his heels together, with a sort of half-bounce on his toes. “You might have to be more…direct.”

Draco stared at him, deadpan. Right, this might take a bit more finesse than he’d anticipated. “…I shat on you. Repeatedly. Is that not direct enough to get my feelings for you across?”

Potter’s head bobbed a bit in consideration. “You also brought me dead mice, though. I looked it up, you know. Evidently that’s how owls woo mates.” He shrugged in what he probably thought a charming affectation. “I thought maybe my pet owl had a crush on me.”

“I’m not your owl,” Draco snapped reflexively, and it was the only thing he could safely say. Opening his mouth any further would only deepen the hole he was digging for himself.

“Yeah, you’re not.” Potter nodded. “So I’m afraid you’re gonna have to tell me directly, like a civilised human being, rather than making me divine your feelings based on gifts of dead rodents and projectile excrement.”

Except that wasn’t how Draco worked at all, and had Potter learned nothing in the past six months? You didn’t come at him with demands and ultimatums, you didn’t tell him to be Gryffindor about any feelings he might or might not have. That was begging to be shat upon again, really—though this realisation prompted Draco to reexamine when and why he’d resorted to relieving himself on Potter’s person in the past.

No, Draco was Draco, the very same person he’d been six months ago as now: bitter and frustrated and proud and too much a Malfoy to ever be able to be anything but circumspect about what mattered most to him. Because letting someone know they mattered was, in itself, a vulnerability. An admitted chink in the armour, revealing to another that, if they wanted, if they were that kind of person, they could take advantage of him. And having spent the better part of the last three years trapped under some boot or another, Draco was so very, very wary of giving anyone power over him. Even (maybe especially) Boy Saviours.

So Potter wanted a straight answer? Well too fucking bad. No, no that wasn’t happening. Talking to Potter was a dangerous business, just begging for trouble. It had only ever brought Draco headaches, so why on earth would he start now? I liked you better when you couldn’t talk, Potter had said—and the feeling had been entirely mutual.

But there were other ways to ‘not talk’ than to wing off into the night.

So Draco didn’t talk. He didn’t talk when he took several measured steps forward, backing Potter up against the cold, curved stone wall of the Owlery. He didn’t talk when he braced one hand, splayed flat, against Potter’s chest to hold him there. He didn’t talk when he crooked a finger under Potter’s chin. And he didn’t talk, when he leaned in, close, preparing to give himself another dark, dirty secret he would take to his grave.

His blood was thrumming in his ears, and his heart was a frantic, spasming mess in his chest. He hoped his father never heard about this.

“Waiting for me to run away?” Potter said, voice low and soft but with a tone that was nothing short of goading. Wanker. “I walked to my death willingly, you know. Gonna take a lot more than this to scare me off.”

“Now that sounds like a challenge,” he said, though he could hear his voice, echoing off the high walls, and knew he didn’t sound half as confident as he played. Why was it always Potter? Why did he always get so undone? Couldn’t he for once just be everything he imagined himself to be, to show Potter this was what he’d turned down?

To show him this was what he could have had?

He must have dithered too long with his silent inner whinging, for Potter lifted up onto his toes the few inches’ difference between them and closed the gap himself.

Draco wanted it made clear that he had never, in his eighteen years, once thought about kissing Harry Potter. He’d never thought about his lips at all, really, beyond the fleeting burst of pleasure he’d got when he’d split the lower lip open after stamping on Potter’s face in Sixth Year.

So with no fantasies with which to compare his current reality, Draco was at a loss to say it was a better or worse experience than he might have hoped, coming from Potter. Certainly he’d encountered more skilled individuals in the past—Potter’s snogging prowess was, as vicious rumour had pegged it, less than impressive—but Potter made up for any lacking technique with sheer, unbridled enthusiasm (Gryffindors), one hand snaking up to hold Draco by the exposed nape of his neck, just at his collar, while the other grabbed at the front of his robes to hold him fast and close. Like he was worried Draco might bolt (understandable) and wanted a real, physical reminder he was here and not going anywhere.

Draco was accustomed to snogging sessions being unspoken competitions—as if they could be anything else among Slytherins, always trying to one-up each other—but kissing Potter was a different sport altogether. And Draco supposed he ought to have expected that: Quidditch with Potter, after all, was like Quidditch with no other. But this wasn’t Quidditch. This wasn’t one of them humiliating the other, a duel to be won or lost. It was…

Fuck, it was fun was what it was. Like damn near everything with Potter. Potter smiled against his lips, tugged him even closer, and made a little sound in the back of his throat. It was rough and breathy and felt like a challenge that said C’mon, bet you can do better than that, and for once in his life, comfortable in the weight of experience, Draco wasn’t worried about embarrassing himself in front of Potter. Nor, though, was he preoccupied with the urge to outshine him, to lord his superiority over Potter with a porcelain sneer carved to a fine shine over many a generation.

This was a mutual give-and-take with the promise of both winning, both coming out with an edge, and Draco had hated tying before, but Potter…Potter could teach him a few things. Potter didn’t give a shit, and Draco gave too many shits, so didn’t they kind of fit, in a strange sort of way? Fuck, they were being so civil right now…

The hand splayed across Potter’s chest began to inch its way down to his stomach, and Potter snapped his hand up to grip his wrist, holding him fast—as if to say don’t move away but also don’t try anything more.

Draco drew back, just a tick, enough to where Potter’s stupid glasses weren’t digging into his cheek anymore. He couldn’t make out Potter’s eyes behind the fogged-up lenses, and he wondered if his pupils were blown wide. Shit, he quite wanted to see that.

“…Exceeds Expectations…” Potter muttered thickly against his lips, and the words hung in the heavy, close air between them.

Draco paused, parsing the words carefully—then pulled away with a pinched frown. “Did you just grade my snogging?” He shook his head to clear away the fog of building arousal. “And—not even give me full marks?”

Potter just stood there, slumped against the tower with a drunken sort of cock-eyed grin on his lips. “Come on, it’s still a passing grade. I was only being honest, after all. We aren’t friends, so I’m sure you wouldn’t want me coddling you.” Draco shoved away with a rough, gruff harrumph, and he could hear the loopy smile creeping into Potter’s voice now. “You can grade me too, if you like.”

“Troll.”

“Aww, now that’s not very nice. I expect I can improve with some revision though. How’s the Greenhouses at midnight work for you?”

Draco crossed his arms over his chest, in case Potter got any ideas about manhandling him into another poor decision. “…I really don’t like you,” he said, with his most earnestly mustered venom.

“Wow, if that’s what you do to people you really don’t like, I’m curious what you’d do to someone you hated.”

“Keep being an insufferable irritation and perhaps you’ll find out,” Draco said, before realising it perhaps wasn’t quite the threat he’d meant it to be. He took a beat, steadied himself, then fixed Potter with a long, meaningful look. “…You really didn’t tell them to recruit me?”

Potter’s shoulders slumped, and he sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair with one hand and adjusting his lopsided glasses with the other. “I didn’t,” he said, even and serious, full of that characteristic Potter sincerity that had charmed so many before. He then held his hands up in defence. “I swear, my meddling starts and stops with giving you very good advice.” Draco gave him a look he hoped said That’s a load of shite, and Potter ducked his head. “Just—you said yourself you’ve got nothing you’re working toward, nothing you’re dreaming of doing, so what’ll it hurt? It’s training—not field missions. Six months of your life, that’s all. Six months for you to brush up on self-defence and get a bit more time to decide what else you might want to actually do.”

It was here Draco considered finally telling Potter that he was working toward something, and while he didn’t have anything in particular he was ‘dreaming of doing’, he still had drive and ambition. The urge to prove himself, to be something more than the very worst parts of his family name. He wanted, really he did, to tell Potter he was taking more N.E.W.T.s than even Potter was, just to show he wasn’t this beaten down pathetic carcass, that he still had some fucking fight in him.

But he didn’t say any of that. Instead, he said, for what felt like the twentieth time, “I don’t want to be an Auror.”

“And I’m not saying you have to be,” Potter said, ever patient. “I’m saying maybe come help me be one. Or prepare to be one, at least.” He shrugged. “You’re helping me study for my N.E.W.T.s so no one can say I sailed into basic training on reputation alone. What’s another half-year beyond that?” He quirked a brow. “You’d get a front-row seat to me being summarily shown up on the daily. I’ll probably have to get medical attention at least two or three times a week.”

Oh, that was tempting. Potter had learned well just how to tickle Draco’s fancy in these months together. He vacillated, though, between feeling flattered at the effort Potter was going through, the logical arguments being crafted—and irritated at being so blatantly patronised. They weren’t children, not anymore. Potter wasn’t going on holiday and looking for a travelling companion. This was the Boy Saviour, darling of the wizarding world, about to make his way into proper society, and he certainly didn’t need the scandal of a Malfoy standing at his side while he did so.

“…Why?” he asked, very small and a little bit petulant too, unable to keep the whine from seeping into his words. “Why won’t you leave this be? Why insist so? You’ll have your gang of Gryffindors traipsing about after you every step of the way, right through earning those horrid scarlet robes—they’ll look terrible on you, just so you know. Even without your Weasley by your side, you’ll have friends and compatriots aplenty, all just as eager as you to throw themselves in front of a panoply of curses and hexes and jinxes for glory. Even Longbottom’s joining up, last I heard. You’ll be swimming in familiar faces.” His lips twisted. “Why on earth would you want my scowling mug there alongside yours, sitting through practical lessons and training seminars I’ve got no interest in?”

And Potter smiled. Not one of those stupid grins, goofy and simpering, but just a little knowing curve of his lips. Like he’d been waiting for Draco to ask that very question. Like he’d had this answer prepared for a while. Draco, despite himself, listened very closely.

“Because sometimes,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets and leaning back against the tower wall in an unfairly cavalier way that Draco didn’t dislike at all, “You really hate something, right at first. It seems stupid and pointless and a waste of your time. Just the worst. But then, over time, you kind of stop caring about it so much. It hasn’t gotten better, it’s just not the worst thing you’ve ever had to deal with. And then, after a little more time, because you’ve stuck with it for this long…it’s something you’re kind of comfortable with and used to. You’d almost miss it if it were gone. And then, a longer than is probably appropriate while later…you start to actually enjoy it. Despite yourself, you like it. You’re happier when you’re doing this thing, and you maybe accept that you deserve to be happy, even if it’s with something that other people probably wouldn’t like, or wouldn’t understand. So you say ‘what the hell’ and just go with it, because you’re tired of caring what other people think about what you should and shouldn’t do.” He fixed Draco with a look, all but daring him to try and look away. To be the first to break. “Do you still care about what other people think you should and shouldn’t do?”

Draco didn’t flinch. “…Because it’s so much easier for me to act against expectations than you, the walking exception?”

“Hey, if everyone’s expectations of you are already at the ground floor, what have you really got to lose?” And that didn’t exactly address the issue, but damn if Potter didn’t make it sound so easy. It was one of the most frustrating things about the prat.

He gave Potter a long, assessing look. “…So you want a partner.”

Potter seemed to mull this over, then said, “I want…someone I can trust.”

And Draco had to laugh at that, a harsh, barking thing. “Then you’d best start looking elsewhere.”

“I didn’t say trust blindly.” Potter took a step forward, arms folded behind his back. “Give me six months. Six months—and if, at the end of our training period, you still don’t think you want to be an Auror with me…well, we can’t say you didn’t give it a fair shot.”

Draco could feel his heart beating wildly in his throat, making it very difficult to speak. “And…is my ‘being an Auror with you’…contingent on my being an Auror with you?”

That soft, teasing smile Potter had been wearing twisted into a proper Harry Potter grin, and Draco wanted to roll his eyes right out the door. “Of course not. But let’s reassess in six months.” Then he got positively saucy, brows quirking. “Who knows how your opinion of the DMLE might have changed by then?”

Draco gave a gruff, huffing scoff, shaking his head in bemusement. “…I genuinely do not understand you.”

“Well, you’ve got six months to figure me out. Or to decide if not understanding me’s a deal-breaker.”

Six months. Six long months. It was more than a bit daunting. So much could change in such a span. Six months ago, he would have—had in fact—shit upon Potter as soon as talked to him. And now, here he stood, genuinely (foolishly) considering being Aurors with the fool. And whatever else ‘Aurors’ actually meant. They’d probably have to sit down at some point and discuss this business in proper terms like adults. Eventually. Six months from now.

Potter inclined his head toward the door through which he’d dragged Draco. “Mind if we head back? You kind of interrupted my lunch.”

Oh, so he had. And now that he paused to think about it, he was starving himself, hunger pangs evidently having been shunted aside by wild fury and panic. He checked his pocket watch, not liking what he saw. “…I expect they’ve closed the kitchens by now.”

“The kitchens are always open if you know who to ask.” And of course they were for the likes of Harry Potter. The castle elves probably pissed themselves with glee at the prospect of serving the Boy Who Lived.

They walked—not side by side, but not not side by side—back across the front lawn, making their way to the front entrance. Students were milling around outside now, with no few casting wary, wondering glances their way, but Draco tried to keep his head up and not notice. Potter seemed to have no difficulty doing the same. Draco wondered if he genuinely didn’t notice, or if he just didn’t care, and he desperately wanted to learn how to do both. Maybe Potter could tutor him.

“Just so we’re clear,” he said, because he imagined he could already hear the whispers building around them and needed a distraction, “This still doesn’t mean I’m your owl.”

“Oh, of course not,” Potter said easily, and Draco refused to look at him, knowing he had on another infuriating grin. “The thought never crossed my mind.”

“Yes, I’m sure it didn’t.” And now he did look at Potter. “Not your friend, either.”

Potter held his hands up in defence. “Who said anything about wanting to be friends? Certainly not me. You’ve made your opinion on any such ventures crystal clear, and of course I’m a very good listener.”

“And I won’t be chummy with Granger or Weasley, either.”

“You know, you’re laying down a lot of rules right off the bat.” Potter turned on his heel, walking backwards. Draco hoped he found a hole and stepped in it. “I feel like I ought to get to set some of my own.”

And because clearly this was the day for poor choices, Draco said, “Be my guest.”

“All right. Well first: we’re studying in the Library from now on. I’m tired of going back to my room stinking of manure.”

“But that—” Draco started, then bit his tongue. It was a reasonable request, and perhaps if Draco compromised here, he could afford to dig in his heels when Potter pressed him for something more odious later. Besides, half the student population was ogling them at this very moment, and he could truthfully tell anyone who asked he was only tutoring the phenomenally stupid Saviour, perhaps even claim it was part of his probation and thus done only under duress. “Fine.”

“And also, I’m not keeping this from Ron or Hermione.”

Draco stopped in his tracks, stomach twisting in panic. “What?”

“They’re my best friends,” Potter said, as if this justified anything. Pansy and Blaise certainly weren’t going to be hearing anything from him after all. The thought of what Weasley might do, what fragile bones he might crush to dust in his apelike grasp, the moment Potter went telling tales— “I’m not going to keep the fact that you’re the owl that keeps bothering me secret from them any longer.”

He flashed a cheeky grin, and Draco told himself that just because they had something of an arrangement now didn’t mean shitting on Potter for nearly giving Draco a heart attack was off the table. “I hate you,” he said, stalking forward to catch up. “I really do.”

“Wow.” Potter whistled low beneath his breath, turning back around proper to fall into step alongside Draco. “This relationship is moving much faster than I anticipated.”

Draco lashed out with a sweeping kick, but Potter was evidently learning and nimbly leapt over it, bumping his shoulder against Draco’s as they mounted the steps and made their way to the kitchens.

Chapter Text

“Draco, Dearest: Owl from the Ministry.”

Draco poked his head up from behind his copy of the morning’s Prophet. The Cannons had lost, the Galleon was strong, and the President of MACUSA had said something stupid again—everything was right with the world, so of course his morning was about to go to shit.

“What?”

His mother waved a rolled-up parchment in one hand as she brightly click-clacked across the marble floors of the entryway to make her way into the den, where Draco presently lay sprawled across the sofa. “An Owl’s brought something for you, Darling. From the Ministry.”

And of course it had.

It was three weeks now since the final Leaving Feast Draco would ever have to attend. He was quit of Hogwarts at last, a free man with nothing more than a dodgy juvenile record to his name (and a troublesome ink blot on his arm). It hadn’t quite sunk in yet that, come September, for the first time in as long as he could remember he’d be somewhere not the Hogwarts Express—but for the moment, he was enjoying the fact he could sleep in the buff and not worry about merfolk or Grindylows peeping on him through the thick-paned portholes in the Dungeon’s dorm rooms.

But three weeks meant N.E.W.T. results had now been forwarded to interested secondary parties following their delivery to students (former students, he reminded himself), and the moment Draco had been dreading had finally arrived.

He shifted upright, carefully folding the Prophet and setting it on the side table with one hand as he accepted the scroll from his mother with the other. She stood there, hovering over him anxiously, as he unrolled the parchment and began to run his eyes silently over the contents. He could feel her practically vibrating out of her skin with worry, and she gave a little gasp when his shoulders slumped and he released a long, beleaguered sigh.

“Wh—what is it…?” she asked, voice fraught.

“Oh—no, it’s…it’s good news, I suppose.” It was frankly horrible news, but he had to ease her into it gently, and he couldn’t do that with her standing there looking like a stiff breeze might send her to the floor. Good gad, she was going to faint dead away when he broke it to her—perhaps he ought to have her sitting down for this… “It’s…word on an apprenticeship, of sorts.”

“Oh, well that’s very good then!” she said, nerves still heavy on her breath as her hand went to her neck to tug at the string of pearls there. “What sort of an apprenticeship?”

Draco ran his eyes over the parchment once more, hoping that perhaps on a third pass it would say something different. No such luck—curse his fantastic N.E.W.T. scores. He sighed, rolling the parchment back up and setting it aside. “…Against my better judgement, and after a long bout of incessant badgering…I might have applied to participate in the Auror Training Program.” He hastened to add, “And I know it’s hardly an appropriate career choice, and trust I’m only doing this as, well, a sort of favour I suppose—under great duress, mind—and I don’t intend to stick with it. It’s only something to pass the time, perhaps open more doors, and you know I’m never one to miss an opportunity to advance myself—both you and Father taught me that so…”

He trailed off, words failing him, for his mother was not reacting at all in the way he’d expected. Oh, he’d been prepared for a stern, tight frown or even an impassioned plea for him to reconsider, and didn’t Draco know what brutes the DMLE had on their payroll? Hadn’t he seen how they’d treated his father, literally dragging him out in manacles from their own home, despite their desperate pleas for mercy? He’d been prepared for what he thought to be every eventuality, every possible way she might react to hearing he would be throwing in with a force that might do his social standing more harm than good in the end.

But instead, she only looked…quietly relieved, bringing her hands down to clasp before her. “Oh, that…that’s lovely, Dearest.”

“Huh?” was all he could manage, doltish and dumbfounded.

“Now, true, it’s…certainly not the field I would have seen you expressing any interest in entering after…well, after everything, but it’s sure to earn you a measure of esteem, and perhaps you’ll even be granted privileges for visitations with you father!” She swished in her long dress robes over to a table where the house-elves had set out a tea service, pouring herself a cup from the everwarm pot. “Naturally it would be horrid if they tried to put you in the field, but you’re very good with puzzles, so perhaps they could find a use for you behind the scenes, as it were? Rather than charging into battle, wand ready, where you might come to harm. Why, that sort of work might even be fun in its own way, don’t you think?”

She was spouting nonsense. Absolute nonsense, and Draco panicked for a moment, thinking she’d ingested something nasty from the garden, or else the horrors they’d been through over the past year and more had finally caught up with her. She was unaccountably optimistic about Draco training for an Aurorship, as if it were something to be proud of, something to be celebrated, something—

His face went slack as realisation slammed into him like Pig with an urgent delivery. “…You did this.” It hadn’t been Potter at all. Just as he’d repeatedly professed, he’d had nothing to do with the summons to the Bullpen and that ridiculous offer to join Stealth and Tracking. It had been Draco’s own fucking mother whispering into the Minister’s ear and mucking up entirely the smooth trajectory of Draco’s post-academic career. He pushed himself to his feet, stalking around the coffee table to confront her. He couldn’t shit on her, no—she’d do unspeakable things to him. But he could certainly give her a piece of his mind. “You couldn’t let me handle my own business, just had to place your thumb on the scale and—”

“Oh stop acting like a child, Draco,” she snapped, suddenly stern and sharp, and the quiet frailty and nervous hope from before had left her completely. There were no more Darlings or Dearests, just a witch who’d had just about enough lip, apparently, from her only child. “You’re no longer in school. Behave as such.” And Draco shut right up, leaning on his back foot, because rarely had she taken such a tone with him. She drew herself up, gentled her voice, and said with much more control, “…And I wouldn’t have had to do anything if you’d been ‘handling your own business’. But you weren’t. You were moping, dragging your feet, feeling sorry for yourself, wandering off to be alone with your thoughts for hours at a time, or else flitting off to who knew where—and what did you expect me to do? Let you dig about in the garden for the rest of your days and pretend you were being productive like I might have when you were three?”

“I wasn’t—going to dig about in the garden—” he began to protest, face heating.

She began ticking off points on her fingers. “No prospects, no plans, not even so much as a lofty dream!” She crossed her arms and quirked her brows as if to say What of it? “It was the safest place I could think to beg Shacklebolt to put you. At least there you’d be trained to defend yourself properly and find yourself surrounded, one might hope, by comrades who would eventually be able to let bygones be and guard you with their very lives.” She then frowned to herself, perplexed. “…Though I confess, I thought it largely a fool’s errand. It was only a desperately called-in favour—I didn’t expect you to honestly bite, not at even the most smoothly delivered of invitations. I did hope to at least be able to use it to guilt you into taking the position eventually, but I must admit this”—she picked up the scroll, which had been sitting quiet and unassuming on the side table atop the Prophet—“quite exceeded my wildest expectations.” Her gaze narrowed, and he could feel her mentally picking him apart, poking and prodding in a manner nearly as discomfiting as out-and-out Legilimency.

Before she could press him for further details, the very worst thing that could possibly happen in that moment of course did, and the fireplace right in front of the couch Draco had been enjoying his morning sprawled upon flared to life in a burst of green Floo flame, as Harry-fucking-Potter poked his oversized head through.

“Er, hullo, is any—oh! Draco! Draco, check it out!” A disembodied hand pushed its way through alongside his head, and clutched in its grasp was a piece of parchment, the contents of which Draco could unfortunately guess. “Finally got my letter from the DMLE! About bloody time, I say. You didn’t happen to get—” His gaze quite easily found Draco’s mother, who still had the damn scroll in her clutches. “Fantastic! You got yours too!” He looked half-ready to propel the rest of his body through the connection—but then seemed to realise just whose company he’d barged in on. “…Oh. Er, hullo…Mrs Malfoy…”

His mother gave a weak, uncertain nod of acknowledgement, and Draco wished, with all his heart, to melt right through the floor and perhaps reform in the dank cellars below where he could be alone with his thoughts. As that wasn’t liable to happen, though, he instead sank to his knees before the fireplace and placed one hand on Potter’s head (“Hey, what the f—”), giving a great shove. “Get—back—through, you great knob!” he hissed through grit teeth. “I told you never to Floo the family space!”

Potter squirmed. “Yeah, I know but—I couldn’t remember if it was the East Library or the West you told me to—ow, wotchit, you’re gonna break my glasses!”

Draco gave up shoving and swivelled around, bracing the sole of a polished loafer squarely between Potter’s eyes and giving a violent kick until the Floo went dark once more, the connection abruptly cut.

He pushed himself to his feet and casually swept back his hair. He could feel his mother’s gaze boring holes into his back, and before he turned to face her, he took a moment to collect himself, twisting the crudely fashioned silver ring on his finger in nervous habit. Fucking Potter. Fucking Gryffindors.

When he did at last work up the nerve to turn around, he found her standing patiently, hands clasped primly before her. She seemed to be waiting for him, and when he didn’t break the silence in a timely enough manner for her satisfaction, she said with a smooth, clean tranquillity, “…‘Draco,’ was it?” He tried not to wince. “You’re friends with Harry Potter?”

“No,” he answered curtly, and it wasn’t a lie at all. They still had a good two months to go before they had to define this in any certain terms. He never had been and never would be Potter’s friend, whatever the outcome. He wasn’t built for it. He just wasn’t. He ran a tongue over his teeth, huffing. “…I need to go. Apparently.” He slipped back around the couch, taking the long way out of the room to keep as much space between himself and his mother as possible. He paused, though, at the threshold, because it felt too much like fleeing. “We’ll discuss this more when I return.” Yes, that sounded better. Almost like something his father would have said, and though he in no way wanted to follow in Lucius Malfoy’s footsteps, the man had certainly known how to hold himself.

“And when will that be?” his mother asked, throwing a look over her shoulder that he didn’t like at all. It was far too knowing, and she didn’t know shit. She couldn’t.

“…I don’t know,” he said, distractedly. “I expect his sycophants will be fighting themselves for the honour of hoisting him up on their shoulders and toasting to his atrociously expected career choice, with me an unwitting and unwilling tag-along. I’ll seem a poor sport if I don’t attend as well.” He pulled a sour, mocking face. “And naturally you’ll want me to make a good impression on my new compatriots, no?”

“Naturally,” she said, knowing smile widening, though still somehow so prim and polite. She gave a nod. “I’ll instruct the elves to set dinner for me in my room this evening, then.” He grunted his acknowledgement and broke into a skipping jog, quickly making his way from the parlour up to his room before she thought to press him for further details about how on earth Harry Potter of all people had got access to their Floo.

He caught himself in the full-length mirror next to his bed as he tried on his third—and final, he decided—button-up and summoned his travel cloak. It might be July and hotter than a demon’s chapped arsehole, but he would be the best-dressed of the motley crew he was about to find himself rubbing shoulders with, if nothing else. Lovegood quite scared him, and Weasley still gave him a berth wide enough the Knight Bus could squeeze through, but Granger seemed to have been bitten by the mad idea they needed to get on, and Draco meant to remind her in fashionable terms that just because he tolerated Potter didn’t mean she shared the same privileges.

His mother, drat it all, was still in the parlour when he came back down. He ignored her, pretending to be in a hurry, and marched for the Floo.

“Send a note if you’ll be overnighting, won’t you?”

He nearly bit his tongue off. “I’m certain that won’t be necessary,” he growled, cheeks gone deep scarlet as he grabbed for the ceramic urn they kept the Floo powder in. His palms were clammy with sweat, and he very nearly spilled the lot of it down the front of his pants.

“Have a good time with your friends, Darling!” was the last thing he heard before he tossed a fistful of powder into the fireplace and barked, “Number 12, Grimmauld Place!”