Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The juice hits him first.

Sticky. Cold. Sharp citrus. A bitter punch of grapefruit with an unfortunate mango aftertaste—exactly the flavor profile of bad decisions and wasted evenings.

Harry blinks, shirt clinging to his chest, eyes locked on the woman standing over him, her face twisted in righteous fury. She’s holding the near-empty glass like a weapon of war, the last defiant drops of her overpriced artisanal fruit blend dripping from the rim onto the café table.

"You’re a sodding jerk, Potter! An insensitive piece of shit!"

The glass slams down hard. The sharp ring echoes across the cozy interior of Néktre, the trendy little café that had popped up two blocks from the Ministry and had already secured its reputation as the place to be spotted.

Perfect. Exactly where Harry wanted to be—sitting like a mango-drenched idiot in the middle of a goddamn paparazzi hotspot.

He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t move. Just… sits there.

Blank.

The girl storms off in her high heels and inflated ego, leaving a trail of whispered “Oh my gods” and enchanted clicks behind her. Someone’s magical camera flashes to life, accompanied by a muffled, “Shit, I forgot to turn off the flash!” A few others are already whispering his name. Harry Potter. Harry Bloody Potter.

Who was she? What did he do? Is he finally dating again? Was it a breakup?

He hears it all but doesn’t register it. Not really.

This? This isn’t even the worst date he’s ever had.

It’s not even in the top five.

No, the real mistake was agreeing to let Hermione set him up with another bright-eyed Ministry recruit from International Magical Cooperation. She had the smile, the credentials, the respectable wand lineage. On parchment, she was perfect.

In person? Absolutely allergic to Harry’s sense of humor, had strong opinions about elf-labor “discourse” that made his skin crawl, and seemed offended that he wasn’t the same teen war-hero from Witch Weekly’s 1999 Bachelor’s Edition.

Now he’s wet, sticky, furious, and internally swearing at himself for being a people-pleasing idiot who still says yes to Hermione when he knows better.

He stares down at the table. A small puddle of juice pools next to his wand holster.

The silence around him is punctuated by the click of heels, murmured speculations, and at least two magical recording devices being sneaked out of someone’s bag. Maybe three.

“Excuse me, sir?”

A hesitant voice finally breaks the haze.

He looks up. A young barista stands next to him, awkwardly gripping a mop. She’s probably fresh out of Hogwarts, her apron slightly crooked, eyes wide in that familiar mixture of awe and terror. She’s trying so hard to act normal.

She knows who he is. Of course she does.

Everyone always does.

“You alright?” she asks, voice soft like she thinks he might explode or cry. Or both.

Harry just blinks at her. He can feel the stares now. The weight of expectation, speculation, curiosity. The headlines are already writing themselves:

"The Chosen One—Not So Chosen After All?"

"Potter’s Love Life Goes Sour—Literally."

He sighs, long and slow.

The barista startles.

He immediately regrets it. She’s not the enemy. Just a kid doing her job in a world obsessed with a name he never wanted.

He forces a smile. “Loo?”

She points toward the corner, where a couple of old wooden doors with vintage brass signs sit under a hanging fern. He stands, fishing a few sickles from his damp wallet and dropping them in the tip jar. “Sorry for the mess,” he mutters.

Then he heads for the door, sticky and heavy with the scent of betrayal and overripe mango.

The bathroom is blessedly quiet.

He casts a few cleaning charms. They work well enough, though the mango lingers like an insult he can’t shake. The air smells like cheap incense and desperation. He leans against the sink, splashes cold water on his face, and exhales through clenched teeth.

Then he looks up.

The mirror’s not kind.

His hair is a mess. It always is. His undershirt clings uncomfortably to his skin, still damp and vaguely citrus-scented. His brown skin is drawn tight across his cheekbones, his jaw sharper than usual, eyes sunken—tired in a way that sleep hasn't fixed in months.

He looks more like a ghost of himself than the so-called "Savior of the Wizarding World."

He stares into the mirror and thinks: You’re thirty-three. Your last actual date ended in public humiliation. You haven’t slept properly in weeks. And you still let Hermione set you up.

“Brilliant,” he mutters.

Then he pulls out his wand, the silver stag erupting silently from its tip. The Patronus doesn’t speak—it doesn’t need to. Its purpose is clear.

Ginny. Pub. Now.

He shrugs his jacket on. It sticks a little at the back. Of course it does. Mango’s a menace.

He takes one last look in the mirror.

And then he walks out the door, already bracing himself for the next headline. Or worse—another setup.

He just really needs a drink.

And maybe, just maybe… something to feel real again.

By the time Harry pushes open the worn wooden door of the Rusty Broomstick, he’s already exhaling half the tension out of his shoulders.

The bar greets him like a slap to the senses—whiskey, sweat, burnt peanuts, and someone’s worn-out cologne—exactly the chaotic comfort he expects from his favorite questionable dive. It’s small, dimly lit, the kind of place that’s immune to trend and full of regulars who wouldn’t blink twice at a troll walking in unless it blocked their darts game.

Harry stepped through the door and welcomed the scent like an old, half-friendly ghost. The place wasn’t fancy—just a cramped little pub tucked into a shadowed side street not far from Grimmauld Place. It didn’t draw attention, didn’t host live music, didn’t even have a name painted out front.

He likes it here. Not because the drinks are particularly good—they’re not—but because it’s close to home. And more importantly, Old Man Riggs, the bartender, couldn’t give less of a shit that his name is Harry Potter.

The bastard barely grunts when Harry walks in on a good day, only bothering to say something when it’s to insult “young people and their bloody fruity drinks” or “those useless floo-sucking knobs at the Ministry.”

Riggs treats everyone like dirt—and it’s the most normal Harry ever feels.

Tonight the pub’s buzzing louder than usual. The hum of conversations, the scrape of chairs, the occasional bark of laughter—Friday energy in full swing. He dodges a flying dart and someone’s half-sung rendition of “Jaeger!” as he weaves through the crowd.

He doesn’t care to look.

He just wove through the crowd, shoulders tense until he reached his usual booth—one tucked in the back, half-hidden by a peeling poster advertising some forgotten band tour.

His eyes are already locked on her—Ginny.

Red hair tied in a casual knot, face fresh and glowing like she hadn’t spent the last two weeks flying halfway across Europe. She was leaning back, one arm thrown over the seat, sipping something dangerously pink through a little straw. Her outfit was unapologetically cool—cropped blouse under a worn jean jacket, ripped jeans that screamed I’m hot and I know it.

She looked up and smiled as he slid into the seat across from her.

“Rough day?” she asked, one eyebrow raised in amusement.

Harry didn’t even answer. He just flagged the bartender, nodded for his usual, and gave her a tight-lipped smile in return.

“You smell like mango,” she teased, nose scrunching in mock disgust.

He hated mango. She knew that.

“Thank you,” he muttered, placing a hand over his heart with dramatic flair. “Finally. Someone acknowledges the war crime that is mango juice.”

She laughed—a real one, short and bright and echoing in his chest. “What happened this time?”

He sighed just as the bartender set a glass of scotch down in front of him. He nodded his thanks and took a sip, letting the burn remind him that at least some things still worked.

“Bad date?” Ginny pressed.

“Worse,” he muttered, voice like gravel. “Set-up. Hermione’s new co-worker. Department of International Magical Cooperation. Perfect on parchment. Absolute nightmare in person. She chucked her drink at me and stormed out.”

Ginny snorted, shaking her head. “Let me guess—she said you were emotionally unavailable?”

“She said I was a ‘soulless Ministry puppet incapable of expressing anything except latent trauma and hero complex.’”

“Oof.” She winced. “That’s... more creative than usual.”

Harry rolled his eyes. 

Ginny chuckled, sipping her pink radioactive drink. “Didn’t you go out with a bloke who thought sushi was a personality trait last time before I went to Germany?”

“Don’t mention sushi,” Harry said, dead serious. “I still flinch when I pass a fish market.”

Ginny chuckled again, this time swirling her drink lazily. “I don’t get why you don’t just tell everyone to piss off with the matchmaking.”

“I have,” Harry said, rubbing his temple. “Hermione, Ron, Seamus, Dean, Luna, Neville—hell, even Andromeda tried to introduce me to someone. But no. They’re all hell-bent on finding me a perfect stranger who’s only interested because I died once.”

She gave him a knowing look, then drained half her cocktail. “Sounds like hell.”

“It is.”

“Maybe we’re just not built for relationships,” she said, smirking around the rim of her glass.

Harry smiled behind his own. “Maybe.”

Truth was, he’d once thought about marrying her. Back in those confusing, burning days after the war, when everyone told him she was his future and he was too lost to think otherwise. There had been comfort there. Familiarity. Touches that felt safe.

But life? Life dragged them in opposite directions.

She had matches, glory, Europe.

He had cases, blood, corpses.

The breakup wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. Like two people setting down something heavy they could no longer carry together.

And yeah, the aftermath was messy. The casual sex. The yelling. The ghosting.

But they’d grown out of it. Somehow.

Now, here they were—adults. Ex-lovers. Real friends.

“You know,” he said, sipping again, “I read you were spotted with the Irish team’s Beater.”

Ginny groaned and threw a chip at him. He caught it in his mouth like a smug bastard.

“You son of a bitch! You read that trash?”

“Ron reads it. I just… skim for survival purposes.”

“Ron needs to get over his sister complex and realize I’m a grown woman who can shag whoever I bloody please.”

Harry lifted his glass. “To grown women and their Beaters.”

She clinked her glass against his with a wink. “To emotionally unavailable Aurors and their ever-growing trauma pile.”

They drank.

And for a moment, in the chaos of the pub and the buzz of Friday night, it felt good. It felt like home.

But of course, peace never lasted long with Harry Potter. Not when darkness had already begun slithering back into his orbit—smiling, sleek, and so very familiar.

A few drinks in, and the world had started to soften at the edges.

The amber glow of the pub felt warmer now, the noise dulled into something distant and unimportant. Harry sank a little deeper into his booth seat, eyelids growing heavier with every passing minute. He hadn’t slept well—hadn’t really slept well since the war, if he was honest with himself.

Hermione said he was going to die early if he didn’t sort out his sleep schedule. To which he always replied, “Already had an early death, didn’t I? Still here.” 

She hated that answer. Probably hated his wits more.

"You're hopeless," she'd muttered the last time.

He hadn’t disagreed.

Across from him, Ginny raised a brow as she twirled her drink, eyes glinting with curiosity. "So," she began lightly, "how’s work, Mister Top Candidate for Head Auror?"

Harry let out something between a grunt and a death rattle, and immediately dropped his forehead onto the table with a dramatic thud.

"Oh no," Ginny chuckled. "Is that the sound of pride or despair?"

"Despair," Harry muttered, lifting his head just enough to glare at her. "Robards is chewing me up and spitting me out like he’s got something to prove. Thinks turning me into minced meat is what leadership training looks like. No special treatment for being Harry Bloody Potter."

She snorted. “Hilarious, actually. The one time your name could work in your favor, and it backfires.”

Harry reached for his wand under the table. "So help me, Weasley, I will hex your eyebrows clean off."

"You’d have to catch me first, old man."

They both laughed, the kind of laugh that came from deep familiarity and exhaustion. The kind that said, I’m glad we’re still here.

But when Harry mentioned the new case, the one eating him from the inside out, Ginny's posture shifted. Just enough to tell him she was listening.

“The serial killer?” she asked, tone dipping into something more serious.

Harry groaned. "Yeah. That one."

He kept it vague. What was public knowledge: a string of bodies, magic drained, expressions of horror etched into their faces. No pattern. No real leads.

The press was foaming at the mouth. The Ministry was scrambling. Robards wanted results yesterday.

“I just picked up the case and already he's pacing behind my desk like I’m going to shit out a breakthrough if he hovers hard enough,” Harry muttered into his drink.

Ginny raised a brow. “Sounds fun.”

“I’d rather go on another sushi date.”

“Yikes.”

“Exactly.”

He didn’t mention the notes. The signature left behind in magical essence. Catch me if you can.

He couldn’t. Ginny was still a civilian. And technically, he wasn’t supposed to talk about anything classified.

Not that that stopped him from sighing like a dying man and swearing through a storm of profanity so comprehensive it made the table next to them pause mid-drink.

Ginny was grinning by the end of it, sipping her cocktail. “Could be worse, you know.”

Harry side-eyed her, unimpressed.

“The killer could be one of your failed dates. Maybe you dodged a bullet.”

He groaned, tipping the rest of his scotch into his mouth. “Don’t put that thought in my head. Knowing my luck, you’ll jinx it.”

He leaned back, skull thudding against the wooden booth. A headache was creeping in, slow and pulsing beneath the alcohol’s warm haze. He could feel it behind his eyes—another reminder that he was pushing too hard, too fast, too long.

Ginny noticed.

“That’s our cue,” she said, sliding out of the booth and stretching like a cat. “You need sleep. And not at your desk, for once.”

Harry didn’t argue. Couldn’t, really.

“And I need to be at the Burrow by morning. Haven’t told them I’m back in London yet, and Mum’ll murder me if she finds out the first thing I did was get drunk with my ex.”

Harry smirked, lazy and a little smug. “Molly loves me. She probably still thinks we’ll get married and give her five more red-haired grandchildren.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Ugh. She probably still has the wedding binder.”

She waved him off with a grin and sauntered toward the exit, the crowd parting for her on instinct. Harry watched her go, the lingering warmth of their laughter settling into something gentler in his chest.

He tossed a few sickles onto the table and headed to the bar.

“Stink like fuckin’ mango,” the old bartender muttered without looking up.

Harry blinked. Then smiled.

“You’re a saint, Riggs.”

“Yeah, yeah. Bugger off, Potter.”

He left the pub feeling a little lighter, even as exhaustion clung to him like a second skin.

The night air was cool, crisp, and utterly indifferent to his existence. Grimmauld Place wasn’t far. Neither was the case file waiting for him. 

But for tonight, just for tonight, he’d go home.

Sleep. Maybe.

Dream. Definitely not.

And tomorrow, the hunt would begin again.

Harry had expected many things when he crawled into bed at three a.m.—a splitting headache, a couple hours of sleep, maybe even a lazy morning with strong coffee and radio static in the background.

What he didn't expect was a bloody silver patronus barging into his house at six o'clock on a Saturday morning.

"For fuck’s sake," he groaned into his pillow.

So much for Hermione’s holier-than-thou crusade about him resting more. The world clearly had other plans.

The patronus—Robards’ usual, a bull with about as much warmth as the man himself—stood in his bedroom like a judgmental ghost. Its voice echoed around the room, gruff and to the point:

“Another victim. Same profile. Address follows. Get your arse here fast.”

And then it was gone.

No please, no sorry to ruin your day off, no maybe have a scone first, Potter. Just doom served on cold steel.

Harry flipped the bull off out of sheer principle, then rolled out of bed like gravity owed him something for all his sacrifices.

Over a decade in this job, and he’d developed some talents—not the kind you bragged about at parties, but the kind that got you moving when your body begged for mercy. He showered, dressed, and brushed his teeth in under twenty minutes. His Auror robes hung off his shoulders like a long coat, unbuttoned, uncaring.

The coffee was scalding and bitter and perfect.

A few moments later, he apparated to the cordoned-off edge of an alley just off Knockturn’s shadowed fringe. Yellow magical tape shimmered in the air, warding off curious eyes and idiot thrill-seekers.

Harry ducked under it without a word.

The stationed Aurors nodded grimly as he passed, and he returned the gesture—eyes already scanning, muscles tense in the way they always were now. There were bodies, and then there were these bodies. The kind that changed you just by looking.

“Morning,” he said lowly as he approached a familiar mop of red hair crouched near the scene.

“Barely,” Ron muttered. He stood, brushing his hands on his robes. “You look like hell.”

“I’ve been worse.” Harry took a sip of his coffee. “Run me through it.”

Ron exhaled, gaze hardening as he gestured toward the victim. “Name’s Thomas Avery. Worked in finance. Low-profile, no Ministry connections we know of. Muggle-born wife. Two kids.”

“Any war history?”

“Father was a Death Eater,” Ron said. “This one? Too young. Probably not involved. But that might be exactly why he’s dead.”

Harry said nothing. His eyes were already on the body.

The victim lay on his back, arms twisted at odd angles, face frozen in an expression of pure, soul-deep terror. Skin greyed, lips drawn back, eyes wide and lifeless. The body was sunken, hollow—drained. Magical core obliterated.

The same.

Always the same.

Forensic analysts hovered nearby, taking final photos. One of them nodded to Harry as he stepped forward. He pulled on gloves and knelt beside the corpse, the stench of scorched magical residue thick in the air.

He moved slowly, methodically. This was the part he hated—and the part he couldn’t not do. His hands brushed the victim’s chest, fingers pausing on a slip of paper peeking out from a shirt pocket.

He tugged it free.

A folded note.

He opened it.

Words shimmered, etched in faint magic that pulsed faintly under his gaze.

“Catch me if you can.”

His jaw tightened.

Behind him, Ron peered over his shoulder. “That makes three.”

“Three,” Harry echoed grimly, voice flat.

“Funny how that’s exactly the number of victims since you took over,” Ron added, tone dry.

Harry grunted. “Yeah. Hilarious.”

Ron gave him a look, then patted his back. “Guess you’ve got another fan.”

Harry didn’t answer. He stared at the note for a moment longer before folding it carefully and slipping it into a protective evidence sleeve.

The buzzing in his skull had returned. Not the kind from lack of sleep or cheap scotch, but something colder. Sharper.

Obsession.

He followed Ron away from the body, back through the fluttering tape, into the waking world.

“You think Robards is gonna want to see me?” Harry asked as they reached the outer ward line.

“Oh, definitely,” Ron muttered. “The look he had when he sent me to call you? Like he was about to burst a blood vessel.”

“Lovely,” Harry muttered.

He downed the rest of his coffee and braced himself for the interrogation. For the pressure. For Robards barking down his throat and demanding results when there were none to be found.

But in his gut—deep, twisting—he already knew.

This wasn’t just another kill. This wasn’t random.

The game was turning personal.

And someone, somewhere, was watching Harry very closely.

Another thing Harry had grown tragically used to over the years was being screamed at before he'd even finished his first cup of coffee.

Robards stood at the head of the conference room, spit flying with every consonant like he thought volume could make up for the Ministry's lack of leads. Harry stood dead center among the assembled Aurors—expression neutral, posture perfect. Years of training had carved discipline into his spine, but it did little to disguise the dark half-moons under his eyes or the faintly amused downturn of his lips.

That bored, mildly irritated look.

Robards hated that look.

Thought it was the arrogance of fame, the Potter Complex. Never mind the fact that Harry’s record was the cleanest, sharpest, and most earned on the entire damn roster. No, it had to be ego.

Which made it all the more delightful that Robards had his eye on Harry as his successor. Ironic, really—how the man who screamed the loudest was also quietly grooming him for the throne.

Maybe that’s why he screamed harder.

“You think this is a game, Potter?” Robards barked, eyes bloodshot, voice cracking with fury. “You think the killer’s sending you valentines? Catch me if you can—what’s next, chocolates and a fucking poem?!”

Harry blinked once. “Might be nice.”

The room tensed. Ron actually wheezed through his nose.

Robards turned a new shade of crimson and stalked right up to him. For a second, Harry wondered if the man was going to rupture a lung. He didn’t flinch. Just stood there, perfectly still as spittle sprayed across his face like baptism by rage.

“You want to be Head Auror one day?” Robards growled. “Then act like it. You get me a lead. Fast. Or else—”

Or else what, Robards never said.

Harry didn’t care. He’d long since stopped being afraid of half-threats and puffed-up egos in too-tight robes.

He just counted himself lucky when the meeting ended and he escaped the war zone of a conference room with only half his face baptized in oral artillery.

Could’ve been worse.

He wiped his cheek with the edge of his sleeve as he wandered back to his desk. Ron trailed behind him, grumbling.

“Every damn time,” Ron muttered, dabbing at a wet spot on his shoulder. “You know how hard it is explaining to Hermione that my robes aren't wet from weather but from Robards’ mouth?”

Harry huffed a low, exhausted chuckle as he sank into his chair. “Pretty sure that counts as workplace harassment.”

“Pretty sure that man needs a goddamn bib.”

Harry was still half-chuckling, half-dying when Ron narrowed his eyes and added, “Also, don’t think I forgot. Ginny’s back in town.”

Harry didn’t even blink. Just gave a little nod and sipped from his now-cold coffee.

Ron’s face twisted in suspicion. “Wait… you knew already, didn’t you?”

“She may have mentioned it last night.”

Ron leaned back with an offended scoff. “You went out with her? Mate, that’s so weird. She gets back in London, and the first thing she does is drink with her ex?”

Harry smirked into his cup. “Maybe she missed me.”

“Maybe she’s mental.”

“She is your sister.”

Ron groaned. “Ugh, don’t say it like that. You know what? Ginny’s right—I do have a sister complex. Because you are not relationship material.”

Harry laughed—a rough, worn thing—and just as Ron was about to start a rant on romantic boundaries, a young Auror rushed over, clutching a thin folder like it might explode if he held it too tight.

“Potter, Weasley—result just came in,” the Auror said, breathless. “We ran a trace spell on one of the victim’s belongings. A watch—metal casing embedded with a faint magical residue.”

Both men straightened.

“What kind of residue?” Harry asked, already taking the file.

“Unusual blend,” the Auror said. “It’s magical, but laced with something synthetic. Possibly… Muggle-adjacent.”

That made Harry pause.

Muggle-adjacent? As in… someone who understood both worlds well enough to blend them?

Harry opened the folder, scanning the preliminary analysis. The residue glowed faintly in the image. Not spellwork he recognized—but not exactly foreign either. It was clean, efficient, layered in ways that reminded him of technical schematics more than magical casting circles.

“Looks almost like…” Ron frowned. “Circuitry?”

Harry didn’t say anything.

Because that little itch in his brain? The one that started at the third note?

It just dug deeper.

This wasn’t just a killer.

This was someone smart. Someone who knew Muggle systems and magical architecture alike. Someone with access, control, and no moral leash to speak of.

Harry closed the file slowly, his expression unreadable.

“Where was the victim’s watch manufactured?” he asked quietly.

The young Auror blinked. “Uh… one of those new hybrid companies. LUXOR Corp. Big name in the Muggle-Magical tech integration scene.”

Harry’s fingers tapped the folder. “Find me everything on them. And the board of directors.”

Ron raised an eyebrow, but didn’t question it—yet.

Harry just stared at the glowing image of the residue.

And smiled. Just a little.

It begins.

When Harry first opened the file, he didn’t expect to understand much—if anything at all. He’d been disconnected from the Muggle world for far too long. The Ministry trained him to track dark wizards, not decipher Wi-Fi routers and digital encryption. He still confused remote controls for Portkeys. Had a landline phone at Grimmauld Place that mocked him every time it rang. Technology wasn’t his battlefield.

But he knew how to read people. He knew how to sniff out patterns, inconsistencies. And that’s exactly what he was doing now, buried beneath a mountain of documents, the LUXOR file thick as sin, ink-smudged fingers tracing every timestamp, every connection, every potential lead like a hunter studying his prey.

The victim, Thomas Avery, didn’t work for LUXOR. That was the odd bit.

So why did his magical watch contain residue matching a company that specialized in Muggle-Magical hybrid tech?

Hours passed. The file was heavy with corporate jargon and contractual promises. Pages about boardroom politics, business expansion plans, collaboration proposals. Most of it read like bureaucratic noise.

Until it didn’t.

Ron wandered back from lunch with a grin on his face, Hermione in tow. Their little smiles—like they were fresh off a shared kiss—would’ve made Harry gag if he wasn’t so focused.

“Well, someone’s married and annoying,” he muttered without looking up.

Ron rolled his eyes. “We had lunch. Like normal people.”

“Meanwhile you’ve been glued to that file since morning,” Hermione added, crossing her arms. “Have you even eaten?”

Harry grunted—his signature “no but I’m alive” sound.

Hermione gave him that look, the one that made grown men shrink into their chairs.

But before she could launch into a full monologue, Harry held up a hand, fingers stained with ink, eyes still glued to the report.

“Wait. Shut up. Get closer.”

Ron frowned but leaned in. Hermione followed, gaze sharp as always.

Harry turned a page, index finger tracing the heading of a meeting summary. “This,” he said. “This is the thread.”

The documents described a recent meeting between Avery’s company and LUXOR—a lunch meeting, casual but strategic. Talks of future collaboration. Avery had been sent as a representative, nothing particularly flashy. Just a cog in the corporate machine.

LUXOR had only recently begun venturing into wizarding markets. Until a few years ago, they were strictly Muggle-facing—tech innovations, financial algorithms, AI something-or-other Harry barely understood. Then came the shift: magical integration. Devices that could read spellwork, track ambient magical residue, bridge the gap between two worlds. Subtle. Revolutionary. Dangerous, if in the wrong hands.

“Look,” Harry said, flipping the page, eyes narrowing.

Under the meeting summary, buried in the fine print, was a name.

LUXOR Representative: Draco Malfoy.

He froze.

His breath left him in one slow, quiet exhale. A deep silence settled over the trio.

“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered.

Hermione's brows furrowed as she leaned closer. “Are you sure it’s that Draco Malfoy?”

Harry didn’t respond at first. He just stared at the name like it had risen from the grave.

The pen in his hand tapped twice against the file, rhythmic, sharp.

Same signature. Same flair for manipulation. Same drip of arrogance behind every calculated move. And if LUXOR had expanded into magical territory, it would explain the hybrid residue. The melding of Muggle circuitry with spellwork precision.

Draco would know exactly how to do that.

He had always been clever. Too clever. The kind of clever that curdled into cruelty when left unchecked.

And now, here he was—resurfacing like a ghost with a business card.

Harry sat back slowly in his chair, arms crossed, and for the first time in hours, smiled. But it wasn’t kind. It wasn’t nostalgic.

It was sharp. Tight. A hunter’s grin.

“Well,” he said darkly, “looks like I finally have a lead.”

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy had disappeared the moment he walked out of the courtroom fifteen years ago.

The last image Harry had of him was framed by the towering doors of the Wizengamot—Malfoy in a sharp black suit, head held high, shoulders stiff with that same pride Harry had spent years resenting. He hadn’t looked back. Just walked out, swallowed whole by the silence of a world that no longer knew what to do with him.

Everyone had assumed he’d gone into hiding.

Shame, exile, guilt—whatever poison people chose to flavor the story with. Draco Malfoy, the last heir of a rotting name, had vanished into nothingness.

Harry had done his best not to think about it.

Really, he had.

He told himself it didn’t matter anymore. That some things were better left unresolved. That the tightening in his chest when he thought about Draco was just nostalgia and not a gaping, aching hollow shaped like regret.

But then his name reappeared—not whispered over firewhiskey in dingy wizarding pubs, but printed in black ink inside a case file stamped with the Ministry’s official seal.

Harry hadn’t moved for hours.

He sat in his studio at Grimmauld Place, teacup long gone cold beside him, the photograph in front of him burning holes into his soul.

It wasn’t even a good photo. Taken from a distance, angled slightly downward like whoever captured it was ducking behind a bin or a parked car. The kind of voyeuristic shot Harry was all too familiar with—the kind he usually hated.

And yet, he couldn’t stop staring.

Draco Malfoy. Hair still a soft platinum but styled now—clean, modern, powerful. The lines of his tan suit clung to him like wealth was part of his anatomy. Broad shoulders, long legs, posture confident. He looked taller now, sharper, more composed than Harry ever remembered. He was stepping out of a sleek black Muggle car, phone in hand, a smirk tugging faintly at the corners of his mouth like the whole world was a game and he already knew how it ended.

He looked like a bloody CEO from a Muggle drama. The kind women swooned over. The kind who ruined lives with signatures and slept like babies afterward.

From all the possible scenarios Harry had ever conjured about what had happened to Draco Malfoy, this wasn’t even on the list.

Not hiding in Albania.

Not dead in a ditch.

But here—wearing a thousand-pound suit and working for a Muggle tech company like he belonged to that world.

The picture felt like a violation, like something he had no right to be looking at. It reeked of the same tactics the press used to strip him down over and over, and yet... his fingers had held that photo all night. Trembling once. Only once.

“Fuck,” Harry muttered into the quiet.

He dropped the photo back onto the pile of reports and leaned back in his chair, exhaustion settling into his bones like old smoke. He closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose as ghosts came slinking through the cracks.

Hallways. Sneers. Spellfire.

Sectumsempra.

Blood in the bathroom.

Trembling hands, cold tile, and terror blooming across Draco’s pale chest.

The trial. The way his voice shook when he defended him.

The way Draco never once said goodbye.

Fifteen years.

And now this. This.

Harry opened his eyes, suddenly furious at the memories for being so goddamned vivid. He hadn’t thought about Draco in years—not really. Not more than the occasional passing thought late at night when he drank too much or wandered through the older sections of his mind.

He wasn’t supposed to matter anymore.

But apparently fate had other ideas.

“Why now?” he asked aloud to no one, voice low and hoarse. “Why like this?”

No answer came.

He sighed heavily, pushing himself up from the chair, joints aching from too many nights spent at desks instead of in bed. Pajamas were already on—he hadn’t even changed into them, just thrown a shirt over his undershirt and hoped no one would knock.

The lights dimmed with a flick of his wand, and he forced himself out of the room. The photo stayed behind, facedown on the pile, like it might sink into the pages and take the past with it.

He paused at the threshold.

Tomorrow would be a long day.

He just didn’t know yet how long the fall would be.

Harry may have grown up in the Muggle world, but the war had ripped him clean out of it. Dragged him, bleeding and breathless, into the heart of a society that refused to let him go. Between Auror training, fast-tracked promotions, and the insufferable weight of legacy, he’d become something entirely wizarding. Rooted in robes and wandwork, far removed from the world of buses and mobile phones and morning traffic.

Which is why stepping into central London the next morning felt like slipping into someone else’s dream. The buildings were massive, all steel teeth and shimmering glass. Cars roared by with a chaos he couldn’t quite track, and everyone seemed surgically attached to glowing rectangles in their hands—phones, he realized, though since when had they become so... tiny?

The city buzzed around him, pulsing with movement. Harry stood still, momentarily adrift.

When he finally found LUXOR, he stopped in his tracks.

It loomed over him like some godless temple—floor after floor of glass and power, catching the light and flinging it back into the sky. He squinted up at it and muttered under his breath, “How is that not a safety hazard?”

The people streaming in and out wore suits like armor. Precision-wrapped bodies, faces unreadable, postures stiff with importance. It was a world Harry had no business in, and the jeans and leather jacket he wore only made the fact more obvious.

At least, he told himself, he hadn’t shown up in his Auror robes. The bright red would’ve had every head snapping his way before he even reached the lobby.

Still, eyes turned.

Of course they did.

He was used to the attention by now. The whispers. The Potter? under someone’s breath. The half-glances that slid into full stares once they caught the scar.

He ignored them.

Crossing the gleaming marble floor, he stepped up to the reception desk. The woman behind it looked up, and froze.

Not the startled, fight-or-flight kind of freeze. No, this was the kind Harry recognized all too well—eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks already staining pink.

He’d startled her—but not because she was scared. No, she saw him.

Harry offered a lopsided smile. One he’d practiced over the years. A little sheepish, a little charming, a little resigned.

“Morning,” he said, leaning an elbow on the desk. “I’m here to see Draco Malfoy.”

The receptionist blinked rapidly. “Dr—Draco Malfoy?”

“Yeah. Old friend.” He smiled wider. “Just visiting.”

She fumbled with her headset, clearly struggling to remember what breathing was. Her eyes dropped to his chest, lingered, and Harry suppressed the urge to roll his own.

Technically, Aurors had a way around these situations. Their badges could magically shift to look like whatever local enforcement was needed for cover—Scotland Yard, MI5, whatever suited the moment. But in his rush to leave Grimmauld Place that morning, Harry had left his badge in a different jacket.

Brilliant.

Luckily, this woman wasn’t questioning him.

Unluckily, she was blushing so hard he half-feared she might combust.

She reached for the phone, fingers trembling.

But before she could lift it, a voice spoke from behind Harry. Cool, smooth—sharp as ice and twice as cutting.

“Well. That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one.”

Harry froze.

His breath caught, chest pulling tight. For a second, everything else—the glass walls, the suits, the murmurs, the receptionist—blurred into background static.

He hadn’t heard that voice in fifteen years.

But it still knew exactly where to hit him.

Slowly, he turned.

And there he was.

Draco Malfoy.

Looking like the universe had decided to play a very personal joke.

Draco was wearing a navy three-piece suit that looked like it had been sewn onto him by sin itself. Every button, every stitch, every damn line was flawless—tailored with the kind of precision that made Harry want to hex someone just for the audacity. It clung to him like an accusation: You’ll never look this put together. You’ll never be this composed.

His hair was longer than Harry remembered, swept back like something out of a glossy magazine, the kind that sat in posh salons Harry had never stepped foot in. And those eyes—cold silver, cutting—met his with the same ferocity Harry remembered from sixth year duels, from shadowed corridors and locked doors and breathless, whispered names.

But now Draco was taller, broader, impossibly poised. And so fucking Muggle.

It should’ve felt wrong.

It didn’t.

What did feel wrong, viscerally wrong, was that smile. That familiar curve of the lips—just shy of a smirk, just steeped enough in condescension to make Harry’s fists clench. It was the same smug, infuriating expression Draco wore every time he beat Harry at chess, or verbally cornered him into admitting he was wrong, or had him pressed up against the stone walls of a forgotten classroom, breathing heavy with want.

Harry hated that smile.

No, he despised it.

Then the receptionist broke the spell.

“Mr. Malfoy,” she said, voice syrupy sweet, cheeks still flushed. “This gentleman was asking for you.”

Gentleman.

The word made Harry twitch. He hated that stupid, stiff-necked vocabulary. It always sounded like someone trying too hard to be polite to a rabid hippogriff. He’d heard it enough at Ministry galas and bloody fundraising banquets—where everyone wore masks of civility and sharp smiles and he felt more like a display piece than a person.

But right now, his attention snapped back to Draco.

Because what he did next wasn’t just surprising—it was offensive.

Draco smiled.

Sweetly.

Soft, polite, damn near warm. “Thank you, Angela,” he said, using her first name like it rolled naturally off his tongue, like they were best mates who went out for drinks after work. She looked like she might pass out on the spot, positively swooning under the weight of it.

And Harry—Harry wanted to rip that smile off his face.

Not because it was fake.

But because it was real.

Too real.

And Harry remembered a time when he was the one Draco looked at like that. Before everything burned.

“Potter,” Draco said, the name landing like a knife on polished marble. He was already turning on his heel, walking away like he hadn’t just upended Harry’s equilibrium.

Harry blinked. “What—?”

“Walk,” Draco called without looking back, a single word sharp enough to slice through any thought Harry had left.

And Harry followed.

Because of course he did.

He hated how in control Draco was—how smooth, how calculated. How the air bent around him like it had missed him, too. The bastard walked like the hallways were built for his steps and Harry was just some idiot who stumbled in.

He trailed behind, jaw tight, hands shoved in his jacket pockets as they slipped past glass walls and nosy glances. Employees whispered as they passed, and Harry caught a few murmuring Is that—? but Draco didn’t acknowledge a soul. He moved with purpose, magnetic, not slowing until they reached an office far too big for someone in finance.

Draco pushed open the door and stepped aside, holding it like a gentleman. Mocking him.

Harry stepped in first.

The door clicked shut behind them like a gun cocking.

Silence.

Then Draco’s voice—cool, deliberate.

“So. Is this a professional inquiry... or just a desperate attempt to rekindle something you still think about at night?”

Harry turned around, glare sharp.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Draco smirked.

“Too late.”

In an effort to regain control—some thin sliver of it, at least—Harry dropped himself onto one of the leather sofas with the kind of casual defiance only a Gryffindor could muster. The damn thing sank beneath him like it cost more than his entire annual salary. The room was... obscene. Expensive in a quiet, smug sort of way. All cool-toned palette, polished dark wood, brushed steel, and furniture that whispered money and power with every immaculate line.

One wall was a seamless window of glass overlooking the gray sprawl of London below. Thirteenth floor—he remembered counting the buttons on the lift, trying not to look impressed. Not the highest point, but high enough to feel untouchable.

There was a bookshelf that stretched from floor to ceiling, stacked with tomes Harry couldn’t name, file binders in color-coded perfection, the occasional shiny gadget that looked suspiciously enchanted, and sleekly framed certificates—too many to read from across the room, but all with Draco L. Malfoy stamped in bold letters.

And front and center? A wide, handcrafted desk in rich mahogany, an unnaturally thin monitor sitting on top, wires hidden so well Harry doubted the thing even needed a CPU. It looked like something out of a sci-fi film Dudley used to force him to watch. Neatly arranged pens, a tasteful stack of files, a marble coaster that was probably real, and a nameplate in carved wood:

Finance Director

Draco Malfoy

Of course.

The bastard hadn’t sat down yet. No, Draco moved with the same irritating grace he always had—striding toward the desk, slipping a few folders into a drawer, then rounding it to lean back against the polished edge. Arms crossed. Legs casual. The picture of ease. Except his gaze was sharp, assessing.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Potter?” he asked, voice smooth as whiskey and twice as smug.

The sarcasm was unmistakable, and Harry barely held back a sigh. He rolled his eyes, pulling a photo from inside his jacket and holding it up between two fingers.

“Do you recognize him?”

Draco took his time walking over. Hands in his pockets, that damn model strut of his so natural it made Harry irrationally angry. He leaned down just enough to glance at the photo. A flicker of recognition—too brief to pin down—passed over his face.

He shrugged. “Employee from a potential partner company. We had lunch last week to go over some collaboration formalities. Why?”

Harry stared at him, voice flat. “He’s dead.”

Nothing.

Not a twitch. Not a blink.

Draco straightened. “That’s... unfortunate.” His tone was perfectly neutral. “I suppose the collaboration will be postponed. Have you found the cause?”

Harry watched him closely. It was uncanny—the blankness. His expression didn’t flinch, not even a ripple of discomfort or surprise. That should’ve been the red flag. But this was Draco. Malfoys were trained from the womb to be unreadable.

“We’re investigating,” Harry said slowly. “At the time of his death, we found this on him.” He handed over another photo—a magical still of a sleek watch, magic pulsing faintly in the grainy image.

Draco took the photo and studied it. “LUXOR manufacture,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Prototype design. Not on shelves yet.”

“And yet,” Harry said, voice a little harder now, “he had it. And it was imbued with magic.”

Draco hummed, noncommittal. “Many of our recent models are designed for dual markets. Wizard and Muggle hybrid tech. We’ve been hiring magical artisans to help develop compatible enchantments.”

“Convenient,” Harry muttered.

Draco looked up, eyes meeting his. “Is that an accusation?”

Harry smiled, sharp. “Should it be?”

For a breathless moment, the air in the room stilled. Draco’s gaze didn’t waver. And neither did Harry’s.

It felt like old times. The tension. The unspoken history stretched taut between them like a drawn bow. Except this time, the stakes were higher than house points or pride.

Draco held the gaze, face unreadable. “Potter. If this is an interrogation, I’d like to remind you I haven’t been arrested... yet.”

Harry leaned forward, elbows on his knees, tone low and calm but laced with warning. “Don’t tempt me.”

A beat.

Then that godforsaken smirk curled again on Draco’s lips. “Still so aggressive. I missed that.”

Harry blinked. Once. Slowly.

“You’ll be hearing from us again,” he said, standing. “Don’t leave town.”

Draco tilted his head, amused. “You think I’m stupid enough to run?”

“I think you’re smart enough to make me chase.”

Draco’s smile widened just a touch, teeth showing now. “And you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

He turned on his heel and walked out, every step heavy with something unspoken.

Behind him, Draco’s laugh echoed softly—low, amused, and maddening.

When Harry stormed back into the Ministry, there was fire rolling off him in waves. Carl, the ancient guard at the front who made it his personal mission to chat up every single soul that walked through those doors—including delivery owls—took one look at Harry and didn’t even twitch. That’s how bad it was. Carl, who once tried to pitch him a half-baked business idea involving charmed rubber ducks, just gave him a nod and looked away like Harry was a bloody Dementor on payroll.

Harry didn’t stop. Didn’t even try to fake pleasantries. He marched through the corridors, past the portraits that leaned away from him as he passed, and right into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. By the time he reached his desk, his jacket was slung over one shoulder, his shirt half-untucked, and his mood one insult away from cursing someone into next Tuesday.

He dropped into his chair like gravity had a personal grudge against him and let out a long, soul-deep sigh that sounded like it crawled out of his spine. Across from him, Ron raised an eyebrow from behind a stack of parchment and paperwork.

“So I take it your little Malfoy reunion didn’t go well.”

Harry made a sound. Not quite human. Somewhere between a groan and a murder confession. He threw his arm over his eyes like he was shielding himself from the sheer audacity of existing.

“Don’t even say his name,” he mumbled.

Ron chuckled, because of course he did. “Right, sorry. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Smug.”

Harry gave him a look that could’ve stripped paint. But truth be told, he didn’t even have the energy to argue. What had he expected, honestly? That Draco would break down and confess over tea? That seeing him again wouldn’t dig into old wounds like rusted nails?

The watch wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even circumstantial. The only reason it meant anything was because it came from a hybrid company—and those were practically unicorns in the wizarding world. Most people still pissed themselves at the idea of magical and Muggle tech mingling. “Secrecy of the magical world,” they’d cry. As if a wand couldn’t blow up a whole city faster than a smartphone could.

But Harry knew. He knew what had really sent him running across the city with nothing but a paper-thin lead and a bad instinct.

Draco bloody Malfoy.

He wasn’t chasing a clue. He was chasing a ghost. A ghost with cologne, a tailored navy suit, and a smile that made Harry want to hex his own face off.

Pathetic.

“Hey,” Ron said, gentler this time. “We knew this killer was clever. Slippery. Doesn’t mean you’re not on the right track.”

Harry grunted. Again. That was his thing today. No real words, just angry caveman noises and bad posture.

That’s when they heard the familiar click-click-click of determined heels and the warm, oh-so-logical voice of Hermione Granger echoing down the corridor.

“Godric’s beard,” Ron breathed, standing like he was about to salute royalty. “What brings you down here, love?”

Hermione smiled as she swept in like she owned the floor—which, let’s be honest, she might as well have. Her hair was pinned up, her robes crisp and stylish as ever, and in her hands she carried a paper bag and a drink cup like she was bringing divine salvation.

“I thought I’d stop by,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Heard from a coworker that there was a development in the case. Thought I’d see how things were going.”

She tilted her head toward Harry, who was still slouched like he’d been crucified by bureaucracy.

Ron made a show of gesturing at Harry. “As you can see, he’s in peak form.”

Hermione chuckled, then held out the bag in front of Harry’s face like a peace offering to a grumpy dragon. “Also heard you skipped lunch again.”

Harry opened one eye. Then both. His eyes flicked to the bag and widened with childlike reverence.

“You goddess,” he whispered. “You divine, beautiful, perfect woman. I could kiss you.”

Ron dramatically draped himself around her like an oversized barnacle. “Absolutely not. Off-limits. I’ll hex your lips shut.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, patting her husband’s arm with long-suffering affection. “Relax, Ron. He’d faint if I even got close.”

But Harry didn’t answer. He was already halfway into the bag, sighing at the familiar smell of warm tortillas, savory meats, and that glorious sauce from his favorite enchilada place just three blocks from the Ministry. His soda was already sweating in his hand, ice clinking as he took a long sip.

“Merlin’s tits,” he mumbled with his mouth full. “This is heaven. You’re heaven. I’d marry you if I hadn’t already sworn off all attempts at love and human connection.”

Hermione beamed. “That’s sweet. And depressing. Eat.”

Ron snorted. “Just wait ‘til she hears you went all the way to a muggle skyscraper for your ex-nemesis. In jeans, no less.”

Harry flipped him off with the hand not holding his enchilada.

“Language,” Hermione muttered absently.

And for a few blissful moments, the department felt less like a warzone and more like a reunion. One where enchiladas, married friends, and brief flickers of normalcy reminded Harry Potter that he wasn’t completely alone.

Only mostly.

A week.

Seven goddamn days.

No new clues. No bodies. No panicked owl from the Minister’s office. No taunting notes made of residual magical essence smeared across parchment like some twisted valentine.

Just... silence.

And it was driving Harry Potter insane.

He spent every waking moment—of which he had too many—locked inside the conference room they’d repurposed into the war room for this case. The whiteboard in front of him was covered in scrawled handwriting, magical photographs of corpses mid-scream, and color-coded timelines that no longer made sense. He’d stared at it for so long his brain began to fill in nonexistent connections just to feel something.

His own desk was a disaster zone. Piles of parchment competing for space with old coffee mugs and one suspicious takeaway container Ron had dared him not to open. A half-eaten sandwich from three days ago had fossilized beside a stack of ancient magical theory books. One of them was titled “The Essence Within: A Treatise on Magical Cores”, and Harry had read it cover to cover—twice.

He used to think Hogwarts had taught him all the essentials about magic. But no, Hogwarts taught him how to duel, how to brew potions without blowing his eyebrows off, how to tell a boggart from a banshee. It never taught him this.

It never taught him how a magical core could be drained.

Harry had spent the first few nights after taking over the case locked in the old library at Grimmauld Place, surrounded by tomes soaked in dust and dark magic. He’d pulled volume after volume from Black family shelves that should’ve been banned. Ancient manuscripts detailing the architecture of magical essence. Theories on core rupture. Forbidden rituals. Half-burned margins annotated by warlocks who’d died centuries ago, all whispering secrets no Hogwarts professor dared mention.

And from all that madness, Harry had pieced together something.

Magical cores weren’t visible, but they existed. They were the beating heart of a wizard’s power—the metaphysical distinction between a Muggle and a magical being. And someone—something—was tearing them out.

No wand. No spell trace. Just drained, shriveled husks left behind.

And then the body would implode in on itself, the core starving for more, latching onto the victim’s life force until there was nothing left. Not even a soul trace. It was the magical equivalent of being devoured alive.

The Ministry medics said it was the worst way to go. That the expression on every victim’s face—pure, unfiltered terror—was proof of that.

Harry had seen those faces in his dreams.

Every single night.

And now? Nothing. A quiet so heavy, it felt staged.

Because the only thing that had changed—the only shift—was him.

Harry fucking Potter.

The second he stepped into the case, the killer had started leaving notes. Written in the essence of the dead, like a sick signature.

Before that? Not a single whisper. No breadcrumbs. Just bodies.

And now… notes. And silence. A breath held too long before something snaps.

He knew what Ron would say. 

"Coincidence."

Hermione? She’d say “Correlation, not causation.”

But Harry felt it in his bones. A predator’s eyes watching the back of his neck.

Someone was waiting. Watching.

And Harry was the show.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing at the circles under his eyes. The headache behind them throbbed like it knew something he didn’t. Maybe he was being paranoid. Maybe he’d finally gone mad. Or maybe—just maybe—someone out there was toying with him.

Someone who knew him better than he wanted to admit.

Someone like—

No.

Don’t go there, Potter.

But the name tugged at him anyway. Blond hair. Cold smirk. That calm, practiced charm like he’d never been forced to kneel and beg for his life at wandpoint.

Draco bloody Malfoy.

It wasn’t enough to accuse. It wasn’t even enough to suspect. But something about him didn’t add up.

Too perfect. Too clean. Too… curated.

Harry stared back at the whiteboard, eyes zeroing in on the note left at the last crime scene—the one written in shimmering, fading strands of core residue that still glowed faintly under magical light.

“Catch me if you can.”

He stared at it, teeth clenched, the pulse in his neck loud enough to deafen him.

He didn’t know whether to hex something or go for a drink.

Maybe both.

Something had shifted however.

It wasn’t drastic. Not loud. Not obvious. But it was there, crawling just beneath Harry’s skin like a low-grade fever.

Seven days.

Seven long days since the trail went cold, and yet every evening after his shift, Harry found himself walking out of the Ministry building and heading not toward the apparition point, but toward the city. He didn’t think about it—that would require admitting he was doing it. No, it was easier to pretend it was just a detour. A whim. A walk to clear his head.

He took the bus.

The bloody bus.

It was such a small, ridiculous thing, and yet it grounded him more than apparition ever could. The rattle of the tires on potholes, the grind of gears, the jostle of strangers pressing in on either side—it made him feel like a person again. Like someone normal, if only for twenty minutes.

He always took the window seat.

And every time, he watched muggle London pass him by in a blur of neon signs and concrete. People were glued to tiny glowing rectangles in their hands—miniature phones that did more than any of Dudley’s old clunky electronics ever dreamed of. It was absurd. It was fascinating. It was... distracting. Which was exactly what he needed.

Because when he got off the bus and walked the extra two blocks, all roads still led him to the same place.

LUXOR.

It stood like a monument to modernism, glass and steel rising into the night sky, gleaming under streetlamps like it had something to prove. The lights on the thirteenth floor were always the last to go out.

Harry would stand across the street, under the shadow of a closed bookstore, pretending not to care as he watched the same silhouette move behind the glass—long limbs, sharp lines, and a presence that bled arrogance even from a distance.

Draco Malfoy.

Every single night, without fail, he'd step out of that building dressed to kill. Tailored navy, grey, or black suits, all crisp enough to cut. A phone pressed to his ear, one hand always tugging at his cufflink, eyes sharp and distant. He moved like a man who owned the pavement he walked on.

Harry still wasn’t used to seeing him like this.

It was laughable, really. The first night, he’d nearly choked on his coffee when he saw Malfoy slide into a sleek silver sports car like he’d walked straight out of a Bond film. It was so wrong, it was perfect. He’d blended into the muggle world so well it was almost terrifying. And Harry couldn’t stop watching.

Not even tonight.

But as Malfoy stepped out of the building, bathed in amber streetlight, Harry turned to leave. Same routine. Lights out. Show’s over.

Until—

“Leaving so soon, Potter?”

The voice sliced through the air like a spell. Smooth. Low. Laced with amusement.

Harry froze.

Fuck.

He turned slowly, like someone caught in a dream—or a trap.

Draco Malfoy stood a few feet away, hand in his pocket, jacket unbuttoned just enough to look careless in the way only a man meticulously curated could pull off. His lips curled into that infuriating, knowing smirk.

“You know,” Draco continued, cocking his head slightly, “if you’re going to stalk me, at least bring snacks. Or binoculars. Something to show a little effort.”

Harry opened his mouth—only to realize he had nothing. No lie. No excuse. Not one bloody rational thing to say that didn’t sound completely insane.

Draco stepped closer, voice dropping just enough to make Harry’s stomach twist.

“Unless you want to be caught. In which case, Potter... congratulations.”

The smirk sharpened.

Harry swallowed.

This game had just changed.

Chapter Text

Harry could’ve walked away.

Merlin knows he should’ve. Any self-respecting Auror—any sane human being—would have turned on their heel, thrown up a shield charm just out of spite, and vanished into the night.

But no. He just stood there like a statue, jaw tight, pride flaring in one breath and crumbling in the next.

Malfoy wasn’t even gloating properly, which somehow made it worse. He wasn’t twisting the knife—he was just holding it up, polished and gleaming, waiting for Harry to either take it or back away.

And then he said it.

“In the week you’ve been stalking me, Potter, I don’t think I’ve seen you eat a single thing.”

Harry’s stomach dropped.

His face burned, hot and violent. His brain screamed at him to lie—say he wasn’t, deny it all, pin it on surveillance, on duty, on bloody traffic congestion. Anything.

But Draco was already watching him with that infuriating, unshaken calm. He could see right through him.

“Do you like shawarma?”

Harry blinked. What the—

“What?” It came out breathless. Not sharp. Not authoritative. Just... confused.

Draco shrugged with the elegance of someone who had absolutely nothing to lose and knew it. One hand still lazily tucked in his pocket, the other casually gripping a briefcase like he didn’t just wreck Harry’s composure in five words or less.

“There’s this little place just around the corner,” he said smoothly, like this was normal. Like they were old mates bumping into each other after a long day. “I haven’t had dinner yet. Thought I’d ask.”

Harry scoffed, instinctively retreating behind sarcasm like a battered shield.

“Why the hell would I have dinner with you? You do remember you’re still tied to a murder investigation, right?”

Draco’s lips twitched. Not quite a smirk. Something... subtler. More dangerous.

“I thought I was cleared,” he said mildly, head tilted in that mock-innocent way that always made Harry want to hex something. “But apparently not, seeing as my favorite Auror has been watching me eat, walk, breathe, and blink for the past seven nights.”

Harry clenched his fists. He hated how his stomach turned—not from rage, not quite. From mortification. Because Malfoy knew. He’d known the entire time. And he’d just let Harry do it. Hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t called security. Hadn’t told him to fuck off.

No. He’d let it happen.

What kind of twisted bastard lets himself be stalked like it’s foreplay?

Before Harry could scrape together a single comeback, Draco turned, his long coat flaring behind him like something out of a designer fever dream. He started walking down the pavement, perfectly at ease, not even glancing back.

“You coming, or what?”

Just like that.

Harry stood frozen. Torn between rage, shame... and something else. Something cold and magnetic in his chest that he didn’t want to name.

He swore under his breath.

And then—because of course he fucking did—he followed.

The plastic chair creaked under Harry as he leaned back, arms crossed, trying way too hard to seem casual. It didn’t help that Malfoy—legs crossed, sleeves rolled just enough to flash that obscenely expensive watch—was the picture of ease. As if this was just another Wednesday.

Maybe it is for him, Harry thought bitterly. Maybe Malfoy does this. Maybe he lures in poor, sleep-deprived Aurors with smug smiles and good food and then pretends he hasn’t been playing chess while the rest of them are stuck with tic-tac-toe.

The laminated menu stuck to Harry’s fingers slightly in the humidity. He set it down like it personally offended him.

Then Draco opened his mouth.

“If you keep staring at me like that, Potter, I’m going to start thinking you missed me.”

Harry choked on his own breath, looked away fast—too fast—and muttered, “Wasn’t staring.”

The smugness in Draco’s smile should’ve been illegal.

The woman who came to take their order didn’t recognize Harry. That alone made this entire trip worth it. She greeted Draco like an old friend, soft familiarity in her voice, calling him by name—Dray—and telling him she already knew what he wanted. She didn’t even write it down.

Harry blinked. He barely recognized the Malfoy in front of him. Hell, he barely recognized himself.

When she turned to him, both pairs of eyes were suddenly on him again. He flinched. “I’ll have the same,” he muttered, unsure if he was blending in or surrendering.

The woman smiled like he’d made the right choice. He watched her walk off, then turned back—only to find Draco still looking at him, that maddeningly amused tilt to his mouth.

“Didn’t expect this to be your taste,” Harry said finally, breaking the silence like it owed him money.

Draco blinked once, slow and deliberate. “Did say it was small.”

Harry rolled his eyes and gestured vaguely. “I meant this.” He motioned around—at the chairs, the street, the faint smell of diesel and spice hanging in the air. “Expected something with five forks per plate and a wine list written in Latin.”

Draco smirked, resting his chin on a loose fist, eyes bright with the kind of sarcasm that cut clean. “Do I look that much of a bougie arsehole to you?”

Harry didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

Draco laughed, low and amused, like he wasn’t even mad. “Fair enough. I was an insufferable git, wasn’t I?”

Harry wanted to say no. Or maybe he didn’t. The mention of fifteen years ago hit like a subtle jab under the ribs. He hesitated, teeth pressing into the inside of his cheek, before he looked away.

Then the food came.

Colorful plates, slightly chipped, piled high with grilled meat, tangy sauce, crispy vegetables, soft flatbread. Harry leaned forward immediately—half because the smell hit him like a freight train, half because he needed something, anything, to do with his hands.

Draco nodded toward the food. “Go on. Might help you forget how much you hate being here.”

Harry glared half-heartedly but didn’t argue. One bite in, and he let out a sound that could’ve been obscene if they hadn’t both been exhausted.

Draco quirked a brow. “Told you. Best shawarma in London.”

Harry grunted something that might’ve been agreement, chewing like he hadn’t had a real meal in days—which, to be fair, he hadn’t.

Draco didn’t say anything else at first, just watched him eat like he was studying the layout of a battlefield.

Then, as Harry wiped his mouth with a napkin and reached for the soda:

“So,” Draco said, voice calm and sharp as a scalpel, “are you here to arrest me, Potter… or just stalking me for fun these days?”

Boom.

Like a spell cast right under Harry’s ribs.

He nearly dropped his cup.

Harry tried hiding behind his food—stuffing a mouthful of shawarma like it could shield him from the tension prickling at the edge of his skin. But he wasn’t fooling anyone. Least of all Draco. This might’ve looked like dinner, but it was war in disguise. A test of wills disguised as small talk and roasted lamb.

He knew this was probably his one shot at getting anything useful out of Malfoy. It wasn’t an official interrogation—far from it. No pensieve recordings, no stenographer scribbling down his every word. Just two ghosts from a war long past pretending this was anything less than an interrogation under the hum of streetlights.

Harry leaned back in his cheap plastic chair, the legs creaking in protest, and spoke—low, steady. “There’s something that’s been bugging me.”

Draco barely looked up from his food, but Harry saw the shift—saw the little raise of an eyebrow like he was already amused. That smug bastard.

“That day in your office,” Harry continued, “you said the watch we found on Avery was a prototype. Not on the market. So how come our victim, who works a regular nine-to-five, had it on him? It’s not exactly a Tesco impulse buy, Malfoy.”

Draco’s lips twitched. He leaned back too, mimicking Harry’s posture—only more elegant, more calculated.

“Yes, how did he get his hands on it?” he asked, all mock pondering, like they were solving a crossword together instead of dissecting a murder. His voice was smooth, and that calm expression on his face—it made Harry’s jaw clench.

“Cut the theatrics,” Harry snapped, voice low but sharp. “Do you know or not?”

Draco chuckled, the sound dry and unbothered. “Of course I do. It was a gift.”

Harry blinked. “A gift?”

Draco nodded, ever casual. “LUXOR’s expanding into the magical market. We’ve recently restructured into a hybrid company, so naturally, we’re recruiting investors and strategic partners from within the magical community. Avery’s company just happened to be one of them.”

Harry watched him closely, reading every twitch of muscle, every flick of his eyes.

“I’m in charge of most of the collaboration deals,” Draco went on. “Comes with the title. And the charm.” He gave Harry a smirk that made him want to flip the damn table. “Gifting a prototype—something sleek, appealing, but non-functional beyond its face value—is standard fare. Business etiquette. Helps lock in the deal. Just a gesture.”

Harry exhaled through his nose. Dammit. It made sense. Too much sense.

He leaned forward, muttered, “Brilliant,” and stabbed a piece of meat like it owed him answers. Another dead end. Another fancy box with a shiny bow and absolutely no evidence inside.

But then Draco did that thing again—the thing that made Harry twitch—casually dropping a line just as Harry was resigning himself to another night of fruitless reports.

“I heard your killer’s got a thing for magical cores,” he said, like he was talking about the weather.

Harry froze mid-bite.

Draco was watching him now—head tilted slightly, eyes gleaming with something unreadable, dangerous.

“What did you say?” Harry asked, voice low.

“I said,” Draco repeated, “draining magical cores isn’t exactly a textbook method. Unique. Brutal. Rare.”

“How do you know that?” Harry asked, already bracing for another infuriating shrug.

Draco didn’t shrug. He leaned in, elbows on the tiny table, food forgotten. His voice dropped, silky and just the right amount of unsettling.

“Because I grew up reading magic theory, Potter. Real theory. Not the sanitized fluff Hogwarts teaches to keep you from blowing yourself up in Charms class. My family library had books most of your professors would scream at the sight of.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “That still doesn’t explain how you knew what we’ve barely scratched the surface of.”

Draco’s lips curled, that same maddening calm smile playing on them. “Because,” he said, tapping one finger lightly against the plastic table, “unfortunately, I’ve been cursed with an ability I’d rather not have.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, brilliant. You gonna tell me you’ve been having visions too?”

Draco leaned even closer, and this time his voice was a whisper—too quiet for the street noise to touch.

“No. But I can feel magic. Yours, mine, theirs. Broken, twisted, raw. I feel it when it’s gone. When something’s… wrong.” He paused. “You ever heard of magic sensory?”

Harry froze mid-chew.

His fork hovered in the air, sauce dripping off the edge, but his eyes were sharp—cutting through Draco like a curse half-cast. Magic sensory. The words didn’t mean much to most people, but Harry had done his reading. He’d practically swallowed every book on obscure magical theory ever since this damn case started breaking all his known laws of magic. Still, he played dumb. He needed to know how much Draco knew—how far he’d go unprompted.

He wiped his mouth, set his fork down slowly, and leveled a look at Draco that said he was done with the small talk. “I’ve heard of it,” he said carefully, voice low. “Rare ability. Some people born with heightened magical perception. They can… sense cores. Intent. Some even claim they can track magic through time or space, if they’re powerful enough. Most of it's theoretical bullshit. Supposedly.”

Draco didn’t flinch. He simply reached for his soda, took a slow sip, and set it down again like this conversation wasn’t shifting into dark, dangerous territory.

“Supposedly,” Draco echoed with a tilt of his head. “Except it’s not.”

Harry leaned forward, voice rough now. “You’re telling me you have it?”

Draco’s explanation wasn’t some mystical prophecy-laced monologue—it was frustratingly rational, delivered with a tone that made Harry want to hex the smirk off his face.

“Magic sensory isn’t rare,” Draco said simply, as he finished the last bite of his food and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Every magical being has it, to some degree. Ever wondered why you can feel another wizard in a room full of Muggles, even if they haven’t said a word or drawn their wand? That’s it. That’s basic sensory.”

Harry frowned. He had felt that before. Many times. Especially during missions—those odd tugs in his gut when someone near him was crackling with power. He’d never given it a name. Never been taught to.

“But over time,” Draco continued, his voice low, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his cup, “most people stop listening to it. It fades into background noise, dismissed as instinct. It becomes a passive thing. But like any other sense—smell, hearing, balance—it can be honed. Trained. Or, in very rare cases… you're born hypersensitive.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. You’re one of those rare cases.”

Draco didn’t even dignify it with a response. He just gave Harry a slow blink, that infuriating smug expression sharpening like the edge of a wand tip. “I have what’s been referred to as the Sight. Not the seer kind, don’t worry. I’m not going to start prophesying your death over tea leaves.”

Harry scoffed. “The Sight. Merlin, you sound like a knock-off Trelawney.”

But Draco only smiled wider, ignoring the jab entirely. “It means my core is hyper-attuned. When I’m around magic—raw or residual—my brain interprets it visually. Like… mist. Colors. Auras, if you want to go poetic with it. But no, before you ask, I don’t see people’s magical cores. I’m not a bloody chakra reader.”

That made Harry blink. “So… not like seeing through people’s souls?”

Draco barked a laugh, louder than Harry expected, startling the group at the next table. He ran a hand through his hair as he calmed, eyes bright in a way Harry hadn’t seen since they were teenagers. “Merlin, no. You sound like a bad fantasy novel. Look—I can’t see your life force, I can’t read your inner trauma. I see… footprints. Residue. Spells leave traces, magic leaves echoes. I can see those. Strong ones. Old ones, too, if the magic used was powerful or twisted enough.”

Harry’s blood ran cold. That wasn’t mythical. That was useful.

“So,” he said carefully, straightening in his chair, his food forgotten, “if I took you to one of the crime scenes… you could see what happened?”

Draco’s gaze sharpened. He tilted his head, slow and assessing. “That what you’re getting at, Potter?”

Harry didn’t answer immediately. He knew what this meant. The brass would have a meltdown. Robards would scream until his throat gave out. Hell, even Hermione might raise an eyebrow. Bringing in a civilian—this civilian—was enough to get him suspended if word got out.

But if Draco was telling the truth… he might be the only lead they had.

“I’m saying,” Harry said quietly, eyes meeting Draco’s across the tiny plastic table, “if what you’re saying is real… you might be able to see what we can’t. And that might be what breaks this case.”

Draco sat back, and for once, his expression lost some of its mockery.

“You sure you’re ready to let me back into your world, Potter?”

Harry looked at him—really looked at him. Tailored suit, charming lies, sharp tongue, and underneath it all, the same calculating eyes from fifteen years ago. Only now, they weren’t filled with spite.

They were filled with interest.

“Not sure,” Harry admitted. “But I’m running out of options.”

Draco’s lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile.

“Well then,” he said, tapping the table once, “shall we go hunt a killer?”

Chapter Text

The next day, Harry walked into the Ministry like it was any other morning, his expression unreadable and his stride steady. Only today, the eyes trailing him were more than usual. Carl, the security guard who always greeted him at the door, opened his mouth to say good morning—but stopped dead halfway through, his gaze shifting over Harry’s shoulder and widening.

Harry didn’t even slow down. “Morning,” he said casually, ignoring the reaction, and kept walking toward the front desk.

The old receptionist, Agatha, perched behind her stack of paperwork and half-mended tea cozies, had her signature tightly wound grey bun and that violent red lipstick that somehow never smudged. She was notoriously unpleasant to everyone—except Harry, who, for reasons he never understood, she adored like a favorite grandson.

As soon as she looked up, her face transformed. The frown vanished, the corners of her lips curled up, and the tone shifted. “Mr. Potter! What a lovely surprise this early in the morning. What can I do for y—”

She paused mid-sentence. Her eyes locked on the tall figure standing behind Harry, and her smile dropped like a coin through a slot. For the first time since Harry had known her, Agatha was speechless.

Harry turned slightly, just enough to catch the sight of Draco Malfoy standing as though he’d walked out of a luxury brand ad—black tailored suit, pristine posture, hands calmly folded in front of him. He smiled at Agatha, all warm politeness, the very image of manners and civility.

Harry wanted to gag.

He turned back to Agatha and said, far too brightly, “Need a visitor’s pass.”

She blinked as if rebooting, narrowing her eyes at Draco. “And… who’s your guest?”

Before Draco could even part his lips, Harry grabbed the pass she’d begun to fill and muttered, “We’re already late,” practically shoving Draco toward the lifts.

Inside, it didn’t get better. The lift was packed, of course, because Merlin forbid Harry have one uneventful morning. Draco, tall and crisp in his suit, stood out like a sore thumb among tired Aurors and paper-pushers in rumpled robes. He offered a polite nod to someone who was blatantly staring. The poor man turned red as a tomato.

Harry folded his arms and fixed his gaze on the blinking floor numbers above the door, counting them like they were seconds until freedom. He could feel the gazes—confused, intrigued, whispering already.

The moment the lift dinged at their floor, Harry grabbed Draco by the wrist and all but dragged him out. Draco followed without complaint, as if being manhandled was part of his daily routine.

“You have charming coworkers,” Draco said airily, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve like this was a social visit to some high-society brunch.

Harry shot him a look over his shoulder. “Shut up and keep walking.”

Harry led Draco straight through the maze of corridors, not stopping until they reached the conference room. The tension inside the room was already thick with expectation—his team was gathered, coffee cups in hand, files sprawled across the long table, and the whiteboard behind them filled with dead-end leads and magical core theory scribbles. Robards stood at the head like a war general already two battles behind.

“Potter,” Robards barked the moment he stepped in, “this lead you mentioned last night better be—” He stopped mid-sentence.

Because behind Harry walked in Draco Malfoy, calm as you please, dressed like he owned the floor and possibly the building. If the Ministry’s walls had mouths, they would’ve gasped.

Ron’s reaction was instant.

“What the fuck is Draco Malfoy doing here?” he blurted, half-rising from his chair like this was some kind of ambush.

Draco’s smile didn’t so much as flicker. “Weasley,” he greeted, tone dripping with that signature aristocratic bite. “It’s been… delightfully long.”

Harry nearly pinched the bridge of his nose. Merlin give me patience, he thought, or smite one of us before we get started.

“Alright, everyone breathe,” Harry said, stepping forward and putting himself between Draco and the growing storm cloud that was Ron’s face. “I spoke to Malfoy yesterday. I believe he might actually be able to help us with the case.”

“You believe,” Robards repeated slowly, like he’d misheard. “Help us how, exactly? Is he a witness? A suspect? A bad idea?”

Draco didn’t so much as blink at the jab.

Ron wasn’t having it. “Harry, no offense, but the bloke’s been off the grid for fifteen years and now he waltzes in wearing Muggle couture and smugness—how exactly is that useful to our investigation?”

“I didn’t disappear,” Draco cut in smoothly, voice like velvet-wrapped barbed wire. “I simply relocated to… broader horizons. Personal reinvention, if you will. You should try it, Weasley. Might improve your conversational range.”

Harry shot him a shut the fuck up glare, then raised his hands to keep things from exploding.

“Listen, I didn’t bring him here to swap insults with my partner,” Harry said, voice harder now. “Malfoy has a rare magical ability—something called magical sensory. He can see traces of magic. Literally. Like magical residue.”

That got them. The room stilled.

Even Robards leaned forward. “That’s a myth.”

“So’s surviving the Killing Curse,” Harry said dryly. “But here we are.”

Draco stepped up then, posture relaxed but presence sharp. “The Sight, technically speaking. And while it might sound like a bedtime story to most, it’s real. I was born with it.”

Robards still looked skeptical, but Harry could tell his curiosity was piqued. He was too pragmatic not to entertain the possibility if it meant a breakthrough. He gestured toward a seat. “Fine. Explain.”

And just like that, Harry sat down beside his former enemy, his team staring like he’d dragged a dragon into the war room and asked it to help with strategy. All he could do now was hope Draco didn’t set the room on fire with his mouth—though, knowing him, that was exactly what he’d do.

Harry had braced himself for full-scale professional warfare—Ron storming out, Robards slamming the table, maybe a few hexes tossed under the guise of “reflexes.” But oddly enough, none of that happened.

In fact, not a single spell had been cast. No shouting, no chaos. The Auror department, usually quick to distrust anything outside protocol, had gone uncharacteristically quiet… and were listening.

To Draco Malfoy.

Draco stood at the front of the room like it was his department—composed, spine straight, voice smooth and unhurried. He explained his magic sensory with a clarity and efficiency that caught even Harry off guard. There was no arrogance in the way he spoke—not like the teenager they’d all known—but something far more dangerous: competence. Confidence with teeth. Like a man who ran boardrooms and didn’t bother with debates unless he’d already won.

Some faces remained skeptical—Harry caught Ron still frowning with his arms crossed—but most of the team showed open curiosity. Even Robards, who was notoriously hard to impress, leaned forward slightly when Draco mentioned the nature of magical traces and the precision required to detect them.

When Draco finished his explanation, Robards took a moment before speaking.

“If what you’re saying is true,” he said slowly, “then your skill could be a valuable tool in our investigation. But as you well know, Mr. Malfoy… we don’t just hand over access to a sensitive case to civilians. Let alone civilians with your... background.”

Harry opened his mouth to speak, ready to throw his entire career on the line, but Draco didn’t even glance at him.

He didn’t need saving.

He leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, arms folding across his chest. The seams of his custom suit jacket pulled ever so slightly across his biceps, tailored to perfection. He shrugged casually, as if this were a routine meeting and not a room filled with people who would gladly stun him first and ask questions later.

“Then test me,” he said. “Interrogate, question, throw whatever protocol you need at me. I’ve got nothing to hide. I didn’t come here to beg for a job. If you want my help, you’ll have it. If not…” he looked Robards dead in the eye, smile sharp, “I’ve got a company to run.”

Harry stared. That smile… that maddening, infuriating smile.

You bastard, he thought, you’re enjoying this.

And then Draco’s eyes flicked over to him, just for a second, as if he knew exactly what Harry was thinking. A spark of amusement danced in his gaze—and Harry’s stomach flipped in a way that had nothing to do with nerves.

Brilliant or catastrophic. That was always the line they walked, wasn’t it?

And this time, he had a sinking suspicion it was going to be both.

The sterile chill of the evidence room hit them as soon as the enchanted doors unsealed with a low hiss. Rows of locked cabinets and magically-reinforced glass cases lined the walls, humming faintly with protective enchantments. The floor was polished stone, the air scrubbed clean of every trace of magic, emotion, or comfort. It was a vault of the past, a tomb for the truths people didn't want to face.

Robards walked ahead, posture stiff, like even he didn’t quite know how to categorize what was happening. Harry and Draco followed in stride, the tension crackling between them like static clinging to wool.

“Look,” Harry muttered under his breath, glancing sideways at Draco. “You really don’t have to do this. It’s not your job to prove anything—you’re the one offering help.”

Draco didn’t stop walking. His shoes made no sound on the floor, like he was a shadow dressed in bespoke tailoring. He glanced down at Harry, lips tugging into that aggravating, knowing smirk.

“Are you worried about me, Potter?” he asked, voice low and smug.

Harry scoffed. “I’m worried about protocol. And public perception. This isn’t exactly a tea party.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Draco said breezily, “as long as we make this quick, I’ll still be able to get back in time for my five o’clock existential crisis. I just hate handing over my phone.”

“Because of work emergencies?”

“Because I need my Spotify playlist to deal with the circus you call coworkers.”

From behind them, Ron grunted. Loudly. “The world’s really gone to hell. Malfoy in a muggle office? What’s next, Voldemort on a TED Talk?”

Draco looked over his shoulder, slow and deliberate, with all the grace of a predator humoring prey. “People grow, Weasley,” he said smoothly. “I decided to evolve. You should try it. Very liberating.”

Ron muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “poncy git”, but Harry was too busy hiding the smile pulling at his lips to care.

They reached the designated evidence case. Robards tapped his wand to a brass plaque, murmuring an incantation. The protections fell away one by one with a faint shimmer. Inside was the last recovered object from the scene—the victim’s ring, still pulsing faintly with corrupted magical residue.

“This one,” Robards said, voice clipped. “The most recent. If you can see anything on it… now’s your time to show it.”

Draco stepped forward, unbothered by the way both Robards and Ron watched him like he might explode. He didn’t even hesitate. Just folded his sleeves back with practiced efficiency and leaned in to study the ring like it was a piece of art.

Then he blinked.

And for the first time that day—he stilled.

No witty comment. No sarcastic drawl. No smug glint.

Just silence.

Harry’s stomach twisted.

“What is it?” he asked quietly.

Draco slowly straightened, gaze still fixed on the ring.

“That’s not just residue,” he said finally, his voice quieter than before. “It’s layered. Intentionally warped. Whoever did this didn’t just drain magic—they restructured it. Folded the imprint over itself. Like a... like a signature.” He paused, lips parting like he might say more, then thought better of it.

Robards raised a brow. “Can you trace it?”

Draco hesitated for a breath. “No,” he said. “Not yet.”

Not yet. Not no. That alone was enough to put the whole room on edge.

Harry looked at him, brow furrowed. “But you recognized something.”

Draco didn’t respond. Not immediately. Then he turned, slowly, eyes unreadable.

“I need to see the rest,” he said. “Everything you’ve got.”

Ron had been awkwardly hovering behind Draco, standing on tiptoe and craning his neck like he thought sheer squinting could unlock magical secrets. The moment both Draco and Harry turned to look at him, he straightened with all the grace of a caught teenager and crossed his arms over his chest like it could hide his obvious curiosity.

“Well,” Ron said, trying for indifference and failing spectacularly, “how do we even know he’s telling the truth? He could be talking out of his arse, and we’d just be eating it up.”

Harry bit back a sigh, his jaw tight. He got it—Ron’s skepticism wasn’t unwarranted. After everything Draco had been in the middle of during the war, letting him anywhere near a top-priority case with magical corpses stacking up like cursed dominos? Yeah. He’d be suspicious too.

But before he could open his mouth and mediate the inevitable argument, Robards beat him to it.

Without a word, the department head moved past them, robes swishing behind him like some irritated matron with zero time for teenage dramatics. Harry blinked. Was… Robards okay? Had he finally snapped? Was this it? The long-foretold midlife crisis hitting like a rogue Bludger to the face?

But then Robards returned, arms full of dusty, enchanted evidence containers. With the flair of a magician unveiling his final act, he dumped three unmarked objects onto the examination table in front of Draco.

A scratched wand, a broken amulet, and what looked like a shard of crystal from a cursed mirror. All dull. All drained. All dead.

“That,” Robards said, voice like gravel and steel, “is evidence from three separate cases. They containers have a matching signature for cataloging. You match them correctly, Malfoy, and I’ll believe you. You get it wrong?” His eyes narrowed. “You’re out.”

Harry turned to Draco, the instinctive need to prove something still humming under his skin. “You don’t have to do this,” he said, voice low. “You’re helping us. That should be enough.”

But Draco just rolled his sleeves up a little more, calm as ever, like he was about to critique a wine tasting instead of stare down cursed objects tied to murder investigations. He offered Harry a casual shrug.

“I’m already here,” he murmured, eyes flicking toward the evidence. “Might as well show off.”

Harry stepped back, and so did Ron, arms still crossed but now just a little tighter.

Draco leaned over, eyes moving from item to item. And then—he didn’t hesitate. Just picked up the wand, the amulet, and the shard one at a time, examining the faint trails of invisible magic that only he could see. His eyes narrowed occasionally, lips pursed slightly in concentration.

It took him under five minutes.

When he finally stepped back, each object had been neatly paired. His hands went back into his pockets. His expression was unreadable. Bored, even.

“Well?” Draco asked, glancing at Robards. “Am I in, or shall I go back to corrupting muggle capitalism?”

Harry turned to Robards, heart thudding. Even Ron looked like he’d swallowed his own tongue.

Robards didn’t say a word at first. Just stared at the evidence… and then at Draco. Finally, with a sharp nod, he looked at Harry.

“Register him,” he said simply. “Consultant. Full access. Show him the files.”

Harry blinked. “You’re serious?”

Robards raised a brow. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

Harry didn’t dare respond to that.

Ron let out a groan behind him, muttering something about the end of the bloody world, but Harry ignored him. He looked at Draco—who now looked smug enough to be arrested for it—and sighed.

Brilliant idea or terrible mistake… they were in it now.

Back in the department, everything felt a little too normal for Harry’s liking—as if the entire morning hadn’t just been derailed by bringing Draco bloody Malfoy into the Ministry like some smooth-talking, designer-suited peacock with mystery powers and a smile sharp enough to gut fish.

Harry made his way to his desk, the buzz of murmuring coworkers still lingering like static in the air. He grabbed the case file—the one with the most recent details on the murders and magical residue—and handed it over.

Draco took it without ceremony, flipping through the pages with the same ease he’d handled Ministry evidence. His gaze moved quickly, scanning, absorbing. Then he snapped the binder shut with a soft thunk and tucked it under his arm like it was nothing more than an office memo.

Harry leaned on the edge of his desk, arms crossed. “You think you can actually help?”

Draco gave him a small shrug, expression unreadable. “I’ll see what I can do. But let’s not get confused, Potter—catching the killer is still your job.”

Ron made a noise behind his own desk, something between a grunt and a scoff. Harry ignored it.

Then Draco’s tone changed. “Now, can I have my phone back?”

Harry blinked, momentarily caught off guard, mostly because he had been staring. He moved around his desk, unlocked the cabinet, and handed over the sleek black smartphone. It lit up instantly in Draco’s hand—and so did the screen, notifications spilling in faster than Harry could read them. Dozens, maybe more.

Draco’s face went still.

For the briefest second, just a blink, something flickered across his features. Not smugness. Not charm. Something else. Tension. Cold calculation. Like a predator catching scent of something unexpected.

Harry opened his mouth, brows already furrowing to ask what was wrong—

—but Draco was already smiling again, all ease and velvet arrogance. “Looks like my company’s falling apart without me. I take one morning off and they start panicking.” He slipped the phone into his coat pocket and straightened his posture.

“I should get back. Deadlines don’t meet themselves.”

Harry offered half a step forward. “I can walk you out—”

“No need.” Draco waved him off with a gentle smile that somehow felt more final than polite. “I know the way. You get back to... saving the world, or whatever it is you’re doing these days.”

Then he turned and disappeared behind the lift doors, the only trace of his presence left being the subtle scent of whatever cologne he was wearing and the general disruption of Harry’s already thin sanity.

Harry let out a slow breath and sank into his chair just as Ron piped up from across the way.

“I don’t like it.”

Harry glanced over. “I know.”

Ron didn’t stop. “I mean, really, Harry. From all people, how come he gets some mystical special ability no one’s ever even heard of? ‘The Sight’—what even is that? And the way he walked in here like he’s run the place before. He knew all the protocols. Knew how to talk to Robards, knew what evidence you’d pulled. He even knew where the bloody vending machine was.”

Harry rubbed his temples.

“And what’s with the smiling?” Ron continued, clearly on a roll. “He smiled at everyone. He’s got all the lady Aurors wrapped around his finger already. Giggling like he’s Gilderoy fucking Lockhart.”

Harry finally cut in with a low sigh. “I don’t trust him either, Ron.”

That shut Ron up for a second.

Harry leaned back, staring up at the ceiling like it had answers. “I just… hope I’m not making the biggest mistake of my life.”

Because if he was, if Draco Malfoy turned out to be more than just a smug ex-Slytherin with a rare magical skill, if he was something else entirely…

He wasn’t sure if he'd be able to forgive himself.

And worse—he wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

Chapter Text

It had been two weeks. Two weeks of unanswered mail, quiet leads, and nights Harry spent buried neck-deep in paperwork with nothing to show for it except aching eyes and a growing unease in his gut. So when the call came in that morning about a new body—same circumstances, same method of death—Harry didn’t hesitate. The location was in central London, and like a moth to a flame, he found himself walking once again into the pristine lobby of LUXOR.

And no, he wasn’t exactly thrilled about it.

The moment he stepped through the sleek glass doors, every head turned. Again. Muggles in pressed suits and shiny shoes flicked their eyes up from laptops and clipboards, clearly puzzled by the man in worn jeans, scuffed boots, and a leather jacket like he’d just walked off the set of a very confused action film. He didn't blame them. The Ministry didn’t exactly issue a dress code for "visiting your maybe-suspect-maybe-consultant ex-nemesis in his Muggle tech empire."

Harry ignored the stares and walked toward the front desk out of habit, but paused mid-step.

There was a small group moving through the lobby like a school of fish, clipboards in hand, every single one of them hanging onto every word of the tall blond man in the center. Malfoy. He looked every inch the executive—navy suit, silver cufflinks, crisp posture, and that maddening confidence that made Harry’s jaw clench on instinct. Of course he was surrounded by people. Of course he was holding court. It was like watching a corporate version of a Malfoy family dinner: him, at the head of the table, commanding attention like he was born for it.

When Draco caught sight of him, he offered a polite smile to his entourage and dismissed them with a few soft-spoken words. They scattered like obedient ducklings, and Draco made a beeline for Harry—who immediately regretted not hexing himself unconscious instead.

He stopped just a few paces away, hands tucked casually in his pockets, the kind of man who knew he looked good and thrived in the knowledge.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Draco said smoothly, that infuriatingly refined voice dripping with ease. “Apologies for not staying in touch. I’ve been dreadfully swamped—launching a new product, budget’s an absolute nightmare, the accounting team’s hopeless with decimal points…”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Right. Well, I’m not here to micromanage your job. You’re free to do it however you please.”

Draco’s smile turned feline. He knew Harry didn’t understand half of what he was saying. But instead of twisting the knife, he tilted his head and said with mock curiosity, “So what brings you to the heart of Muggle London at noon on a Tuesday? Something tells me you’re not here to admire the architecture.”

The levity in his tone made Harry snap back into focus.

“There’s been another body,” he said plainly, watching Draco closely.

Just like before, no flicker of shock. No tension in his jaw. Nothing in his eyes except a blink—and then a nod, so smooth it could’ve been rehearsed.

“Then you caught me at a perfect time. I’m due for lunch anyway,” Draco said, already turning toward the exit. “Lead the way, Auror Potter.”

Harry didn’t move at first. He stared at Draco’s back, that perfectly pressed suit jacket and impossibly composed posture. He still didn’t know what unsettled him more: Draco’s indifference to death or how damn normal he seemed doing it.

But he did know one thing.

He needed answers—and whatever Draco Malfoy was hiding, Harry would rip it out of him even if he had to chase him through every glass tower in London.

The crime scene was chaos in muted colors—flashing cameras, murmuring Aurors, whispers of “He’s here” that followed Harry like a second skin. Not because of the murder. Not because of the body. Because of the car.

The car.

A sleek, obsidian thing with curves like sin and a purr so smooth it made even the enchanted carriages at Hogwarts seem outdated. Of course Malfoy insisted on taking his luxury monstrosity instead of letting Harry just side-along apparate them like a normal person. Now, every Muggle in a ten-block radius was staring, and every Auror at the scene was side-eyeing Harry like he was filming a Ministry-funded ad campaign.

Harry climbed out first, muttering curses under his breath. Malfoy followed, utterly unbothered. His navy suit somehow looked even more expensive under the alleyway’s grimy lighting. The tailored coat barely stirred as he moved, not even when he stepped around a puddle of something Harry really hoped wasn’t blood.

The yellow tape was standard. The Aurors flanking it were not.

“Malfoy’s with me,” Harry said, flashing his badge with a practiced flick.

They didn’t question it—though their expressions said they wanted to.

Ron was already on site, hunched over near the body. His head snapped up when he caught sight of Draco beside Harry. His scowl could’ve curdled pumpkin juice.

“You brought him?” he hissed under his breath.

Harry didn’t even glance at him. “Give me the profile.”

Ron grumbled, but obliged. “Male. Mid-forties. Magical. Works at a wand shop two streets over. No signs of a struggle. Drained core. Dumped here, same as the rest.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Doesn’t make sense. These aren’t random locations. They’re near shops, but never in the shops. Always dumped. Always clean. No witnesses. And the wards on the storefronts? Still perfectly intact.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Which means whoever’s doing this either knows how to bypass high-grade enchantments... or they’re getting help.”

Ron muttered something about how “none of this adds up” when a sharp voice cut through their conversation.

“Is that normal?” Draco asked, calm as ever.

They followed his gaze. The brick wall beside the body was shifting. Letters bled out of the surface like ink rising from beneath the stone. A glowing message in faint violet:

Miss me, Auror Potter?

Ron stiffened. “That... that wasn’t there before.”

“Forensics!” Harry barked. The team surged forward, snapping photos and casting preservation charms.

Harry crossed his arms, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Our killer’s getting bolder. First magical residue notes. Now enchanted graffiti? They’re trying to taunt me.”

He didn’t like how familiar it felt. Like the killer knew him. Like the killer wanted him.

Then he turned to Draco, jaw tight. “Alright. Your turn. Let’s see what the Sight’s good for.”

Draco smirked, of course. The bastard.

With a shrug, he stepped forward, the crowd instinctively parting for him as he walked up to the edge of the scene. He crouched beside the body with a grace that made Harry sick—like he wasn’t in a crime scene but an art gallery. Like death didn’t bother him at all.

Draco closed his eyes.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, his expression changed—subtle, but sharp. His brow furrowed slightly, like he was watching something only he could see. His fingers ghosted above the body, then swept toward the wall, tracing invisible patterns in the air. His breath hitched.

When he opened his eyes again, they were unreadable.

“Well?” Harry asked, already bracing for a smug retort.

Draco didn’t give him one.

Instead, in a low voice, he said, “There’s residue. Recent. Fresh. Layered.” He glanced up, almost to himself. “Whoever did this... they didn’t just drain him. They played with the magic. Bent it. Stretched it. Left traces on purpose.”

Harry frowned. “So they knew you’d be here?”

Draco stood, brushing off his coat. “No. But they knew someone would look. And they wanted to make sure they’d find something.”

He met Harry’s eyes.

“This isn’t just a murder, Potter. It’s a message. And it’s not just meant for you.”

Harry’s blood ran cold.

He didn’t say it—but something in his gut already agreed.

Whoever this killer was... they weren’t just hunting. They were performing.

Back at the Ministry, the air inside the conference room was thick with tension, the kind that wrapped around your chest and made breathing feel like a deliberate effort.

Harry walked in first, Draco trailing behind him with the ease of a man who didn’t belong yet owned every space he stepped into. Robards stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Ron and another Auror were already mid-brief, going over the latest findings on the new victim. The conversation didn’t stop as Draco entered, but Harry could feel the subtle shift in the room—the quiet undercurrent of curiosity, judgment, suspicion.

Draco didn’t flinch. He just strolled to a seat and sat down like this was any other boardroom meeting. The moment his coat hit the back of the chair, he turned to Harry and, with the smug serenity of someone asking for tea, requested a pen and paper.

Harry blinked. Then scowled. Seriously?

Still, he passed the materials over and took his seat, doing his best to focus on the update. But Draco wasn’t listening. Not at all. He was already leaning over the table, long fingers gliding across the page as he sketched something with the kind of focus that made Harry twitch. He nudged him. Nothing. He kicked his shin—lightly at first, then a bit harder.

Draco didn’t even glance up. His pen scratched on.

Harry leaned closer, muttering under his breath, “Could you maybe not get yourself hexed before we even hit lunch?”

Still nothing. Draco's head tilted slightly, and the pen danced faster.

By the time Ron finished his debrief, Harry was practically vibrating with secondhand anxiety. Robards looked like he was gearing up for one of his infamous rants, and Harry braced himself—until Draco, without a word, straightened in his chair with all the self-satisfaction of someone about to ruin everyone's day in the most productive way possible.

He slid the paper across the table.

The room stilled.

Everyone leaned in.

It wasn’t a doodle. It wasn’t some half-assed distraction.

It was a symbol.

Black ink curled into lines and edges that seemed nonsensical at first—chaotic spirals, jagged angles—but the longer they stared, the clearer it became. Coiled. Purposeful. Ron squinted and mumbled something about it looking like a snake twisted into a rune. Maybe a dragon. Maybe both.

Harry wasn’t sure what unsettled him more: the eerie familiarity of it… or how calm Draco looked.

Robards’ voice cut the silence. “What is that supposed to be?”

Draco didn’t even blink. “What the killer left behind,” he said smoothly. “That’s what I saw—both on the ring from Avery and in the magical residue on the wall today. The spellwork’s been heavily tampered with, but the signature’s still there. Embedded. Like a watermark.”

Silence rippled across the room like a held breath.

“If I’m right,” Draco continued, tapping the sketch with one finger, “you’ll find the same imprint on the belongings of the other victims. Just beneath the top layer of magic. Hidden, but not invisible.”

Robards didn’t hesitate. He barked out an order to a junior Auror to bring out the old evidence files—everything they’d recovered from the other scenes.

Harry could feel the shift in momentum. The energy in the room was electric now. Every Auror had their eyes on the sketch. On Draco. No one doubted he believed what he said. And that certainty... that was rare.

As the team scrambled into motion, Harry glanced at Draco.

He hadn’t moved. He just sat there, hands folded in his lap, calm and composed, like a man playing a game ten steps ahead of everyone else.

And Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow, without even trying, Draco Malfoy had just taken control of the entire investigation.

As the meeting wrapped and the noise died down in the conference room, Harry found himself walking Draco out through the Ministry’s polished corridors, even though Draco had already insisted—twice—that he didn’t need an escort.

But Harry had brushed that off.

"You’re the one who missed lunch because of me," he’d said gruffly, not quite meeting Draco’s eyes. "I’m not just going to toss you back onto the street."

Really, it wasn’t just about common courtesy. There was a gnawing feeling in his gut—like he owed Draco something. And that didn’t sit well with him at all.

Draco, ever the smug bastard, seemed delighted by the whole thing. He scrolled through his phone as they made their way through the Ministry lobby, notifications lighting up the screen like fireworks.

Harry had just started to relax—big mistake.

Out of nowhere, a man bumped hard into Draco. The guy wore a beat-up baseball cap, face mostly shadowed, his body twitchy and anxious like a cornered Kneazle. Draco instinctively stepped back, murmuring a quick “watch it,” but the moment he glanced down at the man, his whole demeanor shifted.

Harry noticed. “What is it—?”

Then the man jolted forward.

“Harry—oh Merlin, Harry—it’s really you—I—!”

The words were frantic, mumbled between gasps and broken reverence as he lunged, hands outstretched toward Harry. Before Harry could reach for his wand or even shove the man back, something happened.

The guy stopped mid-motion—body frozen, like he’d hit an invisible wall.

No.

Like he’d been caught.

Lifted.

By the scruff of his collar.

Harry stared in stunned disbelief.

Draco stood beside him, wand raised, his grip unwavering. His face—sweet, sly, smug Draco—was gone. What stared down at the man was something cold. Uncompromising. Dangerous.

It was like someone had flipped a switch.

There was nothing gentle in the way Draco held the man. He looked… lethal. Prepared. As though he wasn’t just reacting—he was anticipating.

Harry’s stomach twisted. He’d never seen Draco like that.

Not even during the war.

But before he could say anything, the Ministry guards descended in a blur of red robes and rigid protocol, quickly relieving Draco of his catch and dragging the man away.

Then, just as quickly, Draco turned to Harry and extended a hand like nothing had happened.

Harry blinked at it for half a second before taking it, letting Draco pull him upright with effortless strength.

He brushed himself off, scowling as he looked toward the struggling figure being manhandled across the lobby.

“Oh, not again,” he muttered.

Draco quirked a brow. “Friend of yours?”

Harry sighed. “More like my number one self-proclaimed fan. Shows up from time to time. Last I heard, he was barred from Ministry grounds.”

He turned to the guards. “How the hell did he get in?”

They scrambled to respond, tripping over excuses about security lapses and forged clearance. Harry just waved them off, exasperated. “Just get him out. And make sure he doesn’t come back. Again.”

Draco hummed as they resumed walking. “Does this happen often?”

“Unfortunately,” Harry muttered. “People seem to have a hard time letting go of their childhood war hero.”

Draco glanced sideways at him, lips twitching. “Oh, don’t be modest. You were so poster-worthy.”

Harry groaned, rubbing his eyes. “Please stop.”

“No, no, I remember now,” Draco went on with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “That heroic pose they used on the Chocolate Frog cards? Did you ever learn how to not broodingly stare into the distance?”

“I swear to Merlin—”

“But it’s okay, Potter,” Draco teased, glancing down at him with mock sympathy. “I still have mine.”

Harry choked. “You what?”

But Draco just feigned innocence, clasping his hands behind his back. “You’re very collectible, you know.”

Harry’s ears betrayed him—turning pink despite every effort to stay composed. He gritted his teeth. “Don’t you have a company to get back to?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “My, my. So eager to get rid of me already?”

“I’m questioning all my life choices right now.”

Draco laughed—low, rich, infuriating.

“Good,” he said, turning on his heel as the lift dinged in the distance. “That means I’m doing my job.”

And just like that, he was gone, swallowed by the crowd of the Ministry, leaving Harry half-amused, half-annoyed, and entirely off balance.

As always.

When the weekend finally rolled around, Harry was clinging to consciousness by the frayed hem of his sanity.

His desk at the Ministry was an absolute disaster—layers upon layers of case files, half-drunk coffee cups, scattered memos, and a half-eaten sandwich that had been abandoned at some indeterminate hour two nights ago. His desk at home looked worse. The only difference was that the mess there was illuminated by the glow of the cursed corkboard he’d turned into a makeshift murder map. Photos of victims, strands of red string, circled addresses and scribbled notes formed a chaotic tapestry of obsession.

It was Hermione who finally cracked first.

She and Ron walked into his Grimmauld Place on Saturday afternoon—no knocking, of course—and found him frozen in place, staring at the board like if he stared hard enough it might start whispering secrets to him. Hermione stopped in the doorway, eyes wide, and muttered, “Oh no… he’s officially turned into that guy.”

Ron, bless him, looked mildly horrified. “He hasn’t put a tin hat on, so I think he’s still salvageable.”

Harry didn’t even respond. Just muttered something incomprehensible, his fingers twitching toward a folder on the desk like it held the key to all of life’s problems.

That was when Ron made the executive decision.

With the kind of physical strength only a best mate with years of experience dealing with Harry’s bullshit could muster, he physically dragged him out of the house. “Mate, I’m serious. If I left you in there one more night I swear I was going to find mushrooms growing on your back. The place smells like mildew and insanity.”

Harry grumbled, protesting like a grumpy old man. “If you’re not going to let me work, at least let me go home and sleep.”

“You mean lie in bed with your eyes open while mentally dissecting blood splatter patterns?” Hermione shot back, arms crossed. “Yeah, no thanks.”

Touché.

She still held the undefeated championship in “arguments Harry James Potter will never win,” a title she earned sometime around second year and had never relinquished.

So that’s how he found himself—war hero, top Head Auror candidate, serial killer obsessive, and barely-functioning human—standing grumpily in front of a bar like a hostage of friendship.

Ron clapped him on the back. “You’ll thank us later.”

“I’ll hex you now and thank you never,” Harry muttered.

But before he could make a break for it, Hermione had already opened the door and practically frog-marched him inside. And there, seated around a large table under soft warm lighting, were familiar faces.

Seamus. Dean. Ginny. Luna. Neville.

They all looked up with bright smiles and chorused, “Hey, Harry!”

Seamus grinned. “Bloody miracle they got you out of the Ministry. What was it this time, bribes or blackmail?”

Ron slumped into the seat next to Dean and grunted. “Rock-paper-scissors. I lost. Again. Next time, one of you lot can drag him out of his man-cave.”

Dean laughed. “Hey, I told you not to pick paper twice in a row. That’s on you.”

Harry blinked. “Wait, hold on—you all bet on who’d have to come fetch me? You turned my burnout into a game?”

Ginny, calm and cool as ever, didn’t even blink. “Of course we did. We’ve known you long enough to start laying odds.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off, flagging down the waiter. “Let’s order. The full gang’s here now.”

Harry sighed in defeat, rubbing a hand down his face, but when he looked around at the grinning, chaotic, slightly mad group of people who’d somehow stuck around for decades—through war, trauma, distance, and ridiculous schedules—he felt a warmth he hadn’t realized he missed.

Fine. One night. No case files. No corkboards. No serial killers.

Just friends.

The kind you can’t outrun, ouwit, or out-stubborn.

He could give them that much.

Maybe.

Luna, sweet mysterious Luna, was the first to ask, in that dreamy lilt of hers, “So, Harry… how are things going?”

Harry let out a groan that probably echoed straight into the afterlife, dragging his fingers down his face before taking a long sip of his beer. “I’m going to die,” he said flatly. “Like, any day now. Robards stuck me with a case that’s chewing my sanity alive, and I swear, I’m losing brain cells every time he yells at me. The man spits so much when he’s mad. It’s not yelling—it’s tactical drowning.”

Ron snorted. “And it’s not just the one case either. They’ve been stacking files on our desks like they think we’ve got four hands and zero need for sleep.”

Neville gave a sympathetic smile. “Sounds like the war didn’t exactly buy you a peaceful retirement.”

Ron huffed. “Retirement? The only thing that’s retired is my will to live.”

Then, with all the subtlety of a drama queen on stage, he said, “And as if that wasn’t enough, we ran into someone we all thought was long gone.”

The whole table leaned in. Chairs creaked. Drinks paused mid-air. Even Luna blinked out of her usual faraway haze. All except Hermione and Harry, who just kept sipping their drinks, already knowing where this was headed.

Ron, ever the dramatic sibling, let the suspense build, deliberately taking a sip from his butterbeer as if the room wasn’t vibrating with anticipation.

“Ron,” Ginny snapped, “cut the bullshit and spit it out. You’re not narrating a bloody murder mystery.”

“Bit more respect to your older brother wouldn’t kill you,” Ron muttered.

Ginny flipped him off with a sweet smile. “Love you too, Ronald.”

“Anyway,” he grumbled, “we followed a lead… and it brought us to Draco Malfoy.”

The collective gasp could’ve cracked the bar windows.

Dean blinked. “Malfoy?! Are you serious?”

Seamus leaned forward. “I thought that bloke was dead! It’s been fifteen bloody years!”

“Right?” Dean nodded. “I completely forgot he existed.”

Ron glanced sidelong at Harry, that smug older-brother-knows-you're-lying look. “And guess what Golden Boy here did.”

Harry threw his hands up, already exasperated. “What now?!”

“You hired him.”

The table exploded again.

“You what?” Dean choked.

“Excuse me?” Ginny squawked.

Even Luna’s eyebrows climbed to her hairline. “How curious.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but said nothing. She’d clearly seen this chaos coming from miles away.

Ron kept going, because of course he did. “Yeah. After we cleared him as a suspect, Harry—Potter, who’s supposed to be sane—decided to bring Malfoy on board. As a consultant.”

“Oh, it gets better,” he added, enjoying every second. “Malfoy’s been living in the Muggle world this whole time. Works in a bloody company. Wears these obnoxiously fitted suits and uses a… a… mo-bil-y.”

Hermione sighed. “It’s pronounced mobile, Ron.”

“Whatever!” Ron barked. “He’s still a git.”

Luna, radiant and unbothered, just smiled. “That’s actually wonderful news. I’m glad he’s doing well. Muggles are fascinating people. I imagine he fits in nicely.”

Someone scoffed.

All heads turned toward Harry.

He stared down at his drink, then up at everyone watching him, suspicious and smug.

“What?” he demanded.

Neville smiled a little awkwardly. “Well… I mean, last time we saw you near Malfoy, you were kind of—”

“—obsessed,” Ginny finished, sipping her wine with all the satisfaction of a sibling with dirt to spill. “Honestly, Harry, there were times I wasn’t sure if you fancied me or him more.”

The table erupted with cackles.

“Dean, back me up,” Ginny said.

Dean held up both hands like a surrender. “I mean, I thought it was a love-hate thing, but it got weird sometimes, mate.”

Seamus nodded vigorously. “Remember sixth year? That time Malfoy walked into the Great Hall and you stared at him for, like, a full minute? You looked like you were trying to kill him with your brain—or snog him into a wall.”

Luna nodded. “I always thought the tension between you two was very spiritually charged.”

“What tension?!” Harry sputtered, beet-red and scandalized.

“Oh, Harry,” Ginny laughed, patting his hand mock-sweetly. “You’ll come around eventually.”

Harry groaned, slumping further into his seat and muttering into his beer, “I am never bringing up Malfoy around any of you ever again.”

But the flush in his ears betrayed him, and everyone knew it.

Yeah. They definitely weren’t letting this one go.

A few drinks in—right when the noise had settled into that warm buzz of laughter and clinking glasses—Hermione tilted her head, eyes sharp and cutting through the fog of alcohol like a blade.

“Harry,” she said, voice casual but laced with intent, “what exactly happened in the Ministry lobby this week? I overheard a few coworkers talking. Something about a commotion? An attacker?”

And just like that, all eyes were on him again. The whole table snapped to attention like a synchronized spell.

Harry groaned internally. Outwardly, he just waved a hand like it was nothing. “It was nothing. Just some fan.”

The silence that followed was immediate and heavy. You could practically hear the frown lines forming on everyone’s foreheads.

“Are you still being stalked?” Seamus asked, dead serious for once.

Dean leaned forward. “Was it the same guy from last time?”

Ron looked downright offended. “And you didn’t think to mention it?!”

Harry raised both hands. “Because it was handled! Guards took the guy away. Situation resolved. No one was hurt, no need to panic—”

“I mean, Malfoy grabbed him before—” he cut himself off. Too late.

Ginny’s smirk was the stuff of nightmares. “Malfoy saved you?” she purred, voice low and way too pleased. “From a deranged stalker? Huh. Interesting…”

Harry groaned, facepalming. “Don’t. Don’t start. It wasn’t like that. He just happened to be walking with me when it happened—reflex, probably. He didn't save me. Stop making it weird.”

“Oh, mate, it’s already weird,” Seamus muttered, grinning into his pint.

“I still don’t trust him one bit,” Harry snapped, clearly flustered, “but… he might be helpful for the case, and that’s the only reason—”

“Uh huh,” Hermione said, nodding slowly, effectively cutting him off. Her expression was unreadable. Dangerous. Like a judge at a sentencing.

Ron, bless his oblivious soul, looked around in confusion. “Wait—what’s everyone implying? That Harry and Malfoy—?”

“Oh my God, Ronald,” Ginny groaned, exasperated. “Do we need to draw you a diagram?”

Thankfully—mercifully—Neville, the hero they didn’t deserve, cleared his throat. “Regardless of whatever that was,” he said kindly, “you need to be more careful, Harry. That’s what… the fourth incident this year?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, it’s not funny anymore, mate. These people know where you work. That’s not just creepy—it’s dangerous.”

“I’m fine,” Harry said. “Really.”

They all gave him the look. That universal no-you’re-not look shared by friends who’ve seen you at your worst and lived to tell the tale.

He sighed. Drained his glass. Knew the conversation wasn’t over—only delayed.

Because whether or not he wanted to admit it… they were right. The attacks were getting worse. The killer was getting bolder.

And Malfoy—bloody Malfoy—might be the only one who could keep up.

Harry wasn’t planning on hiding—but it sure as hell felt like it.

He didn’t mean to bolt, not really. It was just… too much. All the worried eyes, the concern he didn’t know how to take, the way his name came up too easily when danger was involved. Leave it to him and his trauma to dodge vulnerability like it was the actual killer they were hunting. So he excused himself. Loo break. Classic cop-out.

The alcohol buzz made the walk a little more complicated than it should’ve been. Not drunk. Just… pleasantly unfocused. He had to concentrate on not tripping over his own feet—though he doubted anyone would notice even if he did. Everyone was too busy making jokes and connecting imaginary dots between him and bloody Malfoy.

He stumbled into the stall, the bathroom about as clean as you could expect from a bar—functional, vaguely damp, with the faint scent of cheap soap. When he was done and headed to the sink, the cool water helped sharpen his edges a bit. Good. He needed a breather.

Then the door creaked open behind him.

And the second he glanced at the mirror, he forgot how to breathe.

Because there, reflected over his shoulder with all the smugness of a man who absolutely knew what he was doing, stood Draco sodding Malfoy.

Harry’s brain straight up glitched. Completely froze.

Gone were the stiff suits and tie clips and spotless collars he’d grown used to seeing. Tonight, Malfoy looked like sin dressed in monochrome. The dark grey vest hugged his torso indecently well, black shirt sleeves rolled just past his forearms, held in place by sleeve garters—sleeve garters, for Merlin’s sake. No jacket. The top few buttons undone. Tie loosened. Hair slightly tousled, like someone had run their fingers through it.

It should’ve been illegal.

He looked too good. Way too good. And he was smirking like he knew it.

Harry wanted to punch him. Or maybe himself. Or the mirror. Anything to break the tension suddenly thickening in the air like magic before a storm.

“What are the odds, hmm?” Malfoy asked, voice low and amused as he leaned against the door, arms crossed. He looked like he belonged in a bloody cologne ad.

Harry rolled his eyes hard enough to sprain something. He turned back to the sink, finishing his hand washing just to have something to do. “I could ask you the same,” he muttered, feigning casual. “What are you doing here?”

Malfoy tilted his head, indulgent. “I asked first. But if you must know,” he sighed dramatically, “my department had a dinner. And as the director—unfortunately—I had to attend. We’re bar-hopping now.” He gestured vaguely with one hand. “Team bonding. Disgusting, isn’t it?”

Harry snorted. “I came out with some friends.”

“Mmh.” Draco stepped closer.

Too close.

Harry immediately backed up, instincts kicking in, but space was not on his side. The sink pressed into his lower back. Nowhere to go. And Malfoy was still coming.

His muscles tensed. He was seconds away from raising his wand or his knee—whichever struck first—when Draco stopped just close enough to hover.

And then.

He leaned in—not enough to touch, but enough to breathe him in. And he did. Actually sniffed.

Harry’s whole body went still. That was it. The final straw. He was about to go full Auror—

But then Draco pulled back with a mock-thoughtful hum and said, “Ugh. You’ve been drinking Cromley’s Gold Lager. You have terrible taste in beer, Potter.”

The audacity.

Harry blinked. Flushed. Then narrowed his eyes so fast the shift was almost audible. “Are you serious right now?”

Malfoy’s smile was infuriatingly innocent. “Deadly.”

“You sniffed me.”

“I analyzed you,” Draco corrected, preening slightly. “Very different.”

“Merlin, you are so—”

“—perceptive? Dashing? Irresistible?”

Harry groaned. “I was going to say insufferable.”

Malfoy gave him a long, slow look. Then, with that damn knowing smirk, he reached past Harry to the hand dryer and said, way too close to his ear, “You’ll come around, Potter. You always do.”

Harry’s heart stuttered in spite of himself.

Because that, that tone, that smirk, the way Malfoy carried himself like he was both predator and prize? That was dangerous.

And Harry wasn’t sure if he was more annoyed… or intrigued.

The moment Draco stepped into the stall, Harry bolted—like an idiot. He didn’t think. Didn’t plan. Just fled.

He practically sprinted back to the booth like a fugitive, heart still pounding like he’d seen a Boggart, and not a smug, unfairly hot ex-nemesis sniffing him like he was a vintage wine. He dropped into his seat with the grace of a collapsing bookshelf and immediately started scanning the room, eyes darting from table to table like he was searching for Death Eaters in disguise.

“Why were you gone so long?” Hermione asked, arching an eyebrow over her drink. “And why are you looking around like Voldemort’s resurrected and you’re the only one who knows?”

Harry gave the most unconvincing laugh in the history of lies. “It’s nothing. Just… bathroom line.” Then, without even trying to be subtle, “Hey, maybe we should head to a different bar. This one’s kind of crowded, don’t you think?”

Dean gave him a suspicious look. “Crowded? Mate, half the tables are empty.”

Ginny leaned forward, scrutinizing him. “You look kind of red. Are you okay? Maybe you’ve had one too many.”

“Or,” Luna said dreamily, “he might’ve attracted a curious Glimmerstalk. They only show up when you’re hiding something emotionally charged.”

Harry gave her a tight smile. “Great. Thanks. Maybe I just need to get some air.”

But he didn’t move—because right then, the universe kicked him in the arse again.

Draco Malfoy stepped out of the bathroom.

Harry’s eyes locked onto him instantly. The smug bastard was back to business mode, clothes straightened up, that same angelic, polite smile back in place like the bathroom incident had never happened. He made his way to a booth a few tables down, sliding effortlessly into a seat among what had to be his coworkers—young, polished-looking professionals who hung on his every word like he was Merlin reincarnated.

Malfoy glanced around once.

Then, of course, his eyes found Harry.

Like he’d known exactly where he was the whole time.

Harry realized he’d been staring too long when Seamus blurted, “Bloody hell, it is Malfoy! And he’s alive!”

Dean leaned forward, jaw slack. “And working with Muggles? What the hell—he looks like someone cut him out of a bloody magazine.”

Ginny didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, well, muggle life’s done him good. I’d totally go for that.”

Harry nearly choked on his drink. “Excuse me?!”

She shrugged, utterly unapologetic. “What? I’m just saying the truth. He’s hot. Like, corporate villain with a tragic past hot.”

Ron looked scandalized. “You can’t just say that!”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “I’m a grown woman, Ronald. I’ll oogle whoever I want.”

Luna, as serene as ever, murmured, “He seems happy now.”

Neville nodded. “Yeah. Good for him.”

Harry wanted to die. The entire table was talking about how hot Draco Malfoy was, as if that wasn’t going to give him a complex for the next decade.

Hermione, who had stayed quiet up until then, took a gentle sip of her wine and smirked. “Oh, let Harry be,” she said lightly. “He’s just flustered probably because he stumbled upon Malfoy in the loo.”

Harry turned to her in horror. “Hermione.”

The table exploded with laughter.

Ginny cackled. “Oh, really? So he saved you from a stalker and he’s getting handsy in public restrooms now? I like this new Malfoy. If you’re not going to tap that arse, Harry, I absolutely will.”

“GINNY—!”

Harry groaned, burying his face in his hands as the teasing reached critical levels. From the corner of his eye, he could feel Malfoy’s gaze again. He dared a glance.

And of course, Malfoy was smiling wider now. That too-perfect, know-it-all smile that said, yes, I heard every word. The smug twat.

Mercifully, Draco stood, grabbed his suit jacket, and addressed his coworkers with a charming little “See you Monday,” like he hadn’t just lit Harry’s entire evening on fire. They all looked devastated at his departure, watching him go like schoolgirls watching a boyband walk off stage.

Harry tried so hard not to watch him leave.

He failed.

When he turned back to the table, all eyes—except Ron’s—were locked on him with knowing expressions. Ginny looked one second away from making another “tap that” comment.

He wanted to sink into the floor. He wanted to Obliviate everyone. He wanted to hex himself. Or maybe Malfoy. Or both.

Coming tonight?

Definitely not a good idea.

Chapter Text

The air in Knockturn Alley always seemed to cling to the skin—thick, greasy, and sour. Harry had long since stopped trying to scrub the stench of decay and damp from his robes after assignments here. It was just part of the territory. A month had passed since the disaster of that bar night, and though he hadn’t seen Draco since, the image of sleeve garters and a devil-may-care smirk still haunted his brain like an inconvenient ghost. So of course, burying himself in cases was the only sensible thing to do.

At least this one was simpler. On the surface, anyway.

Harry stood beside Ron inside the cramped, poorly lit apothecary tucked between two collapsing buildings, the sign above their heads barely legible and the glass display smudged with Merlin-knew-what. They were waiting for the owner, following a report about illegal potion sales circulating through Hogwarts’ student body. Students collapsing after quidditch afterparties had triggered Minerva’s alarm bells. She’d written them personally, and that was all it took. You didn’t say no to McGonagall. Not then, not now.

Harry shifted his weight and adjusted the strap around his neck, letting his Auror badge swing against his chest. It felt too shiny in this place, too clean. Too obvious.

“How many times have we asked the ministry to redesign these bloody robes?” he muttered to Ron.

“They think red makes us look brave,” Ron replied. “I think it makes us look like hexable targets.”

Harry gave a dry grunt of agreement just as the apothecary’s back curtain shifted and a man emerged. Wiry, twitchy fingers, thinning hair, eyes like twitching needles. The moment he spotted their badges, his forced smile faltered.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?”

Ron, used to Harry’s knack for scaring suspects into silence, took the lead. “Routine questioning. We’ve had reports of potion-based substances doing the rounds with underage wizards. Know anything about that?”

The man sputtered. “O-of course not. Strictly licensed—legit potions only here. I’ve got the papers—”

Harry ignored the chatter. Instead, he let his eyes wander. Knockturn Alley shops were all about the things they didn’t put out in plain sight, but sometimes, the most damning evidence was hiding in plain packaging.

His eyes landed on a dusty shelf tucked in the corner, bizarrely out of place with its bright, cheerful display of sweets. Chocolate frogs, rainbow drops, fizzing whizbees—all stock that belonged more in a Honeydukes window than here. His brows furrowed.

“You sell candy now?” he asked, taking a slow step toward it.

The man stiffened. “Y-you’d be surprised, Auror Potter. Adults love their sugar. Helps with business.”

“In Knockturn?” Harry’s tone was skeptical. “Where kids aren’t allowed and half your clientele look like they have teeth cursed out of their skulls?”

The man laughed nervously. “It, uh… it helps.”

Ron was wrapping things up with the usual warning spiel, but Harry wasn’t done. Something itched at the back of his mind—something about the candy shelf.

Then he saw it.

A familiar candy wrapper—silver with a twisting red stripe along the edge. Harmless-looking, unless you’d already seen one poking from the bag of a fifteen-year-old Hufflepuff girl nearly comatose in the hospital wing. Pomfrey hadn’t known what she’d taken. Harry hadn’t either.

Until now.

He turned slowly, eyes locking on the shopkeeper—and immediately knew.

The man’s smile had vanished. He was already watching Harry. His body taut. Feet shifting. Eyes flicking to the door.

Harry took a single step forward.

The man bolted.

“Shit—Ron!” Harry barked, and they were off.

The chase erupted into the alley like a spell gone wrong. The suspect shoved a barrel of soot over as he ran, forcing Harry to leap over it. Ron swore behind him, dodging crates and scowling patrons as they careened down narrow streets. Passersby cursed and leapt out of the way. Harry’s boots thundered against the stones, wand drawn.

Knockturn Alley was not made for chasing people.

The cobbled paths were uneven, the buildings hunched and too close together, and the smell—Merlin, the smell—was enough to make your eyes water if you weren’t careful. But Harry didn’t care. His boots slammed against the stone as he dashed past cloaked figures, carts stacked with suspicious powders, and dark corners that whispered curses. All that mattered right now was catching the bastard who thought selling poison disguised as sweets to teenagers was profitable.

They twisted around corners, past boarded windows and sagging doorframes. The shopkeeper was fast—but Harry was faster.

The man skidded down a stairway into a darkened side alley, nearly tumbling. He aimed his wand and fired a Stupefy blindly over his shoulder—Harry ducked, the spell cracking the brick wall beside his head.

“You’re only making this worse!” Harry shouted.

“Ron, he’s heading toward the back alleys!” Harry shouted over his shoulder, wand in hand. A burst of red light flew past him from Ron’s direction, just barely missing the fleeing man’s feet. “Try not to kill him, yeah?!”

Ron huffed behind him. “Not making promises if he makes me run for more than five minutes!”

They darted past a street vendor who screamed bloody murder when Harry overturned his cart in pursuit. A blur of movement—then the man made a sharp turn into a narrow passage between two leaning buildings.

Harry followed.

And regretted it instantly.

The passage was barely shoulder-width. The walls scraped at his robes and cloak, and he nearly tripped over a loose brick.

The man didn’t stop.

But he made a mistake.

He turned into a dead-end.

The wall reared up, tall and unyielding. He tried to climb it—foolish. By the time he scrambled halfway up, Harry was already there.

“Expelliarmus!”

The wand flew. The man dropped. Harry shoved him to the ground and pressed his own wand to the man’s temple.

“Going somewhere?” he panted.

The man was wheezing, panicked eyes darting between Harry and the fence. Then Ron came barreling over, red in the face and gasping like a winded hippogriff. “You… are not… paid enough for this…”

Harry ignored him. “You’re under arrest for the distribution of unregistered potion substances, intent to harm underage witches and wizards, obstruction of justice—shall I go on?”

The man whimpered. “I—it was just sugar—”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Try again. I’ve got six students in St. Mungo’s and a school full of terrified parents who’d love to hear more about your sweets.”

The man went pale.

Ron approached them, red-faced, breathless, and wheezing. “If you’re… done playing savior… we have paperwork to file.”

Harry didn’t answer. He was staring at the candy wrapper still clutched in his hand.

Ron bound his hands with a flick of his wand. “You know, if you hadn’t run, this would’ve been a lot easier.”

“But much less satisfying,” Harry muttered.

Once the suspect was secured and they were heading back to the apothecary for evidence collection, Ron nudged Harry with his elbow.

“You alright?”

Harry nodded but didn’t speak.

Ron didn’t press. He knew that look—tight shoulders, sharp focus, eyes flickering with something too intense. The first time Harry looked like that, they were hunting Death Eaters in Albania.

Fifteen years post-war, and the darkness had simply changed masks.

But Harry?

He was still chasing it.

Back in the ministry, the sterile hum of enchanted ceiling lights and shuffling parchment did little to help Harry’s headache. Ron had already handed off their suspect to another Auror for processing—thank Merlin for that—and Harry had dragged himself back to his desk, fingers already twitching at the thought of the report he’d have to write.

Paperwork.

The bane of his entire existence.

For all the chaos, duels, and undercover stings, it was the dull ache of administrative duty that truly aged him. He’d take surveillance over documentation any day. Even patrolling Knockturn at midnight during a storm sounded preferable to this. But no, solve a case, and suddenly you're rewarded with three forms, two witness statements, and an incident summary, all in triplicate.

He groaned quietly, scribbling down the basics. Time of arrest. Suspect behavior. Statement. He wasn’t even allowed to handle the interrogation unless the bloke turned out to be stubborn enough to require Harry’s reputation. Robards had made sure of that.

Unofficially, of course.

Something about Harry being “a little too enthusiastic” in the past. Which was just a fancy way of saying "You scared the suspect so bad he cried, and now we’re being watched." Again—not his fault. If people didn’t want to be hexed into confessing, they shouldn’t poison school kids. He blamed his childhood trauma. And maybe a bit of inherited rage.

He was halfway through grumbling over phrasing when a sharp knock on the edge of his desk made him look up.

It was Amy Lim.

Tall, broad-shouldered, practically carved from stone—the kind of witch who looked like she could bench press a dragon and wouldn’t flinch while doing it. Harry had never seen her smile. He wasn't even sure she could. But she was one of the best Aurors he’d worked with, and the moment Robards gave him the freedom to build a team, she’d been at the top of his list.

So when Amy looked rattled, he knew something was up.

“What is it?” he asked, already straightening.

“We’ve got something on the serial killer case,” she said briskly. “We finally came up with a name.”

Harry blinked. “A name? For the killer?”

“For the case,” she clarified. “You know. Press wants something. It’s cheesy, but it works.”

He grunted. “Let me guess—‘The Alleyway Butcher’? ‘The Muggle Mask’?”

Amy rolled her eyes. “The Serpent’s Shadow.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Melodramatic. But… fitting.”

She didn’t smile. Of course she didn’t.

“What’s the lead?” he asked, standing.

Amy handed him a file. “Thomas Avery.”

Harry flipped it open, brow furrowing. “Avery? Again? I thought we went over this—his father was a Death Eater, sure, but the kid barely had a record. No signs of activity. No confirmed links. The guy was practically a ghost.”

Her voice dropped just slightly. “We thought so. But it seems he was hiding more than we knew. One of the new recruits cross-referenced some older documents—unsealed logs from before the Ministry’s purge back in '06. Turns out Thomas Avery might’ve been a courier.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Courier for who?”

She met his gaze. “Not who. What. He was moving objects. Cursed items. Dark artifacts.”

He swore under his breath, flipping the file again, eyes racing across the text. “And no one caught this before?”

“It was hidden. Erased, actually. Someone scrubbed his records clean. We only found it because the new guy was tracing the last known location of one of the artifacts.”

“And?”

“And it showed up in his flat.”

Harry’s pulse kicked. This wasn’t just coincidence. This was deliberate. Someone had helped Avery disappear, clean his trail, cover him in enough innocence to keep him out of suspicion—and now he was dead with a cursed ring on his finger and a magic residue that matched five other victims.

Which meant...

Harry looked up. “Where’s Malfoy?”

Her expression didn’t change, but her posture stiffened. “Why?”

Harry grabbed his wand and holster. “Because the only person who noticed the residue’s magical signature... was him.”

And if Malfoy had seen something once…

Then he might be the only one who could see what came next.

Harry stormed into LUXOR like a stormcloud in boots, moving with the kind of determination that made security guards itch for their radios. For once, he wasn’t in Auror robes—he’d at least had the foresight to throw on a jacket—but his badge hung around his neck like a neon sign that screamed trouble. He wasn’t here for pleasantries. He wasn’t here for protocol.

He was here for answers.

The poor receptionist looked up, and her eyes widened in a very I-was-not-trained-for-this kind of way. He slammed the badge down on the counter, the magic shimmer of the enchantment adjusting instantly to match local enforcement clearance.

“Malfoy. Now,” he snapped.

She fumbled for the phone like it was a live wire, her fingers trembling as she dialed through to his office. “M-Mr. Malfoy,” she stammered. “There’s… an officer here to see you.” A pause. Then she stood, clearly relieved she wasn’t about to get yelled at. “He’s expecting you. I’ll let you through.”

The sleek little security gate hissed open once she tapped her ID to the scanner. He didn’t bother thanking her—didn’t have time to—and instead made a beeline for the lift. Thirteenth floor. He'd remembered it was the bloody thirteenth. Malfoy had to be dramatic even with his office placement.

The moment the doors opened, it was déjà vu. Heads turned. Whispers bloomed like wildflowers in his wake. Everyone had the same look: curiosity with a hint of fear. Because a cop like Harry Potter in a corporate office meant something was going down. And no one wanted to be caught in the crossfire.

He didn’t knock. He didn’t pause.

He burst through those pretentious wooden doors and marched straight up to the desk where Draco Malfoy sat like a smug little monarch, London’s skyline sprawling behind him like a crown.

“Potter,” Draco greeted, glancing up from his paperwork, lips curling into a knowing smile. “What brings you here this time? Don’t tell me there’s another victim already.”

Harry slammed his palms down on the desk, hard. “Cut the act.”

Draco raised an elegant brow. “Pardon?”

“You knew Avery. Knew more than you told us. And now you’re playing consultant on a case you’re way too comfortable with. So tell me—what the hell are you hiding?”

Draco tilted his head, almost intrigued. That damned smile didn’t fade—it sharpened. “Merlin, you’re intense today,” he murmured. “It’s cute. You get this little line between your brows when you’re trying not to explode.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “Malfoy—”

“I’m not playing around, Potter,” Draco interrupted, voice lower now. “But fine. You want answers?” He leaned back casually, reached into the drawer behind him, and pulled out a stack of receipts. Tossed them onto the desk with a thud.

Harry blinked. “What’s this?”

“Alibi,” Draco said smoothly. “Company dinner. Look at the dates and timestamps. You’ll find I was eating overpriced steak and pretending to laugh at corporate jokes the night Avery died. You’re welcome to question anyone on my team. They were all there.”

Harry flipped through the receipts. The times matched. The date matched. He hated how neat it was.

“Think about it,” Draco went on, voice silk and steel. “You think I murdered Avery, erased his ties to Death Eaters from Ministry records, and then what? Offered myself as a consultant to you? That's quite the compliment, Potter. I didn’t think you held me in such high regard.”

Harry scowled, practically growling. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Draco’s smile widened. “Too late.”

Harry shoved the receipts back across the desk. His mood had tanked and now he was just left with more frustration and no leads.

He turned to leave, pausing only at the doorway.

“This isn’t over.”

Draco’s voice followed him out like a smirk pressed to his ear.

“I’d be disappointed if it was.”

When Harry stomped back into the Ministry, he dropped into his chair with the grace of a falling Bludger. Ron was already there, arms crossed and wearing that look—half concern, half what now?—that Harry had seen way too many times. Before Ron could even open his mouth, Harry muttered darkly, “Malfoy.”

Ron blinked, then just nodded in understanding like that explained everything.

But what really threw Harry wasn’t the sympathy—it was what Ron said next.

“Maybe,” Ron started, cautiously, “you should… let Malfoy off the hook this time.”

Harry nearly whiplashed upright in disbelief. “What?”

“I mean,” Ron said with an awkward shrug, “doesn’t mean I like the guy, but come on. He’s been living like a bloody accountant for the past fifteen years. Ever since that night at the bar… he seems like he’s actually just, you know—normal. Annoying, posh, still a git—but normal.”

Harry stared at him like he’d just confessed to being a Death Eater. Ron. Ron Weasley. Was defending Draco Malfoy.

“Are you seriously saying you believe him?” Harry asked, eyes narrowing.

Ron rolled his eyes. “I’m saying that if he was the killer, it doesn’t make sense that he’d wait over a decade to start picking people off. Not when he had the perfect chance to disappear for good. Why come back into the light, work with you of all people, and risk everything just to leave breadcrumbs?”

Harry had no comeback. Because… he wasn’t wrong.

The receipts. The alibi. The smile that made him want to throw something through a window. Maybe—just maybe—he had overreacted. Malfoy had even bought him shawarma when he’d caught him spying, for Merlin’s sake. If that wasn’t proof of innocence, it was at least a gesture Harry hadn’t expected. And now that he thought about it... storming into a Muggle corporate building, flashing a badge, and slamming hands on Malfoy’s desk probably hadn’t been the most rational move.

That’s how he found himself, hours later, back in front of LUXOR. Just standing there like a complete idiot.

The lights on the thirteenth floor were the last to go out. Of course. Always the bloody thirteenth. Harry leaned against a pillar outside the building, arms crossed, face unreadable except for the storm behind his eyes.

Then the glass doors slid open.

Draco Malfoy stepped out—polished, composed, and entirely too attractive for someone who had probably been staring at spreadsheets for ten hours. Pinstripe suit, vest tailored to within an inch of his life, hair slightly tousled like he'd just run a hand through it, and car keys dangling between his fingers.

He stopped when he saw Harry. Raised an eyebrow. Smiled.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “What did I do to deserve the one and only Harry Potter… twice in a single day?”

Harry didn’t flinch. His arms stayed crossed, his posture tense. “I remembered I never paid you back for the shawarma,” he said, tone clipped. “I hate feeling indebted.”

Draco’s smile widened. “Look at you. All serious and mature now. I’m almost proud.”

Harry scoffed. “It’s a one-time offer. Take it or leave it.”

That damned innocent smile slipped right into place again. The one Harry hated more every time he saw it—because he couldn’t tell if it was genuine or just part of Malfoy’s lifelong hobby of driving him insane.

Draco tilted his head. “Well then,” he said, eyes glinting. “What are we waiting for?”

He gestured for Harry to follow him toward the car.

And Merlin, what a car.

The interior smelled like expensive leather and lavender, and the seats were so soft they made Harry feel like he was being seduced by upholstery. As they pulled out of the parking lot, he shifted awkwardly and muttered, “I've been thinking about this for a while but, since when do you even know how to drive?”

Draco gave him a look from the corner of his eye. “Fifteen years living among Muggles teaches you a thing or two. I even make coffee now. From scratch.”

“Gods forbid,” Harry mumbled, and silence settled for a while.

It was… weird. This was the first time they were alone. Not because of work, not because of some incident. Just… two people, in a car, going out for food.

Harry glanced over. Draco looked like money. Like calm. Like everything he wasn’t. And it pissed him off how good he looked doing nothing at all.

Then, the soft hum of a familiar melody started as Draco turned on the radio. Harry’s head tilted. “Wait… is that Queen?”

Draco chuckled. “Discovered them while learning about Muggle culture. Fell in love with the music. 70s and 80s rock has a certain flair.”

Harry let out a low hum. “Found a box of old vinyls at Grimmauld. They were Sirius’. Haven’t stopped listening since.”

Draco glanced at him, expression unreadable. “Guess we have something in common then.”

Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

They pulled up to the restaurant. A little hole-in-the-wall joint Harry knew for its dumplings. As they stepped out, Harry gestured with his chin. “Hope you like dumplings.”

Draco smirked. “I’ll try not to be too disappointed if they’re not up to shawarma standards.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Don’t push your luck.”

But there was a flicker—just a flicker—of something different in the air between them.

And for once, Harry didn’t hate it.

Harry hadn’t planned for this. He wasn’t the kind of person who made space in his schedule for anything that wasn’t tied to a case file, a crime scene, or the never-ending paperwork that haunted him like a curse. And yet, here he was—weeks after that first dumpling night—somehow stuck in what had become a ritual.

Every Tuesday. Dinner. With Draco bloody Malfoy.

It wasn’t even something they ever officially agreed to. No solemn vow, no half-assed promise. Just… a rhythm that formed. One week after dumplings, Harry walked out of the Ministry and found Malfoy waiting by the curb, leaning against yet another car like he was filming a Muggle cologne advert. No words, no smug announcement. Just a flick of keys and a look that said get in, Potter.

Next thing he knew, Harry was in the passenger seat of a sleek navy Jag, heading toward a Thai place tucked into some alley that Draco apparently “read reviews about.” Then it was Korean BBQ. Then Moroccan tagines. Then some tiny Lebanese spot that Harry still dreamed about.

Now it was Tuesday again, and Harry was slipping his jacket on and waving Ron off with some half-assed excuse about being tired. Ron raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve been leaving on time a lot lately,” he noted, suspicious but not quite accusatory.

Harry just gave a lopsided smile and said, “Trying to adult properly for once. Don't jinx it.”

Ron shrugged. “Weird. But goodnight, I guess. Don’t let the paperwork eat you in your sleep.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst way to go,” Harry muttered, slipping out into the street.

Their meeting point was a few blocks down, because of course Harry had refused to let Malfoy pull up outside the Ministry like some celebrity arriving at a red carpet event. It was bad enough the guy drove a different fancy car every week—he didn’t need the entire Auror department speculating about who Harry was “secretly dating.”

Draco was already there. Of course. Standing against a champagne-colored car, dressed in a tan suit and a black turtleneck like some kind of bloody model off a fashion runway, with his hair annoyingly perfect despite the wind.

That smile greeted him. The one that knew too much, said too little, and made Harry's chest feel like it was being poked by a very smug, very sharp stick.

“Evening, Potter,” Draco purred, casual as anything.

Harry rolled his eyes, got in the car, and buckled in. “So, what are we eating today, your highness?”

Draco chuckled. “Portuguese. I found a place in Soho. Family-owned. No reservations. Cozy atmosphere. You’ll hate it.”

Harry snorted, relaxing just a little as Bowie began to play through the speakers. “You’re getting good at predicting my reactions.”

Draco shot him a look. “I’m not psychic, Potter. You’re just painfully consistent.”

“Rude.”

“Truthful.”

And that was the thing. Somehow, amidst the war memories, the professional distance, and the murder investigations—they’d found a strange sort of… ease. The jabs weren’t barbed anymore. The silences weren’t awkward. And Harry… Harry was starting to feel the weight in his chest lift every time Bowie started playing and Malfoy pulled out onto the road.

He was getting too used to this. The food. The conversation. The low hum of the engine and Malfoy’s voice, calm and smug and frustratingly comforting.

Too used to it.

But he wasn’t about to admit that.

Not yet.

The table they picked was, as always, tucked in the quietest, darkest corner of the restaurant—just enough out of the way that no one would notice them unless they were really looking. Which, unfortunately, people tended to do when a luxury car was parked out front like it belonged to a Bond villain, and two decently attractive men in expensive coats were sipping wine and eyeing menus like the food might offend them.

Still, Harry had learned to ignore the curious stares. Let them speculate. He and Draco had developed a rhythm—soft banter, shared glances over food they’d never heard of, and the kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled.

They were browsing the menu, conversation lazily flowing between them—Draco critiquing the wine selection, Harry mocking his high standards—when a voice chimed in.

"Harry?"

Both their heads turned.

A girl with chestnut curls and wide, porcelain-doll eyes stood a few feet away, beaming at Harry like he'd just stepped out of a dream.

Harry blinked. Recognition flickered in his eyes, and then came the silent curse of someone trying to place a name with a face that had clearly erased itself from memory. After a beat, he murmured, "Silvia?"

The girl gave a dramatic little gasp. "You do remember! Barely, but I guess it still counts."

Harry laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Of course I remember. You look... great. What are you doing here?"

Silvia giggled, brushing some hair behind her ear. "Love this place. Came with a few friends. And you?"

She turned her attention toward Draco, eyes twinkling with curiosity. "Out with a friend too?"

She didn’t recognize him. How curious.

Harry nodded, trying not to look like he wanted to vanish into the floor. “Yeah. We’re just—grabbing dinner.”

Draco turned on that weaponized smile. The one Harry had seen melt boardrooms and charm entire floors of muggles into thinking he was the perfect man. “Draco Malfoy. Pleasure.”

The way Silvia lit up, Harry could feel her swooning.

Harry gave Draco a subtle, murderous side-eye. He ignored it entirely.

“And how do you two know each other?” Draco asked, voice all honey and teeth.

Harry opened his mouth—too slowly, apparently.

“Oh, we used to date,” Silvia sang, beating him to it.

Harry nearly choked on air.

Draco’s smile sharpened, still pleasant but now with just enough bite to draw blood. “Did you?”

“We did,” Silvia confirmed. “Ages ago. He was a total workaholic, though. Always had one foot out the door. But maybe he’s mellowed out now?” She gave a hopeful glance at Harry. “Looks like you’re finally making time for friends.”

Harry forced a laugh. “Still drowning in work, trust me.”

Silvia didn’t look convinced. She smiled again—sickly sweet—and rested a hand on his shoulder like she still had a claim. “Well, we should catch up sometime. Floo address?”

Harry gave a vague noncommittal hum and nodded. It was the kind of answer that meant please don’t call me but I’m too polite to say it.

When she finally walked away—swaying just a little extra, Harry noted—he let out a breath and turned to Draco.

Big mistake.

Draco was back to that smile. The one that said he knew something Harry didn’t want him to. The kind that could skin you alive without lifting a wand.

“Didn’t know you had such a colorful past, Potter. Exes crawling out of the woodwork to remind you how charming you used to be.”

Harry groaned. “She’s an old acquaintance of Ginny’s. We went out a few times, realized we had zero chemistry, and called it off. That’s it.”

Draco just hummed, sipping his wine like it didn’t taste like jealousy and regret.

Harry picked at his food when it arrived, appetite thoroughly killed.

Draco never said another word about it—but he didn’t have to.

That smile stayed long after Silvia had left.

The next morning was cruel. The kind of cruel that didn't slap you across the face, but slipped in quietly, like fog seeping under your skin and turning your insides cold. Harry Potter sat hunched at his desk, staring at a stack of parchment he hadn't touched in an hour, and all he could think about was how quiet last night had been.

How quiet Draco had been.

Dinner had been a disaster. Not even dramatic, loud, explosive disaster—just the awkward kind. The kind that lingered like bad perfume and made your skin itch.

They barely spoke after Silvia showed up, and that silence had stretched all the way to Grimmauld Place. Harry had mumbled a thanks as he stepped out of the car. Draco, for once, didn’t flirt. Didn’t tease. Didn’t even smirk.

He just said, “Good night, Potter,” and drove away.

The words echoed louder than they should’ve.

So here Harry was, sulking into his lukewarm coffee like a heartbroken teenager, trying not to admit that maybe—just maybe—he’d grown used to those damn Tuesday dinners.

Hermione was the first to catch the storm cloud hovering above him. She stood next to Ron’s desk, clearly having popped by on her break, and her bright smile faltered the second she got a good look at him.

“Merlin, Harry, what happened? You look like someone murdered your dog.”

Ron chimed in, snorting. “Yeah, or like he became the dog and then got kicked.”

Harry rubbed his temples and muttered, “Just had a rough night, that’s all.”

He wasn’t about to tell them he’d had dinner with Malfoy and ran into an ex and now everything felt like it was dipped in acid. No way. He’d rather fight a Hungarian Horntail barehanded.

Hermione, of course, wasn’t buying it.

She stepped closer, voice soft and full of that steady, unshakable concern only she could manage. “Maybe take the morning off. You look exhausted, Harry.”

Ron nodded, unusually serious. “You’ve looked better, mate. And I’ve seen you hungover during Yule Ball week.”

Harry looked between them—Hermione with her warm eyes and gentle patience, Ron with his lopsided grin and quiet loyalty—and felt the familiar lump in his throat. Not sadness. Just... gratitude. The kind that doesn’t need words, only the silent acknowledgment that these two have always had his back, even when he didn’t ask.

He sighed, walking over to Hermione and grabbing her hands. “I’m really fine. Promise. If it gets worse, I’ll go home.”

She gave him the look—that terrifying, all-seeing mum look—but finally just squeezed his hands and nodded.

Ron, being Ron, immediately whined, “Why don’t I get sent home to rest?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Because you sleep eight hours a night, hit snooze five times every morning, and nap after lunch like a toddler.”

Ron clutched his chest. “My own wife! Betrayed me in front of our best friend!”

Harry snorted, actually laughed, and for a second the gloom lifted.

But the universe wasn’t done being cruel.

Because just as he settled in to try actually working, Amy—sharp, stone-faced Amy—appeared at his desk with a look that instantly set off every internal alarm.

Without a word, Harry stood. Ron was already rising too, a shared glance passing between them, years of partnership making words unnecessary.

Another victim.

That look in Amy’s eyes said it all.

Harry grabbed his jacket, his wand, and his badge. Ron was already out the door, headed to the scene.

Harry?

He turned on his heel.

Time to go get the consultant.

Chapter Text

The moment Harry stepped through the magical barrier, the world shifted into sharp clarity—the kind that made your skin crawl and your instincts snap to full alert. The low hum of Ministry wards buzzed faintly in his ears, aurors murmured in clipped voices, and magic hung in the air like smoke after a fire.

Draco was at his heels, silent, composed, as always. Predictable, except when he wasn’t.

Harry flashed his badge without a word, ducked under the shimmering tape, and braced for what was on the other side.

But he wasn’t ready.

He should have been. By now, he should have been.

Ron was crouched near the body, glancing over his shoulder as they approached, already mid-sentence—“We’ve got a female, mid-twenties, cause of death appears—”

But Harry wasn’t listening.

Because lying there on the cobblestone, her skin pale and waxy, her chestnut curls now dusted grey, her doll-like eyes sunken and wide open in a glassy stare—was Silvia.

Still in the dress she’d worn last night.

Everything in him locked up. Muscles turned to stone. Heart thudded once—hard—then dropped like a stone in his chest.

He bumped into something behind him—someone.

A hand closed gently around his arm.

Draco.

Expression unreadable. Jaw tight. Eyes not cold for once, not smug or amused—just watchful, a steadying weight in the storm. That squeeze on his arm was small, barely a gesture, but it anchored him. Reminded him to breathe.

Harry forced air into his lungs. It tasted bitter.

He stepped forward.

Ron gave him a sidelong glance but didn’t say anything at first. “She’s cold. Same magical damage. No witnesses. Looks like the body was moved here post-mortem—no blood, no signs of a struggle, and the alley wards didn’t pick up an Apparition signature. Either someone knew how to sneak past the system or they had inside help. Same as the others.”

Harry crouched down, gloves already sliding onto his hands. He stared at Silvia’s face for a moment too long.

Ron said gently, “You know her?”

“Old acquaintance.” His voice was hoarse. Rougher than it should’ve been. “We went out a few times. A long time ago.”

Ron didn’t push. Bless him for that.

Then Harry saw the slip of parchment in her hand.

He reached for it.

Draco moved beside him without a sound, just a blur of motion and that sharp, unwavering gaze. Harry unfolded the note carefully, magic sizzling faintly along the edge of the parchment—Silvia’s magic.

The message was short.

<blockquote>

It’s been a while.

</blockquote>

That was all.

Harry didn’t need an analysis to confirm it was written in essence magic. He could feel it. The kind of violation that made your skin itch. The kind of dark spellwork that left ghosts in your bones.

“Bastard’s taunting us,” he muttered, crumpling the note tighter than he should have.

“You alright?” Draco’s voice was soft at his side, deceptively casual, but Harry knew that look now. That specific one. The quiet concern he never voiced.

Harry nodded.

Even if it was a lie.

Didn’t matter. He had a job to do.

Draco knelt beside the body, scanning it with that quiet intensity that still unnerved every Auror who witnessed it. Ron leaned closer to Harry, muttering under his breath, “Still weirds me out, that thing he does. Seeing the traces like that.”

Harry didn’t answer. He was too busy watching Draco work.

There was a calm to him, methodical and unsettling. After a few long minutes, Draco sat back on his heels and looked up.

“Same magical signature,” he said flatly. “Drained and reshaped into the same serpentine sigil. The killer didn’t rush it. Took their time.”

“Anything else?” Harry asked.

Draco’s gaze drifted around the alley. He stood, turned in a slow arc, eyes narrowed in concentration. His fingers twitched at his sides. Harry didn’t know what he was seeing—but he knew Draco was seeing more than he ever could.

Finally, Draco shook his head. “Scene’s clean. Too clean. There was magic here, but it’s been scrubbed. Nothing left but her.”

Harry exhaled, heavy.

Draco added, quieter this time, “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”

“You’re doing more than you think,” Harry replied without missing a beat. And he meant it.

Ron looked between them, something unreadable flickering in his eyes—but said nothing.

Harry turned back to the body one last time, gaze dropping to the curled fingers, the once-lively eyes now empty.

One more name.

One more soul.

One more victim of the Serpent’s Shadow.

The bell above the bar door gave its familiar ding, tired and shrill like it, too, had seen too much for one lifetime. Harry stepped inside, the weight of the day clinging to him like a second skin. His coat was still damp from the drizzle, his hair an unruly mess no spell had managed to tame. He locked eyes with old Riggs behind the counter, who didn’t even bother asking—just reached wordlessly for the bottle of scotch and poured a generous double.

Harry gave him a nod of silent thanks and crossed the room to the booth tucked in the corner like a secret. Ginny was already there, legs crossed, glass of wine in hand—until she saw his face.

That tight-lipped smile he gave her didn’t fool her for a second.

“You sounded… off in the Patronus,” she said.

He dropped onto the seat opposite her with a heavy sigh, just as Riggs set the glass down in front of him. He took a long sip before answering. “Silvia’s dead.”

Ginny didn’t say anything at first. No gasp. No questions. Just stillness. She already knew better.

Harry ran a hand through his hair and leaned back, the ice in his glass clinking as he tilted it slightly.

“We’re still processing the scene. Body came in today, autopsy’s underway. Officially, I can’t say much. But…” His voice dropped, almost tired. “Yeah. It looks like the same killer.”

Ginny exhaled, slow and quiet, before flagging Riggs and asking for whiskey instead of her usual wine or cocktail. That alone told Harry how much she was affected.

“How are you holding up?” she asked.

He nearly laughed. Not because it was funny—but because what the hell did that even mean anymore?

“I…” he started, then stopped. He tried again. “I forgot she even existed until last night.”

There. The bitter truth. Sharp and cruel and honest.

He didn’t say it to be cold. He said it because it was real.

Ginny reached across the table and placed her hand on his. Her thumb rubbed gentle, grounding circles into his skin. That small, human kindness nearly undid him.

So he told her the rest.

“That’s the worst part. I saw her last night. Coincidentally. She showed up at a restaurant while I was…” he hesitated, eyes dropping to the drink, “while I was with Malfoy.”

Ginny’s brow arched just a little, but she didn’t push.

“Do you think it matters that he was there?” she asked softly.

Harry stared at their hands for a moment. Her skin was warm. His felt cold. “I don’t know,” he said, voice lower now. “Ever since Malfoy showed up again, things have been off. Chaotic. And no matter how far I try to push him away, somehow, I keep getting pulled back.”

He rubbed at his chest, as if that would ease the pressure pressing into his ribs.

“After we saw Silvia, everything felt wrong. And then today…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

Ginny didn’t speak, just listened—really listened—the way only she could.

“I keep going back to him,” Harry muttered. “And when I saw her dead—her face—I looked at him. He was completely blank. No reaction. No guilt. Just… nothing.”

He looked up, finally meeting Ginny’s eyes.

“I don’t know if he’s the killer,” he said. “But the worst part is, I don’t think I care.”

That made Ginny still. Her fingers paused in their movement.

“You don’t care if he is?” she asked carefully.

Harry shook his head, a hollow laugh catching in his throat. “A part of me doesn’t. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve stopped trusting myself, or if I just... I don’t know, Ginny. I’m so tired. And if he is the killer, then maybe at least I’ll understand why I can’t stop thinking about him.”

There it was. The truth.

Not the kind you find in courtrooms or reports.

The real kind.

Ginny squeezed his hand tighter. “Then let’s just hope he’s not.”

Harry nodded, barely, and brought the scotch back to his lips. It burned, but not enough.

Nothing ever burned enough these days.

Harry wasn’t sure how many drinks he’d gone through—just that the number was too high for comfort and not enough to numb everything he wanted it to. The bar’s muffled chatter pressed against his skull like he was underwater, Ginny’s voice threading through it all, distant and worried, saying something about getting him home. But the words slid right off his brain like water off glass.

He blinked. The world doubled.

And then another figure appeared—tall, suited, steady in a way that made Harry's stomach lurch. He couldn’t make out what he said to Ginny, only caught the way her expression relaxed, trusting, and then the shift of hands under his arms as he was lifted to his feet like he weighed nothing at all.

The material under his cheek was smooth. Cold. Expensive. A suit jacket, maybe. And there it was again—that scent. Not the bar. Not scotch or sweat or burnt oil. No, this was something clean, sharp—spicy with a citrus bite. The kind of smell that clung to money and arrogance and charm. Harry leaned in with a giggle and mumbled, “Smells good.”

A sigh answered him. Wry. Familiar. And then they were outside.

The cold slapped him instantly, but the warmth of the body he was pressed against soaked into his skin like a lifeline. He curled into it instinctively, burying himself in the heat. Another low huff rumbled above his head—half amusement, half exasperation—and then he was being eased down into something that groaned under his weight.

Leather. Smooth. Warmed. A car seat, maybe? He blinked again.

Something brushed his chin—hair. Soft and annoyingly perfect. He giggled and reached up without thinking, his fingers tangling in it as he muttered, “Soft…”

A chuckle, low and deep, was the only reply before he felt the seatbelt drawn across his chest. A click. Safety.

The door shut.

It opened again a second later, and he felt the air shift beside him. Then nothing but the quiet thrum of the engine, the heat on his face, and the warmth of the seat beside him. He drifted.

When he stirred again, the world tilted.

Movement. A sway in his belly. His head lolled. The rhythmic click of shoes on pavement reached him through the fog, but he wasn’t cold. Not anymore. The warmth had returned, stronger than ever, and Harry curled closer to it like some enchanted cat. The arms around him shifted but held firm.

He liked this bed. Soft, mobile, steady. Better than his own, even.

Another blink, and the world had changed again. He was horizontal. Sinking into something that smelled like old wood and laundry detergent. Home. Grimmauld Place.

His shoes were slipping off, hands deft and careful.

Then footsteps—fading.

No. No, that was wrong.

His fingers twitched. Reached.

He caught a wrist.

A pause.

The moment hits like a slow, quiet thunder.

Harry blinks up at him, still dazed, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed with scotch and sleep, but there’s no mistaking the smile that blooms across his face when recognition finally settles in. It’s lazy and warm and utterly disarming. Like a fire catching on damp kindling.

"Malfoy," he whispers, like it’s a secret between just them. Like saying it too loud might break the spell.

Draco stares down at him, half-kneeling beside the bed, one of his wrists still caught in Harry’s grip. His expression is unreadable—lips parted like he’s about to say something, eyes sharp but caught off guard. Vulnerable in a way Harry rarely gets to see. He looks like a man who walked into a room expecting a fight and found a hand reaching for him instead

Then a sigh. “What are you doing?”

Harry just hums, that smile not fading as he tugs weakly on Draco’s wrist again. “Stay,” he murmurs. “Warm.”

A beat of silence. Then another. And another.

Draco’s eyes search his face like he’s trying to find the trap, the punchline, the spellwork underneath it all. But there’s nothing. Just Harry—soft, drunk, and letting the cracks show.

The moment stretches thin between them, fragile as spun glass. And then Draco sighs. Not the annoyed kind. The kind that sounds like surrender.

He shifts, the mattress dipping again beneath his weight, and Harry’s already curling toward the warmth before Draco’s even settled fully beside him. No hesitation. No space. His fingers find the lapel of Draco’s suit jacket, and for a moment, he’s content to breathe in that same citrus and spice scent, cheek pressed against his shoulder like it’s the only safe place left in the world.

“You’re impossible,” Draco mutters, voice low and tired and maybe just a little fond.

Harry only hums again, sleep tugging him down like a tide. “Still smells good,” he mumbles, barely coherent.

Draco chuckles under his breath, one hand hesitating in the air before it lands softly on Harry’s back. Not pulling. Not holding. Just... resting there. A quiet anchor.

And in the faint silver wash of moonlight, with the window cracked and the world mercifully still for once, Harry Potter sleeps soundly for the first time in weeks.

Draco stays.

Because of course he does.

The morning after was pure hell.

Harry woke up feeling like a Hungarian Horntail had stomped on his skull. His head pulsed with the kind of ache that made him question every life decision that had led him here. Breathing felt like a chore. Moving was out of the question—until the memory crawl started.

Bits and pieces at first. Silvia. Her body. The note. Ginny. A bar. Scotch.

Fuck.

His eyes opened fully, blinking against the dim light filtering through the curtains. He didn’t remember how he got home. Hell, he didn’t even remember leaving the bar. He groaned, turned over—and froze.

The left side of the bed was messy.

Harry never, ever slept on that side. It was his one stubborn bit of control. A rule his body enforced even when he was half-dead from exhaustion. Which meant...

Someone had been there.

He sat up too fast and regretted it instantly, swearing under his breath as a wave of nausea hit. No. No way. He couldn’t have. He wasn’t that drunk—right?

...Right?

Then came the noise.

Rattling. From downstairs.

Every Auror instinct in his system lit up. He reached for his wand like it was second nature, creeping toward the bedroom door in nothing but his boxers and a worn tee. Grimmauld’s stairs felt endless as he made his descent, the pounding in his head synced up perfectly with each step.

He approached the kitchen, silent, focused, ready to curse first and ask questions later.

Then he turned the corner.

And promptly wished the floor would swallow him whole.

Draco Malfoy stood at the stove, barefoot, in nothing but black trousers that clearly weren’t his—tight enough to do damage—and one of Harry’s shirts, sleeves rolled up, collar popped messily, clinging to his lean frame in a way that should’ve been illegal. Over it all? A bloody apron. The most domestic, absurd thing Harry had ever seen.

He dropped his wand. Clattered against the floor.

Draco turned with a casual “Good morning,” as if this was an everyday thing.

Harry’s voice came out strangled. “What the fuck is going on?”

Draco arched a brow and gestured down at himself. “Borrowed clothes. All your trousers are too small. You should really consider tailoring.”

“That’s not the point!” Harry snapped, the volume making his own skull throb. “Why the hell are you in my house?”

Draco turned off the stove, wiped his hands, and leaned over the counter with that infuriatingly sweet, polished smile. “That’s no way to treat someone you literally jumped last night.”

Harry’s jaw dropped.

Draco gave a scandalized little gasp, complete with a flutter of his lashes. “Honestly, I try to be a gentleman. I come all this way to make sure you get home in one piece, carry your arse upstairs, and what do I get for my trouble? You dragging me into bed like it’s still sixth year and the Astronomy Tower's too far.”

“I—what—” Harry couldn’t breathe. His face was red. Not flushed. Red. “I did not—”

“Oh, you did,” Draco drawled, walking around the counter, a pan in one hand. “It was adorable, really. You said I smelled nice. Touched my hair. Pulled me into bed like a needy little—”

“Stop talking!” Harry shouted, horrified beyond recovery.

Draco stopped right in front of him, standing too close, radiating smug heat. “This reminds me of old times,” he whispered, and then—because he’s the devil—he leaned in and blew into Harry’s ear.

Harry jerked back like he’d been scorched, clutching his ear as if it had been hexed. “What the fuck is wrong with you!?”

Draco just beamed and said, “Breakfast is ready.”

And just like that, he turned, served two bowls of porridge, and set two glasses of juice on the table. In front of Harry’s bowl, he placed a glass of water and an aspirin.

“I didn’t find any hangover potions in your sad excuse for a pantry, so we’re going muggle-style,” Draco said, sitting with graceful nonchalance.

Harry blinked, still stunned. Still half naked. Still questioning if he’d slipped into an alternate reality.

Then he took a bite of the porridge.

…He hated how good it was.

Like, suspiciously good. Warm, a little sweet, perfectly balanced.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Draco muttered, sipping his juice. “I lived on my own. I had to learn how to cook unless I wanted to starve.”

Harry glared at him. “I still don’t know what the hell happened last night.”

Draco smirked. “You tried to sniff me and passed out. That’s the short version.”

Harry groaned, stabbing his porridge with his spoon.

This man was going to be the death of him.

Breakfast was a war zone of clinking spoons and silence. Harry, still sore from embarrassment and a splitting headache, focused on his porridge like it held all the answers to life. Draco, across from him, looked annoyingly comfortable—hair neat, shirt loose around the collar, one leg crossed over the other like he belonged in Harry’s bloody kitchen.

Finally, Harry broke. “How did you know where I lived? Actually, how did you even get in?”

Draco didn’t even blink. He just leaned his chin into his palm, lips twitching. “Really, Potter? You forget who my mother is?”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “What does Narcissa have to do with—”

And then it hit him.

“Oh,” he muttered, setting down his spoon.

Draco let out a soft sigh, equal parts fond and exasperated. “Dense as ever. My mother is Narcissa Black. Cousin to Sirius Black. Which makes me—” He gestured dramatically. “A Black. By blood. The house likes me. Always has. Honestly, it practically rolled out the bloody carpet.”

As if on cue, he glanced around the kitchen with that far-off, squinting expression Harry had come to recognize—the one that meant Draco was seeing things layered in enchantments and bloodline echoes. Probably witnessing the ghost of some house-elf muttering about the state of the counters.

Harry buried his face in his hands. How the hell had he forgotten that detail?

Draco didn’t let it go, of course. “Beautiful house,” he said. “Neglected, but beautiful. You really should consider giving it some affection. Maybe a little polish. Let the walls breathe.”

Harry grumbled. “Who the hell pampers a house?”

“You’d be surprised,” Draco said breezily, reaching for his juice. “Homes respond to care. It’s basic magical sympathy.”

Harry snorted. “You sound like Hermione.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Silence settled again—less awkward now, but no less charged. Until Harry, against all better judgment, asked, “So… nothing happened last night?”

Draco’s smile turned sharp. “Are you disappointed, Potter? Missing our little… adventures from back in the day?”

Harry turned crimson, glaring down at his nearly empty bowl. “I knew I shouldn’t try to have a normal conversation with you.”

Draco was laughing quietly now, his finger absentmindedly tracing lazy circles on the table. “Relax. We did nothing but sleep. You’re still walking, aren’t you?”

Harry choked on his water, fighting the urge to launch his spoon at Draco’s head. “You’re the worst.”

“I’ve been told.”

Then—unexpectedly—Harry inhaled, steadied himself, and muttered, “Thanks.”

Draco blinked, caught off guard for the first time that morning. “What for?”

Harry wouldn’t look at him. “For bringing me home. Last night.”

Draco’s grin returned in full force. “I’d do it anytime. Just call. I’ll come running.”

“In your dreams,” Harry shot back, scowling into his glass.

But Draco was already standing, gathering their dishes like this was his flat and not Harry’s ancestral haunted crypt. That, more than anything, made Harry jump up after him.

“You don’t have to do that—I’ll do them,” he said, reaching for the plates.

Draco raised an eyebrow, ever the aristocrat in borrowed clothes and an apron. “Don’t you have work?”

Harry froze.

“Shit.”

He spun around, eyes wide, muttering about Robards and how he was going to end up assigned to magical maintenance duty if he was late again. But Draco just leaned against the sink, arms crossed, so smug.

“Relax,” he said. “I called in for you.”

“You what—?”

“I said you were recovering from a long-term surveillance operation. Half-true. Robards bought it. Gave you the morning off.”

Harry actually sagged in relief, nearly collapsing against the counter.

“I hate you,” he muttered.

“You’re welcome,” Draco replied, ever so pleased with himself, and turned the tap on.

Water ran. The dishes clinked. And Harry—well, Harry stayed in the kitchen long after breakfast was done, trying not to think about how he couldn’t remember the last time someone had taken care of him like that.

The quiet clatter of mugs and the soft bubbling of water filled the kitchen like a lull in a storm. Harry busied himself with the kettle, willing his thoughts to not go where they clearly wanted to go—namely, Draco Malfoy, who was leaning across the kitchen island like he owned the place, all bare feet and smug attitude, wearing his clothes like sin incarnate.

He kept his eyes anywhere but on Draco.

“Don’t you have work this morning?” Harry asked, far too casually.

Draco smiled. “Had to call off, obviously. Couldn’t very well leave you in that tragic state, could I? I’m a gentleman, Potter. I don’t just vanish after spending the night.”

Harry nearly choked on nothing. His face flushed hot, and he instinctively rolled his eyes, trying to smother whatever reaction was crawling up his spine. “We slept, Malfoy. Just slept. You could’ve left.”

Draco gave a lazy chuckle, the kind that made Harry irrationally want to strangle him and also maybe kiss him. “Such concern,” he teased. “Worried I’ll miss work? It’s fine. Being on the board comes with perks, you know. I could disappear for a week and no one would care—as long as the reports are filed and I don’t skip any meetings.”

Harry scoffed, grumbling under his breath. “Rich people problems.”

Draco didn’t miss a beat. “You’re rich too, Potter. Or have you tragically forgotten the vaults in your name?”

“I don’t use them,” Harry replied defensively. “Just because I have money doesn’t mean I want to sit around and live a life of debauchery.”

“That might actually kill me,” he added, and regretted it instantly.

Because Draco laughed.

Not smirked. Not sneered. Not gave one of his performative PR-approved chuckles.

He laughed.

A deep, warm, almost startled laugh that made Harry freeze mid-reach for the tea tin. It was...real. Disarming. Infectious.

And beautiful.

It hit Harry like a Stupefy. Draco Malfoy, barefoot in his kitchen, wearing his too-tight clothes that hugged every muscle, casually preparing to share tea like it was the most normal thing in the world, hair slightly messy, no sleek style or glamour charms in sight—and he was laughing like they weren’t both emotionally stunted disasters playing chicken with their own unresolved tension.

Harry stared.

Draco caught it. Of course he caught it. He tilted his head and smirked with that look—the one that said I know, and I dare you to do something about it.

“You’re going to have to boil another pot,” he said, voice low and far too pleased with himself, “if you keep looking at me like you’re five seconds away from pinning me to the counter.”

Harry blinked.

The water behind him was screaming.

“Shit—” He turned around, fumbling to turn off the burner, steam billowing around him like a fog of shame.

Draco chuckled again, the sound slinking its way down Harry’s spine like a damn curse. “Do I really look that good? You nearly burned water.”

Harry didn’t answer.

Not because he didn’t have an answer—but because his pride was hanging on by the thinnest thread, and admitting the truth would mean surrender.

And Harry Potter did not surrender.

Harry balanced the tea tray like it was a bloody peace offering, setting it down on the low coffee table before collapsing into the armchair with a sigh. Draco, of course, made himself perfectly at home on the sofa, long legs stretched out, fingers wrapped around his mug like he was starring in some pretentious lifestyle ad.

His eyes swept the room with thinly veiled judgment.

“No telly?” he asked finally, the disbelief practically dripping from his voice. “I mean, I get that this is an ancestral shrine to the noble and ever-dusty House of Black, but you were raised Muggle. Didn’t you say you have electricity?”

Harry raised a brow, taking a careful sip of his tea. “Yeah. Got a few circuits re-wired a couple years ago. Needed a power supply for the lights. Candles and torches are sort of a fire hazard nowadays.”

Draco gave him a look. “You have enough current to charge a mobile, but no television?”

Harry shrugged. “Didn’t really feel the need. I’m barely home, and when I am, I’m either passed out or locked in the studio. What am I supposed to do? Watch EastEnders?”

Draco huffed, lounging back like Harry had personally offended him. “You really are a workaholic. That girl—what was her name again?” His tone was light, but there was a glint in his eyes. “Silvia. She was right.”

Harry went rigid.

The mug nearly slipped from his fingers.

Draco didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. No guilt, no regret, not a sliver of emotion flickered across that annoyingly flawless face. Just that same collected, impassive mask. That void again—just for a second—and then it was gone.

He blinked slowly, and then, as if he hadn’t just mentioned the dead woman whose corpse they'd stood over the day before, he pivoted—seamlessly.

“So,” Draco asked, crossing one leg over the other like this was nothing, “what else have you been working on lately? Anything besides the serial killer?”

Harry gaped for half a second. It was whiplash. It was terrifying. It was...Malfoy.

“I—I’ve got other cases. Loads of them, actually,” he said, still trying to figure out if this was a trap. “The Shadow’s the big one, yeah, but at least the others make sense. There’s a point to them. Something to solve. There’s hope.”

Draco chuckled, tapping his fingers along his mug. “Hope. You always were an optimist in the most depressing way.”

Harry narrowed his eyes, but before he could throw a quip back, Draco leaned in, smile lazy. “Show me.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“Your other cases. Let me take a look. Who knows—maybe I’ll see something you missed.”

Harry snorted. “You realize I’m not allowed to do that, right? You’re cleared as a consultant only for the Serpent’s Shadow. The rest are—”

“—against protocol, I know,” Draco finished for him, waving a hand dismissively. “Merlin, Potter, you sound like a pamphlet. Relax. I’m not going to steal Ministry secrets and sell them on the black market. I’m bored, curious, and, shockingly, quite clever.”

Harry hesitated. Robards would skin him if he ever found out. But Draco was looking at him now, all smug interest and casual arrogance, and something in Harry’s chest was itching.

“Don’t you have work?”

Draco checked his watch with theatrical flair. “Not until three. And it’s not like I need to clock in with a time card. We’ll be done before then, won’t we?”

Harry stared at him for a long moment. Every rational part of his brain screamed no. But the other part—the one that didn’t know how to say no to Draco Malfoy when he looked at him like that—well. That part had already stood up.

He sighed and muttered, “Come on. Studio’s upstairs.”

Draco smirked like he’d already won something.

He probably had.

Harry regretted his decision the moment the studio door creaked open and Malfoy stepped inside with all the smug disdain of a man walking into a room of filthy peasants. His nose wrinkled like the scent of ink and paper personally offended him.

“Merlin’s saggy left—this is where you work?” Draco muttered, looking around as though he’d just walked into a crime scene rather than Harry’s half-living, half-suffocating workspace.

Harry didn’t even have a second to defend himself before Draco strode in and ran his fingers dramatically along a stack of case files piled precariously on the floor next to the desk. The stack wobbled slightly under his touch, paper bending like it might give in to the sheer weight of Draco’s judgment.

“Honestly,” Draco tsked, “you’re a disaster. Professionally and personally.”

Harry rolled his eyes, marching past him to grab a binder off a nearby shelf. “It’s organized chaos. I know where everything is.”

Draco raised a brow. “Do you really?”

“Yes,” Harry snapped, then pointed at the stack. “Those are solved cases. They live there now.”

“They live there?” Draco echoed, dry as the Sahara. “And what, do they pay rent to your laziness?”

Harry ignored him. With a few aggressive sweeps of his arm, he cleared off the small couch—which was buried under scrolls, quills, and at least one half-eaten biscuit that might’ve been there since Yaxley’s arrest last month. He gestured toward it. “Sit. Since you’re so desperate to help.”

Draco chuckled but took the seat with that same impossible elegance he always moved with, like even among Harry’s mess he couldn’t be touched. Harry handed over a thick binder, the case file of a robbery ring operating through several boroughs of London. No leads, no witnesses, no patterns Harry could pin down, and it was starting to eat at him.

“I’ve looked at it a hundred times,” Harry muttered, plopping into his chair. “If you can find something I missed, then have at it.”

Draco didn’t respond. He flipped open the binder and the air in the room shifted.

Harry had expected some snark, maybe a sarcastic jab followed by a lazy skim. What he got instead was… different.

Draco’s entire posture changed. The humor melted away, replaced by something Harry hadn’t seen in years—perhaps not since sixth year, when Draco sat in the back of the Potions dungeon pretending not to care while furiously annotating every instruction like it would save his life. Maybe it had been trying to.

Now, that same intense stillness had returned. Eyes sharp and scanning, the barest crease forming between his brows. His fingers moved lightly across the pages, not turning them quickly, but almost feeling for something.

His leg bounced once—impatient. Impatient with the inefficiency, with the lack of cohesion. Harry could see it. Draco hated that the case didn’t make sense. He wasn’t just reading—he was dissecting it.

And Harry… just watched.

He didn’t mean to stare, but he couldn’t help it. This wasn’t the smooth-talking, smug consultant with too many suits and too much charm. This was the strategist. The tactician. The man who had once, even as a boy, understood how to manipulate an entire castle full of people without lifting his wand.

The man who’d outgrown childish cruelty and replaced it with a razor-sharp mind that refused to be idle.

For a second—just one second—Harry forgot why he was suspicious of him. Forgot the killer, forgot Silvia, forgot the fact that Draco still terrified him in the way only people who know your deepest truths can.

He just saw him. The real him. Quiet, calculating, brilliant.

And for a moment, Harry wondered—

What is he seeing that I missed?

Or worse.

What is he hiding in plain sight?

And then he said it.

Just a quiet, smug, “Hah.” Like a man who’d just solved a riddle no one else in the room even realized existed. Harry blinked, barely registering the sudden spark in Draco’s eyes—the kind of gleam you only see in treasure hunters or lunatics.

He leaned back, fingers drumming against the binder as he tilted his head. “Potter,” he said, far too satisfied with himself, “come here.”

Harry, who was still processing the fact that Draco had apparently found something in a file he’d spent weeks tearing apart, took a slow, skeptical step closer. Draco glanced up, unimpressed.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” he sighed, reached forward, and pulled.

Harry stumbled, nearly crashing into him before catching himself just enough to sit beside him—way too close for comfort. Their knees brushed. Their shoulders practically overlapped. And Harry, predictably, jerked away just enough to restore a two-inch buffer zone like his skin might catch fire.

Draco noticed. Of course he noticed.

But instead of commenting on Harry’s deeply repressed panic, he just grinned that infuriating, self-satisfied grin and said, “Relax, Potter. I don’t bite… unless asked nicely.”

Harry groaned. “For the love of—just tell me what you found.”

Draco smirked like he’d just won something, then turned back to the file and tapped his finger over the list of reported robbery locations. “You’ve been looking at them individually,” he said, “but the trick is to stop thinking like an Auror and start thinking like a thief.”

Harry frowned, brow creasing. “That’s supposed to mean something?”

Instead of answering, Draco stood up, practically gliding across the room to the map of London tacked to the wall. He grabbed the marker nearby—black, of course—and circled each address listed in the file. Harry crossed his arms and leaned on the desk, watching but still not seeing it.

“Do you seriously not—oh, Potter,” Draco groaned, shaking his head. “You’re painfully daft for a top Auror.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Draco was already drawing. Lines connected the circles—clean, sharp, deliberate—and then… there it was.

A pattern. A spiral, almost. Not perfect, but distinct enough. The thefts had been radiating outward in a slow, clockwork motion. Strategic. Purposeful.

“Shit,” Harry muttered, straightening. “How did I—”

“Because you’re thinking like law enforcement,” Draco said, smug as ever, “not like a man building a puzzle with real property.”

Harry stepped up beside him, eyes tracing the web of connected dots. “So, what—whoever’s doing this is clearing zones in a loop?”

Draco nodded, then circled a new spot further along the pattern. “If the timing stays consistent, this is the next target. Likely within the week.”

Harry stared. Not at the map—at him.

He’d actually cracked it.

The man who was once all sharp sneers and potions class insults had casually just outplayed half the Auror department in ten minutes. And when Harry turned to look at him, Draco was already watching him with that quiet, dangerous smile that said you’re welcome, and I’m not letting you forget it.

Harry tore his eyes away, muttering a quick, “Thanks.”

Draco didn’t let it slide. “It was obvious after a while.”

Harry scowled. “Not everyone memorizes every street in London, Malfoy.”

That earned another low, amused chuckle.

And Harry—grudgingly, silently—thought that maybe, just maybe, Draco Malfoy was more helpful than he let on.

Even if he really needed to be punched just once. Just for balance.

Later that day, Harry found himself being dropped off in front of the Ministry once again, tucked into the leather interior of yet another one of Draco’s absurdly luxurious cars—this one charcoal black with gold detailing like it belonged to a Bond villain. He sighed as he unbuckled his seatbelt, running a tired hand through his hair.

"Thanks for the ride," he muttered, halfway out the door.

But of course, Draco Malfoy, perfectly put together in a navy suit and styled hair like he was on his way to a bloody Vogue cover shoot, had to ruin it.

“Don’t I earn a kiss for that?” he said, smirking, voice smooth and lazy like silk draped in sin.

Harry jolted like he’d touched a cursed object, then snapped, “You’re an idiot,” before slamming the car door harder than necessary and storming away.

He heard the window roll down behind him.

“It was nice spending time with you, Potter,” Draco called out. “We should do it more often.”

And if it had been anyone else—literally anyone else—it might’ve sounded sincere.

But this was Malfoy, wearing that godforsaken smirk like it was tailored along with his stupid, perfect suit, and all Harry could do was growl under his breath and mentally beg the ground to open and swallow him whole.

He just had to get back to his office. Get lost in case files. Pretend the last twelve hours never happened.

At least, that was the plan—until he turned around.

And saw them.

Hermione and Ron. Standing by the Ministry doors. Mouths open. Eyes wide.

Ron’s coffee cup dangled from his fingers like he’d forgotten he was holding it. Hermione’s eyes flicked from Draco’s retreating car to Harry’s face like she was solving an unspeakable level Arithmancy problem in real time.

Harry froze. His brain short-circuited.

No. No no no no no.

Merlin, please. Just this once. Tell him they didn’t see. Tell him they didn’t hear.

Oh, but they did.

Harry didn’t need Veritaserum to know it.

The way Ron’s jaw was slack like he’d just witnessed a Bludger hit a unicorn, and Hermione had that look—the one where her mouth hung open for a full second before she blinked once, slowly, like her entire system had just glitched.

Harry could only stand there, mid-turn, backpack slung over one shoulder, looking very much like a child caught with his hand in the bloody biscuit tin.

“…You two are—” Ron started, pointing vaguely at the street where Draco’s car had just disappeared with a smug purr.

“We are not,” Harry cut in, way too fast, voice way too high. “We are nothing. There is no two. Absolutely not. It’s—he just—shut up.”

Harry decided right then and there that being hit by a bus would’ve been less humiliating.

“Was that Malfoy?” Hermione asked, voice tight like she was restraining a scream, though whether it was of excitement or panic, Harry couldn’t tell.

“No,” he said. “Yes. Kind of. Look, it's complicated.”

Ron blinked. “He just asked if you owed him a kiss.”

“He was joking!” Harry insisted, waving his arms, flustered to the point he almost tripped over his own feet as he stomped toward them. “He always says shit like that. It’s just—it's Malfoy being Malfoy.”

“And you blushed,” Hermione added, too observant for her own good. “Harry. You blushed.”

“Did not.”

“You did, mate.” Ron looked personally offended, like Harry had just confessed to dating a blast-ended skrewt. “You blushed and then stomped out like some flustered teenage girl in a romance novel.”

“You read romance novels?” Harry snapped, trying to redirect.

Ron blinked. “That’s not the point, Potter.”

Hermione folded her arms. “How long has this been going on?”

“Nothing is going on!”

Silence. Just three war veterans standing in the grand marble entrance of the Ministry like they were re-enacting a bad soap opera.

Harry sighed. “Look, I may have accidentally spent the night with him—”

“WHAT?” Ron nearly shrieked.

“—without doing anything,” Harry clarified, lifting a hand. “I was drunk, okay? Ginny called him to pick me up because apparently my life is a circus now and she’s the ringmaster.”

Hermione's eyes narrowed. “And you just happened to end up in his car again this morning?”

“I had a headache! He brought me tea! There was porridge!” Harry ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t even know anymore.”

Ron groaned into his hand. “Mate… You need help.”

Harry groaned right back. “Trust me, I’m well aware.”

And then Hermione—sweet, always-wise Hermione—let out a slow breath and patted him on the shoulder. “Just… be careful, okay?”

That was somehow worse than all the yelling.

Harry trudged past them, muttering something about needing to drown himself in paperwork.

But deep down, he couldn’t help but remember Draco’s smirk, the warmth of porridge, the look on his face when he cracked that case file…

Yeah. He was so screwed.

Chapter Text

A few days later, after submitting the report to Robards and nearly biting his nails off waiting, Harry was finally given the green light. The operation was a go. The official go-ahead to set a trap in the area Malfoy had pinpointed with that too-smug smile of his, and Harry was half-convinced that if this actually worked, he'd owe the bastard a steak dinner. Or at least another Tuesday.

Inside the Auror department’s operations wing, the room buzzed with energy. His team was already in gear—uniforms pressed, wands polished to a gleam, holsters strapped tight against their chests. There was tension in the air, thick enough to slice through. The kind that came with waiting to pounce. The kind Harry had learned to live with.

Ron sauntered in already suited up, his robes flaring behind him like he thought he was in a bloody action film. He flopped onto the bench next to Harry, who was hunched over the final copy of the operation outline.

“I still don’t get how you cracked this one,” Ron muttered, glancing at the map that had haunted their whiteboard for the last three weeks. “We were chasing our tails. Then suddenly—bam. You’ve got a pattern, a location, a freaking schedule.”

Harry tensed. He didn’t look up. “Just... went over everything again. Fresh eyes.”

“Right,” Ron said, unconvinced but too tired to argue. “Well, tell those eyes of yours to keep working overtime.”

Harry offered a tight smile and didn’t dare say a word more. He couldn’t tell Ron it had been Draco bloody Malfoy who cracked the code. Not without triggering a shitstorm that’d end with Ron storming into the Ministry demanding to see Harry’s skull for signs of a Confundus Curse. And if Robards found out Malfoy had been let within three feet of a closed case file? Harry could kiss his badge goodbye.

So instead, he said nothing. Just stood up, clapped his hands together, and called the team to attention.

This part never got easier.

He’d hated it back in Hogwarts too—rallying his team as Gryffindor’s Quidditch captain, trying to sound like he had a clue when his guts were in a knot. And here he was again, years later, still bluffing his way through speeches because someone, somewhere decided it was part of the job.

He cleared his throat. “Alright. You all know the drill. We've got eyes on every block within a two-kilometer radius. Ward triggers are in place, and backup teams are stationed along the exit routes. We’re not here to start a duel—we want clean, fast arrests. No casualties, no chaos.”

His gaze swept across the room. He saw the nerves, the tight jaws, the bouncing legs of young recruits who’d never seen live action.

“Stick to your posts. Don’t get cocky. And don’t try to play hero,” he added, his voice a little harder now. “If anything looks off, call it in. We move as one. No one gets left behind.”

The silence that followed was sharp. Focused. His team gave him nods, salutes, brief affirmations.

And as Harry holstered his wand and led them out into the night, he tried not to think about the irony—that the operation he'd just rallied half the department for? Was thanks to the man who, at that very moment, was probably sipping wine in a ridiculous robe and reading economic reports in his penthouse office.

Merlin help him if this worked. Because if it did...

He really was going to owe Malfoy a favor.

It was dark—London dark. Not pitch black, but that deep, smoky grey that crawled through upper-class neighborhoods on cloudy nights when the city forgot to hum. On the third floor of a modest but well-appointed flat, a figure moved like water through shadow. Smooth. Silent. Practiced. The kind of thief who knew exactly which floorboards creaked, who didn’t waste time, who’d stopped feeling guilt years ago.

The place was perfect. Rich enough to have things worth taking, but not guarded enough to make it a challenge. A weak ward or two, a lazy alarm spell easily undone. The kind of home where someone believed they were safe just because they lived near diplomats and wore pressed suits. Idiots.

They were almost done—pockets heavy, charm bag full—when they reached the bedroom. The mark was sleeping soundly, a lump in expensive bedsheets. Easy pickings. The thief slipped in, wand flicking soft silencing spells as they knelt at the nightstand, rifling through drawers for gold, crystal, the kind of crap that bought time and freedom.

And then—they saw it.

A ring. Not just any ring, either. One of those custom pieces, heavy-set, glimmering with intention and old money. Hanging off the finger of the sleeping figure like bait.

The thief moved closer. Fingers steady. Nearly there.

Until the hand grabbed back.

"Shit—"

Green eyes glared up at them, furious and awake. Not the woman who lived here. Not some helpless target. It was Harry Potter, and he looked very pleased with himself.

The thief didn’t think. They acted. Threw the sack of stolen goods straight into Potter’s face, just enough distraction to dive through the open bedroom door.

"Oi!" Harry barked, tossing the bag aside and sprinting after them.

Through the hallway. Down the stairs. The chase was on.

He heard Ron's voice crackle through his earcom, half-laughing, half-concerned. "What's going on? You alright? The rest are down."

"Got a live one!" Harry panted. "Stay in formation—don’t let anyone else get loose. I’ll handle this."

The bastard was fast, darting through the empty streets like a stray fox—knew the layout, used the darkness. They vaulted a fence and slipped into a building still under construction, scaffolding creaking under their boots. Harry didn’t hesitate.

He’d chased Death Eaters through cursed forests. A thief in a half-finished building wasn’t going to throw him off.

The place was a skeleton. Steel beams, loose bricks, the sour scent of wet cement. Fifth floor, Harry thought. That’s where he had to corner them. Higher was unsafe—hell, it was unfinished.

Then it happened.

He saw movement. Darted after it. Rounded a half-wall.

Too late.

A spell cracked across his ribs, knocking him clean off his feet. He grunted, skidding backward and nearly tumbling over the edge. One more inch and he’d have had pavement for breakfast.

The thief stepped out of the shadows, wand raised and eyes gleaming. Young. Scarred. Smug. The type who thought they were clever because they hadn’t been caught yet.

"Impressive, Potter," he said, voice like cracked glass. "Didn’t think you’d figure it out. Thought the Auror Corps was slipping."

Harry didn’t blink. "Yeah? Shame you lot aren’t very original. Takes a bit more than dumb luck to outsmart me."

"You won’t live long enough to brag about it."

Harry’s hand flexed at his side, fingers twitching. But he was still winded. Still off-balance. At wandpoint.

The thief smiled, teeth yellow. "Even if I go down, I’ll take you with me. One less hero."

And then—

A blur. A whip of light.

The thief’s body jerked into the air, suspended mid-step, limbs flailing. His wand flew from his hand and clattered somewhere behind the beams.

From behind, in the shadows, calm and deadly as a blade in silk—

"Really," drawled a voice. "You were going to monologue?"

Harry turned. Draco stood there, wand lazily raised, dressed like sin in pressed trousers and a wool coat that clung like tailored arrogance. His eyes glittered with cruel delight.

"You always did underestimate me," he added, sauntering forward as if he didn’t just fry someone’s spine with a single spell.

Harry couldn’t stop the smile that curled, sharp and breathless. “Took your bloody time.”

Draco quirked a brow. “What, and miss the dramatic entrance?”

Harry rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

The thief groaned, still writhing mid-air.

“Get him down,” Harry muttered, still holding his ribs, “before he pisses himself.”

Draco smirked. “As you wish.”

The glow dimmed. The thief collapsed to the ground with a thud.

Harry watched, still panting against the ache in his ribs, as Draco flicked his wand with precision, binding the thief’s wrists and ankles in one fluid, practiced motion. The smug bastard wasn’t smiling now. He was groaning and writhing, the floating grip of Draco’s spell cinched tight. Harry didn’t even feel a lick of pity.

Then Draco turned. His long strides brought him straight to the edge where Harry still sat, legs dangling, the concrete biting into his thighs and pain pulsing sharp in his side. He held out a hand.

Harry took it.

He wasn’t expecting the tug that came next—didn’t expect to be pulled into a solid, firm chest wrapped in expensive wool and that damn scent again. Spice. Citrus. Warmth that sank past the adrenaline and pain and landed somewhere in his gut.

And fuck, was Draco hugging him?

Harry blinked. “I’m—uh—I’m fine now,” he managed, trying to awkwardly pull back.

But the grip didn’t loosen.

Draco’s arms stayed wrapped around him, firm and steady and infuriatingly comforting. Harry sighed, one hand patting his back stiffly. “Malfoy, I said I’m fine.”

That finally did it. Draco pulled back, but his expression... Merlin. Harry had to look away. His face was too open. Not cocky, not snide—just... soft. And it was wrong. It was wrong because Draco wasn’t supposed to look at him like that.

Like he gave a damn.

Harry tried to cut through it with humor. He chuckled weakly. “So. How’d you know I’d be here?”

Draco rolled his eyes, as if the answer was obvious. “I solved the bloody case, Potter. I had a feeling today was the day you'd try to wrap it up. And I know you—trouble magnet with zero self-preservation instinct. Thought I’d keep an eye on you.”

Harry squinted at him. “You’ve been... watching me?”

Draco didn’t even flinch. “From a safe distance. You're predictable.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You're also reckless and allergic to asking for help.”

That part stung a bit. Because it wasn’t wrong.

Draco shifted his weight, arms crossing over his chest. “Saw you tail the thief into a building that looked like it’d collapse under the weight of a strong breeze. Didn’t take a genius to guess how that was going to end.”

Harry gave him a flat glare. “I was handling it.”

“Mm. Hanging off a ledge like a sack of potatoes. Excellent technique.”

“Alright, alright.” Harry sighed, wincing as he tried to push himself up. “You saved my arse. I owe you one.”

He regretted it instantly.

Draco’s eyes gleamed. “Oh? I’ll hold you to that.”

“Figures.” Harry groaned.

He tried again to stand, but Draco was already there—hands at his shoulders, easing him down before Harry could bite out another protest.

“Don't even think about it,” Draco said, all command and certainty.

“I can walk.”

“You can barely breathe.”

Harry huffed. “I need to go. The other Aurors—if they see you here—”

“Let them.”

“They’ll ask questions, Malfoy. I can’t exactly tell them I’m being babysat by a—bloody Slytherin finance director turned part-time vigilante consultant.”

Draco raised a brow. “You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

“And yet,” Draco said smoothly, slipping one arm under Harry’s knees and another around his back, “you’re clearly getting it.”

“Oi—no—Malfoy!” Harry yelped as he was hoisted off the ground.

“Shhh,” Draco cooed mockingly. “You’ll rupture your spleen with all that thrashing.”

“I swear I will hex you into next week.”

“Try it, and I drop you.”

Harry groaned, face flushed, equal parts mortified and miserable. His ribs screamed, and every bounce sent a new wave of pain through his torso.

“Fine,” he hissed. “Just get me out of here before anyone sees.”

“Too late,” Draco said cheerfully, already levitating the thief behind them like some smug conjurer parading his prize pony. “You’ll have to live with the scandal.”

And Harry, cradled like a stubborn princess in the arms of the one man who absolutely shouldn’t be carrying him, whispered, “Kill me now.”

Draco grinned. “Oh no, Potter. Not until you pay me back.”

The aftermath was chaos, plain and simple. Not the good kind either—the smug, smirking, whisper-behind-your-back kind that followed Harry like a damn tail ever since he let Malfoy—of all people—carry him across a crime scene like some Victorian damsel with fragile ankles.

The entire team had seen it. His entire bloody team. And not just them—half the Auror department, a few onlookers, even a couple trainees from the academy who probably thought he’d been cursed or hexed into submission.

Harry swore on Merlin’s grave he saw Amy, the most granite-faced, emotionally-deadpan Auror in the building, smirk. Just slightly. But it was there.

And Ron—oh, Ron had been the worst. Barely holding back a tsunami of questions that threatened to explode from him. Draco, to his credit—or to his damn audacity—just cut in, cool as ever.

“You can babble all you want after Potter gets medical attention,” Draco said, not even sparing Ron a glance.

It shut him up. Miraculously.

Ron had muttered a grumpy, “You alright, mate?” and Harry had mumbled that he was fine.

Until Draco shifted his weight on purpose and pressed into his ribs.

Harry winced and glared up at him. “That was intentional.”

Draco’s only response was an angelic smile. The bastard.

Now, post-treatment, post-wandlight interrogation from the team, and after arguing with yet another nurse about the absolute non-necessity of staying overnight for “observation,” Harry was at his wit’s end. Frustrated, sore, and very ready to crawl into a pit.

Ron and Hermione had shown up about ten minutes ago. Ron still had a thousand questions Harry refused to answer, and Hermione had pulled her best Disapproving Mum expression as she tried to talk him into staying the night.

He refused. Stubbornly.

Until the curtain shifted and there he was.

Tall. Expensively smug. Hands in his pockets like he owned the bloody hospital.

Draco.

“Potter,” he said, ever casual, “you could leave, sure. But maybe check your ribs again before you sprint out the door like an idiot.”

Harry didn’t even have time to protest before Draco stepped forward. His ribs flared instantly, sharp and unforgiving.

Harry flinched. “Fine. I’ll stay the damn night.”

Hermione’s eyes bounced between them like she was tracking a particularly compelling chess match.

Ron, on the other hand, narrowed his eyes. “Why is he still here?”

Draco leaned against the side of the bed frame, unbothered as usual. “Because I’m apparently the only one competent enough to babysit your reckless friend.”

Harry groaned, “I didn’t ask for a babysitter.”

“You didn’t ask to almost fall off a building either, and yet here we are,” Draco quipped, his voice smooth as butter.

And then came the million-galleon question.

“So,” Ron said slowly, suspiciously, “why were you even there in the first place, Malfoy?”

Harry’s blood went cold.

He froze—completely—because there was no good answer to that. What was he going to say? That he’d shown Draco off-the-record files? Let him solve the damn case? Violated every bloody rule in the Auror’s handbook?

But Draco—Draco didn’t miss a beat.

“I own a flat nearby,” he said, nonchalant. “Was out for a walk, heard the commotion. Stumbled onto your danger-magnet leader trying to become one with the pavement.”

The ease. The sheer nerve.

And what was worse? Harry believed it. The git probably did own a flat there. Hell, he probably owned the building. Maybe the whole block.

Ron grunted. “Weird coincidence.”

“Mm,” Draco said, absolutely not denying it.

Hermione, bless her sharp-eyed soul, watched the exchange with the kind of knowing smile that made Harry want to sink into the mattress and disappear.

“Well,” she finally said, brushing nonexistent dust off her coat, “we should let him rest.”

“Oi, we just got here—” Ron began.

But Hermione was already tugging him toward the curtain.

“Bye, Harry. Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

She nodded politely to Draco as she passed, and dragged her husband with her, Ron grumbling the entire way.

The moment the curtain flapped shut, Harry knew it.

Alone. Again. With him.

He flopped back onto the pillows, groaning. “Is there a law against stalking Aurors in their hospital beds?”

Draco smirked and pulled up a chair. “If there is, I’ll be sure to break it for you, darling.”

Harry tossed a pillow at his face.

Missed.

Unfortunately.

That night, sleep felt like a foreign concept. It slipped through Harry’s fingers the moment he thought he had it, leaving behind nothing but sore ribs, restless limbs, and thoughts he couldn’t quiet.

The ward was dark, hushed in the way hospitals always were after hours—unnaturally quiet, like the building itself was holding its breath. The only glow came from the soft yellow of the bedside lamp, casting warm light over the book resting on Malfoy’s lap.

Yes. Still here. He’d refused to leave earlier with that same infuriatingly casual tone he always used when he’d already made up his mind. And Harry hadn’t fought it. Why? He couldn’t really say. Maybe it was the bruised ribs. Maybe it was how tired he was of pushing everyone away.

But now, lying here, unable to sleep, he was stuck with him—Draco Malfoy: suit still on, white shirt partially unbuttoned, collar relaxed, sleeves pushed up and held with those stupidly attractive sleeve garters, jacket draped over the back of the chair like this was just any other night. The wool coat hung neatly on the rack by the curtain, and under the dim lamplight, his hair shimmered like bloody silver silk.

Harry stared. And thought. And regretted thinking because that was always where the trouble started.

How had he let Malfoy—Malfoy, of all people—saunter back into his life like this? Twist it up into knots, stir everything he’d buried years ago, and make it feel… real again. Like the past wasn’t quite done with them.

And the worst part? Now that he was back, it was hard—impossibly hard—to imagine him gone again.

Three months. That’s how long it had been since Draco came crashing back into his orbit like a meteor with good hair and a sharper wit than should be legal. Three months of secrets, smirks, fights, and lingering glances. And Harry realized—painfully—that he didn’t know the man sitting just a few feet away from him. Not really.

He knew he worked as a finance director at some fancy Muggle-tech company currently hybridizing with the magical sector. He knew he wore expensive suits like a second skin, drove a car Harry still couldn’t pronounce the brand of, navigated tech better than most Ministry IT workers, liked old music and weird foreign food, and had a disarmingly sharp tongue.

But that was all surface.

Because there were moments—fleeting but unmistakable—when the mask dropped. When the warm smile slipped off his face like melting wax and those grey eyes turned glacial, flat, inhuman. Moments that made Harry’s stomach twist, because the charm, the wit, the sophistication… they weren’t the whole picture.

So which version was the real Draco?

The polished executive with a devil-may-care grin?

Or the ghost behind his eyes when he thought no one was looking?

Harry’s musings shattered when Draco shut his book with a soft thump. He startled, instinctively squeezing his eyes shut like a bloody first year. The next thing he knew, the mattress dipped under new weight, and Draco was climbing into the bed.

“What the hell are you doing?” Harry whisper-hissed, flinching as Draco’s arm brushed against his side.

Draco just made himself comfortable. “Well, since you’ve been staring holes into me all night, I figured you were having trouble sleeping.”

Harry groaned. “And squeezing into a one-person hospital bed is supposed to help?”

“It worked last time,” Draco replied, smirking as he yanked the blanket over both of them. “You even drooled on my chest. Very endearing.”

Harry thanked every bloody star that the lights were off because his face was definitely burning.

He rolled over, back to Malfoy, and muttered, “Suit yourself.”

Behind him, Draco chuckled—low and warm, like a secret only the night could hear.

And oddly… with that solid warmth pressed lightly against his spine, breath steady behind him, Harry finally—finally—slipped into sleep.

Days blurred into each other like streaks of rain on a Ministry windowpane. Harry was back in the whirlwind of his professional life, and Merlin, it was bleak.

Taking down an elusive ring of magical thieves? That should’ve earned him a vacation, maybe a week in the Scottish Highlands or somewhere that didn't smell like burnt parchment and disappointment. But no—just another certificate of recognition, signed and stamped and promptly shoved in a drawer already overflowing with similar commendations he barely remembered earning. What did it matter if he could barely keep his eyes open through Ministry galas, a walking corpse powered entirely by coffee and spite?

He hadn’t even seen Malfoy since that night in the hospital.

When he’d woken the next morning—ribs sore, head fuzzy—the space beside him had been cold. Empty. A note had been left on the nightstand, naturally, written in that unnecessarily elegant scrawl of his:

“Had to return to the company. Don’t die. -DM”

Charming.

And that had been it. No late-night meals, no sudden appearances, no ridiculous comments about his hair looking like a broom caught in a thunderstorm. Silence. A void. And Harry didn’t miss him—he really didn’t—it was just… weird. Off. Because even when Malfoy was allegedly “too busy,” he always made sure to show up. In one way or another.

So maybe he really was busy. The man was a director of finance for a hybridizing Muggle-magical company, after all—not some aristocratic socialite lounging in silk robes and drinking firewhisky at noon.

Harry rubbed his eyes and stared back down at his paperwork. He was knee-deep in minor crime reports, the kind that made him question his life decisions. Across from him, Ron groaned, forehead flat against his desk, buried beneath stacks of half-read documents and a small army of empty coffee cups.

They were all slowly decaying.

“Tell me again,” Ron muttered without lifting his head, “why we wanted this job?”

Harry sighed. “Because it was better than ending up in accounting.”

Ron made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob.

If Harry could curl into the fetal position under his desk and weep without it ending up in a Prophet headline, he would. But alas, decorum. So he simply grabbed another file from his ever-growing pile of petty crimes and tried to pretend he didn’t want to hex his own chair into splinters.

After the robbery ring was taken down, their caseload had thinned. The major cases had either been closed or passed along. Now all they had left were a parade of minor complaints: neighbors arguing over invisible boundaries, charmed brooms going rogue, misplaced magical pets, and people reporting “stolen” artifacts that turned out to be under their beds. Riveting.

Only one case remained remotely interesting: The Serpent’s Shadow. But that one had gone quiet again. No new bodies. No new clues. Just the eerie silence of a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

“God, I just wanna go home to Hermione and pretend we don’t live in a bureaucratic hellscape,” Ron whined.

Harry chuckled, patting his best friend’s shoulder. Comforting Ron had become its own routine, though he wasn't exactly qualified to offer emotional support. His own life wasn’t exactly an ad for stability.

He went home to an empty house. Ate toast over the sink. Passed out on his sofa in full uniform. Sometimes he even remembered to shower.

Malfoy had said once—half teasing, half cutting—that his life lacked pleasure. That maybe, just maybe, he should get a telly and stop living like a martyr-in-waiting.

Harry had scoffed at the time. But now? With the quiet of Grimmauld Place waiting to swallow him every night, that suggestion had started sounding dangerously reasonable.

Ugh. There it was again. Malfoy.

Why was he in his head again?

Harry shook his head, cursed under his breath, and forced himself to focus. Back to the reports, Potter. Not ghosts. Not Malfoy. Just paperwork.

Easier said than done.

The moment Chris burst into the office like a Kneazle set on fire, everything around Harry snapped into color.

The poor rookie was panting, red-faced, and wide-eyed, but Harry had never been so happy to see someone look so utterly horrified in his life. That face—equal parts panic and adrenaline—that was the face that reminded him he hadn’t completely wasted his life wading through mediocrity.

“They found another victim.”

The words lit something inside him. And yes, maybe he shouldn’t be excited about murder—but Merlin, if he had to read one more report about a hexed gnome or magical garden dispute, he would’ve gone feral. He didn’t even hear Robards yelling from down the hallway about protocol or assignments or paperwork—Harry was already halfway out the door, Ron hot on his heels.

When he reached his destination, his boots practically slid on the marble floors of the lobby. And of course it had to be there. That company building again.

And of course Draco sodding Malfoy was already striding through the lobby like a runway model on a finance-themed catwalk—impeccable black suit, perfectly polished shoes, subtle silver tie clip, and that same ridiculous confidence that had Harry clenching his jaw and—unfortunately—grinning like an idiot the second they locked eyes.

He hated that grin. Really. It just… happened. Uncontrollably. Like some involuntary spell reaction.

Malfoy was surrounded by a gaggle of assistants and junior execs hanging on his every word, scribbling on their little notepads like he was doling out prophecies. And the worst part? Harry wasn't annoyed this time. Not even a little.

God help him.

Draco dismissed his entourage with one fluid motion—like a bloody conductor—and strolled over, hands in his pockets and amusement already playing at his lips.

“Well, well, Potter,” he drawled, that voice like silk with a smirk, “Miss me already? It’s barely been two weeks. I’m flattered.”

Harry huffed, shooting him a look that lacked the venom it was supposed to carry. “Jump off your high horse, Malfoy. We’ve got a new victim.”

Draco hummed, his eyes alight with interest. “Should I be concerned at how pleased you sound about that? Might give off the wrong impression—Auror Harry Potter, Defender of Justice and avid murder enthusiast.”

Harry rolled his eyes so hard he saw the back of his skull for a moment. “Shut up and follow me.”

And just like that, they were back in sync—Auror and consultant, cat and mouse, pull and push. Harry felt the click of it, familiar and dangerous. Malfoy walking beside him in perfect stride, too close and yet not close enough.

The game had resumed. And Harry, damn him, was ready to play.

The routine had become… seamless.

Too seamless.

No one blinked anymore when Draco Malfoy strode beside Harry Potter into an active crime scene like he belonged there. The yellow glamour wards shimmered faintly in the air—keeping out Muggle eyes—and Draco passed through them without pause, a flicker of magic curling around his silhouette before dispersing. Not a single Auror challenged him. Not even the newer ones. He was part of the operation now. Unofficially. Invisibly. Unshakably.

Ron was already there, pacing near the body like he was trying to scare death itself into giving answers. When he saw Harry approach, he didn’t even bother with a greeting—just handed over a profile folder and a letter in a damn envelope.

Harry blinked at it. “Well, that’s fancy,” he muttered, prying the letter open.

Inside, scrawled with that same eerie, glowing ink—what the forensics team still suspected was the victim’s magical essence—were the words:

Did you miss me?

Harry scoffed. “Getting cocky, aren’t we?” he murmured, jaw tight. He didn’t need to say anything else. Draco was already crouched beside the body, gloves on, eyes sharp. Silent. Focused.

It was the same mark again—the spiral-like sigil etched into the skin, faintly glowing, pulsing in rhythm like it had a heartbeat. Draco inspected it carefully before standing up, dusting off his hands with the care of someone who knew his suit was worth more than Harry’s monthly salary.

Harry was ready to go through the motions again—take notes, collect the same useless statements, wait for dead ends.

But then he saw it.

Draco didn’t just step back. He moved. Walked away from the center of the scene, toward the far side of the building—toward the wall. He raised a hand, palm brushing air just inches from the bricks.

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Malfoy?”

Draco didn’t look at him. “Foreign magic,” he murmured, voice low and sure. “Residual. We’re talking hours ago—maybe a day at most. It doesn’t match the protective ward signatures.”

Harry’s heart kicked. Finally.

He was already calling over the forensic team, voice loud and sharp, issuing orders to bring in the specialized ward analysis unit. This wasn’t a hallucination. There were traces—actual, lingering traces of external spellwork layered thinly under the wards. They had something new. Something concrete.

Draco was motioning the team to specific areas now, pointing out where the disturbance lines began and faded. His tone was detached, clipped, professional—but Harry could see it in his eyes.

Satisfaction.

Harry exhaled slowly, watching the organized chaos unfold around him as Aurors swarmed the wall, spells cast in flashes of blue and green as they captured the trace, bottled it, analyzed its resonance.

For the first time in weeks, he felt like they’d taken a real step forward.

He looked back at Draco—tall, poised, sleeves rolled slightly as he traced the contours of a barely visible rune with the tip of his gloved finger—and he thought:

Maybe I wasn’t wrong about you after all.

Back at the Ministry, the air crackled with tension and energy—the kind only stirred by chaos with a glimmer of hope laced through it.

The department had transformed. Desks were buried in parchment, files levitated across the room with reckless charmwork, Aurors shouted over one another, and the main conference room now looked like a war council bunker. Half-eaten sandwiches teetered on stacks of classified documents. Someone’s owl had gone feral trying to deliver a memo. It was beautiful, in a terrifying sort of way.

When Harry and Ron returned, they barely had time to breathe before Amy intercepted them, face grim but eyes bright. “Lab. Now.”

No arguments. They followed.

Inside, the hum of arcane equipment filled the space, low and constant like a magical heart monitor. Zola—the forensic specialist with a mind like wildfire and hands steadier than time—stood over a shallow basin filled with a glowing, swirling potion. Her goggles were perched high on her forehead, curls flying in every direction, but the look on her face was one of excitement.

“We’ve been working on something,” she said, voice quick. “Based on Malfoy’s... talent. You know, seeing magic. We call it the Sight, right? Well, we’ve been trying to reverse-engineer a way to replicate what he sees.”

Ron raised a brow. “You mean—make invisible magic visible?”

Zola nodded. “Exactly. And not just visible. Transferable. Something permanent. Tangible. So it’s no longer subjective or tied to someone who can ‘just see it.’ Something we can present as evidence.”

Harry stepped closer, gaze dropping to the small velvet box next to her, where Avery’s enchanted ring soaked in potion like it was steeping memories.

Zola carefully flicked her wand over it, slow and delicate, as if painting air. A shimmer rose from the ring, faint and nearly invisible—until she guided it, impossibly, onto a piece of paper enchanted with tracing runes.

A moment later, black lines began to crawl across the page. Forming. Curling. Spiraling.

Harry’s eyes widened.

The same sigil Draco had drawn weeks ago during one of their first consulting sessions.

The same damn mark.

“Bloody hell,” Ron breathed beside him, voice more awe than alarm for once.

Zola didn’t look up as she added, “It’s still in development. Slower than just having someone like Malfoy look and tell us, but it confirms his readings. Makes them admissible. And repeatable.”

Harry exhaled a laugh, stunned. “Zola, this is brilliant.”

She blinked, caught off guard. Then she smiled—small, proud, but just shy of beaming. “Well, it’s nice to hear it from the Boy Who Broods.”

Harry smirked. “Don’t get used to it.”

But even as they bantered, the air in the lab had changed. They weren’t chasing ghosts anymore. They had proof. They had tools.

For the first time in months, it felt like they were gaining ground.

And Harry… Harry was finally beginning to believe they might win this.

Harry hadn’t even heard the damn door open before Malfoy appeared, walking beside one of the ward specialists like he owned the entire bloody Ministry. Which, given the way he carried himself—pressed suit, perfect posture, that untouchable air—he might as well have. But that wasn’t the part that had Ron raising a brow and Harry internally cursing himself.

No, that came when Harry shot up from his chair like a wand had gone off under it.

“Subtle,” Ron muttered just loud enough.

Harry ignored him. Mostly.

Malfoy didn’t comment on it, which was shocking. Suspicious, even. But then again, maybe he didn’t need to. The faint twitch at the corner of his smug mouth said enough.

The ward specialist handed Harry the report, crisp parchment and glowing with embedded enchantments. “We confirmed it,” the man said. “There were traces of foreign magic interfering with the building’s wards. It’s faint, but someone remotely manipulated them.”

Harry's brows rose. “Remotely?”

The specialist nodded. “Didn’t trip any alerts. But it’s how your killer’s been bypassing security—manipulating protections without ever being physically near the scene. No contact. No residue. No immediate trace.”

Ron leaned in from behind, murmuring darkly, “That’s how he’s dumping them, then. No one sees him come. No one sees him go. Bloody brilliant.”

Not the word Harry wanted to use, but… yeah.

He looked at the specialist, thanking him—but the man just smiled and jerked a thumb at Malfoy.

“If you’re thanking anyone,” he said, “thank him. We wouldn’t’ve even known what to look for if he hadn’t pointed us in the right direction. You’ve got someone very… uniquely skilled on your side, Potter.”

And with that, he left. Just like that. Dropping a statement like a bomb and walking away without a care.

Malfoy turned, so sweetly smug it made Harry want to hex him and kiss him at the same time. Ron groaned, visibly, like the headache he’d been avoiding all day had just settled behind his eyes.

“I’ll go… submit the report to Robards,” Ron muttered, grabbing the folder and taking a wide berth around Malfoy. He paused beside Harry, leaned in, and whispered, “Don’t do anything drastic, yeah?”

“Define drastic,” Harry muttered back, but Ron was already gone.

Which left him alone with Malfoy again.

Malfoy, who was still wearing that insufferably pleased expression. “Did you hear that?” he asked, like he hadn’t already engraved the compliment onto his ego. “‘Uniquely skilled.’ You should consider framing that. Maybe next to all your awards.”

Harry snorted, leaning against the desk, arms crossed. “Still an annoying, pretentious arse.”

“Mm. But an arse that’s solved half your case for you.”

Unfortunately. He wasn’t wrong.

And Harry had never been one to withhold what was due.

“Fine,” he muttered, shooting him a reluctant glance. “Thanks. Again. You’ve been… helpful.”

Malfoy hummed, as if weighing the word in his mouth like an exotic flavor. “I like this new Potter. So much more agreeable. I should help out more often.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Don’t let it go to your—”

“But,” Malfoy cut in, stepping forward. Close. Too close. “You’re racking up quite a bit of debt, Potter. I’m thinking you start repaying those favours. Maybe… a coupon system?”

Harry squinted. “A what?”

“You know,” Malfoy said lightly. “A little stack I can cash in. For things. Favors. Dates.”

Harry choked. “You—”

“Don’t push it?” Malfoy echoed innocently. “Why, Potter. Are you scared?”

And there it was. That glint in his eye—challenge, promise, danger.

Harry’s body tensed on instinct, but his chin lifted.

He didn’t back down from a fight.

So he stepped forward until their faces were inches apart, matched him stare for stare, and said, low and defiant—

“Do your worst. If you can.”

The grin that spread across Malfoy’s face was pure sin wrapped in silk.

Oh, he was so screwed.

Chapter Text

That Friday evening had the sweet taste of victory clinging to it—months of exhaustion and near-burnout finally rewarded with progress that felt real. So when Ron clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder after their shift and said, “You’re not skipping out this time, mate,” he knew resisting was pointless.

Harry followed Ron and Hermione through the soft glow of Diagon Alley, into a newly opened bar tucked between a Quidditch merch shop and a potion cafe. According to Dean, one of his Muggle-raised friends had finally realized his dream of opening a mixed bar—magic-friendly, Muggle-cozy, and effortlessly cool.

And it was nice.

The lighting was low, warm, enchanted just enough to make the space feel private no matter how crowded it got. Spell-cleaned crystal glasses reflected the hues of multicolored cocktails, and booths curved in half-moons for maximum secrecy or maximum mischief.

Their usual crew was already huddled in a massive leather booth near the back. Ginny waved them over, a glowing drink in one hand and a teasing smirk on her lips. Seamus was in the middle of what looked like a dramatic retelling of a broom malfunction, while Neville laughed quietly into his butterbeer and Luna swirled her drink absently, eyes scanning the room like she was trying to see beyond it.

Ron slid in beside Hermione, whistling low. “Bloody hell, Dean. This place is posh.”

Dean grinned. “Told you. My mate’s been working on this for years. Invited me the second it opened. Said I could bring ‘the Aurors.’” He gave Ron and Harry a mock-salute, then added, “First round’s on the house. Try the green one. You might lose vision in one eye for twenty minutes, but it’s worth it.”

“That’s comforting,” Harry said dryly, slumping into the booth.

Ginny laughed and raised her drink. “Honestly? Worth it. I can taste the rainbow. Not even metaphorically.”

Seamus leaned in. “So, is it true? You two cracked the case?”

Ron made a face like he wanted to downplay it, but Harry just nodded with a small smile. “Got a lead. First real one in months.”

Cheers, high-fives, and clinks of glass followed. Neville beamed. Dean ordered a round of drinks. Seamus asked if it was that case. Luna, of course, was the only one not asking questions.

She turned to Hermione instead and said, quite plainly, “You can’t drink tonight.”

The entire booth froze mid-laugh.

Ginny blinked. “Wait, why?”

Neville was already digging into his enchanted satchel for something herbal. “Are you feeling off? Dizzy?”

Hermione blushed, hands lifting defensively. “No, no—it’s not like that.”

Ron leaned in closer, worry lines forming. “Are you okay? Do we need to go—?”

“Ron,” she said gently, placing her hand over his. “I’m fine. I promise. I just… I have an announcement.”

Harry stilled. Luna tilted her head like she was waiting for someone else to catch up.

Hermione hesitated just a beat, then smiled with that soft sort of glow that only meant one thing. “I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

Then—

“WHAT?” Seamus’s voice cracked the moment like a lightning spell.

The booth exploded.

Ginny shrieked and threw her arms around Hermione, nearly knocking her drink over. Neville gasped and dropped his satchel. Dean just grinned like someone had cast a happiness charm over the entire table.

Ron blinked. Then blinked again.

“I’m… I’m gonna be a dad?” he said, voice small like the idea didn’t fit in his head yet.

Then louder, “I’m gonna be a dad?”

Hermione nodded, eyes misty. “You’re going to be a dad.”

The look on Ron’s face was something Harry wished he could bottle up and keep forever. Pure, blinding joy. He pulled Hermione into his arms, squeezing her so tight she squeaked.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I just found out this morning,” Hermione said through laughter and a few happy tears. “And you’ve both been so busy lately, I didn’t want to—”

“No. No. Hermione Granger-Weasley,” Ron said dramatically, “You are the best wife a man could ask for.”

Harry laughed, shaking his head as the table erupted again in congratulatory cheers.

He raised his glass and grinned, “Another Weasley incoming. Merlin help us all.”

Ginny clinked her glass to his. “We’ll start prepping the redhead starter pack.”

Harry smiled wide, for once letting himself feel the warmth of the moment without any shadows. No killer, no workload, no sleepless nights. Just joy, family, and the weird, wonderful chaos they were all built for.

Even if he did catch himself thinking—wondering—what Malfoy would say if he knew.

And that… that was a dangerous thought.

The night glowed with that rare, intoxicating warmth that wrapped itself around Harry like an old jumper—familiar, worn, and so easy to sink into. The booth was a pocket of laughter and light in the bar’s soft ambiance, their little world tucked between rounds of drinks, soft music, and stories that reminded him of everything he used to fight for.

Dean and Seamus were the loudest—no surprise there. Dean had barely finished his pint when Seamus practically climbed over the table to dig into his coat pocket, dragging out his phone like it held a holy relic.

“You lot aren’t ready,” he declared.

And indeed, they were not. The moment the screen turned to show a very tiny, very fuzzy German shepherd pup looking criminally adorable in a little jumper knitted by Dean’s mum, the table collectively melted.

“Her name’s Parsnip,” Seamus said with the reverence of a proud father.

Ginny clutched her chest, already halfway over the table. “No, you don’t understand, I need her. I need to steal her and give her my last name.”

Dean reached over and gently yanked Seamus’s phone back, pulling his boyfriend closer with an arm around his shoulder. “She’s our daughter, thank you very much.”

“Not for long if Aunt Ginny gets involved,” she countered with a wicked grin.

Seamus clutched his phone like it was the Elder Wand. “Over my dead, chewed-up trainers, Weasley.”

Neville was next, radiating calm satisfaction as he shared updates about teaching Herbology. “It’s good. Feels like I’m finally in the right place. No cursed hallways. No hexed criminals. Just greenhouses and students who only occasionally try to eat the plants.”

Ron sighed into his drink. “You lucky bastard. I swear the last bloke we arrested was living in an alley with seventeen cats and a collection of singing socks. We need a career change, mate.”

Harry nodded, deadpan. “Let’s just drop it all and open a magical coffee shop in the Alps.”

“I’ll come visit,” Neville offered. “Bring the mandrakes to serenade your customers.”

Ginny then chimed in, tipping back her neon drink with flair. “Enjoy me while you can. My team’s flying to Japan next week for the semifinals. They’re going down, obviously, but I’ll miss you lot.”

That earned a chorus of groans and cheers, Neville even raising his glass in salute.

“Bring back sake,” Seamus added, to which Ginny just winked.

But Hermione, her hands wrapped protectively around a fizzy non-alcoholic drink, leaned forward with narrowed eyes.

“Alright, Luna,” she said, voice full of faux-suspicion. “How did you know?”

Luna blinked. “Know what?”

“That I was pregnant. Before I said anything.”

Luna tilted her head, eyes dreamy. “Oh. There was a Flibberwish fluttering around your hair. They only come near pregnant people. Or goats, but there weren’t any of those around.”

No one questioned her.

Instead, they all nodded like that explained everything, which, in Luna-language, it did.

Hermione smiled fondly and said, “Aside from the small life inside me? Life’s good. We just closed a major deal with the Brazilian Ministry. Renewed some peace accords, and they sent over imported coffee.”

That earned a low whistle from Dean.

“The good stuff?”

Hermione nodded. “They said it’s enchanted to keep you focused for twelve hours straight without the shakes. I’ll owl some this weekend.”

The table erupted in collective adoration, Dean dramatically declaring her Saint Hermione of the Blessed Bean.

Harry sat back, drink in hand, taking it all in.

His friends. His family.

Laughter. Future babies. Puppies. Peace treaties. Coffee from Brazil.

And yet, even in that warmth, in the happiest little bubble of the week, his thoughts drifted—uninvited, inevitable—back to a particular pair of grey eyes, to a smirk that came with challenges, and a man who could see magic like others saw light.

Draco Malfoy.

Harry took a sip of his drink and shook his head at himself.

What a damn mess.

But he couldn’t stop smiling.

The hum of laughter, clinking glasses, and soft music filled the bar, but Harry wasn’t really in it. Not fully. He was smiling into his drink, eyes a little too distant, mind a little too far away. And Ginny—of course Ginny—caught it.

She leaned across the table, lips already tugging up in that I’m-about-to-expose-you smirk, and called him out without mercy. “Alright, Potter,” she purred. “What’s got you smiling like an idiot?”

The grin died on Harry’s face like someone had hit it with a Killing Curse. He sent her a warning glare, but she only raised an eyebrow in response, undeterred. Bloody exes and their divine intuition.

He scrambled for an excuse, muttering something about the coffee—yes, the coffee, because clearly that was the most thrilling part of his life these days. Ginny just hummed in that suspicious way that said she absolutely didn’t believe him. Then, she dropped the bomb with all the grace of a well-aimed Bludger.

“Sure it’s not because of a certain blonde with a great arse who picked you up the other night when you got wasted?”

Silence. The table froze.

The next beat felt like the entire bar had turned to listen.

Harry felt his stomach plummet straight through the floor.

Ron’s head jerked toward him so fast it was a miracle he didn’t get whiplash. “Wait—what? Didn’t you say Ginny called Malfoy to come get you?”

Ginny’s grin sharpened into something positively feral. “Why would I call Malfoy? I don’t even have his number.”

A collective gasp. Dean nearly choked on his beer. Hermione’s eyes were wide with intrigue. Seamus lit up like a Christmas tree. Luna just blinked serenely like this was the least surprising thing in the world. And Ron—

“Malfoy?” he spluttered, looking personally offended. “Malfoy?!”

Dean leaned in, his tone way too casual for someone about to stir chaos. “So… what are you two, then?”

Harry, very valiantly, lied through his teeth.

“Acquaintances.”

Ron let out a snort. “Acquaintances don’t save each other from falling to their deaths and then bridal carry them to the bloody hospital. I saw the way he looked at you—gross, by the way.”

Seamus was practically bouncing in his seat. “Details. I need details. C’mon, mate, you can’t just casually be shagging Malfoy and expect us not to ask questions.”

“I am not shagging—!”

“Yet,” Ginny cut in sweetly.

Neville, ever the gentle traitor, offered in a soothing tone, “No one’s going to judge you, Harry.”

“You all absolutely are judging me,” Harry said, glaring daggers.

Ron nodded solemnly. “You’re right. I am judging. Seriously—Malfoy?”

Hermione elbowed him hard in the ribs.

And then Luna, as if she hadn’t just been watching everyone combust with mild amusement, added dreamily, “They always seemed rather close since fifth year.”

Harry could’ve set himself on fire right then and there. Would’ve been less painful. Less public.

Finally, defeated, he drained his glass in one go and slammed it down on the table.

“Fine,” he muttered. “We used to date.”

The table went dead silent.

Then, chaos.

“WHAT?”

“You’re joking—”

“Since WHEN?”

“How?!”

“Please say it was just a one-night thing—”

“Christmas of fifth year to the start of sixth,” Harry mumbled, pressing his fingers to his temples. “It wasn’t even a year.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “That’s why he was such a menace to Cho! I knew it.”

“And here I thought Harry was jealous of me,” Dean muttered, shaking his head. “But nah. He was just sneaking off to snog Malfoy.”

“Everything makes sense now,” Seamus said reverently, like he’d cracked a lifelong conspiracy.

Harry let his forehead fall onto the table. He briefly considered staying there forever.

Neville, kind as ever, tilted his head. “But… why Malfoy? He was part of the Inquisitorial Squad back then. He made your life hell.”

Harry sighed. He hadn’t planned on giving a bloody monologue, but apparently, tonight was full of firsts.

“It was… complicated. After the attack on Arthur that Christmas, everything felt like it was falling apart. I was angry. Tired. Just—done. One night I went for a walk to clear my head and I ran into him. And it just—happened. I don’t even know how. But for some reason, when Sirius died, he was the only one who made me feel like I wasn’t going to fall apart completely.”

The table went quiet, the laughter dying down to a low hum of understanding.

“But then, beginning of sixth year, he just—left. Broke up with me. No explanation.”

Ron rubbed his face. “That’s why you were so weird about him that year. Obsessive.”

“I wasn’t obsessive,” Harry muttered.

“You stalked him across the castle,” Hermione reminded gently.

“You followed him to Knockturn Alley,” added Neville.

“You were a full-blown creeper,” Seamus said cheerfully.

“Okay, okay—fine,” Harry groaned. “I had a thing. But nothing’s happening now.”

The whole table gave him the look. That “Sure, Jan” look.

Harry lifted his glass. “I’m not doing this sober.”

And with that, he downed another drink, fully aware that this would be a night he’d never live down.

Harry drank until the warmth in his cheeks wasn’t just firewhisky but something numbing, dull around the edges, easier than regret. He laughed too hard, smiled too wide, and when the time came to say goodbyes, Hermione offered to walk him home, concern clear in her soft eyes and quiet voice.

But Harry, swaying slightly with the weight of booze and exhaustion, waved her off with a crooked grin and a slurred, “I’m fine, ‘Mione. Just get Ron home before he starts serenading the entire city.”

Hermione hesitated, eyeing the wobble in his stance. Ron, leaning heavily on her shoulder with flushed cheeks and a dopey smile, chimed in with a mumbled, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” hands already protectively on her stomach.

She gave Harry one last look, uncertain, but relented with a sigh. “Alright. But please don’t do anything reckless tonight.”

“I’m always reckless,” he said with a half-hearted wink, which only made her groan.

As she helped Ron into the cab, Harry watched them go with a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. There was something grounding in that moment—watching two of his best friends stumble into the next stage of life, hand in hand, laughing into their future.

The cab door shut. Hermione waved. The car pulled away.

And just like that, the night crept quiet again.

He turned to find Dean and Seamus half-carrying a very drunk Neville, the poor bloke mumbling about needing to repot something. Harry gave them a nod and a lazy salute as they passed, Seamus returning it with a lopsided grin.

Luna followed behind them, gliding as if gravity never applied to her, hair loose and eyes dreamy. Completely sober. As always. She gave him a little wave and a look he couldn’t quite interpret. She never said much—but Luna knew things. Things he wasn't ready to ask about.

Then came Ginny, all wildfire hair and the kind of confidence you didn’t earn—you were born with. Her heels clicked against the pavement, stopping just in front of him.

“Alright there, Potter?” she asked, voice low, amused.

“Always,” he lied, grinning.

She gave him a look that peeled through every layer of bravado. “Mhm.” Then, quieter, “Don’t regret it.”

He blinked. “What?”

She leaned in, pressed a kiss to his cheek, and whispered again, “Don’t. Regret. It.”

And with that, she turned and walked away, red hair swaying like the last flicker of a candle.

Harry stood there a moment longer, her words echoing in the cavern of his chest.

Then, without quite knowing when his feet had made the decision, he turned and walked—slowly, steadily, as the cold air bit into his flushed skin and sobered him up inch by inch. The world buzzed around him, cars passing, voices dim in the distance, but he was somewhere else now. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere familiar.

He stopped beneath the streetlamp just outside the tall, glass-paneled building that had begun to feel too significant.

The chill seeped through his jacket, fingertips numb, but it was nothing compared to the thrum in his chest.

And then—there.

The door opened with a soft hiss, and out walked him.

Tailored charcoal suit. Polished shoes. A briefcase in one hand, a wand holster peeking beneath the sleek fall of his coat. And hair like damn moonlight, catching the faint golden hue of the streetlight and turning it to halo. Malfoy didn’t even flinch at the cold.

Harry didn’t speak. Just watched. Let himself look. Let himself feel. Because tonight, after all that had happened, he was done lying. To himself. To the others. To the ghosts of what almost was.

Draco paused the second he spotted him. That elegant mask of indifference cracked for just a fraction of a heartbeat, surprise flashing across his features—then something softer. Subtle, but unmistakable.

But something shifted—just a little—in those pale grey eyes. Something real. Something Harry had chased all the way here.

“What are you doing here, Potter?” Draco asked, voice low and even, but his steps betrayed him—already closing the distance between them.

Harry didn’t move. Didn’t answer. Just tilted his head, eyes scanning the face that had haunted him for fifteen years. The same mouth that used to smirk against his skin. The same eyes that had once seen through his bravado and brokenness alike. The same presence that made him feel like he mattered, even when the world tried to convince him he was nothing more than a symbol.

“I was drunk,” Harry finally said, his voice rough. “Walked around. Thought I’d—end up somewhere familiar.”

Draco arched a brow. “You wound up here by accident?”

Harry shrugged. “Maybe.”

A beat of silence.

Draco looked at him. Really looked at him. Then he took a step closer. “You look like shit.”

Harry laughed, loud and bitter. “Nice to see some things don’t change.”

Draco didn’t laugh, but his mouth twitched. “You’re shivering.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

And before Harry could protest again, Draco’s coat was coming off, draped over his shoulders with practiced precision. The smell of him hit instantly—spice, citrus, expensive fabric, and something Harry didn’t have words for. Something that had made a home in his bones long ago.

Harry blinked, staring down at the coat wrapped around him like a memory.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” Draco interrupted, and this time his voice was softer.

Harry’s throat worked around a dozen things he couldn’t say.

“Why now?” Draco asked quietly. “Why tonight?”

Harry swallowed. “Everyone found out. About… us.”

Draco stilled. Then, “And?”

Harry looked up, lips parting. “And I didn’t deny it. Not anymore.”

That silenced them both.

Draco was the first to speak, stepping in just close enough that Harry could feel his breath against his cheek.

“Are you here because you wanted to see me, or because you didn’t want to be alone?”

Harry’s response came instantly. Honest. Raw.

“Both.”

And then there it was—the look. The one that said Draco Malfoy had waited years to hear those words. The one that said maybe he hadn’t stopped hoping after all.

He didn’t say anything. Just reached up and touched Harry’s cheek, fingers light but steady.

“Come with me,” he murmured.

Harry hesitated for half a second. Then nodded.

Because tonight wasn’t about denial. Or shame. Or pretending to be fine when he wasn’t.

Tonight, Harry chose. Chose to follow 

Draco inside.

Chose not to regret it.

Not this time.

The cold had faded.

Somewhere between the streetlamp and the polished leather seats, it disappeared—along with Harry's ability to think straight. Draco's hand was steady at his waist, guiding him with the quiet confidence he always wore like second skin. The world blurred around them—city noise dulled by Harry's heartbeat drumming like war in his ears.

He didn’t know which car it was. Didn’t care. They were all sleek, ridiculous, expensive. This one smelled like leather and something distinctly Draco—citrus, spice, and the faint trace of cologne Harry remembered from a time he’d promised himself to forget.

The passenger door opened with a soft click, and Draco ushered him in. The gentleness was unnerving. Disarming. Like he wasn’t sure what was more dangerous—Draco’s bite or his care.

Then Draco leaned in again to buckle him in, the seatbelt clicking softly. And this time—this time—Harry didn’t let him go.

He leaned forward. Just a small press of lips. Barely a kiss. Barely a breath.

But it was everything.

Something ancient and aching and dangerously tender bloomed between them. The kind of moment that changed the taste of air, the kind that made the skin tingle with the ghost of what was and what could still be.

Draco didn’t speak. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t hesitate.

He devoured the distance instead, a low sound escaping his throat as he surged forward and kissed Harry like something reclaimed—like a man picking up where he left off in the ruins.

Harry melted into it. His hands moved without permission, fingers tangling in that perfect blonde hair, tugging like he'd done a hundred times before. Memory burned under skin and bone. It wasn’t nostalgia. It was hunger. Need. Buried too long. Denied too often.

When Draco pulled back, Harry barely had enough breath to gasp.

He looked into those silver eyes and saw a war there—one Harry had no intention of walking away from this time.

Then another kiss, rougher, messier, as if Draco had reached his limit too.

A curse. A whisper. The door shut. Draco circled the car.

Harry sank back against the seat, flushed, dazed, lips tingling.

He didn’t remember the drive. Not the turns or the lights or the songs playing on the radio. Just Draco’s hand resting heavy and warm on his thigh like it belonged there. Like it never left.

And Harry—he didn’t move it.

They didn’t make it far past the door.

The flat was a blur—walls, corners, furniture forgotten in the haze of urgency. All that mattered was the weight pressing Harry against the wall, Draco’s mouth dragging over his like he was claiming lost territory. Their hands moved without patience, tugging, fumbling, grasping like they'd spent years pretending they didn’t crave this exact moment.

Harry’s back hit the wall with a soft thud, and Draco’s body followed—flush, heated, solid. Their chests rose and fell in jagged, desperate rhythm, breath tangled between open-mouthed kisses. It was maddening, the way Draco moved, like he knew the choreography Harry’s body still remembered. The places to touch, the angles to bite, the way to pull a sigh straight from his lungs with a single graze of teeth.

Then lips—hot, open, needy—found Harry’s throat, sucking bruises into brown skin like promises. Harry’s head tipped back, fingers laced in soft blond hair, holding on for dear life. He wasn’t sure when his feet left the ground, only that Draco had him—arms strong, grip sure, like letting go was never an option.

The bed greeted them in a sprawl of limbs and breathless laughter that died into another kiss. Harry barely registered the softness of the sheets beneath him before deft fingers made quick work of his belt, the metallic clink sharp in the quiet.

Then—

A mouth.

Hot. Wet. Unrelenting.

Harry gasped, the sound guttural, pulled from the base of his spine. One hand flew to Draco’s hair, the other slapped over his mouth to silence the choked sound that threatened to echo through the room. But Draco looked up, eyes hooded, voice low and full of wicked intent.

“Don’t.” A slow, open-mouthed kiss against his thigh. “I want to hear everything.”

Harry dropped his hand.

What followed wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft.

It was teeth scraping against sensitivity. It was fingers digging into thighs. It was the kind of pleasure that unraveled him thread by thread until the only thing left of him was sound—moans, whimpers, gasps torn from somewhere deep and far too vulnerable.

Draco never looked away.

And Harry? He gave in.

Let the pleasure swallow him whole. Let his body arch off the bed. Let every noise be heard because for the first time in a long, long time—he wasn’t hiding.

Not from Draco. Not from himself.

And when he finally fell apart, shaking, undone, all he could think was—

Gods, what happens when this is only the beginning?

Silk.

That was the first thing Harry registered. Silken sheets, far too smooth, far too expensive, and definitely not the cotton-polyester monstrosity he called his own. He groaned, eyes squeezed shut, as if sheer willpower could banish the pounding in his skull and the slowly dawning memory of last night’s… events.

His arm stretched out instinctively, searching for the comfort of a duvet or maybe his wand—what it found was warm skin.

Firm. Bare. Warm. Definitely human.

And then—dear Merlin—he opened his eyes.

What greeted him was a very defined, very naked, very pale chest. His face was inches from it, nose practically buried against a collarbone. He blinked. Once. Twice. Slowly, eyes trailed up the elegant line of that throat, the gentle dip of the jaw, the soft flutter of sleep-heavy lashes. And then, like a cruel punchline, the identity of that chest hit him.

Draco Bloody Malfoy.

Harry’s breath caught as he realized the full weight draped across his body—Malfoy’s arm was secured around his waist like a steel band, bare legs tangled like ivy in spring. Skin against skin.

He was naked.

They both were.

Panic flared in his chest and he tried to shift back, but that iron grip only tightened. A sleepy, low hum left Malfoy’s throat, dragging against Harry’s ear like silk on bare nerves.

“Sleep more,” came the gravel-drenched murmur.

Oh, no.

No, no, no. That voice. That damn morning voice—somewhere between a purr and a sin. It went straight down his spine, short-circuiting his willpower.

He froze.

And then Malfoy’s eyes opened—those unreasonably clear grey eyes, sharp even with sleep clinging to their corners. They blinked once, focused, and then curved into a slow, smug smile.

“Good morning, love,” he said, voice still rough, and with the kind of confidence that should be illegal. 

Harry nearly choked on air.

He tried to scramble away, untangle his limbs, maybe throw himself out the nearest window, but Draco, traitor that he is, only tugged him in tighter, until Harry’s entire body was pressed flush against his.

"You're suffocating me," Harry mumbled, trying to twist away, but Malfoy chuckled—a low, dangerous thing—and rolled them, pinning Harry squarely on top of him. Arms locked firm over the small of his back, holding him there like some sort of smug incubus.

Harry let out a sound of pure indignation, hands braced against the other man's chest, ready to shove off. Or slap him. Or maybe both.

“Malfoy,” he hissed. “What the hell are you—”

And then it happened.

Draco leaned in, slow, lazy, like he had all the time in the world, and kissed him.

Not rough. Not greedy. Just soft—unforgivably soft.

Harry went very, very still.

When it ended, Malfoy didn’t move far. Just looked at him with that knowing gaze and said absolutely nothing—because the silence said everything.

Harry’s face went red. Scorching red. A shade that could burn the wallpaper off.

He was already halfway into a defensive rant, something about muscles and inappropriate smugness and how this meant absolutely nothing, obviously, when Malfoy just grinned and gave his arse a very unapologetic squeeze.

“Breakfast?” he asked.

Harry groaned into his chest. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

Draco’s reply? Just that maddening smirk and, “I’d make it worth it.”

Draco was the first to rise—because of course he was. Harry heard the rustle of sheets, the low creak of floorboards, and opened one eye just in time to catch a glimpse of pale skin and a very defined back stretching in the morning light. Muscles shifted, graceful and lean, as Draco stepped into a pair of trousers that had no right to still look tailored after being crumpled on the floor.

Harry squinted, then groaned, dragging the blanket over his head in a half-hearted attempt to shield himself from the assault of… reality.

He heard soft footsteps, then felt Draco’s weight lean briefly onto the mattress, followed by a kiss to his forehead—infuriatingly gentle, almost sweet. Too sweet. Harry peeked from under the sheet, catching only the back of Draco's head as he left the room without a word.

Once he was sure he was alone, Harry let out a very undignified groan and flopped onto his back. He stared up at the ceiling. White. Flat. Minimalist.

It matched the rest of the room—sleek, polished, entirely black and white, sterile almost. Soulless, if he were to be blunt. Not a single picture, no books, no sign of life except the rumpled sheets on the bed he currently occupied and the faint scent of cologne lingering in the air. It didn’t feel like someone lived here. It felt like someone was hiding here.

And Harry? Harry was wearing underwear, which was an odd relief—until he noticed that his trousers were nowhere to be found.

“Of course they’re not,” he mumbled, dragging himself out of bed with all the enthusiasm of a cat being tossed into a bathtub.

He searched until he found what could only be described as a walk-in wardrobe on steroids. Racks upon racks of suits. Greys, blacks, the occasional navy. Not a single T-shirt in sight. The man didn’t own casual, apparently.

Eventually Harry tugged on the largest, softest sweatshirt he could find—it smelled faintly like laundry detergent and Draco—and deemed it good enough. No pants. None of them fit him properly and frankly, it was Saturday. He was already in Malfoy’s house, his dignity was a distant memory, and if Draco had a problem with the thighs he was now flaunting in his posh clothes, well… that sounded like a him problem.

The flat was massive. Two floors, clean lines, expensive furniture, and entirely too quiet. He padded down the floating staircase, fingers trailing along the cold steel rail. The lower floor opened into a massive open kitchen with floor-to-ceiling windows letting the sharp winter light flood in.

And there he was—Draco—standing by the stove, spatula in one hand, phone cradled between his ear and shoulder, spouting something about “quarter-end figures” and “vendor compliance delays” in a clipped, polished tone that Harry only ever heard when he was ambushing the man at his office.

Harry paused just outside the doorway, watching him. Shirtless still. Hair slightly tousled from sleep but somehow still styled. The sight of it—all that grace, all that efficiency—made Harry want to both kiss him and hex him. And maybe do a few other things he wouldn’t name before breakfast.

He tugged the hem of the sweatshirt lower on his thighs—it barely helped—and finally stepped into the kitchen.

Draco turned, caught sight of him immediately, and—without missing a beat—said coolly into the phone, “No, send me the report by Monday. I’ll call you back.”

Click.

Phone down. Spatula turned. That knowing smirk already forming.

“Well,” Draco said, eyes sweeping over Harry’s bare legs and borrowed jumper. “Good morning, Gryffindor.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “You don’t get to sound smug about your clothes being too fancy to lounge in.”

Draco flipped a pancake, calm as ever. “You didn’t seem to mind the lack of clothes last night.”

Harry flushed. “I hate you.”

“You say that every time you wear my clothes and nothing else.”

Harry scowled and stole a strawberry off the plate next to him.

Draco let him. “Coffee?”

Harry nodded, chewing slowly.

He wasn't going to survive this man.

Breakfast was awkward—so awkward it made Harry irrationally angry, because food shouldn’t be allowed to taste that good when the air was this tense. Every bite of perfectly crisped bacon, every mouthful of the most unfairly fluffy eggs, just reminded him that Draco Malfoy could not only cook like a bloody professional, but was also sitting across from him shirtless, smug, and too calm.

To make matters worse, Malfoy’s phone lit up every other minute. Message. Email. Call. All ignored. And for reasons Harry would absolutely not examine, the fact that he wasn’t the center of Draco’s full attention irked him. Not enough to admit it out loud—he wasn’t a masochist—but enough that his chewing grew increasingly aggressive.

Eventually the silence got under his skin. His fork clinked too loud against the plate as he said, a little too forced, “Nice place.”

Draco didn’t look up immediately, just hummed, glancing around the immaculate kitchen like he’d only just remembered where they were. “Closest one I could think of,” he said. “I only stay here when I’ve got late shifts. It’s near the office.”

Harry blinked. “One?”

Draco’s eyes met his. “Yes, Potter. I have other places.”

Of course he did. The git. Harry scoffed and looked away, not missing the way Draco’s lip twitched.

“I wasn’t exactly planning a sleepover,” Draco said, leaning back in his seat, arms stretching lazily behind his head, like he wasn’t the source of all Harry’s current misery. “You weren’t very patient last night either, if I recall. Clocking out of work to find a drunk Chosen One practically humping the lamp post? Forgive me for rushing.”

“I wasn’t—!” Harry groaned, sinking into his seat and scrubbing a hand down his face. “Merlin.”

But Draco wouldn’t let it go. Oh no. He never lets anything go.

“You climbed me like a bloody tree,” Draco continued, tone casual, as if they were discussing the weather. “Slurred something about my godlike bone structure, if I’m not mistaken.”

Harry slammed his fork down, nearly knocking over the orange juice. “Shut up, Malfoy. Who the fuck does anything with someone that drunk?”

The room went still. Quiet. Then—

“Relax, Potter,” Draco said, voice smooth, too smooth. “We didn’t go all the way.”

Harry froze, caught between indignation and confusion. “We… didn’t?”

Draco’s smirk deepened. “What kind of man do you think I am? Honestly. You were practically incoherent. I’d sooner hex myself than take advantage of that. Consent, remember? Still the sexiest thing a man can have.”

Harry blinked at him, brain trying to load.

“You really thought—?”

“I woke up naked, Malfoy!” he snapped, pointing his fork at the blonde like it was a bloody wand.

“And whose fault is that?” Draco replied, entirely unbothered. “You tried to seduce me with your socks still on.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

Harry flushed crimson, stuffed a too-big bite of toast in his mouth, and chewed furiously, glaring at his plate like it had personally betrayed him.

Draco didn’t stop smiling once.

After breakfast, Harry let out a grunt of pure exhaustion and muttered something about needing a shower. He stood from the table, stretching out the ache in his limbs when suddenly—arms wrapped around his waist from behind. A body pressed too close, and lips brushed the shell of his ear with a husky, “We could shower together, you know.”

Harry jumped like he’d been hexed. He spun around, holding his ear like it might fall off from the offense, and glared daggers at Draco.

“Are you serious? No. Absolutely not. Where’s the bathroom—and my clothes, you prat?”

Draco, completely unfazed, only smiled like the smug bastard he was. “Your clothes are in the wash. You reeked of Firewhisky and bad decisions. But you’re welcome to borrow mine.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. He wanted to argue, but he also didn’t want to sit in his own alcohol-stained trousers or walk around in only boxers for another second. “Fine. But if you try anything—anything—while I’m in there, I swear to Merlin I’ll hex your dick off.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Draco said sweetly. “Not unless you beg.”

Harry growled under his breath and followed Draco back to the bedroom he’d woken up in. With a wave of his hand, Draco opened a sleek white door that led to an ensuite bathroom.

“I’ll leave a change of clothes for you,” Draco said, ever the gracious bastard, and winked before shutting the door behind him.

The bathroom, like the rest of the flat, was pristine. Elegant. Clinical. It smelled faintly of eucalyptus and whatever rich-people soap Draco probably imported from the Alps. But it was also eerily unlived in, like a showroom with just enough charm to pass as someone’s home.

Still muttering about shamelessness and never drinking again, Harry glanced at himself in the mirror—and screamed.

The door slammed open almost immediately.

“What happened?” Draco rushed in, all mock concern, only to find Harry scowling murderously and jabbing a finger at his chest.

“This! What the bloody fuck is this?”

Draco looked. And laughed.

Harry’s torso was a battlefield of hickeys. His neck, collarbones, and chest looked like he’d gone twelve rounds with a very horny vampire. “Merlin,” Harry muttered, “I look like a chew toy.”

“I am thorough,” Draco said innocently, but his eyes dropped down Harry’s bare body with a look that was anything but. The moment Harry felt that heat, he snatched the clothes from Draco’s hands and shoved him backward, kicking the door shut in his face.

“Pervert.”

“I take full responsibility,” came the muffled reply. “Proudly.”

The shower helped. The water was hot, the shampoo suspiciously expensive, and the silence was just long enough for Harry to collect what remained of his sanity. But the second he stepped out and caught sight of his reflection again, all that calm melted into a groan of horror. The marks were still there. Purple, red, some damn near black.

“Fucking hell,” he grumbled, towel slung low on his hips as he eyed the clothes Draco had left. He’d expected a button-up and trousers that reeked of snobbery. What he found was… shockingly normal.

A hoodie. Soft. Worn in. Charcoal grey with faint fading around the cuffs. Sweatpants—too long, but cozy. And new underwear, still folded like it had come straight from the shop.

“…Huh,” Harry mumbled.

The sweatpants, once folded at the ankles, fit just fine. But the hoodie—Merlin’s beard, the hoodie drowned him. It hung off his shoulders, neckline wide enough to leave the tops of his collarbones bare and the worst of the bite marks exposed. He tugged it up instinctively, but it only slumped back down.

He looked at himself in the mirror. Half dressed in Draco Malfoy’s clothes, covered in Draco Malfoy’s kisses, standing in Draco Malfoy’s stupid sterile flat.

He looked like a bloody claim.

“Stupid snake,” Harry muttered.

But he didn’t change.

Harry sank into the plush velvet sofa like it might swallow him whole. His fingers were buried in the sleeves of Malfoy’s oversized hoodie, the hood slumped over half his face like he was trying to disappear inside it. Maybe he was. Because any sane, rational adult would’ve already left. Apparated away. Picked up whatever pieces of dignity remained, slapped a Disillusionment Charm on their memories, and moved on.

But no. He was still here. In Malfoy’s flat. In Malfoy’s clothes. Marinating in last night’s decisions like a simmering stew of regret, confusion, and whatever the hell that kiss had been. Or all three kisses. Or maybe four—he’d lost count after the second time Malfoy had moaned against his throat like he was something sweet worth savoring.

Harry groaned into the hoodie fabric. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Ginny’s voice surfaced in his mind again—don’t regret it—and he wanted to throttle her. Because what did she mean by that? And why—out of all the places he could’ve run to when drunk and spiraling—did his traitorous feet take him here?

His train of thought derailed the second an arm, still damp and smelling like citrus and spice, snaked over his chest from behind. Harry jumped, his heart skipping a beat—or three—as he twisted around to find Draco fucking Malfoy looking entirely illegal.

Grey sweatpants. Tight black T-shirt clinging to his chest and shoulders like it had been painted on. Towel draped over his neck. Hair dripping faint trails of water down his temples.

This wasn’t the posh, buttoned-up arsehole Harry was used to. This was… domestic Draco. Post-shower Draco. Wet-hair-and-barefoot-in-sweats Draco.

And it was a problem.

Draco grinned like the cat that got the canary. “You wear me well. Especially that neckline.”

Harry flinched like he’d been slapped, arms immediately crossing over his chest in a doomed effort to cover the way the hoodie collar dipped low enough to show half the constellation of marks on his skin. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“You’re sitting in my flat. In my hoodie. After last night.” Draco lifted a brow. “I’ll look however I want.”

Harry groaned and looked away, petulant. With the sleeves swallowed past his hands and his scowl plastered on his face, he looked less like a grown man and more like a moody teenager caught sneaking out.

Draco only chuckled and made his way to the front of the room where a sleek leather briefcase sat by the door—Harry hadn’t even noticed it. Must’ve been tossed there last night in the chaos of desperation and questionable decision-making. He watched as Draco pulled out a thin black laptop, flipped it open with practiced ease, and sat beside the coffee table without missing a beat.

“You planning to stand there sulking all day?” Draco asked, typing already. “Sit. You’re messing with the aesthetic.”

Harry muttered a curse under his breath but relented, sinking back onto the couch—on the opposite end, obviously.

Draco didn’t even look up. “Relax. I have some reports to finish. Be a good boy and entertain yourself.”

Before Harry could snap at the phrasing, Draco tossed something at him. Reflexes honed by years of chasing Dark wizards kicked in, and Harry caught the object on instinct—a remote control. Sleek. Matte black.

“I’d suggest the Netflix app,” Draco said, smirking faintly. “You’ll be surprised what Muggles come up with to keep themselves entertained.”

Harry stared at him. “You didn’t even know how a line phone worked back at Hogwarts.”

“And now I own three streaming subscriptions,” Draco said, smug as sin. “Times change, Potter.”

Harry scowled at the remote like it had personally offended him. Then again, he had nothing better to do. He threw a glare across the room, flipped the television on, and flopped deeper into the couch—hood still half-swallowed his face, pride bruised, and absolutely no clue what the fuck this was turning into.

Harry had no right to be this invested in a bloody Muggle action flick from 2013. It had started off as a way to kill time—him, the oversized hoodie, and Draco’s way-too-sophisticated remote control—but an hour in, he was murmuring insults at the screen like a seasoned critic. “Don't open the door, you absolute tosser—”

What he didn't notice was the subtle shift in gravity.

At some point during the third chase sequence and before the lead made another questionably dumb decision, Draco had closed his laptop, shifted down the sofa, and—without ceremony—fallen asleep, head tilted back, mouth slightly open, and one arm now draped casually across the backrest... just behind Harry.

It wasn’t until the end credits rolled and the flashing light dimmed that Harry felt the warmth—that warmth—next to him and turned, realizing just how close Malfoy had gotten.

Five inches. Maybe less. That arm? Definitely behind him. Maybe even brushing his shoulder, just faintly, like a phantom touch.

And Draco? Out cold. Peaceful. Relaxed. So not the man Harry had been arguing with for the better part of the year. Gone was the perfectly-coiffed, steel-eyed executive. In his place was something real—sweatpants, tousled hair, that infuriating mouth parted just slightly. Vulnerable, even.

Harry hated how his stomach twisted at the sight. Get a grip, Potter.

He was about to shift away. That would’ve been the smart thing. Logical. Respectful.

Instead, he leaned closer. Just a breath. Just enough to look. To see.

And damn it all—he looked good even like this.

But then something else struck him. Every time Harry had lingered near Draco's company building, he’d seen the same thing: Malfoy, the last to leave. Emails past midnight. Business calls while making breakfast. The man worked himself to the bone. Worse than Harry himself.

And yet… last night, he’d dropped everything for him. Held him. Let him in. Cooked him breakfast. Took his bloody clothes to the wash.

Harry didn’t know what to make of that.

Maybe that was what pushed him. Not lust. Not habit. Just… gratitude.

So, with the faintest touch, he pressed his lips—soft and tentative—to the corner of Draco’s mouth. Barely a whisper of a kiss. A thank-you, maybe. An apology. A mistake. He pulled back quickly.

But not fast enough.

That arm on the backrest shifted—wrapped around his shoulders instead. Harry tensed, already gearing up to bolt.

Then grey eyes cracked open, still heavy with sleep but impossibly sharp as they locked onto him.

Shit.

He opened his mouth—no clue what to say. Draco beat him to it.

“If you’re going to kiss me,” he muttered, voice gravel-deep and sleep-rough, “at least do it properly.”

Harry didn’t even get a chance to process that before Draco pulled him in. Fully. Warm lips crashing into his. One arm anchoring him at the shoulders, the other sliding around his waist, dragging him across that five-inch gap like it had never existed.

Harry gasped against his mouth, his hands instinctively pressed to Draco’s chest in a weak push—but it was useless. Not when he was melting, bones liquefying like the bloody idiot he was.

His brain screamed that this was a mistake. That the lines were blurring too fast. That regret would come knocking, as it always did.

But Draco’s kiss silenced everything else.

And maybe—for once—Harry didn’t want to be saved from it.

Chapter Text

Somehow, without even realizing how it happened, Harry had ended up straddling Draco Malfoy’s lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. The telly still hummed quietly in the background, forgotten, a pale flicker in the otherwise dim sitting room.

Their kisses had grown slow, lazy, like the world outside didn’t exist. Harry’s arms hung loosely over Draco’s shoulders, fingers occasionally curling into the nape of his neck. Draco’s hands had settled on his waist, but as time passed, they had started to roam—confident, slow, fingers slipping under the oversized hoodie Harry still wore like it was his now. The touch was cold, sharp enough to make Harry shiver and bite back a noise.

They parted only when breathing became non-negotiable. Draco said nothing, just pulled Harry closer—tighter—until their chests were pressed together and Harry’s head was guided to the curve of his shoulder. The hood fell back enough to expose Harry’s flushed face, but Draco didn’t seem to notice or care. His nose buried itself in the crook of Harry’s neck. A deep inhale. Like Harry was something safe, something grounding.

And that was the strange part, wasn’t it?

It was peaceful. Too peaceful. Like nothing had ever been broken between them.

But, of course, it never lasted. Not with Malfoy.

“I’m cashing in one of those favours,” Draco murmured suddenly, voice muffled against Harry’s skin.

Harry immediately jerked back, narrowing his eyes with all the suspicion of a man who knew better than to think anything came free with this particular snake.

“Already? Merlin, you’re worse than Gringotts,” Harry snapped. “Fine, what is it? You want me to cover your next arrest warrant or dig up some secret file? What?”

But Draco didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned in and kissed Harry’s cheek. Just a soft press of lips, followed by a lazy brush of his nose against Harry’s skin.

“It’s a surprise.”

“Oh, bollocks,” Harry groaned. “How am I supposed to do you a favour if you don’t tell me what the sodding favour is?”

“I am telling you.” Draco’s voice was maddeningly smug. “Just stay with me. All day. No bolting.”

Harry blinked. “That’s it?”

“Mmhm.”

He didn’t believe him. Shouldn’t believe him. Which, clearly, showed on his face because in the next breath, Draco stood up.

“What the—Oi! What the hell are you doing?!” Harry yelped, clinging instinctively—arms tightening around Draco’s shoulders, legs wrapping like a koala about to be tossed off a tree.

Draco just laughed. “Told you. Don’t move.”

“I’m heavy, Malfoy!”

“I lift weights, Potter. You’re a feather in comparison.”

And with that, he casually carried Harry up the stairs, as if he weighed no more than a pillow. Back into the massive, overly minimalist bedroom where Harry was promptly dropped onto the bed with a bounce and a huff.

Thirty minutes later, Harry found himself sulking in the passenger seat of one of Draco’s cars—a different one, because apparently this man had a bloody fleet—still wearing Malfoy’s clothes (a less oversized hoodie, decent jeans that were suspiciously his exact fit, and brand-new trainers). Draco sat beside him in the driver’s seat, not in a suit, but somehow still looking like he owned the world.

Harry scowled at him sideways. “Where the hell are we going?”

Draco tapped his fingers against the steering wheel like he was orchestrating a symphony. “Errands.”

“Errands? This is your grand favour?”

“I like having company when I shop.”

“Malfoy, you could’ve just asked. I’m not an errand boy.”

“You owe me,” Draco sing-songed. “Remember? Evidence. Magic sigils. Wards. My good side in the reports—”

Harry cut him off with a groan. “You sound like Hermione when she’s high on paperwork.”

“She’s a woman of taste,” Draco replied smoothly.

Harry sighed, letting his head hit the window with a dull thunk. “You do know that kidnapping an Auror is illegal, right?”

Draco didn’t even blink. “Not kidnapping if you came willingly.”

“…I was carried.”

“You clung,” Draco corrected with a smug smile.

Harry cursed under his breath and pulled the hoodie’s collar higher. This better not be another bloody regret.

The first place Draco took him to was, in Harry’s humble opinion, the ninth circle of hell disguised as a luxury shopping district. Every shopfront glistened like a diamond with names Harry barely recognized but somehow still hated, oozing a kind of posh arrogance that screamed, you don’t belong here, peasant.

Harry, with his arms crossed and his soul already halfway out of his body, shot Draco a sideways look that could curdle milk. “Really? This is the grand favour? Dragging me through capitalism’s wet dream?”

But Draco was already striding forward, silk and superiority in motion, tossing a “Keep up, Potter,” over his shoulder like this was normal behavior. Harry grumbled something not-safe-for-ministry-records and followed like the reluctant, hoodie-swaddled hostage he was.

The first store was a blur of too-bright lighting and the distinct scent of overpriced cologne. The moment they stepped inside, sales clerks descended like vultures to a corpse—except the corpse was rich and apparently regularly shopped there. They greeted Draco like royalty, all warm smiles and shallow praise.

Draco gave them a simple nod, murmured something about “just browsing,” and made a beeline for a rack that probably cost more than Harry’s annual salary.

“Don’t you already own enough expensive suits?” Harry muttered as he followed, trying not to brush up against anything in case it spontaneously charged his account.

Draco didn’t even glance at him. “A man can never have too many options. Besides, I have a gala coming up.”

Harry rolled his eyes so hard it almost gave him whiplash.

Then it got worse.

Draco, with the eyes of a predator who’d spotted his prey, plucked a deep navy button-down off the rack and, without warning, pressed it to Harry’s chest. He tilted his head. “Hmm.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Seeing if this works with your unfortunate posture,” Draco said absently, then flagged a clerk with a flick of his fingers. “Do you have this in emerald? Or charcoal?”

And before Harry could protest, he was gone. Swept into a dressing room by a terrifyingly efficient shop assistant, arms burdened with outfits Harry wouldn’t wear even if held at wandpoint. Draco had casually mentioned, “I need to see them on a body. You know, for context,” like this was the most obvious thing in the world.

Harry had stood in that fitting room like a cursed doll.

The first set—some soft-as-sin slacks and a silk-blend shirt—felt like betrayal. He stepped out, unsure where to put his hands. Draco was lounging on a plush sofa just outside, legs crossed, fingertips pressed together like he was evaluating a painting at the Louvre.

“Turn around,” Draco said smoothly.

Harry scowled. “I’m not your bloody model, Malfoy.”

“Then stop looking so good in everything,” Draco replied, not missing a beat.

And that’s how it continued. Outfit after outfit. Harry spinning in place like some runway-trained house elf while Draco made a show of tilting his head and saying things like “Hmm, yes, that fabric really brings out the war trauma in your eyes.”

Harry had started off annoyed, then more annoyed, then outright existential. He was beginning to hate the texture of satin.

And just when he thought it couldn’t get worse, Draco turned to the sales clerk and said, with an indecent amount of nonchalance, “We’ll take everything he tried on. Bag it all.”

Harry gaped. “Excuse me?!”

But Draco had already moved on, tugging Harry by the sleeve to the next store.

And the next.

And the next.

Each more obnoxiously elegant than the last.

By the end of the second hour, Harry was drowning in shopping bags, his dignity in shreds, and Draco Malfoy looked like he’d just won the World Cup of petty indulgence.

And they were still not done.

By the time Harry was in the dressing room of the last bloody store, he'd abandoned any hope of self-preservation. Modesty? Dead. Dignity? Buried under a pile of designer shirts. He was stripped down to nothing but a pair of tailored shorts, feeling the prickle of expensive fabric on skin that had no business being anywhere near this luxurious.

He grumbled to himself, half-naked and entirely done with this day, when the curtain whispered open behind him. He turned just in time to see Draco step in — silent, smug, and entirely too close. The curtain swished shut.

“What the hell—” he started, but then Malfoy was already crowding him, eyes heavy, mouth curled in that damn smile that spelled nothing but trouble.

“Relax, Potter,” he murmured, one hand landing on Harry’s bare hip like he had every right to. “Just needed a second opinion.”

“On what?” Harry snapped, trying — failing — to ignore the slow burn igniting under his skin as Draco leaned in, his breath ghosting over his neck.

“How good you look pressed against a wall.”

Harry barely had a second to scoff before Draco proved his point — hips flush, lips trailing heat along his throat, fingers moving like he owned him. And Merlin, he hated how much he responded to it.

Harry tried pushing him off but Draco wouldn't budge and he wasn't going to lie when he said his biggest concern at the moment was wrinkling the very expensive shorts he was wearing. Draco didn't seem to care because instead he began kissing his ear and down to his neck. 

When Draco’s mouth latched onto a mark he'd left hours earlier, Harry nearly gasped. But he caught himself, biting his lip, squeezing his eyes shut, because they weren’t alone. Dressing rooms weren’t exactly fortresses. One noise — one sound — and the entire boutique would know just how thorough Draco Malfoy could be.

Harry shivered and when Draco's tongue licked over another hickey and then his mouth closed over a nipple Harry was clutching onto the back of Draco's shirt like his life depended on it. He felt Draco grin over his skin as he abused his chest. He heard him whisper something about his chest being soft and plump before his hands were already pulling at the belt. Harry pushed him saying they couldn't do this there but draco only grabbed him by his arm and turned him around.

The wall felt cold against his chest, Draco flat against his back and then he heard the buckle being undone and the sound of a zipper going down. Harry wanted to protest, but when he felt Draco's hands wrapping around him, that was it. His mind turned into goo and sanity was out the window.

Draco chuckled low against his throat, a sound that vibrated down his spine. “Quiet, Potter,” he whispered, palm flattening against Harry’s stomach, voice dark and full of promise. “You wouldn’t want to give them a show…”

Harry whimpered as Draco's hand stroke him just right. Draco's other hand came to wrap over his mouth and Harry was really losing it. He finished with a muffled groan.

Harry didn’t remember when his knees gave out, or when he clung to Draco’s shirt like it was the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence. All he remembered was heat, hands, and the slow unraveling of his thoughts one touch at a time.

By the time Draco stepped back, looking every bit the composed aristocrat while Harry could barely string a thought together, the bastard smirked and whispered against his ear—

“Good boy.”

Harry really thought he was going to stay mad. He really thought a bit of silent treatment could rattle Draco Malfoy. Cute. But then Malfoy sat him down like a pampered brat surrounded by luxury bags and came strutting back with a tray of greasy, glorious temptation that smelled like heaven in a paper wrapper.

Yeah. So much for resolve.

Harry tried to glare, to cross his arms and scowl in defiance, but the moment that burger hit the table, his stomach quite literally betrayed him with a growl so loud, half the food court probably heard it. Draco smirked like the smug git he was, telling him to eat up because shopping could take down even the “sturdiest of Aurors.”

Harry wanted to retort that they did far more than shopping—the dressing room situation alone deserved its own classified report—but instead he was already halfway through the burger like it was a goddamn Portkey to paradise.

Draco casually sipped his drink like he hadn’t just nearly ravished him in a designer boutique, watching with amused eyes as Harry inhaled the food.

“Slow down,” Draco said, voice all silk and superiority. “I’d rather not explain to a Healer how the Chosen One died via burger.”

Harry gave him a sharp look, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—only for Draco to lean across the table, swipe a thumb across the corner of his lips, and lick it off.

Right. Straight to Azkaban. That’s where Harry was going. Because what the actual—

The look Harry shot him could’ve incinerated an Inferius. Draco just smiled, that smile, the one that knew exactly what it was doing to him, and said, “If you’re done, we should head out.”

Bastard.

With his stomach full and pride barely hanging on by a thread, Harry sulked his way back into the passenger seat. He didn’t expect their next stop to be an electronics store. Nor did he expect to stand awkwardly by while Draco shopped for a phone.

When the clerk came over, Draco said he was looking for a model that was “easy to use but not completely idiotic.” Harry side-eyed him, then the phone, then the smug face of the man clearly plotting something.

And plot he did.

Because once they were back in the car, Draco nonchalantly dropped the bag on Harry’s lap and said, “It’s yours.”

Harry blinked. “I don't need a phone.”

“Belive me, you need a phone,” Draco countered. “This has a working touchscreen, actual signal reception, and a battery life longer than your attention span.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Draco kept going.

“You storm into my office at ungodly hours. You floo into my closet, Potter. My closet. I’ve had to ban Ministry calls from the building and you—do you realize how hard it is to get soot out of a cashmere rug?”

Harry closed his mouth.

Draco gestured to the phone. “Same model as mine. My number’s already in it. So is yours. And I’ve added contacts you might actually use. I even got you a decent case. You’re welcome.”

“You’re very... productive,” Harry muttered.

“You have no idea.”

And then Draco reached over, tapped the new phone’s lock screen, and Harry stared as a picture lit up — the absolute audacity — it was one Draco had taken when Harry wasn’t looking: hoodie too big, hair tousled, sleeves covering his hands, face twisted in mid-rant while holding fries like a weapon. A fucking menace. His contact name?

“Whiny Auror 💥”

Harry was definitely going to kill him.

...Just after he figured out how to change the wallpaper.

Harry should’ve known. The moment that car pulled up outside an arcade, he should’ve turned and bolted. But no—he stayed, because Malfoy had already killed the ignition and was getting out like this wasn’t absolutely unhinged.

Harry stared after him, disbelief etched into every muscle. “You do realize I’m not twelve, right?”

Draco, without missing a beat and with all the goddamn smugness in the world, tossed over his shoulder, “Please. I’d never do half the things I’ve done to you with a child.”

Harry short-circuited. Brain fried. Libido startled awake and screaming. He clenched his fists, half tempted to hex him, half tempted to drag him back into the car and prove a point. But Malfoy was already disappearing into the sticky, loud, overstimulating chaos of teenage dreams.

Inside, the place smelled like sweat, soda syrup, and pubescent testosterone—Harry hated how nostalgic it made him feel.

Then Draco just casually waltzed up to a token machine, pulled out what looked like half the contents of Gringotts, a bill with too many zeroes, and fed it in like this was just another day. Coins clattered into a plastic basket, loud and excessive. Of course it was loud and excessive—it was Draco Malfoy.

Basket in hand, he looked at Harry like this was the moment of truth. “Coming?”

Challenge accepted.

The basketball hoops loomed like gods demanding sacrifice. Both men slammed coins in the slots at the same time, and the moment the buzzer went off, war began. Balls flew, taunts were tossed, and Draco—that bastard—was actually decent. But Harry, driven by years of suppressed competitiveness and sheer spite, managed to edge just a few points ahead.

When the timer ended, Harry cheered—jumped like a kid—and landed, stupidly, chest-to-chest with Draco. Their laughter faltered, and Harry blinked up into those gray eyes, way too close, way too aware. He cleared his throat, took a hasty step back, and mumbled, “So… what else is there to play?”

What followed was pure madness. Utter, sugar-fueled chaos.

They tackled everything—from old-school Pac-Man to the latest shooter game. Draco, it turned out, had the reflexes of a cursed cat and the competitive bloodlust of a Slytherin Quidditch Captain. He annihilated in racing games, took headshots like a pro, and had the gall to adjust his goddamn cardigan while gloating.

Harry refused to be beaten by someone who wore designer knits to shoot pixelated zombies.

They drew a crowd. Teenagers whispering, recording. At one point someone said, “Whose the one in glasses?” and someone else replied, “Who’s the hot blond with him?” and Harry almost stopped playing. But then Malfoy smirked, and it was on again.

By the end, they stood triumphant, sweaty, panting, and holding a ridiculous armful of tickets like war heroes.

On their way to the prize counter, Draco suddenly veered. Harry turned in time to see him heading toward the claw machines.

“Oh, come on, those things are rigged,” Harry called.

Draco just shrugged. “Still have one coin left.”

He inserted it. The claw descended, wobbled... and actually caught something.

Harry gawked as the claw rose—precariously, impossibly—and dropped a plush creature into the chute. Draco knelt, retrieved the thing with exaggerated care, and held it up like a trophy. It was hideous. Unidentifiable. A dragon? A cow? Satan in plush form?

He jingled it in front of Harry with a shit-eating grin and the most unbearable smugness known to mankind.

Harry rolled his eyes and muttered, “You’re not impressing anyone.”

“Oh, but you smiled,” Draco said, voice silky.

Harry looked away. He had, damn it. He had smiled.

And now they were going to the prize counter like children, but only one of them had a grown man’s voice that haunted dreams and hands that remembered every soft part of him.

Arcade tickets? Worth about as much as a Chocolate Frog wrapper after the frog’s hopped off. Even with their absurd haul, the only “prize” they walked away with was a pair of cat keychains—matching, of course, because the universe apparently loves a good punchline.

Harry’s mind was still reeling as Draco pulled back into the private underground parking lot. The familiar hum of the engine settling was drowned out by the pounding in Harry’s head. It was just supposed to be a simple errand day, right? Well, apparently that was a lie—nothing about this day had been simple.

He glanced at Draco, who looked completely unfazed, as usual, and muttered in confusion, “Why are we back here? The day’s over, right?”

Draco’s lips curled into that infuriating smirk. “The day’s not over yet. We’re just stopping for a change of clothes.”

A chill ran down Harry’s spine, but he shoved it aside, deciding that yes, he had, indeed, changed clothes more today than he had in his entire life. But Draco was already out of the car and moving, and Harry—despite every instinct screaming at him to leave—followed.

He didn’t pay attention to the floor number of Draco’s penthouse the first time he came, but now as they walked through the sleek lobby and into the elevator, the thought struck him like a lead balloon: Of course he lived in the penthouse.

The man practically oozed wealth and arrogance—why would he settle for anything less?

Inside, Draco led Harry into a different room, one that didn’t have that luxurious bed, and just like that, Draco pushed him in, dropped a shopping bag at his feet, and without another word, shut the door. Harry blinked, still processing the shift in their dynamic as Draco disappeared, but he stood there for a moment, staring at the bag like it had offended him personally.

Why was he doing what Draco asked?

He had no idea.

He muttered under his breath, cursing the absurdity of it all. But that muttering stopped the second Draco knocked—and then entered without waiting for an answer.

There he stood, resplendent as ever, wearing an immaculate suit that only someone like Draco Malfoy could pull off with such nonchalance. His hair was perfectly styled, half slicked back, and he smelled like something intoxicating. It made Harry’s head spin. And then there was that damn smile again.

“Well?” Draco’s voice was a low hum, filled with amusement. “I knew plum would look good on you.”

Harry glared at him, arms crossed over his chest. “Are you going to tell me why we’re playing dress-up again?”

Before he could protest further, Draco was already at his side, buttoning Harry’s shirt with too much precision. He held the tie in his hands, gliding it around Harry’s neck like he had all the time in the world. He muttered something about how Harry should’ve learned how to tie a tie properly at Hogwarts, but Harry barely heard him over the pounding in his ears.

Draco pulled him closer by the tie, and before Harry could even register what was happening, Draco’s lips were on his—fast, needy, and unexpected. Harry froze, eyes wide, but before he could process it, Draco was already pulling him away and leading him to a mirror, hands holding him in place as he leaned over Harry’s shoulder.

“We look good together, don’t you think?” Draco’s voice was soft, almost teasing, but his fingers were tight around Harry’s waist, keeping him there, anchored.

Harry didn’t even know what to say as he stared at their reflection. Draco’s suit was black and sharp, contrasting sharply with the plum hue of Harry’s, the black tie completing the picture. But more than the suits, Harry was acutely aware of how Draco was wrapped around him, his chest pressed against his back, his chin resting lightly on Harry’s shoulder.

“I asked you why we’re dressing like we’re going to a wedding,” Harry grumbled, shifting slightly in Draco’s grasp.

Draco’s smile widened, somehow even more innocent than before. “I mentioned a company gala earlier. That’s tonight.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. “And you’re telling me now?”

“Mm,” Draco hummed, leaning in closer to press a kiss to Harry’s neck. “You’re going with me. You’re my date.”

Harry recoiled slightly, not ready to process the implications of that statement. “No, I’m not. I’m not—”

But Draco just cut him off, already knowing Harry’s reaction. “You owe me, Potter. And the day isn’t finished yet.” He gave Harry that look—smug, unbothered, as though he had all the control in the world.

“You owe me,” Draco cut in smoothly. “Unless you’re not a man of your word?”

And that was it.

That damn line.

Cue the car ride to god-knows-where, Harry glaring out the window, cursing every decision that had led him here, dressed to kill, seated next to a man who probably already had. And the worst part?

He knew. He knew he was going to follow him in.

Because something about being at Draco’s side made him feel less like Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and more like Harry—someone wanted. Chosen. Kept.

Harry walked right into the lion’s den—lip bitten, suit flawless, and eyes wide like he hadn’t just spent all day clinging to Draco Malfoy’s lap like a fever dream. And now here he was, trapped in a ballroom dripping with luxury, surrounded by the exact kind of people he swore he'd never become.

Everything about this event was the stuff of Harry’s nightmares—polished marble floors, waiters gliding around like swans with silver trays, strings playing softly in the background, and every conversation punctuated with fake laughter and champagne flutes. The only thing worse than the crowd was the reason he was even in this mess. Or more precisely, who.

Draco.

Wearing that black three-piece suit like it was second skin, hair slicked back, his usual smirk replaced by something softer, warmer, more terrifying. Because he looked comfortable. Effortless. And right beside him, Harry felt like a wild animal forced into a tailored cage.

They’d barely crossed the threshold before Harry felt the weight of every gaze land on them. Draco, naturally, leaned in, breath hot by his ear, and purred, “Relax.”

Relax?

Harry shot him a side-glare that would’ve turned lesser men to stone. “They’re all staring,” he hissed.

“And?” Draco murmured, voice full of teeth. “You’re a walking legend, Harry. You were born for the spotlight. Besides, these people love a good power couple. Don’t deny them their fantasy.”

Harry opened his mouth to object—power couple?!—but they were already being approached.

The first was an older man with a blinding white suit, an expensive tan, and a smile that probably cost him a small country. He looked like money had aged him like fine wine. “Draco! Always a pleasure.” His voice was slick and warm, like a handshake dipped in honey.

Draco’s switch flipped in an instant. Gone was the smug bastard who manhandled him into suits—now he was gracious, elegant, full of charm.

When the man’s eyes landed on Harry, the question followed smoothly, “And who might this handsome young man be?”

Harry wanted to melt into the floor, but Draco’s grip around his waist tightened, possessive, grounding. “This is Harry,” he said, tone low and intimate. “He’s my date tonight.”

Date. Merlin, that word hit different in public.

But Harry, ever the survivor, pulled his best celebrity-smile out of cold storage and presented himself with the kind of poise Hermione had beaten into him over years of Ministry events. “Pleasure to meet you, sir,” he said, shaking hands with perfect posture, biting back the urge to run screaming for the fire exit.

And so the charade began.

Socialite after socialite. Fake laughs, compliments, questions about Draco’s work and Harry’s fascinating eyes. He played along, charmed them all. But it got harder when he saw one man freeze, eyes going wide.

“Harry Potter?”

Harry’s stomach dropped.

He panicked.

He wasn’t supposed to be recognized here—this was a Muggle event, wasn’t it?

But Draco’s arm turned steel around his waist. “Breathe,” he whispered.

The man smiled nervously. “I—I just didn’t expect... wow, it’s really you.”

Draco leaned in, his smile full of mischief. “Harry, remember what I told you? LUXOR is... expanding. Crossing the border, so to speak. This gala celebrates our hybrid future.”

Hybrid.

The word felt slippery. Dangerous.

When they finally walked away, Harry leaned in and muttered, “Are you insane? Mixing muggles and wizards in one room? What about the Statute of Secrecy?”

Draco chuckled, clearly delighted. “You’re adorable when you’re paranoid.”

Harry glared.

Draco just waved a hand dismissively. “Relax. Everything’s worded carefully. Muggles think they’re dealing with foreign tech conglomerates. Wizards hear... more. Everything’s coded. It’s genius, really.”

Harry groaned and resisted the urge to pull his tie off. “I can’t believe you dragged me into this.”

Draco smiled again and said, soft but lethal, “You owed me.”

And just like that, Harry realized—

He was going to regret this night.

Or worse...

He wasn’t.