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Chapter Text

The front door to Potter's cottage burst open, Draco strolling straight in as though he owned the place. His eyes immediately found Potter in the small space, standing at the kitchen sink and already filling the kettle up with water, setting it to boil.

He glanced up to Draco, a friendly grin on his face, rolling his eyes at his dramatic entrance. Draco brushed past him, making for the rounded kitchen table and pulling out his trusty notepad and quill.

"Were you born in a bloody barn, Malfoy?" Potter asked, tone trying to play at annoyance but coming out as a resigned playfulness. His Emerald eyes shone as he watched Draco take a seat at his table.

"I have no clue what the circumstances of my birth have to do with tomorrow's headline, Potter," Draco sniffed, "but I assure you, I was born into unfathomable grandeur, the likes of which you could not even imagine, and I have the photographs to prove it."

Draco discretely flicked his wand, and the door swung shut gracefully, closing with a quiet click. Draco pretended not to notice, but he couldn't stop his lips from turning up as he flipped through his well loved notebook.

Potter pulled the chair out and sat at the other end of the table, looking at Draco with interest. "Who's the nosey prick this time? Not Skeeter again, right?" he asked with a grimace at her name, and Draco shook his head.

"Might as well be, though. Some bigheaded Prophet reporter, too lazy to do his own research for an article. Serves him right." Draco smirked, flipping to an empty page and beginning to write. "So, what will it be today, Potter? Are you feeling overcome with Wrackspurts? Suffering from a fullbody sunburn after falling asleep on a nude beach? Accidentally transfigured yourself into a shrub?" He looked up, leaning closer and staring into Potter's green eyes. "What hasn't the saviour of the wizarding world been up to this week?"

Potter leaned back in his chair, humming thoughtfully and tapping his chin with his wand. Over in the kitchen, the kettle began to shriek. With a casual wave of his wand, he summoned the kettle and their two teacups, which float gracefully over to the table. The kettle poured them both a cup of tea, and Draco stirred in a spoonful of sugar to his cup of tea, watching the other man lost in thought.

The afternoon sun beamed through the windows, lighting up Potter's crown of wild shoulder length black curls and giving it an angelic glow. His sunlit hair contrasted against the bronze of his skin, pocked with little scars that stood out in the light. Everything about him seemed to glow, especially when he smiled at Draco.

It was a rather nice look, Draco found himself thinking. Sometimes, Potter tied his hair back off of his neck, and that was a rather attractive look too. He was a lot more appreciative of Potter's untamed look than he was as a teenager. A teenager with obviously poor taste, who couldn't appreciate-

Oh. Potter was staring right at him, mirroring his smirk back as he waited for him to stop staring and respond to the sentence he had definitely heard Potter speak. He felt heat rising up the back of his neck, and while his goal was to subtly ask Potter to repeat himself, he instead squeaked out an ineloquent, "What?" before clearing his throat and trying again.

"What was that, Potter?" He would simply not acknowledge his staring. It would not do.

Potter rather charitably decided not to point it out, raising his eyebrows and chuckling to himself instead.

"Well, I definitely haven't developed a wrackspurt infestation, At least as far as I've noticed. However, I have a feeling the only newspaper willing to run an article about me and my Wrackspurt journey has far too much journalistic integrity to pay a stalker for headlines." Draco sighed, scratching 'Wrackspurts' off of his list.

"I suppose I can only dream of being paid off by the Quibbler to stalk you. Nude beach?" Draco wiggled his eyebrows, revelling for a moment in the laugh he received from Potter.

Potter did seem to consider it for a second, but eventually shook his head. "While I'm absolutely sure you would get paid top dollar for such a headline, I simply don't know if I could handle Molly Weasley reading about me tromping around on a beach in the nude, even if it isn't true. I think she may go a bit batty."

"And Merlin knows we don't want that," Draco muttered to himself.

He didn't strike the words 'nude beach' off of his list entirely, but jotted down a small, 'next time' beside it. He won't let that killer headline go so easy. "Any big ideas then, since you're so keen to shoot down my star contenders?" He sipped his tea to occupy his hands, so he wasn't just nervously fiddling with his quill. He refused to let Potter see him nervous. Calm, cool, and collected. A Malfoy never fiddles. Almost never, at least.

"I'm not entirely opposed to having transfigured myself into a bush. To be honest, being a bush seems like it would be pretty top. No fans, no stress, no responsibilities. Just good old photosynthesis." Potter's face scrunched as he spoke. "I doubt that would be a big seller though. Hard to imagine being very interested in a bush."

Draco's arm disappeared into his bag, and returned grasping a magical camera. "Anything will sell when it comes with Photo Evidence," he said matter-of-factly. When Potter instinctively covered his face, Draco tsked at him. "Not of you." He looked around, glancing out the window. "Surely you have shrubbery somewhere on this property?"

✶ ✶ ✶

Walking out the back of the cottage, Potter escorted him to a few of the bushes along his property, letting Draco look until he identified one that felt right. It was tall gangly, sparsely covered, and pefectly awkward looking enough to pass for the transfigured Saviour.

Grinning and snatching Potter's glasses off his nose, Draco snapped a photograph with the iconic rounded glasses balanced precariously on a branch, and they headed back inside to finish their tea.

Potter poured him a second cup of tea and watched with interest as he pulled out a clean sheet of parchment and furiously scrawled a written report with his favourite falcon feather self-inking quill. Self-inking quills truly are the future, Draco thought to himself as words blossomed across the page in his elegant script.

Once he was satisfied with his work, he flipped his parchment around for Potter's perusal, as had become customary in their agreement. His eyes scanned the report, his eyebrows raising higher and higher as he reads until they were completely hidden underneath his mass of dark hair. When he glanced back at Draco, attempting to keep a serious face, Draco mirrored him back, turning his nose up in defiance.

"Anything to add, Potter? I feel pretty confident about this week's article. I can already picture the headline."

"'Has Potter been Pruned? Golden Boy turned Green, Spotted Transfiguring into Shrub.'"

He could see Potter's facade cracking as he nodded, his lips twitching with the attempt to keep a straight face.

"The photo really sells it, I think," Potter added, A small grin breaking through his pensive expression. The way Potter's eyes peered at him through his overgrown bangs only egged Draco on.

"I'm rather impressed by the likeness, actually. Do you intentionally trim your shrubs to look as disheveled as you?"

He revelled in the small chuckle Potter let out him as he gave Draco's shoulder a shove, standing and heading back into his small kitchen. Instead of gracing Draco's obvious needling with an answer, he simply asked, "Fancy a toastie?"

✶ ✶ ✶

With sandwiches devoured, Draco leaned back and was surprised when Potter broached the comfortable silence.

"What else do you even do, besides stalk me?" He meant it as a joke, but Draco bristled anyway. It felt a little too close to home considering their history. Not that Draco could really deny that he was being paid specifically to stalk Potter. He was, but it wasn't the only thing he did, and he let Potter know it with indignation in his voice.

"I do plenty else with my time, Potter." He sniffed, shaking his head. "You're lucky I've even been making it here on a weekly basis with how heavy my workload is. I'm practically worked to the bone, you know."

Potter's fingers ran through his hair as he responded. "Well, yes, I wasn't trying to insinuate you weren't." He frowned. "I guess I'm asking, er, what else you investigate? You said you were a Private Investigator, after all, but if I'm honest I don't really know what you do. It seems like you're a reporter, a glorified celebrity stalker, to me at least."

Draco could feel the irritation bubbling up in his chest at the idea of him being compared to a reporter. He felt very little respect for most reporters these days. Especially the ones on the level of the Daily Prophet, pumping out swill for the masses to eat up, too lazy to even do the research on the topics they headline pick for.

He turned his nose up as he scoffed at the outrageous sentiment. "I'm almost offended to be compared to the kind of lazy, morally bankrupt prat that spends their days writing pandering headlines for The Prophet to lie to the public. I at least try for integrity."

Potter snorted at Draco's indignation. "If there's one thing we can agree on, it is the moral bankruptcy of Prophet journalists." He smirked as he locked eyes with Draco. "Still haven't answered my question, though. All I've seen you do is write headlines about me for Witches Weekly or some other swill rag. Prove me wrong, Malfoy."

What a prat. He was definitely trying to provoke Draco into lowering his guard, and spilling his secrets. And fuck, Draco can't turn down a challenge. Not when Potter said it in that daring voice, his eyes piercing into Draco's core.

Draco snapped back, "Well, Potter, I am meant to be sworn to secrecy about the intricacies of my job, given that I sign contracts for my work on potentially sensitive persons and cases, and it wouldn't help my reputation for me to go talking about my work to just any prick who makes me tea and a toastie."

"However," he sniffed, and summoned the Malfoy Sneer to really sell his disdain, "given that you are such a sad, isolated sod that you haven't been seen out of your house in over half a decade, I suppose I can stand to divulge a few secrets."

Potter's eye twitched at Draco's needling, but it wasn't enough to distract him, and clearly his interest in Draco overtook his desire to fight. He leaned in, giving Draco that decisive eye contact that made his stomach twist in knots and his nerves tingle.

"My lips are sealed," he said with a grin.

The moment he mentioned his lips Draco's eyes immediately flicked down to look at them. The way Potter's tongue flicked out to wet them. Being in such close proximity to Potter, especially without the angst of their youth, the anger and animosity that kept them at an arm's length, was a dangerous combination. Potter had always had a way of getting under his skin, working him up, and from the moment they had met, he had always had Draco's stomach doing backflips. He used to pin it on anger, on hating him for the humiliation brought upon him, on the shame beaten into him by his Father for being so obsessed with the Boy Who Lived, but these days…

Ugh. He felt like shaking himself by his shoulders, slapping himself across the face and yelling at himself to GET IT TOGETHER, MALFOY! Potter was still watching him, and he realized he had been zoning out, staring back at him for longer than was socially acceptable and definitely for long enough that Potter would notice. He cleared his throat and said, "Well, in that case…"

"I have a few different types of cases I take on. The classic spouse that suspects the other of cheating, family member wondering where a distant or disowned sibling or cousin is. Not very interesting, but sometimes the scandals I've uncovered are enough to make even Skeeter blush. Yes, sometimes public figures. Either contracted by a journalist that fancies themself above stalking, or a fan without the resources to do so."

He shrugged, and Potter grimaced and shook his head. He didn't protest, however, so Draco continued.

"My favourite cases are often the missing persons; either the family wants a second opinion, doesn't believe aurors are doing a good enough job, or the case has gone cold and they want a new set of eyes on it. These ones are rarer, more rewarding to solve." They are the cases that made Draco feel like an auror. Like he could sit down and look at the evidence, and solve a case nobody else could see. They were puzzles that made his brain work, and he loved it. "Far more rewarding than writing glorified gossip columns."

He glanced down at his finished scroll sitting on the table, getting the sudden urge to send the entire thing up in flames. He sighed. "I hate writing gossip column pieces. I generally will turn them down, the only reason I take these ones, as I told you before, is the ridiculous rate being offered. And, well," he cleared his throat, "I have to admit, I was curious as well."

"As is most of the wizarding world, I imagine." Potter sighed, propping his chin up with his hands as he leaned forward against the table. "If the Prophet has contracted you… have you done contracts for the Ministry as well? "

"Not under an official capacity, of course. They can't have aurors outsourcing their jobs to ex-death eaters, can they? Not a good look for the department." He laughed drily. Potter shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"Unofficially, I've been contacted to get profiles on low-level criminals running in bad crowds. Usually illegal or highly regulated potion brewing, or trafficking magical creatures. Sometimes they want me to track Pureblooded wizards partaking in the selling or procurement of cursed artefacts. The bastards at the Ministry know I know more about some of these circles, and who does or owns what. They figure it'll take them weeks to figure out what I already know, so they just pay me to do their dirty work."

He hummed in thought for a moment, and then smirked as he remembered quite possibly his favourite contract he had ever taken.

"Once, they had me do an international trackdown, as it was far easier for me to do so as an independent investigator than for a government body to do an international search, coordinating with local governments and obeying local laws." He grinned.

"That one was fun, actually. It meant spending my summer in Spain, chasing down Rodolphus Lestrange after his escape from Azkaban. While much of it was work, I won't lie and say I didn't spend more time than necessary laying on beaches with an infinite supply of wine. Part of my contract states that any travel costs be compensated by the employer upon receipt of agreed information. I can't not take advantage of the Ministry vaults when I can."

"And they trust you with all of this, investigating families you know or even have familial ties with?" The moment it left his mouth, Potter seemed to know the accusation was too far, and he winced. Draco stiffened in his seat. "Sorry, I didn't mean it like that, I just meant-"

Draco stood slowly, not even really as angry as he had a right to be, more resigned than anything. He had been fighting for so long, too long to overcome his reputation. And yet, it always followed him.

"Yes, of course. You just meant you couldn't ever believe the Ministry could trust somebody with-"

He yanked the left sleeve of his robe up to expose his mark, faded to grey but still visible after all this time. Potter winced at the sight, but didn't look away.

"What does it matter if I spent the last decade you've been hiding in your hovel trying to make reparations, to prove myself to the entire Wizarding world, if I have that on my arm? Not that you'd know what that feels like, Potter." He practically spit the name out, but the anger in his voice was weak, and they both knew it. He sagged a little with the weight of his outburst, the silence in the room deafening.

The sound of a chair scraping across the floor was the only sound in the cottage as Potter stood, not moving closer, simply standing and wringing his hands, looking for something to say.

"Old habits die hard." Potter's voice was hardly more than a whisper, but Draco understood. It was still hard for Potter to trust him, to believe he had changed and grown, just as it was hard for Draco to not needle and prod and mock him, try and provoke him into a fight. Even in the amicability they had developed, Draco couldn't help but trying to piss him off.

"Yeah," Draco finally whispered back, "old habits die hard."

He took his notes, parchment and quill, tucking them into his bag. "I think I had better get going for today, Potter. Thank you for the toastie." He turned, walking to the door, Potter frozen by the table, watching him leave. Right as he was about to walk through the front door, he felt a hand on his arm. He turned to see Potter beside him, having collected himself.

They stare at each other for a moment, Draco's chest thumping. The skin around Potter's fingers tingled from the warmth of his hand, sending shivers up his arm, before Potter softly murmured, "Come back soon, alright?" And let go.

And like that, their argument moments ago was entirely forgotten. Draco's brain was racing a thousand kilometers a second, and all he could do was nod numbly before stepping through the door of Potter's cottage and walking out into the sunshine.

✶ ✶ ✶

The moment Draco got home, he nearly collapsed onto his bed, his arm still burning from Potter's touch on his skin. It felt like he was on fire from Potter's eyes, his touch, his laugh, his smile. Every time he closed his eyes, his vision swam with the emerald green of those eyes, peeking at him through jet black hair.

And now that he was home, out of Potter's sight, out of his house, all of the rush of emotions he had been trying to ignore came back to him all at once.

He tried to work on his paperwork, on his reports, but his mind was pudding and he couldn't get a single thought out onto paper. Every time he blinked those eyes stared into his soul. Draco knew he had a tendency to get a little… focused. On Potter. Ever since that first day at the age of eleven, he had never been able to free his mind of the boy who was supposed to be his friend.

The sting of that first childhood rejection coloured all of their interactions for the following decade, filling his mind with rage and anguish. It took a long time for Draco to learn how to manage being rejected, and Potter being the first time he had ever been turned down set him up for failiure. But at least when he hated Potter's guts, it was so much easier to process. He could just rant to his classmates, bully him, hit him with jinxes and mock him with charmed pins and it made the feeling in his chest ease.

But Draco was no longer an embarrassing holier-than-thou schoolboy, and his life was not run by angst. He was an adult. An adult with a job, and friends, and priorities, and he could not afford to spend all his time thinking about Harry bloody Potter. Especially now that their relationship was not running on pure mutual hatred.

There was something else there now. Something that made Draco's heart seize when Potter looked ashamed for admitting his lack of trust in Draco. Something that made sparks run along his nerves when Potter touched him. Something he was bloody well not going to address right this moment, because he was an adult with a report to finish.

At least, that's what he told himself when he sat properly at his desk. Three hours later, however, he could still hardly focus, and he stood up and stretched, scanning his parchment and deciding it was good enough to sell to the media rumour mill. With the photo attached, they should definitely eat it up.

He took the parchment over to the window, rolling it up and allowing his owl Mathias out of the cage to deliver his report. As his owl flew out of his window, another one soared in, a great Eagle owl with a brooding stare. He recognized this as a Ministry owl, and swiftly procured a treat for the hulking bird so it didn't bite his finger off. Ironic as always for the Ministry to reach out to him after just spending the afternoon talking about how uncommon it was for them to do so.

He removed the scroll, reading the letter sent to him.

Dear Mr. Malfoy,
After your commendable work on our last contract, it has been suggested to us that we procure your services again. We require some information and reconnaissance around one Zacharias Smith, including known associates, living situations, and general activities. We trust in your absolute discretion around these matters, and your standard payment will be transferred to your account upon completion of contract. Please sign attached contract and send back if terms are agreeable. Any questions or updates are not to go through standard Ministry channels, please send to Auror Ewan Ward via personal channels.

Thank you as always for your service and continued discretion.

Draco sighed and skimmed through the contract, noting it was the same as the one they've sent with every job, basic requiring of discretion and sworn to secrecy. Standard Ministry hogwash. He signed it and tied the scroll back to the owl, sending it on its way with another treat. He would start on that tomorrow. Tonight, he was exhausted, and deserved a good rest and an early night.

In classic Draco fashion, the moment his head hit the pillow, his brain began supplying him with a nonstop feed of thoughts about Potter.

He couldn't stop thinking about what Potter had said to him as he was leaving.

"Come back soon," he had said, his voice soft and almost hopeful. Apologetic. Like he actually wanted to see Draco come back. He buried his face in his pillow and lets out a rather pathetic sounding groan.

When had thoughts of Potter started making him act like this? It hasn't been like this the whole time. Draco had actually had almost an entire decade of Potter-free thoughts.

The last time he had seen him was at Draco's own trial in the autumn of 1998. By the time his two years of house arrest had ended, in the winter of the year 2000, Potter had nearly disappeared from the Wizarding world entirely, and Draco was more than willing to put his face out of his mind and focus on his own hard earned redemption.

He had gone a whole eight years not having to see his wild mass of black hair, his scar that trailed across his forehead like a bolt of lightning, or his piercing green eyes that stared straight through Draco's insecurities. It had been years since Draco had even had more than the occasional passing wonder about what he was up to. Those were a marvellous many years where Draco felt in control of his own destiny, and that Harry Potter did not commandeer a starring role in his life.

Really, all had been fine, absolutely peachy, until last year. That was the year Draco began losing his mind.

Chapter Text

It was September 12th, 2007, when Draco first began to lose his mind.

When he had gotten the letter in his post that morning, he had laughed out loud, before having even read the entire letter. The proposed job had been so absolutely barmy and utterly impossible that he was sure there was no way they were serious. He let out a low chuckle, assuming that they were pulling his leg, and he almost incendio'd the whole contract, letter and all, without giving it another glance.

That is, until he glanced at the bottom of the page and saw a payment offer that made his eyes pop out of his head, and he nearly choked on his morning tea.

Now taking it seriously, Draco reread the letter. If they were going to be throwing big sums like that about, this had to be a real project. Not that his name would be attached, but the money being offered was by far enough to justify his consideration, at least.

He usually avoided celebrity reports, feeling no better than low-level paparazzi when he sent reporters updates on Wizarding celebrities. Stalking some member of the Holyhead Harpies or The Weird Sisters felt like a right waste of his time and talent, but never before had he been offered an amount like that. More than his average take-home for nearly an entire year, wrapped into one tidy payment. All he had to do?

Locate, stalk, and report on the elusive Harry Potter, who had not been seen in public since the year 2000. Almost completely vanished off the face of the earth, the only people to know of his whereabouts so predictably and fiercely loyal that the information had never found its way out.

Draco reread the proposition letter over and over until his eyes began to cross, and then once more for good measure.

What he could gather is that an unnamed reporter (Cough Cough, Rita Skeeter) was in the middle of research and writing a book. A book about the upcoming tenth anniversary of the Wizarding war and the Battle of Hogwarts, including a huge sprawl of 'where-are-they-now-tell-alls' about many of the key players.

Apparently, said reporter had been able to get information on everyone but the elusive Potter, and was beginning to run out of time to both finish the book and do the necessary work of searching for him. What was being proposed instead, was for Draco to do the hard grunt work of investigating Potter, finding his secret location, figuring out what he had been up to since abandoning the Wizarding world, and sending back a detailed write-up to be used in the upcoming book.

He was given a two month deadline. End of November.

He had to sit down and really consider this. He knew his investigative services came with pretty high recommendation, he knew he did stellar work, but he was shocked they would come to him with this. Did they seriously think that just because him and Potter had some schoolboy rivalry, that he would be so eager and willing to be bought out and sicced on him like a bloodhound? Did they figure he would have no loyalty to the Golden Boy, no drive to protect his privacy or advocate for his right to it?

They were absolutely correct in that assessment, of course.

Had they offered a smaller payment, there may have been a genuine care for the moral dilemma, or for the inconvenience of tracking down an effective ghost, but the way of the world was that money could buy anything. And it could definitely buy Draco.

He signed the contracts within the hour and sent them back to the relevant party. He walked to the tall mahogany bookshelf set up in his home office, pulling out a fresh notebook and cracking the spine. Picking up one of his favourite quills, he opened the book and scrawled simply on the first page, 'Potter'.

He had some work to do. If he was going to be a sell out, he may as well commit.

It wasn't like Draco was swimming in wealth, either. Had he still had Malfoy money, he probably would have turned the contract down with a laugh and no second thoughts, and gone about his day. Unfortunately, part of the reparations had been seizure of Death Eater property and assets, and the Manor was essentially one giant crime scene. The Ministry and DMLE were foaming at the mouth, desperate to get their hands on it.

The Manor, and all their financial assets along with it, were seized swiftly after his and his Mother's two year house arrest ended. The way the Ministry talked about it, they were lucky to have been allowed to stay there in house arrest at all, and most of the Aurors had been gunning for them to be thrown in Azkaban with his Father. While Draco had been able to save some keepsakes and heirlooms, and most of his personal effects, the vast majority of his inheritance became Ministry Property overnight.

They had left him with a single pity cheque, enough for a few months' rent of a small bachelor pad in a pretty shite area of London, and not much else. Though the idea would have made a teenaged Draco sick, he needed to work for a living. And while he didn't love to work, he did find parts of it very fulfilling, and he was pretty damn good at it, too.

Considering he had built himself up from nothing, he was damn proud of himself too. Starting as a Ministry contact they could call on to get dirt on other Death Eater families and dark magic practitioners, essentially just a snitch, he had moved his way up from ratting out family friends for a Ministry stipend. He was now running his own private investigation firm, where he could choose what work he wanted to take. Of course, money wins in the end, it always does, and he could never turn down a job with such an offer on the table.

If he were able to pull this job off, he may even be able to afford to move out of his flat. He had been stuck in the same flat since he had been forced out of the Manor, eight years ago now. It was small and run-down, bland walls and scuffed floors, and a distinctive musty smell that hung in the air, no matter how many Scourgify he cast. Stuck in one of the shadier areas of muggle London, he dreamed of getting out, maybe even finding a place in Diagon, living right in the heart of the Wizarding world. The idea alone was enough to get him to take the job.

Though, he couldn't lie to himself. The idea of finding Potter and figuring out what he was up to did hold it's own appeal in Draco's heart. Maybe he wasn't completely past their tumultuous history, after all.

Old habits die hard, Draco thought, as he pressed quill to paper.

✶ ✶ ✶

First order of business, of course, was figuring out where the hell Potter had ended up.

He knew that by the time his house arrest had ended in December of 2000, Potter had already functionally disappeared from Wizarding life. He had heard rumours that Potter had started in with the aurors fresh out of Hogwarts, never finishing his last year of school, and they had let him in despite being academically under qualified — because of course they did. He was Harry Bloody Potter. He could do anything he wanted. The rumours had said he had flunked out a year and a half after, but it was anyone's guess as to exactly when he fully disappeared.

He figured that Potter probably thought being an Auror would just be action scenes full of hunting evil wizards, like he had done when he was on the run. That Potter couldn't handle the parts of the job that weren't dramatic and action packed and attention-seeking, that wouldn't put him on the front page of the Prophet. Paperwork is always the death of passion.

To start his search, Draco went down to the Prophet building on Diagon alley, asking to view their public paper archives. A smarmy looking witch waved him along, and he entered the room with wall to ceiling boxes full of old newspapers. He sighed. Time to get to work.

He began with thumbing through newspapers from 2000 for any possible hints. There was an endless sea of stupid, pandering headlines, almost every day there was an article printed about the Golden boy. It was infuriating. He found very little of substantial help, or any actual confirmed information about Potter. He spent two hours looking through archived newspapers from that year without any luck.

Finally, he stumbled across a paper dated September 2000, titled, 'GOLDEN BOY GIVEN UP? Rumours Say Potter Quitting DMLE'. He copied the paper, jotting down the rough date in his notebook. It was a starting point.

From there, he kept digging, and eventually came across another potentially relevant headline from January 2001: "LOVERS TO ENEMIES? Engagement Between Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley Cancelled After Public Row".

Draco raised his eyebrows, flipping through and reading the article. He wasn't sure how reliable the Prophet was on such matters, but it was worth considering this a part of Potter's departure. He noted it down and kept looking, but no other headlines caught his attention.

After a full afternoon spent in the dusty archives room, Draco figured he would take his two copied papers home and study them for a bit, planning his next move. On his way back to his flat, he grabbed takeaway from his favourite curry house and set in for a night of work. He had a lot of research to do.

✶ ✶ ✶

The next day, Draco was staring blankly at his notebook, when a tap on the window behind his desk startled him. He turned and saw a familiar owl sitting on the window ledge, looking at him expectantly. He waved his wand and the window swung open, the great bird flying in. It perched on his desk and offered him the letter attached to its leg.

As he popped the seal on the letter, he smiled to himself. He always looked forward to contact from Pansy. They were both rather busy these days, lives engrossed in work, and didn't have the time to meet as often as he'd like. The letter wasn't long, just confirming dinner plans for next week. He wrote back an affirmative, tied it to the leg of the owl and let it swoop from his office. As he watched it fly, turning to a dark speck against the blue sky, he had an absolutely genius thought.

Owls know how to find the person their letter is addressed to. All he had to do was find someone still sending Potter post, and he would find him waiting at the other end. He laughed and clasped his fingers together at the revelation, and grabbed his quill to begin writing. He immediately started a list of all who may still communicate with Potter through owl, and the first two names on the list should make this a piece of cake.

Now, he just had to find out where the Granger-Weasleys lived.

✶ ✶ ✶

That was easier said than done.

Weasley was no longer an auror, he knew that much. Records showed he had quit about five years ago, coinciding with the birth of their first child. Draco begrudgingly respected him for prioritising his family over career — something most aurors tend not to ever consider. As far as Draco could tell, Weasley had left the aurors to help in the family's joke shop. Typically Weasley.

Granger, however, still worked for the Ministry, as an Unspeakable. That made perfect sense to Draco — she always was terribly intelligent, powerful, and had a brain smart enough to solve anything put in front of her. Draco didn't doubt for a minute she was profoundly good at her job.

Or that she would be very hard to track.

He figured, between the two of them, Weasley would be less careful, more prone to slip-ups, less guarded.

He hadn't expected the aurors' training to have rubbed off so much on him. Weasley was bloody well unfollowable! He had spent a week and a half hanging out in the small cafe across the street from Wizard Wheezes, under a notice-me-not charm. It gave him just enough cover to blur his features to anybody who may recognize him and let him fade into the background chatter of the cafe. It was probably one of his favourite, and most used charms. There was a time when Draco wanted to stand out from the crowd, to be noticed as soon as he walked into a room. Those days were long gone, and he now revelled in the anonymity the charm gave him.

He was sure Weasley hadn't noticed him, but the prat never showed outside of the shop, apparating to the front of the shop every morning, with moments to spare before opening the doors. Bloody Weasley. Draco continued to take note of anything worthwhile he noticed, but without actually seeing him come or go, there was little he could do.

By the end of week two, Friday night, Draco had almost given up, thinking that maybe he should have tried risking it to shadow Granger instead, when he overheard something.

"Right, I'm headed out to catch everyone at the Leaky, you good to close down, George?"

Draco's ears perked up, and he whipped his head around as he watched Weasley walking out of the storefront. He turned down Diagon alley, heading towards the famous pub at the entrance. Draco stood abruptly, not wanting to miss what might be his only chance to further his search.

✶ ✶ ✶

Why were Gryffindors so fucking infuriating?

Draco was sat in the very corner of the Leaky Cauldron, his hair charmed to a colour resembling burnt sienna to help his notice-me-not charm along in a room full of people who knew him far, far too well. He was straining his ears to listen to the conversation happening; unfortunately for him, Weasley's drunken laughter was drowning out anything else. It was already beginning to grate on his nerves.

He sighed, looking around at the pub and taking in the scene around him.

He did have to acknowledge that Abbott had done a marvellous job with bringing this place into the 21st century, and he quite appreciated that the food's quality had improved significantly in the last five or so years she had been running the place. He had actually rather enjoyed the shepherd's pie he had ordered, and the glass his pint had came in didn't have a single speck or fingerprint on it.

He wasn't planning on drinking much — he was far more interested in what he could hear happening at the table across the pub. He could count about seven people, Weasley and Granger sitting amongst a crowd of their old school friends. He noted Longbottom, Lovegood, Weasley's younger sister, who had her arm wrapped around Lovegood's waist, Finnegan and Thomas.

It had been too much to hope Potter would arrive in a group with all of his old friends, he knew the chances of that were next to zero. Even with a disguise or Polyjuice, he was sure someone would have noticed Potter by now were he sneaking out to the bar with friends.

That didn't mean his friends didn't talk about him, though.

When he heard Potter's name mentioned, he strained his ears to listen as carefully as he could, pen at the ready to write down anything he heard. He noted what sounded like Longbottom's voice, asking quieter to try and avoid prying ears such as Draco's — "Anybody heard from him lately?"

He cautioned a glance around the side of his booth to watch as almost everyone at the table glanced away and shook their heads. Interesting, Draco thought, and made a note of it. He watched Granger rub the back of her neck, heard her say. "Well, actually, we…"

"Another drink, love?" Abbott was standing right in front of him, and he jumped, glancing up at her with his face burning. She looked down, but didn't seem to have any glint of recognition in her eyes. He was glad he chose to spell his hair, though. Never too careful.

He steeled his nerves, looking up at her and pasting a smile to his face. It was easier to let the posh accent slip away after a drink or two, anyways, and he slurred out, "Please, yes. Sorry, I'm a bit of a daydreamer, didn't catch you approaching. I'll take another, but I'll be here for a bit to finish. Bit of a lightweight, unfortunately."

She chuckled, and cleared his empty plate, promising another pint upon her return. Once she left, he cursed, having missed the rest of the conversation. Granger had admitted to having contact from Potter, though, that much he caught, and he scrawled it into his notebook. That was promising. As good a lead as he was bound to get.

✶ ✶ ✶

A few more hours passed, and Draco was able to nurse his second pint the whole rest of the evening, not allowing himself to get too drunk lest he get sloppy. He knew it was generally unwise to apparate while drunk, and he could see from his vantage point, Weasley was sloshed. That meant, if they lived close enough, he might be able to catch them walking. He strained his ears to listen towards the end of the night, as Granger began talking about work to do tomorrow, children to care for, making their excuses. He heard the quick discussion they had between themselves.

"Floo?"

"We could, I suppose, but… It's rather nice out tonight. Would you fancy a walk home?"

He heard Weasley grumbling for a moment, but eventually conceding to his wife.

Draco shot up. This was his chance.

He walked as nonchalantly as he could up to the bar, where he paid his tab and left a generous tip for Abbott. He genuinely appreciated what she had done with the place, and would even consider coming again for non-work related meals. She thanked him with a friendly grin, and he walked swiftly out the front door, getting out of the pub before Weasley and Granger and turning around the corner, fiddling in his pocket as he stepped into a small alley.

He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, attempting to look as nonchalant as possible. While he had once held a certain disdain for the muggle habit, it was one of the best methods for looking like you had a reason to be standing around on the street doing nothing. People tended to look past him while he smoked, which was all the more reason to do it on missions.

Nothing makes people look away more than a bad habit.

As Weasley and Granger walked out from the pub, they turned in the direction Draco was smoking and walked right past them. As they did, Weasley made eye contact with him, and Draco thought for a brief second he saw recognition pass over his face as his eyes did a double take. He opened his mouth for a brief second, looking like he wanted to say something, but then he shook his head and glanced away, following his wife down the pavement without another look back.

Draco could feel his heart pounding as he stood there, taking a shaky pull from his fag and watching the smoke swirl through the air. That was far too close for comfort.

Taking one final pull and snubbing out his cigarette against the wall behind him, Draco cast a full disillusionment charm over himself this time before stepping out from the alley. He turned in the direction they were walking in, and followed their shadows down the road, a good block behind them.

His steps were so light they didn't make a sound, his breathing coming soft and shallow as he walked in fear of alerting them to his presence. Fortunately, the Weasley-Grangers seemed too imbibed to be paying much attention, and after about a twenty minute walk, they turned down the drive to a small townhome. By the time Draco had caught up, the door swung shut behind them, and he pulled out his notebook, jotting the address down.

Once he took a step closer though, he could feel the strong magic of the wards on their home, warning him against getting any nearer. Of course. Any home of a semi-competent wizard would have at least some wards up, and The Weasley-Grangers were not just semi-competent. He imagined the wards Granger had set up would be more than adequate for keeping him out.

He reached a hand out and felt the magic pulsing off the wards, strong and heavy and bristling against his skin, just waiting to alert them to his magical signature. He was almost surprised it hadn't already alerted him, that the boundaries would let him get this close, standing on the sidewalk outside their gate.

They were strong wards, but not something that felt impenetrable to him. Draco was rather proficient in bypassing wards, especially weaker ones. There was a method he had read about years back, during his time in house arrest, reading through the books of the Manor library. He hadn't realised it was even possible, and by all accounts, it was difficult, advanced magic, only accessible to those with stellar control of their magical cores, and skilled Occlumens. Fortunately for him, those were skills he had, and he had eventually learned through much trial and error.

All he had to do was convince the wards he wasn't a threat, his mind clear and blocked off, and feed his own magic out slowly into the wards themselves, allowing them to acclimate to his own signature. It wasn't a foolproof method by any means, but if he was careful and calm, and took it slowly, he could feed them enough magic to accept him, to let him to slip in without sounding the alarm to the caster.

He didn't think it was necessary to try, though. He didn't need to get in to the Weasley-Grangers' home. He just needed to do a little stake out.

✶ ✶ ✶

Another week passed of Draco tirelessly staking out around the Weasley-Granger house, spending most nights there watching, and getting rest during the days when he knew they would both be working.

So far, he had learned very little.

He learned that they had two young children who they brought to The Weasley Matriarch every weekday while they worked. That they both apparated to and from work, and took their children out to the park every night. It was a dreadfully mundane view into their life, boring to watch, but he had a feeling that if he watched long enough, eventually, he would see something worth his time.

Of course, he was right.

After days of uneventful watching, one night Draco saw something move out of the corner of his eye. A dark shape, flitting to their window. His eyes widened as he saw a small owl flapping, knocking at the glass. They opened the window for the owl, and as it flew in, he heard the words he had been waiting for.

"Oh, it's from Harry!" Granger said, her voice carrying through the open window, and Draco leaped into action. This was his chance.

He swung his stake-out bag around — a leather shoulder bag with an Undetectable Extension Charm inside — and stuck his arm in. He groped around for a moment before his hand settled around a wooden handle. He started pulling, and unsheathed his broom from the bag with a triumphant grin.

He ran back about a block from the home, glancing around at the empty street before he hopped onto his broom and kicked up into the air. He couldn't get too close, lest he accidentally trigger the wards, but he let himself draw closer, watching the open window like a hawk for the sight of the small, dark owl.

From the moment he saw it dive out the window, the chase was on.

He couldn't get too close, as most Wizarding owls knew a few evasion tactics to avoid being preyed on or followed, but he was probably twenty metres behind the small bird. He cursed under his breath as he shivered, the night air cold on his face as he flew. He fumbled for his wand in its holster, casting a warming charm that took the worst of the chill off. He was hoping it wouldn't be a long journey, thinking Potter had maybe just skipped London and decided to settle down in Newport or Dorchester, or some other charming seaside town.

✶ ✶ ✶

Potter had not settled in Newport or Dorchester.

It had been over Six. Straight. Hours. Of flying. North, he had discovered, away from the quaint beachside villages falling into the cool sereneness of early autumn. It was the first week of October, the sun was beginning to lighten the horizon, and Draco was bloody freezing and horribly cranky. His arse was numb and sore, his hands were so cold he could hardly feel them, stiff around the handle of his broom. It was a cold that no amount of hastily cast warming charms could shake off. All he could do was grit his teeth and hope they were close.

He was beginning to consider giving up the chase, wondering if the small owl had noticed him following and given him the runaround, when suddenly the bird dipped down from the sky, into a valley coming up on Draco's left. He looked down and saw a small, very small village under him, hardly more than a post office and a pub for the local shepherds.

He wondered if that was where Potter was shacked up. Following the owl's moves, he dropped lower into the sky and watched to see if it would dive towards any of the small houses, but it kept going. At least it was following a road now, and Draco figured they must be close if they had begun descending. He could almost kick the tops of the trees as they flew overhead.

They followed a rough dirt road, flew across a serene babbling brook, over hills and fields filled with sheep grazing away in the early dawn. Where even were they? Guessing from the amount of time they had been flying, and his wand telling him straight north, they had to be somewhere up near Scotland. Away from everything Potter had cared about. But why?

Draco noticed up ahead, the owl was beginning to descend further, slowing down and swooping gracefully over the grassy fields. His eyes focused on the field ahead and noticed a slight shimmer to the air. Wards. He watched the owl fly through them, and almost disappear. Everything inside the wards appeared blurred. There was definitely a house but the details were too hard to see, like he wasn't wearing glasses.

He dropped down to the ground, his feet landing gracefully in the long, swaying waves of grass and standing up straight for the first time in almost seven hours. He stretched, his back cracking in at least six different spots and his arms protesting as he reached down to touch his toes. He had to make sure he was prepared and as comfortable as he could be. He needed to focus now.

Bypassing the wards was difficult, advanced magic, and he needed his wits about him. It was hard, but it could be done by a very well trained, competent wizard. And Draco considered himself very well trained.

He approached the blurry sheen of the wards carefully, raising his hand up to feel the magic in the air. He wasn't completely confident that he could slip past wards this strong. He could feel Potter's magic, the way it made the hairs on his arms raise, like when a storm is coming. His heart was beating out of his chest.

Draco closed his eyes, taking a deep breath in, breathing out, and with it, clearing his mind of all thought. Reaching in to his Occlumency training, so many years ago now, he closed the doors on his active brain, silencing his thoughts behind the great doors of his mind. Blocking all feelings, thoughts, and emotions.

Another deep breath in, and out, letting his heartbeat slow, eyes drawing closed so he could feel the world around him through his other senses. He could hear the chirping of birds in the early dawn morning, feel the wind blowing gently against his skin, through his hair. Smell of the grass and colourful wildflowers dotting the field around him. He could feel the tingling of the magic through the air, against his outstretched fingertips as he raised his hands.

With his hands to the wards, he began selectively allowing thoughts to enter his mind. Thoughts of the peace he felt listening to the world around him, that he meant no harm, but simply wanted to go for a relaxing stroll through this big, empty field. That he was one with the world around him and a part of the natural world. He was as much a part of this world as the bugs in the grass, the birds in the air. He took in another deep, calming breath.

Now for the part that scared him, the dangerous part.

He began reaching into himself, feeling his magical core, the pulse of his magic through his veins, flowing through his entire being. He slowly began summoning it through him, concentrating the flow to the tips of his outstretched fingers. He leaned closer to the edge of the wards, his magic pooling in his fingertips, calm and serene, and allowed the wards to size him up. To feel him and his magic, his projected sense of calm, that he meant no harm, and was one with nature.

This was the moment that mattered, the part that was make or break.

He allowed some of the magic in his fingertips to flow out, willing it to leave his body and trickle into the wards. If this worked, the wards would accept his magical signature and yield to him, allowing him access to whatever sat inside.

Feeling the wards absorbing his magic, he held his breath for a moment, and let it out, slow and calm. He felt the magical walls in front of him rippling, as though they were considering his proposal. After a beat, he felt the rippling cease.

Draco opened his eyes.

The wards flickered in front of him, and what looked blurred before slowly crept into focus.

A great smile grew across his face as he realised — it had worked! This wasn't the first time he had been able to pull it off, but it was definitely the first time he had ever done it with wards as powerful as these ones. Set up by Potter himself, he could tell by the feeling of the magic. It just felt like him. And it just allowed him in.

He stepped tenderly through the wards, as though worried they might change their mind and eject him. Nothing of the sort happened, and he began to look around, taking in the scene.

He could see a small cottage at the end of the walk, a couple of buildings just beyond it over the crest of a small hill. There was a willow tree off to the side of the path, and the grasses were long and waving in the gentle breeze. Beyond the cottage was a small copse of trees, perhaps an orchard. It took Draco's breath away, the serene beauty of it all, and he had a brief second where he felt bad about disturbing Potter's carefully cultivated safehaven. He really wouldn't have, if the offer wasn't too good to resist.

Well, he was here now, he had already done the hardest part, so it wouldn't do much good to back out at the last moment.

He cast a disillusionment charm over himself, creeping closer to the house until he was nearly at the front porch, but left a good few metres of distance, crouching in the grass. Pulling out his notebook, he began to write. He wrote about the isolated location, the journey it took to get there, the cottage, the orchard. Fields of green with sheep dotting the landscape. Long, blowing grasses in a wide meadow.

He decided to sneak around to the back of the house, to peek at the buildings around the back, and noted one of them being a chicken coop. He jotted that down as well.

He was so engrossed in writing, he hadn't noticed the distant whistling sounds coming from the cottage, disguised behind the calls of songbirds in the distant woods, or the front door silently crack open.

It was only when a flash of bright red caught his peripheral, that he glanced up, right as his ears heard a voice that was definitely Potter's call,

"Stupefy!"

And everything went dark.

✶ ✶ ✶

Draco's head was pounding. That was his first thought as he stirred, and slowly cracked open his heavy eyes.

It was then that he tried to rub his face, and his eyes jumped open when he realized he could not move.

He looked down. He was tied to a chair, in a full body Incarcerous. Panic bubbled in his chest, and he began writhing, feeling for give in the tight ropes, trying to feel for his wand, anything.

It wasn't until he felt the tip of a wand press against his throat, however, that he began to completely lose it.

He was fucked.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Malfoy?" a voice snarled right into his ear, so familiar it sent pangs of panic bubbling through his chest. Even after all this time, he could never forget the sound of that voice. He gasped, and began to struggle again in earnest. Where was his bloody wand?

He felt a fist in his hair, his head was yanked back, and he was forced to make direct eye contact with those smouldering green eyes, hidden behind the same rounded wire frames he had known and hated for over a decade. He froze as he stared like a deer in muggle headlights. He didn't know what to say, what to do, and all he could do is look into those glaring eyes.

"I said, why the fuck are you here?" Potter repeated, calmer this time, but in a voice cold and dripping with hate. It made the hair on Draco's arms stand up. "If you don't want to talk on your own, Malfoy," he spat Draco's name out, "I'm sure I can find a curse that will get you talking. I don't take very kindly to intruders."

"P-Potter, wait, I— I do have a reason," Draco stammered, his drive for self preservation kicking in at the feeling of the wand digging into his neck. He did not need to be on the receiving end of another one of Potter's curses, seeing as he had already been cut open by Potter more times than he'd like. Once was more than enough.

"Though, I'm not sure it's a reason you'll be thrilled about," he finished weakly, taking a deep breath to hold back the full panic attack that was attempting to take over Draco's nerves.

Potter stared at him silently for a moment, and prodded Draco with his wand, urging him to continue.

"I'm not here to hurt you. Or finish you off, or whatever it is you've imagined considering I'm me and you don't trust me. Which, to be fair, you shouldn't. I'm very evil and I tend to make everybody's lives worse," Draco said, unable to stop himself from sprinkling in a dose of sarcasm, trying to hide the fear in his voice with a deadpan joke and hope Potter doesn't hex his bollocks into next Tuesday.

Potter pressed his lips together in a frown and glared, but he didn't do any hexing, which made Draco hopeful that maybe his bollocks would survive after all.

"I'm here because — well, I'm being paid to." He continued, hopefully, carefully, treading on glass eggshells in bare feet, "To, well. Investigate what happened to you, and where you ended up after abandoning the Wizarding world. And… write a report about it." It felt anticlimactic, but Potter's face scrunched even more when he said it. Instead of anger, pure annoyance flashed across his face. This, Draco could deal with.

"Malfoy, you better not be telling me right now that you are a bloody reporter looking for a scoop."

Draco felt the indignity bubbling up in his veins, puffing his chest up as far as he could while still being tied to a chair. "How dare you insinuate such a thing, Potter!" he said in offence. "I, am a Private Investigator. This is something entirely different. Not that you'd know the difference between a teacup and a Blast-ended Skrewt, but I am very much not a reporter."

Potter stared at him in silence, blinking a couple of times and raising his eyebrows silently. Draco took it as a chance to continue. "Some regular reporter would never have been able to find you, Potter. That's why I was contracted to do it instead. They needed someone with my superior investigation skills." He paused for a beat. "You are remarkably well hidden. It took far longer than it normally does."

Potter was silent for a moment longer, but Draco could see his face scrunching, his eyes closed. He rubbed his brow for a moment, and sighed.

"Have you ever considered, Malfoy, that maybe the reason it was so hard to find me is because I don't want to be bloody fucking found? That maybe the reason nobody has heard from me in eight years is because I just want to be left the hell alone?" Potter's hands slammed the table in frustration, and he raked his fingers through his dark mess of hair.

It was longer than Draco remembered. Long enough that Potter could probably tie it up if he so desired. It was rather well cared for as well — it looked a mess but the curls were shiny and defined. The longer hair rather suited him, Draco thought idly, lost in his own thoughts for a moment while Potter raged and muttered in front of him.

He zoned back in to Potter's ramblings when he heard, "I suppose I could Obliviate you and send you back to the nearest town…" He snapped up, starting to panic at the thought.

"Potter, Potter, hold on," he said, trying to raise his hands but only succeeding in flailing his wrists. "Maybe we can reach some kind of compromise? I can't go back empty handed. I need to tell them something."

"That sounds like a you problem, Malfoy."

Draco sputtered, mind racing to think of something, anything to stop Potter from kicking him to the curb with no memory and no story. He would really prefer to do this without the hassle of Obliviation. Though, he supposed were Potter to Obliviate him, he could always find his way back…

That was it. He sneered, leaning back into his chair and relaxing.

"Actually, Potter, I think it would be more of a you problem. I made my way here once, what would stop me from finding you again? As I told you, I am very good at my job. I imagine it would take me maybe a few weeks, tops, to make it back? How determined are you to keep me out?"

Potter glared at him, but said nothing. His silence spoke volumes. Draco had him. He leaned forward, lips curling up into a smirk.

"Because, Potter, until I get what I want, I am determined to be a thorn in your side."

The annoyance on Potter's face was glorious. He looked like he wanted to throttle Draco, his fists clenching and relaxing repeatedly. Potter stood, grumbling, and began pacing around his small cottage, talking to himself under his breath.

Draco watched him pace curiously, hoping that he had possibly managed to manipulate his way into a report. He hoped Potter wouldn't call his bluff and actually Obliviate him. He doubted he could gather himself and find his way back in time to complete his deadline.

When Potter stalked back over to him, his face was blank, and he looked less annoyed, despite the persisting tension he held in his jaw. He stood over Draco, looking down at him as he spoke.

"Tell you what, Malfoy. I won't Obliviate you." Draco let out a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding. "You can even write something about me for your little report."

His face broke out into a smirk as Potter said it. He had thrown the bluff out in a desperate effort to save the last month's worth of work. He was surprised Potter had actually taken the bait, and for him to actually agree to an interview was more than he had expected.

"But…"

Of course. There was always a but.

"I seem to remember there being a life debt between you and I. Something about saving your sorry arse from Fiendfyre, and then testifying for your sake in front of the entire Wizengamot." Draco's eyes widened. Oh Merlin. "You can write some stupid bloody report about me. But on the terms of our life debt, you are not allowed to speak, write, sell, or publish anything true about my actions, whereabouts, or past-times."

Draco gaped, his mouth hanging open. This was absolutely preposterous. "Potter, what in Merlin's name would I even write about? I can't just lie and sacrifice my reputation. If they learn I'm lying, not only would it destroy my integrity, my reputation as the Wizarding world's best Private Investigator would be ruined!"

Potter shrugged. "Aren't Slytherins supposed to be cunning and resourceful? Come up with something. It had better be good, if you don't want to be found a liar."

Draco huffed indignantly. "Well, I— how am I supposed to know what is true or false? What if I make something up that happens to be true, and it invalidates the terms of the debt?" Draco was grasping at straws, but the question did give Potter pause.

Draco watched as he twirled his wand around in his fingers, apparently deep in thought. His eyes traced over the features of Potter's face, over the pale lightning scar that slashed from his forehead down past his eye and across his cheekbone. The contrast of the scar against his bronze skin drawing Draco's eyes in. He noticed something passing over Potter's face, before he squinted at Draco, pointing his wand at him once again. Merlin, Potter was moody.

"How did you find me, anyways?" Potter asked him, glaring.

"Well, Potter, you see, I closed my eyes and wished upon a star, and when I opened my eyes, somehow, I was standing in some grassy field in Scotland." The sarcasm was dripping from his voice, annoyed with the seemingly random unrelated question and Potter's sudden change in demeanour. This was not the right answer, he learned, as Potter poked him in the rib with his wand, drawing an undignified yelp from him.

"Just answer the question, Malfoy."

Draco cleared his throat, feeling a little sheepish all of a sudden. He didn't love admitting his process, which did feel a little more like stalking than Draco really liked to think about. With a sigh, he said, "Well, I… I followed your owl. On my broom."

Potter's eyebrows shot up. "My owl? The one that just got back from London?" Draco nodded, and Potter let out a small laugh. "You flew for hours on a broom in the middle of the night, chasing after an owl, to find me?"

Draco stuck his nose up and sneered. "Well, I told you I was the Wizarding world's best private investigator. What did you expect? I am nothing if not dedicated to my job, Potter."

Potter snorted, and to Draco's surprise, he vanished the ropes wrapped around him and tossed his wand down onto the table. "Alright then, Malfoy. I guess we're going to brainstorm a story, then. Let's get you your pay cheque."

✶ ✶ ✶

A few hours of dedicated brainstorming later, they had a story. It was even one Draco felt was semi believable. Maybe, if they were lucky, it would be good enough for Skeeter to buy, and Draco would earn the cheque of a lifetime.

Draco leaned back, nursing the cup of tea Potter had made for him while they worked, and read over his fake notes.

The idea they'd committed to was that Potter had left Wizarding Britain altogether, moved by his convictions after setting the Gringott's dragon free, and started up his own dragon sanctuary in Romania with the help of some contacts and friends in the industry.

Of course, Potter, being his very modest self, didn't want to name it something obvious, so he was just a secret financial compensator. He had a co-owner who claimed all the credit and worked directly with the dragons. Draco had cooked up a fake Romanian dragon keeper who worked at the reserve, and he'd write up a fake interview between them about Potter's involvement. They'd come up with some bullshit Romanian name for the sanctuary, and by the end of their brainstorming, Draco was actually rather pleased with what they'd managed to create.

It wasn't that hard to believe Potter would use his wealth to fund some charitable organization in another country, and Romania was far enough for Draco to feel confident in his lies. Besides, nobody else, Skeeter included, had been able to prove Potter's whereabouts. She could either take his word for it, or not include him in her little book, and lose out on all the revenue that is gained by using the Golden Boy's name.

"Alright, Potter, I think we're about done here." He scanned over his notes once more, and Potter leaned over to read over his shoulder.

"Looks good to me," Potter said with a little grin. "Oh! I thought of this earlier, this should help with credibility."

He pulled out his wand, wordlessly summoning a blank scroll, signing it with Draco's pen, and pressed the tip of his wand into the parchment, forming a magic signature that was traceable to his magic alone. Draco was impressed. Having Potter's magical signature would make it basically confirmed that he had actually found him, and gave everything Draco wrote significantly more credibility. He slid the parchment over to Draco, who nodded his thanks, looking briefly at the signature before rolling it up and sliding it into his bag. He imagined that signature alone would sell for a lot of galleons.

"Excellent. That will be a big help." Draco stood and stretched his arms, stiff after having been seated for so long. He almost let an apology roll off his tongue, but held it back, chastising himself. He had already been vulnerable enough with Potter for today.

After patting his pockets, he remembered he was still wandless after his capture. "If you're done treating me like a prisoner, I believe you still have my wand." He sniffed, remembering vividly the last time Potter had stolen his wand. He stiffened at the memory of that day in the Manor. It made anxiety prickle in his chest. He felt very vulnerable without his wand, unsafe. He extended his hand for it.

Potter stood and pulled Draco's wand holster out from his pocket. He must have taken it off when he stunned him earlier. "Let's walk out to the edge of my wards, and I'll give it to you there."

Draco scowled. Potter's words left a distasteful feeling in his mouth. Of course he wouldn't trust him with even apparating away. Yes, he was found creeping around on Potter's property, but after spending the last four hours together, he would have hoped that Potter might have had the most minute amount of trust in him.

He shook his head at the thought. That was expecting too much. He was Draco Malfoy. That alone was enough for Potter to never have reason to trust him.

Draco turned, walking in stiff silence to the door and wrenching it open. It was afternoon, the sun beating down on them in a surprisingly warm day for early fall in Scotland. They walked side by side in silence, until they walked through the wards, and he felt the wall of magic washing over him briefly before they stepped out of the circle. He extended his hand, glaring, and Potter handed him his wand holster. Draco yanked it from his hand, strapped it on, and let out a soft sigh of relief.

They stared at each other for a moment, awkward silence hanging in the air between them. Draco, in some weird semblance of professionalism, offered his hand to Potter. Potter looked at it like it might burn him, considering for a moment, and gingerly reached out to clasp his hand in a shake.

Then, Potter pulled, and Draco stumbled forward until they were close, too close for comfort, and Potter looked him in the eyes. "This is the last time," he said quietly. "I better not see you back here again, Malfoy."

He let go and Draco stood, catching his balance and standing up stiffly, glaring as he dusted off his robes.

"Understood."

Under Potter's watchful eye, he closed his eyes, focused on his flat, and disapparated with a crack.

✶ ✶ ✶

It took about a week of drafting a formal report, formatting, creating the false interview, and writing the final draft out on to the signed parchment. Finishing the last sentence with a flourish of his quill, he leaned back and looked at the parchment, giving it one more thorough read to make sure it was perfect.

And it was.

Draco grinned to himself, signed the bottom with his own initials, and summoned his owl to take the report away. He was tying the letter to his Mathias' leg as he heard his Floo roar, followed by Pansy's voice echoing through the flat.

"Oh, Draco, darling," she said, sing-song note to her voice as she walked into his living room. "I have come to save you from the woes of employment. It seems you've forgotten how to do anything but." She pouted at him, and he patted her shoulder.

"There, there, you dreadful bat. I'm terribly sorry I've ignored you in favour of keeping a roof over my head." He rolled his eyes as he said it, and she cackled.

"What have you got there, Draco? Last time I checked, it was terribly outdated to arrange a hook-up via owl. Haven't you heard of a mobile? I hear they're all the rage these days." She leaned over his shoulder, trying to get a glimpse at the scroll in the owl's clutches, but the bird took off before she had a chance, flying through the open window and out into the evening air. "Was that the Potter job?" she asked, grinning like a shark, eyes glinting.

Draco scoffed at her, shaking his head. "Don't be awful, Pans."

She didn't look away, eyes boring into Draco's soul. Raised a single eyebrow.

"Yes, it was the Potter job. But if you want to hear a word about it you'll wait until our arses are seated at the restaurant and you've bought me at least two glasses of wine. Come on now." She grabbed his arm, side-alonging him to the restaurant that they'd been rescheduling their dinner date for the last month at while he worked like a house elf on his assignment. As much as Pansy was a pain in the arse, she understood him, and didn't really mean what she said. It was her job as Draco's best friend to take the piss whenever possible, after all.

✶ ✶ ✶

Two glasses of wine later, Draco was feeling sufficiently gossipy. He hadn't told Pansy anything about the job outside of that it was related to Potter. She glanced around, casting a muffliato around their table, and leaning in.

"So, Draco. What's the deal with this Potter job? I've never seen you so secretive around a job before." She smiled innocently, but her eyes betrayed her predatory intentions. She was a gossip queen, after all. And he owed her for ignoring her for the better part of a month.

"Well," Draco said, clearing his throat and looking around before leaning in. "I was being contracted by an anonymous reporter to track down Potter and his whereabouts."

"And you found him?" Pansy shrieked with glee, covering her mouth. "You must have. I can't imagine you being so invested if you hadn't. Well? What was he like? What was he up to? Was he off saving orphans in Peru?"

Draco opened his mouth, but as was about to speak, he felt a burning in his throat. It was closing up like the words wouldn't come. Oh, what a fucking bother.

"I don't think I can talk about it much, Pans," he said carefully, feeling the burning ebb away. "I have been, shall I say, sworn to secrecy surrounding his activities."

She gave him a sharp look. "But you wrote about it?" She asked, tapping her nails against the table.

"Well… I did write something about Potter. Was it the truth?" He flashed her a grin. "Debatable."

"Did he curse you?" Her eyes were scanning him, looking for any signs of his ill health, or that Potter had done something to him.

"Not exactly. Consider it…" He paused. He wasn't sure if the debt would even allow him to talk about the debt itself. "A collection of debt, to protect his privacy." His throat felt scratchy, but it allowed him to speak without closing off. Interesting.

She cackled. "Of course he did. Classic Gryffindor. Reclaiming his debt in a way that still benefited you." She paused to take a sip of her wine. "Was he still as attractive as he was in school?" She asked casually, like asking about the weather, and Draco sputtered on his drink.

"PANSY, I-"

"Yes or no question, darling. You cannot possibly look me in the eyes and tell me you did not fancy him, massive prat or not. I'll remind you that I spent six whole years watching the way you looked at him." He scowled at her, which only made her grin wider. "And having to listen to you talk about him."

He thought back to Potter's shoulder length curled mass of hair, how his dark skin contrasted with his bright eyes, and the way those eyes stared into Draco's soul. How intense they were when he had his wand digging into Draco's throat. He felt the blush creeping up his neck, and he knew his face was growing red thinking about him. Apparently, that was all Pansy needed to see.

"I KNEW IT!" She announced, cackling with an absolute shit-eating grin. "Did he try and curse you again, darling? I bet you were stiff as a board with his wand trained on you," she purred, and Draco wanted to bury his head in the sand, jump into the ocean and swim away into the great beyond.

"Why do I even put up with you?" he muttered, head in his hands. "You are an absolute bloody menace, Pansy Parkinson."

At least he felt safe in the knowledge he had done his job, and would never have to see Potter again. He could put this all behind him, and move on with his life.

Chapter Text

Unfortunately, Draco could not put it all behind him and return to a blissfully Potter-free life.

When the book finally dropped, far earlier than originally expected thanks to Draco's speedy sleuthing, the Wizarding public went absolutely nuts. Potter mania was back like it had never left, and everyone wanted to know what he was up to next.

And somehow, despite it never being public knowledge, Draco was known by the media to have insider knowledge on the whereabouts of Harry Potter.

Which meant, naturally, that he was hounded relentlessly for any scrap of information he could release. Which, of course, was nothing, because he couldn't say anything that wasn't already written in the book, as he was unsure of anything that may be true or false about Potter. And, he didn't really fancy making bullshit statements to the press until they found him out as a liar.

He hated the press anyway, so this worked out fine for him.

Except for the part where the constant barrage of owls crowded the window of his flat. His office was getting caked in owl droppings, he had four bites on his finger from owls, mad at being shooed away, and he couldn't sleep without being awoken from the infernal tapping at his window. His muggle neighbours were beginning to complain about the droppings coating their windows and balconies, and were looking at him suspiciously.

On top of the constant annoyance, it was a slow beginning of the year for him. The only requests he had gotten since the holidays, since the book dropped, were about Potter. Even if he wanted to be stark in his refusal to sneak back on Potter again, he eventually hit a point where it was either that, or have no income for the month of February. The first job paid well, but he couldn't just stop taking jobs indefinitely because of it.

He went three months ignoring all requests for anything Potter related, until, finally, he cracked.

He grimaced, knowing that Potter would not be thrilled about it. But hey — he had already done all the hard work finding him last time. This time, it would be as easy as apparating in, finding him, and… what? Making up another story?

It wasn't Draco's ideal job, far from it, but it was what he was being offered. He stood and went to his desk, sorting through the Potter-related requests and contracts he had received recently. He stewed as he sorted through the post, getting more irate by the minute.

He had spent eight long years building himself up, standing on his own two feet and supporting himself, only for Potter to swing in and destroy that in a few short months. It made rage boil up in his chest. Why did it always have to come back to Potter?

He selected a letter from the Prophet, asking for an update from Potter after the book had been released to the masses, on his current and future plans. Perfect. He knew how much Potter hated the Prophet. Surely this would get under his skin. He shoved the letter into his bag, along with his notebook and his wand, and apparated out of his flat with a sharp crack.

✶ ✶ ✶

When he stood in the cold, frozen field, he could see the cottage up on the hill clearly. The wards seemed to still accept him, and he smirked as he walked through them, connecting his magic with the wards and bowing to them to be allowed entry. He was still rather proud of himself for being able to bypass Potter's wards.

Snow crunched under his dragonhide boots as he walked, taking in the shift of scenery in the few months since he had been here last. It was truly winter now, and the trees stood bare, silently bordering the vast white blanketed field, no birds or bugs or anything outside in the snowy silence. The roof of the quaint cottage had a thick layer of snow on top, and the chimney smoked merrily, wisping away into the grey sky.

As he approached Potter's cottage, he heard a sound echoing through the silence of the snowy landscape. He paused, tilting his head, and listened. It was all he could hear, otherworldly silence amplifying a shrill whistling across the fields, muted as it sounded as though it came from inside the house. Draco registered the sound as the alarm of a Sneakoscope, and frowned to himself. That must have been how Potter knew he was there last time.

Well, Potter would soon know he was there, so he may as well make himself known. He strolled up to the front door, but as he reached up to rap his fist against the wood, the door swung open.

Potter's tired eyes met his, a pronounced frown on his face as he gave Draco a size-up. Draco, surprised, lowered his fist and mirrored Potter's frown back at him.

"Why are you here, Malfoy?"

Draco smirked, pushing a loose strand of hair out of his face. "Why do you think, Potter? For some tea."

✶ ✶ ✶

And so Draco ended up sitting at Potter's round table once again, cuppa in hand as he pulled out his notebook and the letter he received, tossing the latter over for Potter to peruse.

Potter scanned it quickly, scoffing. "I thought you didn't give a rat's arse about the Prophet and their requests. You're doing their bidding now? Stooping lower and lower, Malfoy."

Draco bristled at the provocation. "I assure you, if I had had a single contract that was not related to Bloody Fucking Potter in the last three months, I would have considered simply lighting them all up with an incendio and being done with it. As is, I would like to do something in order to get paid sometime soon, and I figured it was this, or selling myself on the street." He gave Potter a scowl. "The street is looking more enticing by the moment."

Potter snorted, shaking his head. "I should hex you, you know. I told you not to come back."

"You could never. What would you do with my body? I'd make a very handsome corpse, it would be quite the shame to be buried in an unmarked grave with nary a widow to grieve me."

Potter barked a laugh at that, running his fingers through his hair in what Draco had surmised was his nervous tell.

"Fair enough, I suppose." He paused, scanning the letter on the table again. "So what, you want to just make something up again?"

"Well, I don't want to make something up, but given the terms of our agreement, I suppose if I have to, I had better run it through you first." Potter nodded shortly. "Now, I figured since this is the Prophet, they're going to be looking for some kind of follow-up to your new life as a dragon tamer and sanctuary runner in remote Romania. Thoughts?"

Draco lifted his teacup to his mouth, and smirked into his tea as he watched Potter's face scrunch. "I dunno. If they asked me directly I'd just tell them to piss off."

"Ever eloquent," Draco said as he rolled his eyes, but there was the faintest trace of a smile on his face as he said it.

"I don't know, Malfoy. Tell them I've gone loony and started talking to dragons or something." He scoffed, but Draco tilted his head and tapped his finger against his chin as he thought.

"You know, Potter, it's absolutely ridiculous, but it might just work." He smirked, and jotting down the idea in his notebook.

The look Potter gave him could only be described as incredulous. "That was meant to be a joke, Malfoy."

"Well, it isn't true, is it? Anything not true is fair game, and I think the Prophet would be fools enough to print this, with what swill I've seen them put to post in the past."

Potter shook his head, but Draco continued. "Come on now, Potter. Hear me out: Harry Potter, dragon trainer extraordinaire, has disclosed to our top secret source that he is working on a neural path with which to talk to dragons, and has stated he is the first wizard to have ever communicated with one."

"Ah, yes — confident and loony, what a winning combination. Absolutely top," Potter groaned out. "Why am I letting you in my house, again? This really just feels like a poor excuse of a nightmare." Potter complained, looking rather miserable about the whole ordeal. The sight brought a cheeky grin to Draco's face, despite his efforts to control his expressions.

"Wait, wait. I can see the headline now, Potter," he said, grinning and gesturing pensively. "Picture this: 'GOLDEN BOY GROWN SCALES? Saviour turned Dragon Whisperer working on Wizard to Dragon Communications."

Draco turned to look at Potter, who seemed, unsurprisingly, less than impressed. Potter's annoyed look only fuelled Draco further. "PARSELTONGUE TO DRAGONSPEAK — The Wizarding Saviour's new serpentine obsession."

Potter pinched the bridge of his nose as Draco continued shooting the shit. The increasing annoyance eminating from Potter bringing him unadulterated glee as he remembered just how much he fucking loved pissing him off. He almost forgot how good it felt, and how much he loved Potter's scowl, the way he glared at Draco. Provoking him felt so…

Draco shut down that train of thought before it ran away from him. He felt feelings bubbling in his chest that he simply should be neither considering nor acknowledging, thank you very much.

Instead, he bent down to write in his notebook, noting some imagined details about Potter using his magical core to connect to dragons, and communicating with them. About how he plans to lead a dragon rights revolution and unionize the dragons at their request. Draco smirked. It was something Potter would do, after all. He could never stand to see a creature being treated unfairly.

"Perfection," Draco announced out loud, turning his notes to Potter and letting him read through Draco's ideas. He could see Potter trying to hold a straight face, but the twitching corners of his lips betrayed his attempt at stoicism.

"A Dragon union? Sounds more like something Hermione would champion, to be honest," Potter said after a moment, but he had a little smirk on his face as he said it. "Unionize for what?"

"I don't know, Potter. I seem to remember always seeing a S.P.E.W badge clipped to your school robes at Hogwarts," Draco said with a sneer. He leaned in closer, muttering in Potter's direction like he was sharing a secret. "I don't know if you're aware, but they don't even have dental covered. Could you imagine?" He shuddered for effect, and blinked innocently at Potter.

A slight grin broke through Potter's attempted apathy. "Not even dental? Merlin, this is more dire than I thought. I had better get the Minister on the phone this second," he replied, looking appropriately scandalized. He pulled out his wand, giving his magical signature to the notes and handing it back to Draco. "You had better tell the press about this right away, I'm sure they'll be very concerned with the state of dragon rights in the European continent. That just isn't on." He shook his head, grinning.

Draco stood, packing his notebook away into his bag and finishing his tea. "I suspect your support will be the cornerstone of building up dragon rights, Potter. Maybe they'll even build you a statue, I know how much you like pointless wastes of metal in your likeness."

Potter laughed at that, sharp and loud, and kicked at Draco's shin. "Get out of here, you bloody git." The look on his face was almost fond as he said it, and the sound of his laugh made Draco's blood pound in his ears.

He let out a hurt little yelp at the kick, and scurried towards the door, yelling over his shoulder, "Assault is not a laughing matter, Potter! What would the dragons think?" He heard Potter laughing behind him as he strutted out the front door of the cottage, the door swinging closed on its own behind him.

As Draco walked to the edge of the wards, he took deep, controlling breaths, trying to calm his heart beating out of his chest. The way Potter's laugh had him feeling would simply not do. He could not entertain that thought. Potter had nearly cursed his bollocks off last time, there was no way spending five hours with him over four months apart should have Draco feeling fond of the git. He simply wouldn't entertain it.

✶ ✶ ✶

When the Monday paper hit his desk, Draco saw the headline in big, bold letters:

"SAVIOUR OF THE LIZARDING WORLD: POTTER CLAIMS TO SPEAK TO DRAGONS, CALLS FOR UNIONIZATION"

Salazar, that one was good. Saviour of the Lizarding World? Why hadn't he thought of that? He would have to show this one to Potter, next time. This would really piss him off.

The fact that Draco even thought about a next time made him slam his head down on his desk. He was so, completely, utterly screwed.

✶ ✶ ✶

March 24th, 2008

Draco managed to stay away for a whole month before crawling back to Potter for another scoop.

He told himself it was for the money, only for the money, and chose the offer with the highest number in the contract. Ignored the bubbling feeling in his chest that told him he had any other reason for wanting to visit Potter.

He hadn't.

That would just be ridiculous.

When he apparated to the boundary of the wards, he strolled right in and up towards the cottage. He had given up on attempting to be sneaky. Discovering Potter had a Sneakoscope took away any incentive to try and creep around, and it would surely alert Potter if he had any nosey inclinations. He may as well just be upfront at this point.

Once he walked through the walls of the wards, he saw the door open, and Potter stood in the doorway, watching his approach. He paused for a second when he saw him, but recovered himself quickly and kept walking.

As he reached the porch, Potter stepped aside to let him in. He heard the sound of the kettle already set on, and he glanced back.

"Expecting company, Potter?"

"Yeah. You see, there's this stubborn git who keeps showing up unannounced, despite me having told him to stop coming back. Repeatedly. Don't suppose you'd know anything about that?"

Draco sniffed faintly. "Haven't a clue." He turned and gave Potter a glowering look. "That isn't a very polite way to talk about company, you know." Part of him hoped Potter wasn't actually mad he had come back, but the kettle set felt like a good sign.

He strolled into Potter's small kitchen, digging through his cupboard for a suitable cup for his tea. He sensed Potter moving closer to him, but pointedly ignored him. He chose one that appeared to be handmade and a little wonky, handle slightly off kilter and a little uncomfortable, but was quite large, and a pleasing purple colour.

He glanced over. Potter was leaning against the counter, looking at him curiously, and Draco let himself look back. Really look.

Potter's hair was tied up today, a loose ponytail keeping it up off of his neck. The look suited him, Draco thought to himself. His bright, emerald eyes were shielded behind his dirty glasses, but the way they glowed made them stand out from his dark skin — an alluring contrast that Draco had always appreciated.

His eyes wandered down from Potter's face, along Potter's short and stocky torso. He had always been rather short, like he had stopped growing at fourteen — probably no taller than 5'5. But he had filled out well, and his arms were muscular, in a working man way, like he built muscle through hard labour instead of the gym.

Potter seemed to have… some kind of dust all over his muggle jeans? They looked like he had been out kneeling in the dirt before Draco arrived. His hands were calloused and rough, with little scratches and scars all over them. Draco focused in on one scar that seemed to almost look like words, but couldn't quite see what it said. He tilted his head, trying to read them—

"Malfoy?"

Draco jumped, pulled out of his reverie, and glanced up, meeting his eyes. "Hm?"

"I have a question for you." Potter's mouth was tight. "This has been bugging me for months, actually."

"I suppose I might have an answer," Draco replied airily, ignoring the dratted quickening of his pulse.

"How the bloody hell did you get past my wards?" Potter shot out, looking almost frustrated at the question. "I was so preoccupied that first day you were in here by the fact — that, well, that it was you, and you were the first person to ever find me, and to sneak in, that I hadn't even considered how. It has been bugging the hell out of me."

Draco watched Potter's hands rub at the back of his neck, wondering how much he wanted to reveal.

Potter's voice echoed in Draco's head. 'Well, it was you'. He swallowed hard and feigned casual demeanour as he responded slowly.

"A wizard never reveals his secrets, Potter," he said, tilting his chin up in defiance. Potter cuffed him in the arm, and Draco yelped, leaning away from him.

"Come on, you bloody git. What — do you want me to admit I'm impressed? Because, well. I kind of am, actually. I didn't know it was possible, to be honest." Those green eyes sought out his, and fuck, he couldn't resist spilling a little bit of the details. Potter knew how much he liked having his ego stroked, and apparently wasn't afraid to use it to achieve his means.

"Wellllll," Draco drawled, stretching the syllable out. "I suppose I could tell you a bit about it. If I can ask you a question as well." He watched Potter's face as his eyebrows raised slightly, but he didn't say no. Promising. "Call it an exchange of information. Eye for an eye, if you will."

"Sure," Potter shrugged. Draco celebrated mentally, and pondered what question he should ask. If he only got one, it had better be worth it.

The kettle began to shriek, and Potter turned to it, making up a cup of tea for himself. Draco slid his wonky purple cup over to him in silence, and Potter raised his eyebrows, but poured tea into his cup as well.

Once they were sat at Potter's round table, Potter turned to him and raised an eyebrow, gesturing for him to start. "You first," he challenged.

Draco cleared his throat. "You are familiar with Occlumency, correct?"

"Yes," Potter said, looking a little uncomfortable. "Snape taught me the rough idea in sixth year. But I was rather pants at it, to be honest."

Draco grimaced at the thought, remembering his own Occlumency training with Bellatrix. The way she assaulted his mind, prying through his deepest thoughts and fears. How violating it felt to have somebody untrusted digging around in your head.

"My condolences. Severus was rather aggressive with his magic. I can't imagine it was pleasant." Potter shook his head in confirmation.

"Well," Draco continued. "It involves a few things. One of the core concepts of Occlumency, you should remember, is the ability to clear your mind. Another facet is mindfulness. Feeling your body, your magical core within yourself. Being aware and able to control and feed the flow of magic through your body. If you are capable of wandless magic, which I suspect you may be, it is a similar concept — conducting your magic through your person."

Potter's eyes narrowed. "But how does that let you slip through wards? Shouldn't making your magic known alert them further?"

"Yes, if you were attempting to cross the wards with clear intentions." Draco was feeling oddly patient, and revelled in the feeling of getting to explain niche areas of magical knowledge he had mastered.

"First, you have to clear your mind, especially if your intention is negative or you are unwelcome. Lock away your emotions. Project a sense of calm. Connect with the world around you and blend into the backdrop, like you are but another piece in the world the wards are watching over. The magical aspect will only work if you aren't perceived as a threat." He paused. "Following so far?"

"I think so," Potter still looked rather confused, but he was listening attentively.

"You have to channel your magic up, into your hands, and out, and allow the wards to feel it, sense it, acclimate to it. Without crossing them, of course. I stood directly outside the perimeter, projecting myself as innocent as a rabbit, hopping through the field. And I allowed the wards to acclimate to my magic, slowly letting it ebb from the tips of my fingers." Potter looked mystified, and actually genuinely impressed. Draco revelled in the feeling.

"It isn't guaranteed to work, of course. There's a risk the wards might just reject you and your magic, and alarm the caster to your presence anyway. It's more difficult the better the wards are, the more intricate."

After a beat, Draco finished, "I actually — well, I didn't really think it would work on yours. They were very strong. Well cast. I fully expected to just trip them and have you curse my bollocks into next Tuesday." He looked at Potter sheepishly, but Potter still seemed well interested. He had a curious smile on his face.

"That is actually really impressive, Malfoy. I had no clue that was even possible! Though, few wizards are trained in Occlumency, so I imagine anyone capable of that kind of magic is already rare." Draco nodded. "Did someone teach you about that?"

"Tut, tut, Potter." Draco waggled his finger, smirking and taking a sip of his tea. "That is another question. And I believe we agreed, an eye for an eye. I shall be answering no more inquiries until I get my answer."

Potter sighed, and leaned his head onto his arms, glancing up at Draco. The pose felt so vulnerable that Draco briefly felt bad enough to consider answering the question anyway. But he steeled himself to stick to his answer, and he sat in silence until Potter spoke again.

"I suppose you're right. That was a pretty thorough answer, and I consider myself a man of my word. Go ahead then. Ask away," Potter said with his chin resting against the tabletop, looking up at Draco through sunlit eyelashes.

Draco thought about asking something deep, and personal, and invasive. If he had been made this offer upon his first visit, he probably would have gone straight for the throat. But now, he could sense the hesitation coming from Potter, and he felt reluctant to break the fragile trust he had earned. If he asked the wrong thing, Potter could shut down, and then he wouldn't get any more answers. Or get to hear him laugh.

Not that Draco was motivated purely on getting to hear Potter's laugh again.

Of course not.

"What do you even do here? What occupies your time?" he asked eventually, after thinking for far too long. And he was curious, after all. If it were Draco living there, he would have gone absolutely mad within a month, being cooped up all alone in a tiny little house like this in the middle of nowhere. The Potter he used to know would have, too. He was always up to something, breaking rules, going on missions, finding something to care about.

He was curious how Potter coped with the loneliness this place emanated.

Potter was quiet for a moment, looking almost contemplative. "Well," he started eventually, "I do a lot, actually. But I guess you never really got a chance to check out what else is here, besides the house." He hummed to himself.

"When I first arrived, I needed to get away from everyone, needed to be alone. The only thing here at first was this run down cottage. It was built and then abandoned by some muggles years ago. I spent a couple months fixing it up, only apparating to that little town for food every couple weeks."

He paused and glanced towards Draco, catching the way he was listening attentively to every word. "Hermione brought me a ton of books to read. You know her — er, well, I guess you don't, but—"

"She has probably read every book under the sun by this point," Draco interjected. He didn't know Granger well, but he knew enough to know her personal library probably rivalled the one at Hogwarts.

"Maybe more," Potter agreed with a grin. "Well, she brought me books to get through that first year's winter, and a ton of them were about self-sustainability, living off the land. Mostly muggle books, but I figured magic would only enhance the muggle strategies. So that spring, I started a garden. Asked Neville for a couple of fruit trees, some seeds, and started to grow stuff."

Draco found himself surprised. He seemed to remember from Herbology Potter's thumb being rather brown, versus green, but he supposed anybody could learn if they tried hard enough.

"I failed pretty miserably that first year," Potter said with a grin, like he was reading Draco's mind. "I had no clue what I was doing, and my harvest was awful. Killed half of my plants before they had even flowered."

"But I kept up with it, learned from my mistakes, and the next year, my garden was — well, not quite flourishing. But passable." Potter glanced out the window, and Draco followed his gaze. He could see a couple of small sheds, and an enormous mass of green. He realized this must be Potter's garden, growing strong and wild and already heavy with produce. He was impressed.

"My second year, I decided I would try chickens." He pointed towards one of the small sheds, which Draco figured must be a chicken coop. "I'd heard they were supposedly top-notch for sustaining yourself." Draco's surprise must have been visible on his face, and Potter laughed.

There was that sound that Draco definitely wasn't trying to hear again.

"The chickens have been a dream, to be honest. They're easy as pie to care for, lay eggs all the time, repopulate themselves every year, and once they get old enough to stop laying, they become dinner. I eat a lot of eggs, as you can imagine." He grinned.

"From there, it kept adding on. First a kneazle, to keep the rats and mice at bay. Then a goat, to help clear the grasses and to get milk. At this point, I barely ever need to get anything from the shop, maybe once every three months? And when I do, I go in with my invisibility cloak, and leave the muggle money on the counter when they're not looking."

"A goat, Potter? I think I'll have to see that to believe it." Draco said, though he did very much believe it. Potter always had a way with animals.

"Her name is Tammy," Potter said with a cheeky grin. "Next time, I'll introduce you."

"Deal." Tammy. What a ridiculous name, Draco thought, but there was a fondness there that made his chest tighten uncomfortably.

"Anyway. About two years ago, once I had everything mostly up and running, and pretty settled, I did start to get a little bored. So naturally, I got into woodworking."

"Woodworking?" Draco echoed, lost.

Potter's eyebrow quirked. "You know, making things out of wood. Like, erm. Oh! Here!" Potter stood, jumping over to his counter and grabbing something Draco hadn't noticed before. A small wooden bowl. Once he had grabbed it, he seemed almost sheepish in his excitement, standing awkwardly looking at it for a moment before walking back to the table where he sat.

He handed it to Draco, and Draco turned it around in his hands, taking it in. It was a light hazelnut colour, with a lovely grain that wrapped its way around the shape of the bowl, curling around its features in a smoke-like pattern that drew his eyes in.

"It seems to be a functional bowl." Draco sniffed, chin in the air, desperate not to betray the way his chest seized at the sight of a small bowl — a feat he hadn't thought he could ever achieve. He couldn't just come out and say how impressed he was by the idea of Potter creating, making something functional out of a plain wooden block. How it seemed like its own kind of magic.

He had to at least try to make Potter work for his admiration.

"Thanks," Potter said, smile still plastered to his face.

"Anyway, it's not as boring as it seems here. It took a few years, but I've come to really love this place. It feels more like home than almost anywhere else I've ever lived, really."

"Except Hogwarts?" Draco asked, softly, almost a whisper, in a voice that didn't even feel like his. He wasn't sure why he even said it, but it brought a pang of memories to the front of his mind. The old castle had felt more like home to Draco than the Manor had in a long, long time.

Potter nodded. "Except Hogwarts."

The way Potter's eyes looked past his, through him, felt like they saw his very soul, and made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. On at least one front, he and Potter understood each other deeply. The pain of never feeling at home, and never being able to return home again.

All at once, Draco felt suffocated by Potter's gaze — too seen, too perceived, the look in Potter's eyes somewhere between understanding and pity. The urge to flee bubbled up inside him. Even the silence between them felt oppressive. He stood before he could stop himself, feeling Potter's eyes following him. He turned on his heel and stalked into the kitchen, fumbling with the kettle to fix himself another cup of tea, to catch his breath, and to steady himself.

Deep breath.

Close the doors to his mind. Steel himself, control his thoughts. He is in control.

When he turned back to Potter, his face neutral but for the slight tilt of his lips into a smirk, he almost even believed it.

"How are we feeling about werewolves, Potter?"

After spending a couple of hours brainstorming for the next report, coming up with some swill about Potter spending a week wildly gallivanting with a pack of wild werewolves, the two of them sat in comfortable silence. The only sound being Draco's quill scratching against the papers of his notebook.

He could feel Potter's eyes on him, but he chose to ignore it in favour of finishing his thought. At least, he was trying to, until Potter's voice cut through the silence.

"What do you do, Malfoy?"

Draco only had to raise a single eyebrow for Potter to start stuttering over himself.

"I mean like, outside of work. What do you get up to?" He could see a slight flush working its way across Potter's cheeks as he mumbled, looking like he regretted opening his mouth.

Draco looked up at him, face blank as he thought about how to answer. Did he even have any hobbies? What did Draco do? His whole life felt like an endless cycle of work, sleep, rinse, repeat. The prying question made his skin prickle, his defences raising.

"Why?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at Potter. "Hoping for me to tell you that I have no life, so you can feel better about being a miserable recluse?"

Potter didn't rise to the bait, simply leaning back in his chair. "Well, they do say misery loves company."

That got under Draco's skin even more.

"I do nothing," he said, with a straight face and a hollow laugh. "Is that what you want to hear, Potter?"

He shook his head. Sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "I go out for dinner once a month with Pansy and Blaise, who are my only friends. And I work. A lot." The honesty of the statement felt raw coming from Draco's mouth, the truth of the life he had built stung as he heard himself say it. He was suddenly hit with how boring, how ordinary, how pathetic it felt to admit it.

"And I come here." The fact that his brain unhelpfully supplied Potter to add to his short list of friends made Draco clench his fists. He couldn't stand to look up at Potter's face, didn't even want to see his reaction to the question he had asked. He knew he couldn't handle seeing pity in Potter's eyes.

At once he stood, before Potter could answer, desperately avoiding looking at him. He could tell Potter wanted to say something, but he didn't want to hear it. God forbid he tried to apologise, or try and connect with him. He missed the certainty of their school days, when he knew what Potter would do, what he would say. The predictability of his anger, their clashes, fights, felt so easy.

Whatever this new Potter was doing or thinking felt so foreign. He was calmer, harder for Draco to goad into arguments or fights, almost agreeable in a way. He asked out of genuine curiosity for Draco's life, driven by a desire to get to know him. That was harder to deal with, somehow.

Potter wanting to be his friend was terrifying.

Almost as terrifying as the feeling in his gut that wanted it too.

"I think I had better go," Draco said to the floor, not looking at Potter once as he walked out of the cottage.

Chapter Text

It was only a couple weeks later that Draco found himself heading out from his flat, Potter on his mind. He hardly had to give himself an excuse this time, picking a letter at random from his desk to supply with a Potter related headline.

He tried to tell himself he was leaving purely for business, that the only reason he would ever be heading to Potter's place was to fulfil some of the piling up contracts and keep his bills paid. It wasn't his fault that he hadn't gotten a letter that wasn't Potter-related in months.

He ignored the way he had hardly slept last night, kept up late thinking back to their last conversations. To the way Potter had opened up to him while they talked, for probably one of the only times Draco could recall, giving him an unprecedented amount of trust as he told Draco about the little life he had carved out for himself.

It still seemed rather lonely to Draco, even though he wasn't the most sociable person himself. He wondered how often Potter saw his friends. Judging by the conversations he had overheard from his old circle at the Leaky, it seemed like it had been years.

He might ask Potter about it, if he had the chance. Even if he had to share a secret in return, learning about Potter was worth it.

Draco still felt a bit like a coward for the way he had run out that day. He was still a Slytherin, and self preservation was second nature, but he tried more often than not to avoid running from difficult conversations these days. He was a whole bloody adult, he was almost thirty, and difficult conversations were a fact of life that he couldn't just run away from when scared.

He hadn't run away from the conversation when his Father had died in Azkaban five years after the war.

He hadn't run away from the conversation when he told his Mother he was a flaming bloody queer, and that, pureblooded expectations or not, he would not be producing an heir, thank you very much. And if he were going to run from a conversation, it definitely would have been that one. He still saw the disappointment and disgust written across her face in his nightmares.

And he hadn't run from the conversation with the Aurors at his front door, two years ago, when they came to him with sombre faces and told him his Mother had been killed. Struck down in a random attack down Knockturn Alley, no witnesses and no suspects.

So why did he feel the need to run from Potter asking him about his bloody fucking hobbies like a petrified child?

It infuriated Draco how being around Potter brought him back to being a swanky, arrogant fourteen year old that had never once confronted the real world. He had spent an entire decade in growth, learning how to be a reasonable person. Ten years of trying to undo the damage brought on by a childhood of being treated like a king. And after an hour around Harry Potter, it was like he was back to fourth year, charming Potter Stinks badges in the dungeons while muttering about how Stupid Perfect Potter was always ruining everything—

It really was pathetic how long he had been chasing Potter around. Draco shook his head, colour rising on his cheeks as the memories of him following Potter around flooded back. He had been so upset by the very first rejection he had ever experienced that he needed to haunt the boy who had turned him down.

His chest still stung thinking about that day — his handshake unmet, rejected in front of his peers. What a fool he had made of himself, his overinflated ego and false sense of superiority that got him into so much trouble.

Now, eighteen years later, he was being offered an olive branch, of sorts. Potter seemed genuinely interested in getting to know him, asking Draco about his hobbies and joking and telling him about his goat. A part of Draco was sure that Potter was just desperate for company, wanting companionship for his isolation no matter who it came from. But Draco wanted this, he had wanted it for so long, and now, it looked like he finally had a chance.

✶ ✶ ✶

When he arrived in the now familiar grassy meadow, he was surprised by how much it had changed since his last two visits.

Last time, it had been chill, and while the grass was growing, it was still recuperating from a bitterly cold Scottish winter. Potter must have kept his garden safe with warming and protection charms from the biting wind and snow, but the rest of the meadow was fighting to recover.

Now, however, it was overrun with life. Bumblebees floated lazily through the air, there were trees with fresh budding leaves, songbirds building nests. The grasses, taller and bolder, waved merrily in the easy spring breeze. He could see the green of Potter's garden in the back, even wilder and brighter than before. The air was fresh and crisp and felt good in his lungs as he took a deep breath in.

From his apparation point at the edge of the wards, he noticed the door to Potter's cottage was hanging open.

Interesting. The door had been firmly closed every other time Draco had been here. Perhaps Potter was out on the property somewhere? He glanced around, looking for the familiar mass of black hair.

As he walked up the path to the house, he heard a sound to his left. He glanced towards it, seeing the telltale flash of black standing out amongst all the greenery, underneath the branches of a great, leaning weeping willow.

As Draco approached, ducking under branches, he noticed something he had never paid much mind to on his prior visits — the great willow tree was leaning over a small duck pond, the surface overcome with duckweed, algae, and lily pads, almost as green as the rushes surrounding it. Beneath the branches, up against the trunk of the tree, was a small bench, which Potter was perched upon, not paying him any mind. Maybe he hadn't heard the crack of Draco's arrival, or was too focused to sense his approach.

Draco didn't particularly fancy getting accidentally hexed by the jumpy recluse, so he approached with caution.

The bench Potter was sat on was quite ornamental. It appeared to be hand carved, with swirling patterns covering the back rest and smooth armrests along the sides. Draco faintly remembered a mention of woodworking, or something of the sort, and wondered with quiet awe if he had made the bench himself.

"Potter," he called casually, aloof, as he rounded the bench and came to see exactly what Potter was doing. He said it loud enough to make sure his presence was known.

Potter looked up at him with a grin.

On his lap, a massive orange kneazle was puttering about, idly kneading biscuits into his thighs and looking like it hadn't a care in the world. Potter's hand was stroking along its back, paying special attention to the base of the great beast's neck.

Draco watched, entranced by the big cat. He loved kneazles, but had never been allowed his own as a child. His Father, uptight as ever, considered them dirty and wouldn't let them into the Manor. There had been one or two that lived in their stables and kept the rodents at bay, but none nearly as friendly as this great orange beast.

Draco's fingers itched to run through its magnificent, fluffy fur.

He slid onto the bench next to Potter, reaching out to touch it and then pausing. This kneazle was large, and Draco had learned the hard way not to get on the bad side of an unfamiliar magical creature.

Outstretched hand lingering in the air, he glanced to Potter, looking for confirmation.

Potter smiled, and nodded. "He's friendly, almost too much so. Can never get the bugger to leave me alone. Sleeps with me too, you know. Clingiest cat I've ever met." A cheeky grin was plastered across his face.

Draco offered his hand to the purring kneazle, who glanced up from his pampering at Potter's hands to give Draco's questioning fingers a cautious sniff.

And then, within a blink of an eye, Draco's face was full of long, luxurious fur, the kneazle having bumped his hand and stepped onto Draco's lap. His claws dug into Draco's legs rather sharply as he kneaded into his thigh, and he hissed softly in pain as the great beast made himself comfortable. He didn't knead for very long, however, before curling up on his lap, looking as comfortable as ever.

He saw what Potter meant. This was the friendliest kneazle he had ever met.

And Draco loved it. It was rare that magical animals were so openly affectionate, and Draco had never had a pet show him this much love. The deep purrs rumbled through his entire body, the calming sensation bringing a soft smile to his face as he gently ran his fingers through its fur, soft as silk.

He found himself rather smitten with the beast.

"Fred seems to like you," Potter said with a sparkle in his eyes.

Draco looked at the kneazle, Fred, eyes wide. That eyebleeding orange shade. Of course.

"You named this magnificent beast after a Weasley?!" His outburst was somewhat tempered by the beast glancing up at him and giving him a soft mrrp?

Potter stiffened a bit beside him. Ah, of course. After the dead Weasley. Probably still a touchy subject.

"Yeah, I did name him after Fred. A mischevious little bastard, he is, always getting in to shit. Stealing my dinner and digging in my garden and leaving dead rats in my bed. Spend a couple of days with him and you'll find it suits him plenty." His voice was casual, but Draco could tell he was defensive. A sharp undertone. Definitely a sensitive topic.

"I'm sure every time he steals your steak, the ghost of Weasley is there cheering him on," Draco said, mirroring Potter's casual tone. He didn't really fancy starting a fight over Weasleys of all things, not right as they were starting to get along.

How the times had changed.

Plus — Draco hated to admit it, while he had found all the Weasleys insufferable, he had preferred the twins to any of the others. As someone who had quite often walked the line between bullying and pulling self-gratifying pranks, Draco had appreciated what they stood for, and remembered their grand exit from Hogwarts quite fondly. Their products were rather popular in the Slytherin commons, and he had found many uses for their Skiving Snackbox sweets in his years. He still used extendable ears in his investigations — they were unparalleled for sneaky eavesdropping.

Glancing down at the great orange cat again, he decided that Fred did quite suit him. Fred looked up at him and gave him a lazy smile and a slow blink.

Potter sat quietly, looking out over the small pond and the meadow beyond, peaceful and serene. They sat in silence but for Fred's great rumbling purrs.

Eventually, it was Potter who broke the silence.

"It's just so peaceful here, you know?" He didn't look at Draco as he spoke, unfocused eyes watching the scene in front of him. "After the war, it was like I was always going from one thing to the next. I never stopped, not really. Not to grieve, not to take a breath and enjoy the fact that I had survived, when I was never supposed to. From the time Voldemort returned, it was always one thing after the other, fighting for my life every other week for three years straight. Then, after the war, straight into the Aurors, hunting down dark wizards and always on the move, running, fighting."

And Draco could imagine it, too. He had watched from the sidelines as the war took over, and everything in Potter's life became about fighting. Much in the same way that Draco's had, from the opposite side. Threats looming over their heads, just trying to make it to the next day, to survive. That mindset was the only thing that kept them alive, and saw them through to the end of the War.

But what was once a survival tactic would become a burden, if you couldn't let go. Draco had been fortunate, in a way; the house arrest he had been sentenced to had forced him to stop, and breathe, and he had been able to appreciate the fact that he had survived. Not unscathed, but alive. Potter had been afforded no such luxury.

"I became so paranoid, after a while. After spending every moment from fifth year on being spied on, hunted down, targeted. Even after the war, it never stopped." Potter turned his head and gave Draco a brief glance. "D'you know that I had people stalking me? Dark wizards, sometimes, but it was usually fans. People followed me to work, followed me home."

"I had people following me on auror missions, while I was shopping, into the bloody loo. Approached me while I was working, asking for an autograph. It was absolutely miserable." He sighed, letting the statement hang in the air while Draco sat there, processing.

He knew it was bad, everyone was aware of how batty the Wizarding world went for Potter after the war. People went insane, lost all semblance of self respect when Potter was in the same room as them. Hearing him talk about it though, put it into a new perspective.

"In the loo?" His nose wrinkled in disgust.

Potter nodded gravely. "Absolute insanity. Having someone try and get me to autograph his prick was a new low for me."

Draco guffawed at the pure indignity of the idea. His shoulders shook with laughter as he choked on his own breath. "Potter, I don't know how you didn't hex any of these wankers into oblivion. If anybody else had to deal with even half of that, they'd have gone mad."

Draco noticed as Potter shifted against the bench, looking almost… bashful? "Well… I did, a few times. Being an auror gave me some protection, allowed me to hex with impunity. I do distinctly remember hitting the guy in the loo with a shrinking jinx. Shrunk his prick down to near about nothing. Rather satisfying, that one." That grin was back on his face, and Draco couldn't help but smile back.

"Well deserved, too, I'd say."

Potter sighed softly, running his fingers through his curly rats nest of hair. "I couldn't stand the fame anymore. It drove me to insanity. Genuinely."

Draco nodded. After a beat, he asked, "Didn't you live in the old Black house before? Did you sell it when you left?" He had remembered reading about it in the papers, once, and his Aunt Bella being furious about the house having been left to Potter. He had been there once or twice as a child, and couldn't understand why she wanted it back so badly. It was a rather dreadful place.

"I left it to Andromeda. I hated that old place, anyway. Walburga didn't care much for me either, and if I had to hear her scream about mudbloods one more time, I was going to do myself in." He chuckled as he said it, but Draco knew exactly what he meant. He remembered the godawful portrait and its propensity to scream absolute bloody murder. He shuddered at the very thought of the evil bint.

"At least you aren't related to her," Draco said with a small laugh. "I remember meeting her once or twice before she keeled over, and she was equally as unpleasant in the flesh."

Potter wrinkled his nose, and shook his head. "Thank god for that."

"My Mother was not too fond of her either, but she always believed family came first." Draco's voice softened when he mentioned his mother, hit hard with the lingering memory of the scent of her perfume. Soft, and floral. Like lilacs.

When he closed his eyes, he was transported back to Spring at the Manor. His mother pulling him gently along on walks around the grounds, reading him bedtime stories, coddling him gently as he bawled over a scuffed knee or broken toy, humming to him with that soft voice she reserved only for him. Always with the scent of Lilac.

When he opened his eyes after what felt like an eternity, they felt wet.

He dug his fingers into Fred's fur, running his hands through his silken coat, letting the deep rumble of his purr soothe him and calm the ache in his chest.

He could feel Potter's eyes on him, watching him carefully as he attempted to reign in his emotions. Deep breath in, hold. Slow exhale.

When he spoke again, his voice was steady and smooth, perfectly neutral.

"My mother passed two years ago." His voice felt small as he said it. Like he was admitting to a dreadful secret. "Attacked in the street. Died before ever making it to St. Mungo's."

He took another breath in, holding. Slow exhale. "The Manor had been seized years ago, and she had hardly been scraping by. She had a small cottage in the countryside paid for by a dividend of the Manor vault, before the rest was absorbed into the Ministry. She didn't cope well with it all going to shit. They never found out what she was up to that day, or who did it. The DMLE didn't care much about someone offing a death eater's wife."

Fred's rumbling kept him feeling grounded as he gazed over the small pond. He watched a frog hopping through the muddy banks, catching a fly. A bumblebee landed on a small flower hidden in the grass.

"I didn't know."

When he felt Potter's hand rest gently on his arm, he almost didn't even jump. Almost.

"Malfoy, I-"

"If you're going to say you're sorry, Potter, save your breath. I don't need your pity." He dared a glance over, defiance in his eyes.

Potter nodded gently. He appeared to be thinking, mulling over his next words.

"I know how much she cared for you," he said instead, cautiously. "I believe it. That family always came first for her. She betrayed everything she had known to make sure you were safe."

Draco knew this, of course. Potter had spoken at both their trials, gotten him and his mother lenient sentences by vouching for their character. Though Draco didn't really think he deserved the grace. Still didn't think he deserved the grace he was given, back then.

Hearing it directly from Potter, like this, felt different, though.

Draco didn't say the words he wanted to, the ones that bubbled up from his chest. They felt too raw, too vulnerable. That he wished he had done that for her as well, made sure she was safe. Instead, he nodded numbly and devolved into silence.

They sat in silence, each deep in their own thoughts. Draco closed his eyes, drawing on his practice of Occlumency to lock his burgeoning emotions behind the door of his mind, shutting them away and clearing his head. He had enough emotion for today, he decided.

It seemed Potter felt the same way. Draco felt him shift, turning towards him on the small bench.

"Do you want to see the rest of the property?" Potter asked, raising his eyebrows and offering a small smile.

"Only if I can meet Tammy," he responded airily, trying to stop the corners of his mouth from curling into a smile. He failed.

✶ ✶ ✶

Draco sat in Potter's kitchen, nursing a cup of tea to warm him up after a full tour of Potter's little farm. All he had ever really noticed was the cottage up near the front of the drive, visible from the edge of the wards. He hadn't really been privy to exactly how much work Potter had put into the rest of the transformed property.

Potter had built himself a chicken coop, about ten small chickens running about in the grass under a protection charm that kept them safe from predators. Potter had introduced him to his favourite bird — a fluffy white hen with a dark ruff around her neck, and great big puffs of feathers on her feet. He had introduced her as Lucy, and when Draco went to give her a pat, Lucy pecked his finger hard enough to pull an undignified yelp from him.

Potter had promptly put her down, but his shoulders shook with silent laughter as he did so. Draco was rather unimpressed.

He was more impressed by Potter's garden. He had been right in his guess of a protection charm, keeping the plants safe through the winter. They had still gone dormant, but hadn't died off completely, and were already in mid-bloom with spring in full swing.

The plants were almost as tall as Potter himself. He pointed some out to him, listing off vegetables and fruits Draco had only ever seen as cooked and prepared on his dinner plates. Heads of broccoli standing tall, blueberry bushes flowering, tall vines trailing up their supports, heavy with bright green peas. Different varieties of lettuce and spinach looking lush and leafy. It really was brilliant, Draco thought as he picked a ripe strawberry from its plant, popping it into his mouth and getting hit with the bright sweetness.

The small orchard was thriving, spring fruits already beginning to flower and letting out a strong floral aroma that overtook Draco's senses.

Potter had gestured to his workshop, the newest building on the property, and Draco had peered in briefly as they walked by, hit immediately with the strong smell of wood. He wanted to go in and poke around, but Potter kept walking, apparently not interested in showing Draco where he did his wood working.

Another time then, he foolishly hoped to himself.

He had hurried after the other man, and quickly saw what Potter was hustling towards - A small shed with a lackadaisical goat, idly munching on some grass that was growing outside the fence. Draco gaped, staring at the creature apprehensively.

"Tammy," Potter had said with a grin, and gave him a nod, encouraging Draco to give her a pat.

Draco nervously stepped forward, keeping his hands to himself as respectfully as possible as he eyed the goat.

"She's bigger than I imagined," he admitted, eyeing the small horns on the top of Tammy's head. Tammy eyed him, and gave a small huff. He had never seen a goat in person before, and was rather nervous to get up close and personal with the beast.

"Scared, Malfoy?" Potter nudged him forward and smirked, knowing Draco couldn't possibly turn down a challenge.

With hesitant hands, he gently reached out and offered his palm to Tammy.

She sniffed him, and gave his finger a nip, right in the same spot the bloody hen had bit him not twenty minutes earlier.

Draco fumed, stomping all the way back to the house, while Potter laughed heartily behind him. At least the prat had made him tea for the trouble, and healed the — admittedly tiny — grievous wound that he had sustained. Draco pretended Potter being able to cast a wandless Episkey was not at all impressive or even a little attractive.

The tea he held in his hands, in the same wonky purple cup as last time, was warm, and comforting, and had the perfect amount of milk (a light splash) and sugar (none, thank you very much). He sipped at it contentedly, woes of the outside world and the attacks by Potter's absolutely rabid animals temporarily forgotten.

At least Fred was still a friendly beast, wrapping his tail between Draco's calves as he rubbed against him, covering his trousers in fur.

Potter slid into the chair across from him at the round table, his own cup of tea clutched between his dark, calloused hands. Draco found himself staring at those hands, noting a wispy looking scar, almost like words, across the back of his hand. Draco squinted, trying to read it. He could swear it spelt something.

"What does that scar say?" he found himself asking before he could think about it, regretting it instantly. He glanced up at Potter, locking eyes, and Potter held his gaze for a moment before looking down at it himself. He stretched his hand out towards Draco, and he turned his head on an angle to read it easier.

I must not tell lies.

Draco's brow furrowed as he glanced back up at Potter. Potter didn't look upset, just a little pensive, shrugging at Draco's look.

"Umbridge," he said simply, as though that explained everything. Though, Draco supposed it mostly did. She was a nasty bat, and he knew for a fact the punishments she had handed out were definitely below-board. It was why he had tried so hard to stay on her good side and be a good little arse-kisser. It was a time honoured strategy that had gotten him pretty far, all things considered.

Of course, it was never Potter's style, and he knew that. He didn't think Potter could kiss someone's arse if it was the only thing that saved his life. Draco didn't regret his disposition to self preservation, but he respected Potter's reckless bravery.

Though, that was over a decade ago, and it did seem like Potter learned a thing or two about cowardice and self preservation when he ran from the Wizarding world.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Draco took a sip of his tea and dug into his bag, pulling out his trusty notebook, as had become routine for them at the round table in Potter's kitchen. Potter groaned when he saw it, leaning back into his chair.

"What's the matter, Potter? Did you think I was just here for a friendly visit, or to get attacked by your savage livestock?" He sniffed, the disrespect he felt from that barmy hen still written across his face.

"Well," Potter looked up at him, a glint in his green eyes. "As long as you don't call on your Father to have Tammy executed, I'm sure the next time you come by they'd be happy to attack you again." He gave Draco a cheeky grin, joking intent obvious, but at the mention of his Father, Draco's hackles were immediately raised, defensive walls going up.

He sputtered, his face turning a blotchy red as anger bubbled up in his chest and exploded. "Right. Of course — because it was my fault some moronic half-breed thought it wise to introduce fourteen year old children to violent, dangerous magical creatures! Children with no prior training or protective equipment. Do you even realise how dangerous a Hippogriff attack could be, Potter? I could have lost an eye. I could have died." He could feel his fists shaking, and held them on his lap, out of sight.

Draco took a deep breath, eyes closed, trying to calm himself. He already told himself that he would not be having any more feelings today, and had already failed. When he opened his eyes again, Potter seemed shocked, and actually looked a little embarrassed.

"I know Hagrid was your friend, Potter. But surely you realise how absolutely insane that class was." He took another breath, and levelled his gaze into Potter's eyes. "Yes, I was a prat, and I did antagonise the beast. But I was not the only student there who could have done so, and it was only a matter of time before it happened to somebody."

"My bad, Malfoy." Potter's voice was quiet, slightly stunned. "I was trying to make a joke. Missed the plot there a little bit. Probably stung one too many times by a Blast-Ended Skrewt." His smile was apologetic, and Draco couldn't help but huff a small laugh.

He shook his head gently, another deep breath cooling him down and letting his anger ease. "Bringing my Father into it was a low blow," he said, quieter than intended. "Not that I've ever shied away from mocking your dead parents either, I suppose."

A bubble of shame rose in his chest. It hit a little closer to home now that he was also a member of the dead parent club. "Old habits die hard."

Potter locked eyes with him again, and Draco couldn't look away. The green eyes across from him were swimming with an emotion Draco wasn't sure he knew. He swallowed.

"I didn't realise. About Lucius." Potter was idly fiddling with his teacup as he spoke, twisting it around nervously. "I wouldn't have said it if I had known. I won't lie and say I liked the bastard, but I don't wish dead parents on anybody." Potter shrugged.

There was a beat of silence between them that stretched on too long. It felt suffocating, the weight of all they had just said, and Draco felt he needed to break it before it choked him out.

"Next time I come by, I'll hex your chicken myself if she attacks me again," he said haughtily, but left the hanging implication of a future visit in the air, a bubble of hope with it. Potter was sharing bits of himself, opening up to him, and Draco wanted to drink up the tidbits and immerse himself in all the things he had been denied for so long.

Potter seemed to pick up the implication floating between them, and nodded. "Duly noted," he said, straight faced. "Keep the hens on lock next time. Lucy is a vicious little vixen."

Draco snorted.

Potter reached over to him, grabbing the abandoned notebook sitting on the table, reading through their notes and humming.

"You wouldn't believe how much people are eating up the dragon shite," Draco said to him, leaning on his arm and smirking. "Those bloody morons would believe anything I tell them. Not a single critical thought in their entire damn heads. All the different papers are passing around the same headlines, going, 'Oh, Potter! I can't believe he's left us all to stage a Dragon revolution!'" Draco shook his head with a grin.

"I don't even want to know what they had to say," Potter said back with a grimace.

"To be honest, it was a better headline than anything I had ever come up with. I kind of envy the creative genius of the head editor." Draco's grin was shark like, and Potter's groan spurred him on even further. "No, Potter — this one is good. Picture it with me now."

Potter squinted up at him, much like he would look at Rita Skeeter, or perhaps a fresh chunk of dragon dung. Draco's smile was so wide his cheeks were hurting.

"Saviour of the Lizarding World, Potter. Isn't that absolutely genius? What a headline!"

"What a headline indeed," Potter said with a rank scowl on his face, the expression so sour Draco couldn't help but laugh.

By the time he had calmed down from his laughing fit, Potter's face had risen into a cheeky grin of his own, and he was furiously scribbling in Draco's notebook.

When he slid it back over, looking too proud of himself, Draco suspiciously read over the idea Potter had jotted down. The cackle that came from him was so loud he could hardly believe it was his own.

"I think that's the one, Potter. Are you sure you aren't meant to be a reporter? You're pretty good at this," he said with a grin. Potter snorted and elbowed him in the rib. "Another cuppa?"

✶ ✶ ✶

When the morning's Prophet hit Draco's desk, he couldn't help the absolute lunatic grin spread across his face as he read the headline printed in front of him.

GOLDEN BOY'S NEW BEAU — CLANDESTINE LOVE STORY BETWEEN POTTER AND MUGGLE QUEEN, REVEALED TO THE WORLD!

Chapter Text

The weeks had begun to pass in a Potter shrouded blur, wild hair and emerald gleams in Draco's mind every time he closed his eyes.

From the time the headline about the dragons had gone to post, the uproar about Potter had been absolute insanity, and the demand bordering on obsessive. Draco received more than twenty owls a day inquiring about Potter's whereabouts. His home swarmed by the birds to the point he had to start directing business-related owls to a separate mailbox just so he could manage a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Not that he was mad about it. Inconvenient as it was, it meant he was absolutely raking in Galleons on contracts for some of the easiest work he had done in his life. He had put off the Smith contract for a week, intending to start on it eventually but choosing to prioritize the more enjoyable work.

And, of course, spending more time with Potter than ever.

He was pleasantly surprised to note that Potter was making an effort to be less of a prat. He had seemingly felt rather bad about digging in at his parents, and had avoided any topic surrounding his father since. The effort Potter made in being considerate to Draco had him feeling light and fuzzy, floating on air. This new relationship he had with Potter confused him; It felt almost wrong for the both of them to care about what the other felt.

Not that they didn't still make fun of each other. Draco didn't think he could survive without a little needling. It was baked into his soul, and if he couldn't lightheartedly mock Potter, what was even the point?

But he had become more acutely aware of the sore spots Potter had, sensing when he went a little too far and reeling back before it came to a fight. It felt amicable now, almost friendly, trading banter instead of blows.

Draco, meanwhile, felt almost overwhelmed by the wave of emotions that had hit him in the weeks since April. It had been creeping up on him like a lion stalking its prey, and his more recent and frequent visits had done nothing to abate his concern.

The concern that the way Potter looked at him — like he was looking past the shell Draco tried so hard to project — made his chest tighten. That Potter knew him well enough to tell when Draco was bothered by something, even when he insisted he wasn't; that he could tell when Draco wanted something, even when he said he didn't. That he could tell when Draco came in with a sour mood, and listened to him rant about whatever bullshit of the day had set him off, agreeing and adding in insults to whomever had irritated him.

Even worse was the pull of domesticity that Potter and his little cottage had on him. The way he had learned Draco's tea preference, and would always make it the way he liked it. The way the fireplace would heat the entire little house on rainy days, the kind of warmth that seeped its way into your soul. The way that Potter and his loving cat and his stupid chickens — that had definitely bitten Draco again, despite Potter's promise to keep them contained — made him feel warm and wanting. Like he was looking into a portal on another life, a better one, beckoning him in for more.

It felt so comforting in contrast to his bland life in London. An empty flat, cold and silent, looking out over a cramped street, brick on pavestone, a world of grey. Potter's slice of life was bright and vibrant and full of colour in a way Draco hadn't known he yearned for.

And, as if it couldn't get any worse, Draco couldn't deny that Potter was fit as a damned fiddle, and had an arse that made him want to weep. He definitely caught himself checking Potter out as he worked in his garden, or made them tea in his kitchen. The way his muscles flexed on his back when he was reaching up to pick cherries from his trees had Draco's head swimming. It was becoming a problem.

And was extremely unprofessional.

Not that Draco usually cared much about that — he was his own boss, after all. But telling himself to maintain professionalism helped keep his desire in check. He didn't even think Potter was gay, not after his (admittedly, failed) engagement to Ginerva.

And that did not even matter, because whether Potter was gay or not was of no concern to Draco. He was not going to let his thoughts about Potter's arse get in the way of their slowly burgeoning friendship. And he would not let such foolish ideas get in the way of getting ready for his day at Potter's house.

Rubbing his eyes, Draco rolled out of bed on that sleepy Saturday, and he realised it was way later than he had originally thought it was. The sun was already far up in the sky, and Draco cast a tempus, shocked to see it was already almost noon. Usually, he was out of bed by half past eight.

He scurried to get ready, feeling like he was running late even though he had no schedule — and Potter and him had never set a formal time or day for these meetings. Throwing on his favourite vest, a button-up, and trousers, he dashed from his room to grab his bag.

As he rushed over to his desk, keen to head out, his eyes glanced by his calendar, sitting innocently on his desk. He caught eye of the date, and groaned.

Oh, bugger.

He had forgotten what day it was. He didn't really celebrate his birthday these days anyway — he was far more interested in visiting Potter than whatever stuffy dinner Pansy would want to go out for. He would rather just pretend it was another day and get drunk as a bloody skunk.

Speaking of which…

✶ ✶ ✶

When he arrived at Potter's place, his bag was heavier than normal, weighed down with an entire bottle of Ogden's finest Firewhisky. He wasn't entirely sure how great of an idea it was to get drunk with Potter, but he hadn't been basing his decisions on what constituted as a great idea lately.

Which is to say, this would probably be a disaster.

But Draco was committed.

He walked straight into Potter's living room, bursting through the door as though this were actually his house, and ran straight into Potter. He was walking up to the door at that very moment, and Potter near jumped out of his skin at his sudden intrusion.

"Malfoy! I wasn't expecting you," he said, a small frown on his face. He looked tired, his face blank without the smile Draco had come to expect to see on his features. It made Draco feel a little uneasy.

"Are you ever?" Draco smirked, blowing past him and settling down at his spot at the round table. "I hope you've at least got the kettle waiting on standby for the possibility of my arrival." He stretched languorously. "I haven't yet a chance to have my morning tea."

"Ah, yes, my liege, how could I possibly forget to prepare your tea," Potter muttered to himself as he turned to the kitchen, seeming more stand-offish than he had been when Draco had last seen him. He frowned as he watched Potter's stiff back in the kitchen. A bubble of anxiety in his chest, Draco began pulling out his notes as he waited for Potter to return with their tea.

When Potter sat down across from him, cups of tea in hand, Draco gave him a small frown. "You look like something the kneazle dragged in," he announced, watching Potter scowl and scrunch his face.

"Didn't sleep well," Potter yawned, and Draco figured that explained the bags under his eyes. It still felt like Potter was a little distant. He felt the urge to push, to goad Potter into a reaction.

"Ah, that's a shame. So I suppose I shan't expect heavy participation from your end today." He smirked. "No worries, of course, I never do. Means it always feels a pleasant surprise when you actually have a good idea."

Potter snorted, but seemed to be staring off at something over Draco's shoulder.

"Fear not, Potter! I have had some brilliant ideas for this week's article. You may not have to think at all this time!" Draco held his nose in the air with his trademarked haughty smirk, hoping to see some sign of life from Potter.

"Delightful. Do go on then," Potter's tone was sarcastic, but his face was mostly unchanged, still not looking at Draco. He sorely missed the intensity of those green eyes, and the way they looked at him.

"Wellllll," Draco drawled, stretching the syllable out for far too long, drumming his fingers on the table, "How about this; 'GOLDEN BOYTOY, Potter spotted fleeing to America for homoerotic affair with famous quidditch player?" He smirked, feeling confident that this would be enough to elicit a reaction from the other man.

Draco realised immediately that he may have pushed a bit too far.

He simultaneously felt that burning in his throat that signalled the life debt's displeasure with his words — he must have come too close to the truth about Potter's affairs — and Potter's eyes whipping to him, looking at him for the first time all day. And he was looking. His eyes staring daggers, the anger on his face hot, his narrowed eyes piercing into Draco's very soul.

Oh.

Draco's mouth dropped open at the realization, and he covered his mouth with his hand. He could feel heat rising up his neck as he felt the fury radiating off of Potter.

Potter wasn't annoyed like he was when Draco baulked at Fred the kneazle's name. He wasn't frustrated like when Draco casually insulted Granger or Weasley. He wasn't even mad like he was when he first discovered Draco was spying on him.

Potter stood suddenly from the table, his chair falling to the ground behind him with a thud as he moved.

He rounded the table to Draco's side, where he towered over him, still seated, arms shaking in rage. He pointed at Draco and started, "You-"

A crack of glass behind Draco made the both of them jump, and he whipped around, staring at the window pane that had cracked from an outburst of Potter's wild, untamed magic.

It was enough to break the tension, and Potter turned, storming out of the cottage and slamming the back door behind him so hard Draco felt the walls shake.

He sat in dead silence, thoughts racing through his mind like rushing rapids. He sat there on the edge of panic until Fred jumped up into Potter's abandoned chair, letting out a soft, 'miao?'. It was enough to break Draco out of his shocked stupor, and he took a deep breath to calm himself, letting it out in a slow exhale as he collected his thoughts.

Well, that was Interesting.

The burn of the life debt had all but confirmed what Draco had been worrying himself about for weeks - Potter definitely was not straight. His reaction had proved that, but also something else. Was it shame? Embarrassment?

Was he so deep in the closet that Draco even mentioning his sexuality made his blood boil in self hating rage?

It had been Draco's goal to elicit a reaction from Potter. He had other story ideas, sure, but he intentionally offered that one first, in an admittedly desperate bid for his attention.

It didn't seem a very successful strategy, in hindsight.

Draco looked down at his teacup, properly noticing it for the first time. He had been so entranced in Potter, that he hadn't yet even had a sip of his requested tea. He noticed right away that Potter hadn't even given him in the wonky purple cup that Draco had claimed as his, and been using for months at every visit.

He frowned.

He sipped the tea slowly, desperate to enjoy it despite it feeling utterly wrong out of this wrong mug, on this wrong day. Maybe he should just start locking himself in his room on his birthday, like a werewolf on the full moon. It seemed like nothing ever went right on his birthday, these days.

✶ ✶ ✶

Draco had figured Potter would need some time to cool down, and gave him a generous hour while he pet Fred, drank his wrong tea, and worried.

Once the wrong cup was empty, he rose up, slipping out the back door. He glanced around, looking for signs of Potter anywhere.

He wasn't back by the gardens, or near the chicken coop. He checked the bench by the pond, but no sign of Potter there, either. As Draco was walking back, he heard sounds coming from the woodshop — loud mechanical noises. He hated the loud sounds, but he followed them to the doors of the shop.

Hesitation prickled up inside of him as he cracked open the door and peered inside. What if Potter hexed him, or yelled at him to leave? What if he had pissed Potter off so royally, that he no longer wanted to do their paper bits anymore? Draco would have no reason to visit, and he would never see Potter again, and the idea made an ugly feeling rear its head in his chest.

He supposed he would just have to be brave. Deep breath. He pushed the door open wide and slid inside.

Potter's back was to him, a loud muggle machine shooting up sawdust all around him as he worked, laser focused. Draco moved quietly to a stool, sat against the wall, and watched.

The loud machine appeared to be a saw. Potter was measuring and cutting wooden boards to size, taking them and gluing them together into a large square. Draco found himself wondering what Potter could possibly be making. He saw some paper sitting on a table nearby, and he slid off his stool to peek at it.

Some kind of schematic, it appeared. Draco studied the crude drawing, little numbers written along the sides. It looked like a chair, maybe? He ran his finger along the sketch, looking at all the little numbers closer. Measurements, he guessed.

He felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck, feeling Potter's gaze on him. He decided he would wait for Potter to acknowledge him first, and feigned nonchalance as he continued looking down at the blueprint. The legs of the chair sounded a little too tall, knowing Potter was rather short. He figured it would make for an uncomfortable seat, and he hummed to himself as he kept his eyes down, pointedly avoiding looking anywhere else.

He didn't look up even as he felt Potter shifting around the shop, and heard the stool across the table from him scrape against the floor as Potter took a seat.

The silence stretched from seconds, into minutes. They both remained still, tense, waiting for the other to break first.

"I already have the entire world speculating about everything I do with my life," Potter said quietly, the traces of his previous anger evaporated into a resigned openness. It surprised Draco enough to make him glance up, straight into those entrancing green eyes as Potter spoke again. "I don't need speculation on that, too. Out of everything, not that."

Draco was quiet for a moment, considering this. He thought about it, and imagined how awful it would be to have to hide his romance, his love life. To fear the entire country finding out he was gay on the cover of the Prophet. The kind of reaction the public would have from such a story, the removal of autonomy.

He suddenly felt a wave of shame for even suggesting to write about Potter's sexuality, even as a sick joke. He felt like he owed it to Potter to be upfront, even as the apology caught in his throat. Draco exhaled slowly, allowing vulnerability to slip from him.

"I don't tell anybody about me, either," he said, quiet, returning Potter's intense gaze. He watched as Potter's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but didn't say anything further. Potter just looked at him. After a moment gave a small nod, glanced down, and continued working on his project, which still seemed to be just gluing boards together at this point.

He continued silently watching Potter use some archaic looking metal devices to clamp the wood together, twisting knobs until it was tightly secured onto his various pieces. Then, Potter stood, wiping his sawdust covered face, and shook his head to get the dust out of his hair. Draco wrinkled his nose as he saw the massive cloud of dust and sawdust descend upon the shop. Potter smiled at him sheepishly.

"Tea?" he asked, turning without waiting for an answer and walking out the door of the shop. Draco stood, and rushed to follow.

✶ ✶ ✶

"Tea sounds nice," Draco smirked, leaning against his chair at the kitchen table, "But I thought to bring my own refreshments today, if you'd be interested."

Potter turned to him inquisitively, and Draco produced the Bottle of Firewhisky from his bag. Potter raised his eyebrows. "I know, I'm so very thoughtful and generous. No need to thank me."

Potter grinned, wordlessly turned to the cupboards, digging out two mismatched glasses instead of the mugs he had on the counter. He walked towards Draco, but passed him and gestured to the living room with a rather comfortable looking couch. Draco smirked and followed him over, throwing himself down onto the plush sofa.

He watched Potter put the glasses down on the table and pour them each a generous drink. He passed Draco a glass, and offered his own for a cheers.

Draco clinked the rim of his glass into Potter's before taking a hearty sip. He shuddered as the burn went all the way down his throat, the feeling in his stomach warming him from the inside. He sighed as he laid back into the couch.

Potter sipped from his, relaxing into his comfortable looking recliner and letting out a content hum. "Been a while," he admitted, grinning and gesturing with his glass. "What's the occasion?" he asked Draco, glancing at the other man curiously.

"I'm celebrating finally receiving a bloody contract that wasn't related to you," Draco raised his glass in a toast. "To shiny Ministry contracts, and actually getting to do my job instead of drinking tea with a speccy git in the middle of nowhere!"

"Didn't know you were that sick of me, Malfoy," Potter retorted, but with a smile on his face. "You said Ministry, so what — You're gonna be off stalking some random prick on the auror hit list?"

"Not some random prick, actually, someone from school." Now that he thought about it, Potter might actually have some insight into the man. "You happen to know anything about Zacharias Smith?" Draco had never paid much attention to him in school, as he had generally tried to avoid acknowledging the Hufflepuffs' existence.

Potter's nose wrinkled at the mention of the name. "Nothing that would be relevant to you, i suspect. He joined the DA in fifth year, but was a stuck-up arsehole about it. None of us were ever really fond of him." His eyebrows raised. "Surprised he's ended up on some DMLE watchlist, though. Wonder what he's done."

"You'll be the first person I'll tell when I find out," Draco said into his glass as he took a measured sip.

"Will you also tell me the real reason you're drinking tonight? I doubt the thought of Smith has you clamouring for a hearty finger of whisky," Potter's face split into a grin as he asked, pressing Draco. He supposed he wouldn't be able to dodge the question so easily.

He ran his finger around the rim of his glass nervously, and sighed melodramatically. "If you really must know, It is my birthday today."

"And you chose to celebrate it with me?" The surprise was evident on Potter's face.

"I didn't want to celebrate it with anybody, Potter. I don't celebrate my birthday. I just get drunk and pretend it's any other day." He looked over, watching Potter's face. He still looked rather surprised. "You just happened to be my unfortunate victim for this year's sloshfest. I'm sorry in advance but I will be getting absolutely pissed."

Potter grinned, shrugging.

"Fine by me," he said. "I haven't gotten proper drunk in probably six years or so. I could use the reminder of why I stopped."

He could see curiosity written across Potter's face, worrying his lip with his teeth as though he were fighting to hold in a burning question. Draco sighed, taking another heavyhanded sip from his drink. Liquid courage for the question he knew was coming.

"Out with it then, Potter, before you combust."

Draco watched the way his shoulders sagged briefly before he cleared his throat.

"Why don't you celebrate it? Is that like a Pureblood thing? I imagined you'd be all over the opportunity to have everyone you know kiss your arse for the day."

Draco ran his fingers through his hair. "You'd think," he responded drily, steeling himself for the inevitable pity that would come from Potter. He glanced down at the floor as he said it. "Yet I've never celebrated my birthday proper since my sixteenth birthday. My birthday present that year kind of ruined the whole thing for me, if you'd believe it."

His hand ran along his left forearm, where the mark sat hidden below his button-up. It itched the way it always did whenever he thought about it too hard.

Potter's eyes widened in surprise, and his mouth dropped open. "On your birthday? They did it on your birthday?" An undercurrent of anger flashed across his face as he said it.

Draco reclined back into the couch, gesturing with his hand, as though he were talking about the latest game of Quidditch. "Yes, well, I suppose the Dark Lord fancied it his birthday gift to me. Some fucking gift."

He flinched as the memory of the burning, searing agony he had felt flashed through his mind, and his arm felt like it burned in kind. He rubbed over the spot where the mark lay idly, trying to ease it away. It wasn't real, just a memory, he told himself as if it would help.

It didn't.

"Why do you care, anyway? Are you so obsessed with the sanctity of the birthday that you can't stand to imagine someone not celebrate with glee?"

Potter was quiet for a moment, slowly swirling his drink around in his glass as he thought. Watching him inspired Draco to remember his own glass, and he finished it off, topping himself up and offering to Potter. He nodded, and Draco poured them both a top-up.

"I had never had a birthday until the year of my Hogwarts letter. My family, they hated me so much they ignored me, locking me away for the whole day. The day my letter came was the first time I had ever had someone celebrate me, or care for me. It was when I learned that the world outside of my abusive Uncle's house was so bright, and caring. My eleventh birthday was when my life began." He smiled softly as he thought about it.

It felt like they were two sides of the same coin. The way his life only began where Draco's took a sharp turn for the worse, and as Draco began to flourish, Potter began letting his wither in isolation. A lump appeared in Draco's throat, and he swallowed hard around it.

"And then I insulted everyone you cared about and that had shown you compassion, and our history was set in stone from there," Draco said, aiming for humour but coming out sombre. "Typical of me to run my mouth and bugger everything up." He winced at his own words. The self deprecation tended to slip out while he was drunk.

Potter glanced to him, his thoughtful look turning to a small smile, warm and open.

"Doesn't have to be set in stone." Potter's voice was soft as he spoke.

Draco watched curiously as Potter pushed himself to his feet, grin on his face, and walked over to where Draco sat. He stuck out his hand expectantly.

It took Draco a moment to realise what he was playing at, but a grin crossed his face and he stood to meet him.

"I'm Draco. Draco Malfoy," he drawled, harnessing his signature sneer. As a child, he always led with his last name first, hoping to use the weight of the Malfoy name to impress. Not anymore. "Your glasses make you look like a git, but I like your smile. Do you want to be friends?"

Did he really just say he liked Potter's smile? The whisky must be hitting him harder than he thought. Merlin, he was going to make a fool out of himself.

Potter didn't seem to mind, though, grin growing wider across his face as he grabbed Draco's hand and shook it.

"I'm Harry Potter. I like your face a lot better when you don't look like you just stepped in dragon dung. Let's be friends, Draco."

The way Potter — no, Harry — said his name wiped the playful sneer right off his face, replaced with a shocked but genuine smile that felt almost alien to him. It was an expression Harry had been drawing out of him more and more often, lately.

But he was beginning to think he should embrace smiling. Especially when it made Harry look at him like that.

He flopped back down onto the couch, feeling light as air and almost giddy. Grabbing his glass, Draco held it up in a toast, and Potter, sitting beside him, raised his glass to meet it.

"To Re-dos, and second chances," he said, almost sheepishly, but Harry's smile at him made him want to kick his feet like a schoolgirl.

They both took a handsome drink, and Draco was definitely starting to feel it. He could feel his face reddening as it tended to do when he got drunk. It was probably dreadfully embarrassing, and he would wake up in the morning regretting all of this. Now, though, was time for him to enjoy his artificial bravery.

"How did you… find out?" Harry asked him after a moment of contemplative silence. When Draco quirked his eyebrow up, he stammered out, "About, you know. Liking blokes?"

Draco was quiet for a moment.

"I had a lot of time to think, in the Manor. When I was on house arrest. I had fooled around a bit as a teen, we all did in the dungeons. Most of the blokes were straight and just absolutely randy, happy to take a quick release where they could get it. Pansy and I tried to fool around a couple of times, but we both quickly realized it was not working."

He turned away, the heat on his face growing as he thought about the absolute truth, which he couldn't admit out loud no matter how many drinks he had — that he had been obsessed with Potter for years. In his teenage mind, that obsession had felt like hatred, pure and simple. But when he thought back on it, especially now, he wasn't so sure.

"It took some processing, before I could really come to terms with it. In fifth year, it was easy to pretend I was just messing around, that I was like everyone else. After that, I didn't really have time to think about it. Not until after the war. That's when I realised I was pretty bent." He gave Potter a quick little grin before continuing.

"My parents always expected me to continue the bloodline. But after the war, I was so disgusted with everything my father had stood for, everything my family had done, I really couldn't give a rats arse about keeping the bloodline going." He looked down at the floor, closing his eyes as he said it, the vulnerability making his skin crawl.

"Instead, I began to experiment, once my house arrest was up. I found it was much easier to do so with muggles. No baggage — they didn't know who I am or what I've done, they just saw me as a poncy blonde with a cool tattoo and a great mouth."

It was freeing to step out of the expectations that had been on his shoulders since he'd been born. While a part of him grieved the life he could have had, had the war not ruined everything, he knew he was much happier being free of the obligation of being the Malfoy heir. He shook his head gently. "Even now, I prefer shagging muggles. It's just simpler." He let out a slow breath.

He glanced up at Harry, whose eyes felt like they were burning holes into him, and shuddered involuntarily under his gaze. Harry seemed to realise he was staring hard, and looked down into his glass. Him looking away gave Draco the courage to ask,

"What about you?"

Harry nodded, not replying yet, still looking into his whisky.

"I always wondered why it never worked out with Ginny," he said, softly, when he finally spoke. "I tried hard, so fucking hard, to make it work, but we just never really connected like that. I loved her like a sister, and I think I liked the idea of what a relationship with her promised more than the relationship itself."

Harry inhaled sharply, and continued, like he had opened the floodgates and couldn't hold it back any longer. Draco wondered if he had ever told anybody this, and the thought made a shiver run up his spine.

"It all got so messy after I quit the aurors. People were harassing us, following me home, harassing her at work, at games, and I started to feel so guilty for my feelings that I avoided her more often than not. I never told her why I wasn't happy, just eventually said I couldn't do it anymore. After our final fight. Not too long after that and I spiralled out, and moved here."

Draco looked at Harry as he stared into the floor, fidgeting and bouncing his leg like the nervous energy was too much for him to deal with. Draco started to think that maybe he really was the first person Potter had told this to, and he felt his heart clench. He knew the agony of the closet and the self disgust that came with it well.

"After it fell apart, I blamed myself. I blamed myself for that, and all the harm that came to anybody I cared about. But I didn't realise I was gay until I had been here for a few years, and done some deep introspection. I had a lot of time to think, by myself." He laughed softly. "It doesn't matter if you're gay, if you're alone."

Draco's heart ached so hard it made it chest seize. He knew exactly how isolating it felt. Harry had chosen to martyr himself, force himself into a life of loneliness to save everyone the burden of himself. Of course he did. All he knew how to do was martyr himself.

A question popped into his mind, and due to copious overconsumption of whisky, Draco didn't have the good grace to watch where he stepped. It came out, prodding, before he could stop himself.

"Do Granger and Weasley know?"

He saw Harry stiffen beside him as he asked. He knew they were a sore subject, but the liquid courage had given him the confidence to poke the bear, and poke it he would.

He watched, and Harry just shook his head softly.

"Does anybody else know?"

Potter shook his head again, and took another sip of his drink.

Draco, feeling a little more bold now, prodded even deeper, "Do you visit them, ever?"

He saw Harry, stiff as a board, shake his head. He looked wistful. "No, not in… years."

"Do they visit you?"

Harry frowned as he answered. "Not in a while… probably a few years at least. We owl, as you obviously know, and on occasion we'll do Floo calls if we have something long or important to say."

Draco furrowed his brow. It was strange, trying to reconcile this with how close the trio were in school. Even afterwards, they seemed near inseparable.

"Don't you miss them?"

Harry turned to him then, and Draco could sense the tension. He looked irate, his eyes narrowed as they looked into Draco's, meeting his gaze intensely.

"Of course I miss them. They're my best friends. I —" He paused, swallowing. "I would have never survived this far without them. It just… It isn't that simple. I can't just go waltzing back to them now, after eight years of isolation. It just— It isn't that simple, Malfoy."

"Well, why not? They bloody miss you, you know. I heard people asking after you. Even after all this time, people give a shit about you, Harry." Draco's throat felt tight as he said Harry's name out loud, still foreign on his tongue.

A part of him was furious that Harry had so many fucking people who loved him, and still refused to acknowledge it or reap the benefits of the community that had rallied around him. That he had a loving family to invite him in, and he refused it all. Draco had had nothing, fucking nothing, and he forced himself out against every instinct that told him to run and hide, pushed himself to seek the sparse connections he had.

Fucking Potter.

Harry stood, anger playing across his features as he gestured at Draco.

"For fuck's sake, Draco. You don't get to just waltz back into my life, demanding that I help advance your career and meddle in my fucking affairs. It is none of your bloody business, and you don't get to tell me what to do." He spat those last words out, his voice shaking with frustration.

This, of course, only provoked Draco further. Only Potter could be so oblivious to what he had waiting for him, too stupid to get over his need to sacrifice himself for the greater good. He was such a fucking idiot, and Draco seethed.

"This fucking martyr complex of yours is going to be the death of you, Potter," he spat back, standing up as well. "You've earned the right to be happy. You're surrounded by people who give a fuck about you, and who have for over a decade. People who would welcome you back into their lives with open fucking arms, if you weren't too god damned scared to do it."

They faced each other, only a couple feet apart, and Draco could see Potter breathing hard. He could smell that earthy wooden smell on Potter from his workshop, the Firewhisky on his breath — on his own, too, loosening his tongue and letting the words he was too scared to say fall out.

"Try taking advantage of it, instead of being a goddamn coward." He said it quietly, his voice like ice as he stared straight into Harry Potter's glowering mossy eyes. He was acutely aware of how hard his heart was pounding.

At that, Potter's eyes narrowed, and his face fell into a full snarl. Draco could feel Potter's magic crackling in the air, the smell of ozone proof of his rage. He could barely control his simmering magic, ready to lash out with his anger. Maybe getting drunk with one of the most powerful wizards of his generation was not Draco's wisest move, after all.

Potter took a step forward, face nearly touching Draco's as they faced off to each other. Draco could feel the air pulse around him, but whether it was the drink, or his own tangled emotions, he didn't back down.

"Rich to hear you talk about being a fucking coward," Potter snarled, his voice deep, guttural, rising in volume as he spoke. "What do you even know about being happy, Malfoy? How would you know what would make me happy?" His voice rose to a yell, booming loud just centimetres from Draco's face. "You're just as miserable as I am! YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT WOULD MAKE YOU HAPPY!"

The words cut deep into Draco, making him recoil like he had been struck. His pulse was hammering in his veins, he could feel himself shaking with pure emotion, anger and sadness and something else, something buried too deep. He looked into Potter's eyes, staring him down even though the way he was looking at Draco made him want to crawl into his bed and sob. He took a deep, gasping breath.

It was now, or never.

Draco grabbed his glass, downing the rest of his whisky in one burning swig, his chest filling with that familiar burning heat, and the stupid confidence that came with it.

Turning back to Potter, he snarled, and flung the empty glass into the floor, sending glass shards flying across the living room. He had a penchant for dramatic flair, and if he was going to be dramatic, this was the time.

Before Potter could react, Draco grabbed him by the front of his shirt, yanking him forward and closing the space between them.

Their lips slid together in hot, fury-driven passion, and sparks flew around them. Potter's lips still burned from the Firewhisky, and they slid against his fiercely, hot, wet. Divine.

He felt Potter's hands bunching into the front of his shirt, and Draco released his collar to instead run his hands through that marvellous, thick, curled mass of dark hair, silky smooth under his fingers. He clenched one hand into the dark curls, drinking in the moan that slipped from Harry's lips. He let his other hand wander down his neck, along his strong, muscular back.

Now that Draco was finally touching him, he couldn't get enough, and he never wanted to let go. His tongue slid slowly along Potter's bottom lip, teasing his mouth open, drinking in his intoxicating taste. He keened when he felt Potter's tongue slide out to meet his, feeling weak in the knees.

He pulled back, just enough to look Harry in the eyes, gasping for air and winded by the exhilaration. Harry's eyes were smouldering, pupils blown wide, filled with what Draco could only describe as lust.

"You'll never find out, if you don't try," he whispered, and dove back in to Harry's soft lips.

Chapter Text

Draco figured that he must be enduring a Firewhisky induced hallucination.

There was simply no way that this was real.

The way Harry was returning his kisses with the intensity of the summer sun, touch so hot it was almost burning, his fingers digging into Draco's arms, neck, back, hips. Draco whined softly into Harry's mouth as his hands ghosted along the curve of Draco's arse before moving back up and digging into his hipbones.

He had expected to be shoved off within seconds of his lips meeting Potter's, maybe even cursed for touching what should be forbidden, unattainable for ex-death eater scum like him. He had thought that his presence was tolerated, but he wasn't forgiven, would never be allowed. He could look, but never touch.

He hadn't expected the fervour with which Harry returned his touch, the desperate way his lips slid against Draco's, tongue tentatively sliding into the heat of his mouth, filling him with Harry's taste. The feeling of their tongues sliding together made all the blood in his body surge directly to his cock, suddenly so hard he felt like he was about to pass out. He groaned as he sucked greedily on Harry's tongue.

He broke their heated kiss first, keening softly and gasping desperately for air, hands still firmly clinging to Harry's hips. Harry wasted no time, moving his mouth down and sucking at the sensitive skin where his jaw met his neck. The grazing of his teeth that followed had Draco's hips buck involuntarily, whining needily and digging his nails into wherever he could grab.

Harry's mouth moved down his neck, lapping at the sensitive skin and nipping at his adam's apple, leaving red love bites on his alabaster skin. He moved slowly, torturously, his ministrations drawing sounds out of Draco he didn't even know he could make.

Harry shifted closer to him, calloused hands sliding up the back of Draco's shirt, clawing at his skin with short, ragged nails. Draco felt a hardness pressing against him and oh fuck — Harry's cock was grinding against his hip and Draco once again felt like he was going to pass out from how little blood was left in his brain. He bucked his hips against Harry, letting him feel his hard cock in return, relishing in the other man's soft groan.

Taking in again that Harry bloody Potter really was rock hard, pressing against him, just as desperate as he was, Draco grew bolder. He pushed Harry back until he dropped onto the couch behind him with a soft 'oof'. Draco felt the absence of his heat the moment it left, and he climbed on top of Harry without wasting a second, straddling him on the couch.

He let his hands wander, growing braver as the combination of copious amounts of whisky and lust worked him up into a ravenous fervour. His mouth ran down Harry's neck, pressing hot, wet kisses along the scratchy stubble of his jaw, across his adam's apple, into the crook of his shoulder. Draco pressed his face into his collarbone and inhaled deeply, taking in the raw scent of Harry. He was so much closer than he had ever allowed himself to be, or ever been able to get, and Draco wanted to savour the moment, commit it to memory. The scent of oak, of sweat, and of leather musk filled Draco's nostrils, and he groaned softly, grinding his hips down against the bulge of Harry's cock.

He felt Harry bucking up in return, and let out a full-fledged moan against his neck. His hands grabbed at the collar of Harry's shirt, and Harry got the message immediately, yanking it off over his shoulders and flinging it away into some corner of the room. Draco wasted no time in latching onto the skin on his chest, placing wet and sloppy kisses along his clavicle, into the divot of his chest. He let his teeth scrape along the sensitive flesh as he went, feeling the way Harry shivered and whimpered under his desperate touch.

He moved down, slowly, running his tongue through the thick patch of hair on Harry's chest, overwhelmed by the scent of him, groaning as he took it in. It was a scent he had dreamed about more times than he cared to admit, and being able to drink his fill of Harry's musk made his cock twitch, ever impossibly harder in his trousers. His mouth found one of Harry's pert nipples, flicking it tenderly with his tongue and giving it a soft suck. He felt hands on his back, sliding down and grabbing roughly at the globes of his arse, kneading and massaging as he moaned from Draco's attention.

His mouth slid to the other side, nipping at the sensitive bud and sucking, basking in the desperate way Harry bucked up into him and keened. He groaned in response. His hands ran along the sides of Harry's waist, grabbing his hips for stability and kneading against the sharp jut of his hipbones.

He felt Harry's hands move to his button-up, and leaned back to watch fondly as he fiddled with it, attempting to gently unbutton the shirt. Harry gave it three valiant attempts, before growling with randy frustration, grabbing onto the shirt and ripping it open, buttons popping and flying all across the room. Draco gasped.

A part of him wanted to be mad — he really liked that shirt.

Unfortunately, the need-driven action had Draco's cock throb so hard he had to grab on to the back of the couch for support as his head swam with wanting. He couldn't seem to find it in him to care about the shirt as his hips bucked involuntarily, seeking friction against his trapped cock. He heard Harry chuckle, and felt his palm press against him through his trousers, the single touch having Draco embarassingly close already.

He whined softly and ground his hips up into the palm of Harry's hand, seeking more pressure and keening as Harry's hand rubbed him, ghosting over his trapped bulge. Draco needed to stop and let himself cool down, he could never live it down if he came in his trousers like a schoolboy finally getting to touch his crush. That could simply not happen.

Instead, Draco ground his hips down, feeling the appreciative twitch of Harry's cock, and an idea struck him. He pushed himself up, ignoring Harry's soft groan at the loss of his heat. He stood back and dropped to his knees, falling in between Harry's legs and pulling him close to the edge of the couch. He bit his lip to suppress a grin, while Harry looked down at him with his eyes impossibly wide, pupils blown.

"Please, Draco, fuck," Harry whispered softly as his hands moved to the button of his denims. Draco doubted his cock could get any harder, but hearing him whine out his given name like that sent shivers up his spine. He would do anything to hear it again.

Draco's deft fingers made quick work of Harry's jeans. He slid them slowly down his hips, tugging them down the rest of the way to the floor. He ran his hand gently along the trapped bulge, now just in his pants, precome already soaking through and leaving a delicious wet spot. Draco's mouth was watering with how badly he wanted a taste. He needed it more than he needed to breathe.

His hands found the waistband of Harry's pants, and he hooked his fingers into the elastic, slowly pulling them down. The slow, teasing reveal of Harry's cock had his heart pounding, eyes following down the trail of messy dark curls leading him to his treasure. As the waistband dipped lower, it finally sprung free, slapping against Harry's stomach with force. Draco gasped, unable to stop himself as he admired the absolutely perfect cock in front of him, his mouth hanging open. It was not fair that Potter had the nicest cock he'd ever seen, after everything else. Simply not fair.

The head was shiny and red, precome pooling in the slit, foreskin slid back because of absolutely rock hard he was, veins pulsing along the underside. A respectable length, a little shorter than Draco's but thick enough to make up for it. Draco needed a taste. Immediately.

He leaned forwards, his long fingers wrapping slowly around the length, and his breath hitched as he felt the cock pulse in his hand. Oh, fuck.

Draco looked up into Harry's eyes as his mouth slowly engulfed the head of his cock, his tongue flicking against the slit and lapping up the pooling precome. He groaned around the cock in his mouth, all his senses filled with Harry. All he could see was dark skin and dark hair filling his vision, all he could taste and smell was that salty, heady funk, all he could feel was the velvety skin and the heft of Harry's cock on his tongue. It was pure heaven. If Draco was ever going to come untouched, just from giving head, it would be with Harry's cock in his mouth. It was absolutely bloody perfect.

Draco pressed further down, taking Harry's cock deeper. He felt the head pressing against the back of his throat and swallowed around it, allowing it in as far as it would go until his nose was pressed into dark curls at the base. He considered himself a pretty decent cock sucker, and judging by the blissed out look on his face, Harry seemed to agree.

Draco looked up at him through his eyelashes, slowly sliding off his cock, cheeks hollowed, letting his tongue run across the hard ridge and pulsing veins along the underside. His tongue languidly circled along Harry's thick glans, teasingly slow, milking the desperate noises falling from his mouth at Draco's ministrations.

Harry's eyes rolled back into his head, a groan falling from his lips as his head fell back in pleasure. "Oh, fuck, Draco, Yes," slipped from his mouth, and Draco groaned at the pleading words, meant just for him.

He slid back down to the base, setting a strong pace and bobbing up and down on Harry's cock, his throat working around it, hand sliding down to palm at his own trapped cock in rhythm. He heard Harry keening above him, a soft chant of yes, yes, fuck, yes, Draco, yes. His fingers slid through Draco's hair, grabbing his head as he thrust up into his mouth.

Draco relaxed his throat and let Harry use him for his pleasure, pressing his tongue hard against the underside as his cock thrust in again and again. His eyes were trained on Harry's face, watching the way his mouth fell open into a blissful 'o', feeling strong hands fisting his hair. Draco's cock was throbbing, still locked away in his trousers, his hips stuttering as he thrust into his own hand.

The way Harry's hands were knotted in his hair made his eyes roll back into his head, groaning against the hard tugs as his head was pulled up and down the hard shaft. He could feel the heat building in his stomach, hot and tight, and he thought he would be fine coming in his pants like a randy fifth year if it meant tasting Harry's hot release on his tongue, and—

With a hard tug, his head was pulled back from Harry's cock, an audible pop sounding as his lips slid off, strings of drool hanging from the glistening cock head. He groaned as he looked up into Harry's eyes, wanting nothing more than to feel that cock pulsing on his tongue again. But Harry reached down, and pulled him up.

"I didn't want to come yet," he gasped out, his pupils impossibly wide, as his hooded eyes stared into Draco's. "I want to feel your cock against mine."

Draco didn't need to be told twice. His hands jumped to his trousers, uncomfortably tight around his throbbing erection, and fought to get them off with lightning speed. He shrugged them off, letting them pool on the floor and stepping out of his pants next. He stumbled, catching his balance with a wild wave of his arms, and grinned at Harry, who was watching him with an equally cheesy smile. Draco really was drunker than he'd thought.

Harry stood, grabbing Draco by the waist and spinning them around, pressing Draco into the couch and straddling his lap. He gasped as he looked up, overtaken in all his senses again by the enormity of all that is Harry Potter.

He raised his hands, cupping Harry's cheeks and pulling his face down into a kiss, impossibly tender. Their bodies pressed together, and the slide of Harry's cock against his, still wet with his spit, had him keening into his lips. His hips bucked up, and the glorious pressure made him see stars. Harry's arms wrapped around him, one sliding behind his head to brace himself, and the other on his neck, nails scraping sensually against his skin.

Needing more, Draco's hand snaked down between their bodies, wrapping around both of their cocks, bringing them together in his fist.

"Draco, fuck," he whimpered into Draco's mouth as he fisted their cocks together. The wet, velvety slide Harry's cock against his made Draco's head spin, and he gasped as he felt the telltale heat coiling in his gut. He was already so close, the only thing going through his mind was Yes, Fuck, Harry, Harry, Harry, Please—

His release hit him like a train. He let out a long, needy whine into Harry's mouth as his hips bucked, his cock pulsing, spurting come over his stomach, hand, and the two cocks he was fisting. His hand kept moving, desperate to make Harry come with him, collecting the spend and using it to keep his hand slick. His mouth moved to Harry's neck, nipping and sucking at his adams apple, brushing his lips along the straining muscles in his neck.

"Come for me," he whispered into Harry's ear, and he felt Harry groan into him, his hips stuttering as his cock throbbed in Draco's hand. Thick ropes of come coated his torso, mixing with Draco's own in a sticky masterpiece. He raised his hand, licking a stray rope of come from his hand and groaning at the taste. Perfect.

He felt a tingling sensation wash over him, and glanced down to watch as Harry cast a wandless cleaning charm — and fuck, was that hot. He knew that Harry was a powerful wizard, but watching his magic in action did something to Draco. It always had, even back in the old days of their school years.

He leaned back, feeling his body melt into the couch.

The comfortable warmth of Harry was still pressing down on him, his face nuzzled into the crook of Draco's neck. A sudden content heaviness overtook him, the day's events and his heavy drinking catching up with him and his post-orgasm glow, and he felt his eyelids begin to droop as sleep came for him.

✶ ✶ ✶

When Draco came to the next morning, the first thing that hit him was just how hard his head was pounding. It felt like a formidable nemesis was bashing the back of his head in with a rock. His fingers stretched out, and instantly recoiled as he felt the texture of the sheets underneath his fingers. A sickeningly low thread count.

This was not his bed.

He sat up, all at once, despite his head pounding doubling in intensity, and looked around.

There was a window, light shining in through the thin curtains, blocking his view of the outside but allowing the painfully bright light to hit him in his throbbing skull. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, and he took a deep breath. Opened his eyes again. He was met with bright coloured sheets and blankets with a garish paisley pattern. Definitely not his bed.

His fingers bumped a small glass vial as he shifted in the bed, and his fingers wrapped around it immediately. He glanced down, finding the label that read 'hangover potion' and pumping his fist in triumph. Whomever's bed he had fallen asleep into was quite the gracious host.

He thought that until the moment the potion hit his lips, and the fog cleared from his brain, reminding him in vivid detail of every single thing that had happened last night. Their stupid spat, where Draco had learned about Potter's queerness. The Firewhisky he had so unwisely brought for them to drink. The second, stupider fight they had. Draco shattering one of Potter's glasses against the floor and throwing himself at him.

Potter's mouth against his. Potter's cock in his mouth. Potter's cock against his own as they frotted desperately on his couch. The taste of Potter's come, that he had licked off his hand. Salazar and Merlin both, help him. He was so entirely, inexorably, completely fucked.

His cock twitched in his pants, as if telling him, not really, not yet, but maybe if we play our cards well. And he would hear absolutely none of that before he had a chance to leave and properly freak out in the sanctity of his own flat.

As he moved to stand, he heard something crinkle, and glanced back to see a note, probably left behind with the potion. He grabbed it, flipping it open and giving it a quick read. On the inside was written-

"HARRY POTTER, THE NEW WARBECK? RUMOURS SWIRL AT THE SAVIOUR'S RETURN TO WIZARDING WORLD VIA DRAG-FILLED COVER BAND"

← Think this headline will work? -HJP.

P.S. You owe me a new glass. That was one of my favourites.

P.P.S Happy birthday.

P.P.P.S. Belated. If I had known what day it was, I would have supplied the whisky.

Draco choked on his own breath as he read the note. Yes, that headline would definitely work, and be far better than any he had come up with, but…

Was the first thing Potter had done upon waking up in bed next to his recently-ex nemesis really to write him a note about a headline idea? After everything that had happened last night?

Draco felt like he could hardly breathe. How could Potter jokingly write him a sappy little letter, after they'd drunkenly shagged on his couch like horny teenagers? After the row they'd had before that?

He had worked so hard to get close to Harry, to befriend him, and had let his stupid feelings that he had tried so hard to ignore get in the way, and now everything would be different. He had ruined their friendship when he kissed Harry, and surely Harry would tell him that it was a great shag, but that he had no interest in shacking up with an ex-death eater, and Draco would just have to live with all of the burning emotions he had unlocked that were warring in his chest.

The feelings that he had been fighting for weeks, that were interested in more than just being a casual shag to Potter.

He felt as though the walls were closing in around him, like everything he had known and come to enjoy was crashing down around him.

Draco needed to get out of there.

He stood, sliding on his clothes from the night before, dismayed to remember his button-down, destroyed by Potter's brutishness. At least he hadn't been the only one destructive last night, he thought guiltily as he remembered the glass. Very unbecoming of him.

He slid the note Potter had written him into his bag along with everything else he could find, and slipped out the front door before Potter could see him. He nearly ran down the drive from Potter's place, apparating away as soon as he was past the wards.

✶ ✶ ✶

Draco collapsed on the floor of his flat, taking deep breaths as he felt his chest seizing, his heart beating at twice the normal speed and his lungs attempting to hyperventilate. He tried to hold it back. Deep breath in, hold, slow exhale. He repeated the cycle a couple of times before he felt like he wasn't about to absolutely lose his mind. He was so normal and well regulated. He could handle this.

Sure, he had sucked the soul of his old nemesis and long-time crush, someone he had been unable to get out of his mind for seventeen years. Potter would quickly come to his senses, and remember that it was Draco who had fucked him, after getting him ridiculously drunk nonetheless. The fact it was him would be enough for the disgust in Potter's system to take over. After all, he was an ex-death eater, he was abraisive, he was a coward who ran from anything difficult.

Just like he was doing now.

But Draco knew he couldn't stand to hear the rejection in Potter's voice when he told him there was no way they could possibly work, that Draco was not dating material. That he was not somebody made to be loved. That they would be better off as acquaintances.

It would break whatever semblance of self worth he had managed to cling on to for all of these years, and destroy him completely.

Draco had given up a piece of his heart that night, and it felt impossible contemplating a return when he knew all that remained was for it to be broken.

However, he wondered to himself if there was any way this could be salvaged. Maybe, if he just stayed away for a few weeks, gave Potter some space and time to cool down, Potter might forget all about how Draco's lips looked wrapped around his cock.

He groaned, quietly, running his fingers through his hair.

He was so fucked.

Chapter Text

As usual with Draco, his solution was to bury himself in his work. It had worked for every other hard emotional hurdle he had come to, and he felt it worked well enough to do that with the Potter situation as well. After spending a solid week and a half moping around, ignoring Pansy's Floo calls and any owl that came to his window, he decided it was time to get to work.

Besides, he had a shiny Ministry contract to look forward to. Finally, some work that wasn't centred exclusively around Potter. Something he could throw himself into to get his mind off the way their lips felt sliding against each other, the way the heat of him felt so damned right. The way their cocks—

Merlin, this was going to be hard.

Draco started by his usual methods, going to the Ministry's public records office and looking up Zacharias Smith, notebook in hand to mark down anything interesting. Smith was one year younger than Draco, passed most of his O.W.L.s with 'Exceeds Expectations', notably having achieved an 'Outstanding' in Potions. This was not an easy task, which Draco would know, as he had also passed into Advanced Potions with an 'O'. Snape had been a very hard Professor to please, and many never made it through his class.

He noted Smith had also passed his Potions N.E.W.T with an 'O'. This allowed him the opportunity to get into any potions related career or apprenticeship. He jotted this down into his notebook.

Considering Smith had put this much effort into Potions, he must have pursued it as a career, unless he had truly cocked it all up. Draco wondered if he had decided to work for the Ministry, or if he'd gone private? The Ministry was usually the easiest way to get an apprenticeship — they were always looking for more Potioneers. Draco had considered it himself when he was first looking for employment, but nobody at the Ministry would even sniff in his direction, even with his qualifications, so he gave up on that path pretty quickly. But someone like Smith? They would never suspect a thing from him, and they would have scrambled to take him aboard.

After flipping through further Ministry records, he found what he was looking for — Smith was hired for an apprenticeship into the Potioneering department of the Ministry in 2000. The apprenticeships usually lasted four years, so by 2004 he'd passed and become a fully fledged potioneer under the Ministry banner. Draco noted that two years ago, Smith had been promoted to Senior Potioneer, which should have come with a substantial raise in salary. Nothing else was listed for his occupation, which implied a continued career in the field.

While Draco wrote some notes in his book, he hummed under his breath. The Smith name was an old Wizarding line, not as pure as any of the Sacred 28, but definitely still ancient enough to have some old family money. He should have had some form of estate ready for him, family coffers of some form. The Smiths descended from Helga Hufflepuff, for Merlin's sake.

Moving through the folders of lineage, he noted there was a Smith estate that had been passed down for generations, and it seemed to still be owned by the family. Smith's father was still alive and noted as the head of household, but as Draco searched through the documents of lineage, he came across the contract confirming legal and magical passage to next of kin, and Smith's fathers' will.

He knew this document well, as it was the same contract his own father had had him sign as soon as he was twelve, and began being properly groomed for the role of the Heir of the House of Malfoy. Wizarding lineage and estates were truly a right pain in the arse, and there was a small part of Draco that was glad to not have to deal with such things anymore. It truly was a headache.

When he opened the will and contract however, he was shocked to discover that Zacharias Smith was not the listed next of kin for the Smith estate, nor was he mentioned in any line at any point in the will. The only person mentioned was one Samantha Smith, noted as Sally in the will. Draco vaguely remembered a Sally Smith graduating Hogwarts when he was in his second year, years ahead of them and her brother. Reading through it, Draco came to the conclusion that Smith had been struck from his Father's will entirely. Disowned.

Draco noted this in his book, instantly interested. This meant he was not living at home. This meant Smith had done something, something his family knew about, to earn their ire.

This meant a visit to his favourite witch in the Ministry.

✶ ✶ ✶

"Somehow, Draco, I have a feeling that you haven't come to visit me out of a genuine desire to catch up." Millicent Bulstrode's long nails clicked against her antique wooden desk as she took him in. Her eyes narrowed as she addressed him, looking rather like she were addressing a foul odour lingering in the room instead.

Draco leaned back in the stiff chair, easy smirk written across his face and a brightly coloured 'visitor' badge pinned to his robes. Even with his more reasonable reputation these days, the Ministry was rather strict on non-employees waltzing in like they owned the place, and most of the time an appointment with a Ministry official was required to enter. Unfortunately, he knew no others, so Millicent was the best he could do.

"Come now, Millie, it's been ages since we've gone for drinks," he said, waving his hand idly. Noticing the ring on her finger, he continued, "I heard through the grapevine that you and Gregory were engaged now, and I wished to offer my congratulations." He knew and cared relatively little, but it always helped to keep appearances and allies. Millie was his best contact to get access to the Ministry, and a little flattery could go a long way. "Summer wedding?" He smiled at her.

She seemed to preen a bit at the mention of her upcoming wedding, starting into a big ramble about her ideal location (she was hoping Spain, but Greg was thinking tropical), flower arrangements, (of course, lillies were absolutely vital to her bouquet), and even guests (Greg has been meaning to send you an invitation, I'll pester him about it tonight!). Draco nodded along, adding in agreements and quiet opinions (I personally wouldn't invite Greg's great-aunt, she is quite uncouth after a drink, you know) as he bided his time (personally, I think Queen Anne's Lace would match the centerpieces delightfully well).

The moment the clock hit quarter to five, he jumped up from his seat in a faux-panic.

"Oh, the time! I completely forgot, I have an appointment with a Witch Weekly editor at half past. I simply must dash, I need to pick up my notes from my office first." He swooped in to press a kiss on her stubby, clubbed fingers. "We must do this less formally next time, Millie. Send me an owl when you've had your details sorted and I'll absolutely be along to celebrate. Greg is one of my oldest friends, of course, I simply must be there."

Not that he had talked to Gregory Goyle in almost two years, but the statement still held true. They were old friends, even if not close ones. Millicent nodded, opening her office door and waving at him as he walked as swiftly as his long legs would allow down toward the atrium.

The moment he was out of sight of her door, he tucked himself into a corner and cast a notice-me-not charm over himself. His visitor pass would be visible through the glamour, but he would blend in to the heavy crowds far better this way.

He took the elevator down to the main floor, pulling out a copy of the Prophet he kept folded in his robe pocket. Walking out of the elevator, he parked himself on a chair in the atrium, unfolded the paper, and very convincingly pretended to read the article about Potter's new proposed Warbeck cover band, and their first tour that would be supposedly stopping in Hogsmeade for the Tenth anniversary of the war. What a sorry sight that would be, he thought to himself grimly.

His eyes scanned the Atrium carefully, paying close attention to the elevators that were coming up from the lower levels and looking out for a head of strawberry blond hair. He spotted a few people he recognised, including Hermione Granger, but he lowered his eyes to his paper, and the charm seemed to work as intended — nobody gave him a second glance. All the workers were tired from their workday, and with home, family, and dinner on their mind, nobody seemed to have the awareness to notice him through his charm.

He always felt so clever when it worked as planned.

After the majority of the Ministry employees had already filtered out, he finally caught sight of Smith, walking from the elevator doors and out into the atrium. Draco's eyes widened when he saw him.

He didn't look well. That much was apparent, even from a distance.

Smith looked sallow, like too many sleepless nights and skipped meals. His hair looked unwashed, bringing back memories of Snape's greasy curtains of hair.

More than that though, is that Smith looked unusually cagey. He had a briefcase clenched in his hand, and his eyes were darting all over the place, over his shoulder and around every corner. He looked like he was expecting to have someone watching him. That instantly peaked Draco's interest.

People only expected to be followed when they were doing something worth investigating.

He also noted that Smith didn't walk towards the Floo chamber, instead heading towards the exit to the street level — the pedestrian one. Not using the Floo implied he didn't live somewhere with the Floo network set up, and not apparating seemed to imply there was a reason he couldn't. Draco let Smith get a head start on him. He couldn't find out Draco was following him. He already looked strung out, so he was liable to snap, or attack.

Once he was properly out of sight, Draco stood and folded his newspaper back up. He made his way casually to the telephone box that lead up to ground level and entered, sliding his visitor badge back into the return slot. As it rose, he let himself fall into thought.

What could Smith possibly be carrying a muggle style briefcase for? Most Ministry employees never bothered with such frivolousness, as wizards could simply shrink any paperwork to a carryable size. Not to mention, as a Potioneer, the amount of paperwork he would be needing to transport would be negligible at best.

When Draco walked out into the street, he saw the flash of Smith's pale hair heading down a side street, and hastened to follow. He was about a block behind, zigzagging across the street to stay out of sight.

As Draco followed, the streets grew less posh, highrise flats turning to well-kept townhomes turning to rundown single houses with overgrown yards and fences on the verge of collapse. Glancing around, Draco got the feeling the neighbourhood they were wandering into was a muggle one, with older vehicles parked in some of the cracked driveways. He saw a muggle man holding a long green rope, spraying water into a bed of petunias and watching him. He glanced away and kept his head down, keeping his eyes focused on Smith, a block ahead but beginning to slow down.

Smith had turned, looking up at a house much larger than the surrounding ones, but far more decrepit. It looked not just run-down, but abandoned, like it had been unoccupied for at least a decade.

He waited for Smith to turn up the path before he dared approach. He heard the click of the gate, and he began walking casually towards the building. There were towering bushes, casting the street before him into perpetual shadow. The small wooden gate that Smith had turned up seemed to be the only entrance to the property. As Draco approached, he felt the wall of the wards protecting the home. A strong muggle repellant spell had been cast, and he felt the wards bristle as heapproached. They were sensitive to any magic, and would require significant stealth and focus for him to even attempt to breach.

This was, however, fantastic intel, and he would return under the cover of dark to attempt to slip past the wards and enter. He guessed that if Smith were staying anywhere, it would probably be here. It seemed like the kind of place to not have a functional Floo connection, and potentially anti-apparition wards as well, considering the other magical defenses that were already up.

Draco slowly and casually walked past the hedges, urging calmness through his mind to not trigger the wards or arouse suspicion. The Muggles shouldn't pay attention to him thanks to the notice-me-not charm, but he did not want to take any chances and stop in front of the building itself. He allowed himself a meandering pace as he passed the property line, and urged himself to go down to the next street, where he turned down before stopping at a bench situated at the street edge.

He pulled out his notebook, quickly writing the address down. He would return soon, under the cover of darkness, for more information.

He stood from the bench, and walked to a safe apparation point, disappearing back to his flat with a crack.

✶ ✶ ✶

When he landed back in his flat, however, he sensed a presence. Turning to his couch, he saw a head of short, cropped black hair, and cursed. He had put off reaching out to Pansy after the Potter incident, and had forgotten to cancel or show up to their planned dinner last night. He may have also ignored an owl or two from her, in his aversion to any topic that could bring him around to even thinking about Potter.

It appeared, unfortunately, that Pansy had noticed.

When she heard his footsteps, she stood, her face eerily calm as she watched him. That was usually a bad sign, from Pansy.

"Draco Lucius Malfoy, would you care to enlighten me on exactly why you've been avoiding me since your birthday?" She sniffed indignantly. "Don't tell me you didn't like your gift, I know your love for french chocolates. You won't fool me."

And damn her, she was right. The excuse was right on the tip of his tongue, even with the empty chocolate box sitting abandoned on his work desk, evidence of the lie.

"Pansy, come on now. You know I've been busy," he tried instead, and she scoffed.

"I know you've been spending so much time with Potter lately, you've started neglecting your true friends," she huffed and shook her head. Draco winced the moment she said his name, and her eyes narrowed in response. "I knew it was something about him!"

"Pans," he said, softly, but she cut him off.

"I won't hear anything about it here. You missed our monthly dinner yesterday. You owe Blaise and I drinks, at the very least." She crossed her arms. "And I expect you to pay."

He sighed. When Pansy had an idea in her mind, there was nothing he could do to dissuade her. He did not want to have this conversation at all, and he really did not fancy having this conversation at a bar. But at least Muffliato existed, and if he explained himself, maybe he could talk her into sending him more of those delightful chocolates. For grieving purposes.

"Lead the way," he sighed.

✶ ✶ ✶

The silence that hung in the air was heavy, Blaise and Pansy sitting across from him like they were at an intervention. And for all he knew, that was what this was. It sure felt like it.

"So what, you and Potter got into a fight? That's hardly revolutionary, darling," Pansy said, leaning closer over the table. Her martini glass was clasped gently between her clawed fingertips, and she idly swirled the drink inside while she eyed him.

She was trying to prod him for details, poke a snag and pull at the thread until he came unravelled and spilled his guts out to her.

Well, it was tough bloody luck. He would be staying silent about the details. He sat stiff as a board, shoulders back, eyes staring at the wall past her head and trying to stop the traitorous flush that rose up his cheeks. Pansy's eyes widened, and she gasped.

"YOU SHAGGED HIM?" she shrieked, with all the couth of a horny hippogriff. Draco scrambled to cover her mouth with his hands before she announced it to the whole bloody bar. He looked around, terrified to see if somebody had heard her.

Fortunately, the Muffliato he cast was proficient enough, and nobody seemed to have heard her shrieking. He sank back down in his chair.

"What happened? How? You simply must spill, Draco," she said, her grin predatory.

"Pansy," he hissed, the red flush only growing stronger at her unadulterated glee. "I am being serious, this is the end for me."

He sighed. She always got her way, in the end.

She and Blaise both leaned in closer as Draco walked through all of the events of his birthday, glossing over the glorious explicities that she needn't know, like how fucking fantastic it was to have Harry Potter's cock in his mouth. She pouted as he skipped over the juciest parts, but listened regardless.

"And then, as though it weren't already humiliating enough, he left me a note to wake up to. A note, Pansy," he said with resigned despair in his voice.

"A note? I must read it." She raised her eyebrows at him.

He sighed and pulled the note from his bag, handing it to her to read as he hung his head. Blaise leaned over her shoulder, and they both read through the short few sentences written on it.

"I'm afraid I'm not really seeing the problem here, darling," Pansy said, looking rather confused, her lips pursed. "You have been absolutely bloody obsessed with Potter since the tender age of eleven. And don't you even try and deny it, I had to listen to it the whole seven years of school." Draco went to argue, but she pressed her finger to his lips to silence him, ignoring his glare.

"So you finally wormed your way into his life, miraculously got him drunk enough to shag you, and now you want to, what? Run away in shame? Did he insult your prick or something?"

Draco was frustrated. How did they not understand?

"He is Harry sodding Potter. He is him and I am me. There's too much history and bad blood. It just—" He pursed his lips briefly, and sighed, his whole body sliding down to lay across the table.

"It just wouldn't work. It was a lovely shag—"

It wasn't a lovely shag. It was the best bloody shag he had ever had in his entire life.

"But I can't let it go past that. I don't even know how to recover from this, now that we've gone and made it all complicated. We had a completely professional working relationship. I got to go to his house and drink his tea and spend time with him, and it was good. Now it's going to be all bloody awkward when I show up and have to pretend I've been obliviated and don't remember gagging on his cock."

"I might be missing the picture here," Blaise interjected, eyebrows raised in confusion. "You two have had an increasingly amicable rapport, to the point he has been allowing you into his house for hours a day, every week for months. Why can't it go past a shag?" He shrugged. "If you both get on, why does it matter who you are? Or who you used to be?"

Draco nearly exploded with frustration. "You two are supposed to be on my side! You are both supposed to go, 'ew, Potter? Why would you ever shag Potter? That's stupid,' and then I'd laugh and get pathetically sloshed and we'd go on like this never happened. You're not supposed to bloody encourage this madness."

Pansy gave him a petulant look, narrowing her eyes at him. She took a sip of her drink, thrummed her nails against the table, and spoke softer than he expected. "We aren't children anymore, Draco. Just because you haven't moved past the age of fifteen doesn't mean we should all be stuck in the past with you."

"Plus," Blaise added in emphatically, "Let's be completely honest with ourselves here; Potter is an absolute dreamboat." He grinned. "Or was, only you really know if he still is. Care to enlighten us?"

Draco's head hit the table as he groaned. "Yes. Yes, he is," he replied miserably.

Pansy did have a point, though, and as he stared out the window of the bar into the night, he contemplated her words. They were far past the petty schoolhouse bullying of their teens. There was an animosity there, for sure, but it felt… amicable. Lighthearted, most of the time. Closer to banter than rage-inducing insults. Were he to be a little less… prickly, he supposed, they might get along even better.

More serious this time, Blaise looked him in the eye. "Does he make you happy?"

Draco stopped, and thought. Really thought about it. Could this be something he could actually have?

"The answer to that depends on how hard you two will make fun of me," he sniffed, tilting his chin up to save face while his mind reeled.

Because, when he thought about it, what he had with Potter these last few months was the closest he had felt to being happy since he was a child, since before the Dark Lord returned. Potter making him tea in his cozy kitchen, introducing him to his evil chickens and his strange goat and his Weasley-esque kneazle. Thinking about being there, with Potter, made Draco feel warm inside. The rest of his life felt so dull and grey in comparison.

He just didn't know if he deserved it, after everything. After everything he had done in the war, everything he had done to Harry. It still felt like it was too good to be true.

"Listen, darling," Pansy smirked. "If I were wanting to make fun of you, there would be much easier, low hanging fruit."

"The first thing to make fun of, naturally, is how your muffdiving was so terrible you turned Pansy queer," Blaise offered smoothly, grinning as Pansy cackled and whacked him on the arm. Draco groaned, remembering with a shudder his and Pansy's brief fifth year fling. It was enough to put him off women forever.

After a beat, he sat up in his chair and levelled with the two of them. "Are you two really telling me that I should actually pursue this?" he asked, quiet. Scared of the answer.

"All I'm saying, Draco," Pansy leaned in, her tone turning deathly serious. "Is that I know Potter brings something out in you. Something nobody else ever has. And if that thing is happiness?" She paused to finish the rest of her drink, setting the glass down and looking straight into his eyes. "Well, I think you've bloody earned a stab at it."

A part of him had hoped that if his friends confirmed his fears, told him this was ridiculous, he could just turn his back on Potter. Bury his heart, his feelings, the burn in his chest and go back to being who he was before. Take the cowardly way out.

But Draco was done being a coward. It had been a survival strategy, something that got him through the worst years of his life, and allowed him to get this far.

But he didn't want to just survive anymore. It was time for him to thrive.

✶ ✶ ✶

The first thing Draco did when he apparated home was to pull out some parchment, and start a letter.

Need to talk. I will come by tomorrow night.
-DLM

Simple, concise, elegant. Didn't give away too much. He nodded his satisfaction, and sent his owl off with the letter.

Before he could worry about the Potter situation, though, he had some unfinished business.

He wanted to get this Smith case off his desk. He had been sitting on it for three weeks, and he didn't want anything on his mind when he went to see Harry. He still had tonight. In fact, it was the perfect time to finish what he had started this afternoon.

Sure, he had had a few drinks with Blaise and Pansy, but it was just enough to get him talking. He was still perfectly equipped to work. And he felt lighter than air now that he had figured out what he needed to do about Potter. He felt like nothing could weigh him down.

He figured he would slip through the wards, peek through the windows, do a little eavesdropping. Maybe see if he could recognise anybody else in the house, or find out what Smith was smuggling in that suitcase.

Then he'd write a merry report to the Ministry, send that off and be free of obligation. Free to give his full attention to Potter, and his marvelous, thick, heady-

He shook his head, a ghost of a smile clinging to his lips.

He really needed to get this job over with, before his mind was completely consumed by his obsession with Harry Potter.

✶ ✶ ✶

The Crack of apparation always sounded so much louder at night, Draco thought as his feet touched the ground in the London suburbs. He could still hear the sound echoing over the houses in the otherwise quiet night. There was no sound on the streets, clock nearing midnight as he stalked silently towards the rundown manor he had noted earlier that day.

He had apparated in a few blocks away, just to be as inconspicuous as possible, and to survey his surroundings before getting too involved. He didn't want to walk into an ambush, if he could avoid it. The coast appeared to be clear as he walked down the street of increasingly run-down dwellings, not another person in sight.

Four doors down, he decided to pause and prepare himself for the stealth mission at hand. Casting a disillusionment charm over himself, he watched his body shimmer and fade into the darkness around him with a satisfied nod. Next, taking a deep breath, he leaned back into his Occlumency palace, letting the door to his mind swing closed and locking everything away.

His began moving down the pavement again, towards the small gate he watched Smith enter through. The wards prickled against his skin as he approached, but he kept his thoughts tight, controlled. He was nobody. He was just passing through, like a ship in the night. He was calm.

He stood in front of the gate. He didn't want to touch it yet; he could feel it being heavily warded. He wondered if it would make a sound if it were opened after dark, like a curfew charm. It was a small thing, wooden and rickety, and he considered just hopping over it to avoid testing fate. He slowly reached his hand out, allowing his magic to well up in his fingertips, his mind devoid of thought, holding his breath as he slowly brushed his fingers against the wards and allowed them to acclimate to his magical signature.

They felt different than the wards on Potter's place.

Potter's wards had given in quickly — maybe they recognised his magic still, a lingering memory of a time long past. Him and Potter weren't close, but their magic had definitely interacted enough to leave an impression.

Whether due to the nature of the house, the casters, or what was happening inside, these ones were suspicious. They pushed back, even as he let his magic ease its way into the wards themselves. Same as with Potter's wards, he could feel the different magical signatures of whoever had cast them. He couldn't identify who they were, but he could feel the essence of multiple Wizards present, who all took part in putting up the wards.

Were he to allow himself to think idly, he would feel rather nervous about the idea of walking into a space occupied by several Wizards who had something to hide, and a need for putting up wards.

But he was still a wall of calm projection, a ship in the night. He felt the way he eased into the magic, the way the hard walls of the wards slowly acquiesced to his pushing and prodding, accepting his magic into the weave and warming to his touch.

And all at once, the shimmering wall blocking his view faded into a thin translucence.

Jackpot.

Deciding against trying to open the gate, he took his chances and hopped over it, landing gracefully on his feet in a flurry of robes.

Just like that, he was in.

He glanced down to make sure the disillusionment charm still held, and his body still appeared blurry and faded into the air around him. Perfect.

Crouching down, Draco slowly crept from the fence forward, towards the house.

The front yard was awash with death. Dried bushes lining the drive up to the front door, branches devoid of life or leaf. Shrivelled flowers and empty soil accented the path, and some devilish looking crawling vines threatened to overtake the facade of the house entirely. The path stones were dirty and cracked, weeds struggled up between the cracks, and there was a shattered stone statue near one of the windows, the face blown clean off and in pieces on the ground.

If he had to guess, he would figure it'd been at least twenty years since the home was last cared for. The current residents were definitely not doing it justice.

He could almost picture how it may have looked in its prime — elegance similar to the look of Malfoy Manor, only less grand in scale. A property less poncy, aristocratic pureblooded family may have had.

He looked up at the front doors, deciding approaching them was not the way to go. If the layout was at all similar to Malfoy Manor, there would surely be a smaller side entrance off the drawing room, or perhaps the kitchen, that would be far easier to slip through unnoticed.

Draco slipped around to the side of the building, walking as soft as his shoes would allow against the pavestones. He tried to peer in the windows as he passed, but noticed with frustration they were all frosted. He was unable to make anything out through them besides some blurry shapes and shadows.

He rounded the corner to the back of the house, where voices carried through the darkness. They were talking, quiet and low, and appeared to be smoking Muggle cigarettes, by the acrid smell in the air. Draco wanted to know what they were talking about, so he crouched down low to the ground and began creeping towards them.

He could make out a tall, gangly Wizard, taller than Draco, but looking like he could be blown over by the flap of an owl's wings. Next to him was a witch half his height, with the same scrawny build and a sallow, unsmiling face. Their hushed tones became clearer the closer Draco crept, until he was barely more than a few feet away, and the words sharpened into proper clarity.

"How'd you reckon Smith got ahold of those supplies? Even working there, some of the things he grabbed should have been completely off limits," the Witch muttered between puffs of the foul-scented smoke.

"Well, it's amazing what you're willing to do when your life's on the line," the scrawny man retorted, and when he turned, Draco could see his face was a mess of scars. He nearly gasped at the sight. His eyes had a dazed, far-off look like he wasn't completely aware of his surroundings, but the way he talked suggested he was more in-tune than one would think. "It'll cost him his job for sure, when they find out, but I reckon it would have been worse for him if he'd told him no."

Him? Who was Him? Was Smith under somebody's thumb, was he in danger if he didn't do what he was told? Could he be under the Imperius?

Draco suddenly got the feeling that he was in far over his head. He felt the doors of his calm mind start to bulge, anxiety bubbling up and oozing under the cracks until it was in his throat, his heart beating so loud he was sure the two would hear it if he didn't get away right then. He began slowly backing up, building distance between himself and them so they wouldn't—

Snap!

Notice him.

Well, shit.

He looked down at the fallen branch from one of the dead bushes, crushed under his foot. At the sound, the two at the door both looked up, eyes narrowing as they surveyed the dark yard.

"Who's there? Is someone out there?" the Wizard with the scars asked, pulling out his wand and taking a step out towards Draco.

Oh, this was bad. Very, very bad.

Draco needed to leave, now.

"Wait — look, there's a shimmer! There! Stupefy!" The Witch cried, her spell hitting where Draco had been only moments ago, and he took it as his cue to get up and run for his fucking life.

He jumped to his feet, but as he turned tail, he felt something wash over him like a cold breeze. He heard the echo of the short witch calling, "Homenum Revelio!" And realised, in panic, that he was now not only completely visible, but a glowing target. He could be seen from a block away, and the commotion he heard behind him was not sounding good.

He turned the corner towards the front of the house, eyes locked on the small gate tucked between the bushes. All he had to do was hop the gate, and he could disapparate out of this nightmare.

It seemed so promising, like he was nearly free — until he was just a few feet from the gate, fingers reaching for the wood, when the hedges around the property shifted. They shot out, coming down like brick walls to block off the exit, pushing Draco back, away from his salvation. He whipped around, and saw the Wizard with his wand pointed at the hedge,then turn his wand on him and cast.

Draco whipped his own wand out on instinct, casting a Protego that blocked the oncoming Stupefy, and took off running. He was now flying blind, with no clue where to go, just wanting to get out of sight.

He turned to run around the other side of the manor, but the same witch from before came straight towards him and Draco realised he was fucked. Cornered, with the two he had seen before gaining on him, and the thumping of more footsteps on the pavestones indicating more company.

Panic burst from Draco's chest, all the anxiety he had been locking in his mind. Nobody knew where he was. He hadn't told Pansy or Blaise he was headed out to work. The Ministry knew he was working on something, but not where, and wouldn't be seeking him out for it. The only person who even knew who he was investigating and would care enough to help was Potter.

Oh. Potter. He had to let him know.

Draco looked around, casting the strongest Protego he could, hoping it would buy him the time he needed. Draco had never been able to cast a Patronus, his life too full of horror and hate and mediocrity to cast something more than a foggy wisp. Even his happiest childhood memories were undercut with an icy layer of melancholy, and as he closed his eyes, he struggled to recall anything warm enough from his life.

He could already hear yelling from outside of his Protego, the sounds of curses ricocheting off his shield. It wouldn't last forever. Even with weaker spells, it was only a matter of time before it cracked and they broke through to him. He could sense more Wizards now, too many. The moment his spell went down, he was toast.

He had to do this. It was now or never.

At once, his mind was flooded with the day he sat on Harry's bench, with Fred purring softly on his lap, and the way their eyes met. Lush, emerald eyes peering out at him through thick curls. The charming grin that painted his face when they had come up with a particularly killer headline. The way his lips felt brushing against Draco's, the surge of pure magic that travelled through his veins when they kissed. The way Harry made him feel, the way Draco's heart felt lighter than air when he thought about him.

He opened his eyes at once, his chest full of the warmth he had only felt for Harry. He brandished his wand, the words falling effortlessly from his mouth, like he had done it a thousand times before.

"Expecto Patronum!"

And at once, a bright burst erupted from his wand, a great owl swooping around before him and taking his breath away. He couldn't stop staring at it, his mouth hanging open for a moment, before a large cracking sound shook him. He could see the cracks forming in his shield. He had to move fast.

"Potter, I-" He closed his eyes as he heard his shield giving way. "I need help. That job I told you about. Smith. I'm surrounded. Please, Harry, I-"

And with the crash of his Protego failing, everything went dark.

Chapter Text

When Draco's eyes cracked open, he was surrounded by pitch blackness — and Merlin, he hurt. It felt like he'd been struck by a volley of bludgers; he assumed it was from the rush of spells he had been hit with. His muscles ached, his head pounded, and the ropes wrapped around him were digging into his skin.

He was wrapped in a full body Incarcerous, keeping him fully immobilised on the floor. The only thing he could move was his head, and he craned his neck, attempting to look around. He was in a basement, that much was certain — the dank scent of mildew was a telltale sign. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. He could hear the creaking of the floorboards above him, and muttering voices in a heated discussion.

From his viewpoint on the floor, he couldn't see much. As his eyes began to adjust to the dim light, however, he noticed the rancid state of the room he was in. There were leaks dripping from pipes in the ceiling, piles of refuse littering the floor around him, and a strange odour beyond the mildew — stale, magical and sour.

It reminded him of the smell of rancid potions, the scent of the abandoned classrooms in the dungeons that had endured so many spills they'd been completely written off, left to the rot and dust.

His mind flashed to the gaunt faces of the two he had seen guarding the door earlier, then to how skinny and stringy Smith had looked when he spotted him in the Ministry. Oh, Merlin — of course. He had just stumbled into a Potions den, full of bloody junkies. That was probably what Smith was smuggling in his suitcase, stealing from the Ministry potions department and carrying it back here. But why risk his job for a bunch of junkies? It made just no sense to him.

A sudden flash of light made Draco flinch, the door at the top of the basement stairs cracking open slowly. A figure stood at the top, and slowly descended the creaky stairs. Draco took a deep breath, preparing for the encounter. As the figure came into his view, he recognised Smith by the head of blond hair, and Draco bristled as he approached.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Malfoy?" Draco could hear the disdain in his voice by the way his last name was spit out. Like a piece of chewing gum that had lost all its flavour.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" He replied, haughtily, like he couldn't care less about being on the ground at his feet, in enemy territory. "It's a shame you've let yourself go so far, Smith."

He saw Smith's face contort into rage, as he grabbed Draco by the hair, pulling his head up so he could look into his eyes. From this close, Draco could see the way Smith's eyes were sunken into their sockets, perpetual eyebags hanging dark under his blue eyes. Draco could smell the Dreamless sleep on his breath.

"Rich of a fucking Death Eater to say," Smith snapped, trying to dig for something that would hurt. Draco only scoffed, shaking his head.

"At least the Death Eaters had something to stand for. Not throwing their lives away for a quick fix," he retorted, always one to mock first and think later.

As he saw Smith's fist pull back, however, he remembered that he was supposed to be trying not to do that. It didn't tend to work out well for him. He heard the crack of Smith's fist connecting with his jaw, and felt one of his teeth in his mouth, knocked out by the force of the punch. The taste of iron flooded his senses.

He grunted as he hit the floor, spitting out the blood in his mouth and grimacing. He was too focused on the pain pulsing in his jaw to notice the foot coming for his ribs, until it connected and sent him reeling, curling in on himself in pain. With a good stomp onto Draco's hand, splintering the bones of his fingers, Smith stormed away, but not before grabbing some vials that were sitting on the brewing table.

"Always have to be a fucking prick, huh, Malfoy? Enjoy your broken hand, and maybe you'll have better answers when we come back."

With that, Smith slammed the door, casting the basement back into darkness.

Draco wouldn't let himself cry, despite the pulsing agony in his jaw, his fist, his ribs, instead taking deep, calming breaths and locking himself away in his mind. His eyes fluttered closed, and he let the darkness take him again.

✶ ✶ ✶

Draco came to with the bright light once again washing over him, and pain pulsing through his body. He had slipped in and out of consciousness multiple times, preferring sleep, where his body didn't ache. His concept of time had warped in the darkness of the basement, and he had no clue how long it had been. There was a figure, once again looking at him from the top of the stairs, but it was different. He squinted, looking for features he recognised, his vision too blurry to make anything out.

The figure descended the stairs gracefully, and Draco could sense the difference in presence. Whoever this was, it was not one of the junkies that lived upstairs. They carried themselves with the grace of somebody who knew their own merit. Draco was well familiar with the type, remembering the way he used to walk the halls of Hogwarts with that same presence.

The figure approached him, and he struggled to make out the wizard in front of him. Dark hair, cut short and slicked back. Sharp, pure-blooded features. No recognition dawned on Draco, however, so he decided to stay silent and wait for the figure to address him.

"Draco Malfoy," the man said, the evidence of a self-serving smirk dripping through his words. "Not who I expected to see when my… friends, told me they had captured somebody lurking on the property. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Draco glared up at the man, silently.

He had the urge to snap out a snarky quip, but his hand still pulsed in pain from the last one. Acting cautiously, he bit his tongue and held his retort back. Given his current status as a captive, he would be wise to tame his responses to this Wizard.

"Ah, but where are my manners?" The Wizard pulled out his wand and, giving it a casual flick, let the ropes binding Draco to immobility drop to the floor. Draco grimaced and stretched, ignoring the flare of pain from his broken bones and bruised ribs as he did so. He pushed himself up with his one good hand, sitting up on the floor. He looked up as the man before him extended his hand.

"Rosier. Felix Rosier." Draco slowly, hesitantly reached up, shaking Rosier's offered hand.

"I recall hearing things about you, Malfoy. I have heard you are a proficient Potioneer, one of the best Hogwarts had to offer. Under the tutelage of a capable dark Wizard, raised in a pureblood family similar to my own, with respect to the arts." Draco knew instinctively he meant the dark arts, of course.

Draco could feel his skin crawl as he listened to Rosier speak. He cared much less for the accolades of his family and his bloodline than he did in his youth. Spending a decade in the real world had taught him it was far less important than he was raised to believe. It seemed like the Wizard in front of him saw it as an asset, however, and Draco closed his eyes briefly, steeling himself.

He looked into Rosier's eyes. "That is correct. I assume there is a reason you mention it, unless you are just trying to fluff my ego."

When Rosier smiled, it did not reach his eyes, which remained icy as his face split into a grin. "You're quite sharp, Malfoy."

He gestured to the room behind him. Now that Draco was sitting up, he could take in the spread around the room. He could tell that they were indeed in an elaborate potions lab — with vials full of shimmering brews stacked on shelves all around, cauldrons bubbling away over him. There were boxes in stacks with labels, and he recognised the names of several popular black market potions.

"Most of the dolts I have working under me can hardly tell their heads from their arses on a good day. I can't trust most of them to brew, especially without just drinking it all themselves." Rosier huffed in frustration.

"I could really use a fellow, likeminded Slytherin Potioneer to help me run operations." The way he looked at Draco made his stomach turn. "We could make a very good team, Malfoy." He reached down to Draco again, grabbing his good hand and pulling him to his feet, so they were on equal ground.

The very idea filled Draco with rage. His eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth to snap, but Rosier cut him off before he could speak.

"And, of course, were you to not agree — well, it would not bode well for you. Considering you seem to have lost your wand, and, last I checked, are currently here at our — at my behest." Rosier casually glanced down at his nails as he spoke, like he was talking about the latest Quidditch match and not threatening Draco with extortion.

"This is really an 'easy or hard way' kind of situation, you see. You can agree, do it willingly, and save your sanity, or I will simply Imperius you into obedience. Either way you will be doing what I tell you to. The choice is yours, Malfoy." He grinned at Draco as he said it, an evil glint in his eye. "But not really."

Draco's head was rushing, his heart thumping in his chest. He was being offered an out, a way to keep himself safe. It seemed like he were actually being offered a rather important role in the operation as well, as brewing these potions safely was not something most were qualified to do. He assumed this was the role Smith had been extorted into as well, but his own addiction likely impacted the quality of his work.

All it would cost was throwing away the morals he had spent the last decade slowly nurturing, and destroying his fragile reputation were he caught. Nobody would believe a former death eater claiming extortion and blackmail.

The logical part of his mind figured that if he were going to be forced into this, he might as well try and gather information. It was the one thing he knew he was good at. He took a moment to calm himself, to swallow the panic rising in his chest, and to bring forth the haughty pureblooded ego that he spent so many years perfecting.

"So, let me get this straight, then. You are orchestrating an illegal potions operation, extorting people already addicted to your brews to — what? Distribute?" He scoffed. "Are they simply your loyal lackeys, willing to do anything for another fix? Isn't it a waste to have your crew dipping into the supply? Seems like inefficiency to me." Draco crossed his arms, ignoring the way his broken hand throbbed.

Rosier waved a hand at him dismissively. "Sure, it may waste a bit, but it keeps them in line. They all live here because their lives have fallen apart. I am simply offering them a solution to all of their problems." His grin was sharp, sharklike. As predatory as the words he spoke. "They live here, rent free, have their addictions fed, and do everything I ask in return. If they disobey, they lose everything. An easy choice, in the end."

Draco was impressed by the pure Slytherin nature of the scheme. Of course it would be far easier to ensure loyalty amongst your subordinates if they relied on you for everything from housing to vices. It really was a genius operation, even if the very concept made his skin crawl. Draco knew too well what it was like to be manipulated, to have to choose between a bed to sleep in and committing unfathomable harm.

He had spent enough time in his life living under the thumb of a maniac, being a pawn in somebody else's game.

So when Rosier asked, "What do you say, Malfoy? Are we doing this the easy way, or the hard way?" Draco knew what he had to do.

He had to hope that Harry got his message, and he had attempt to summon a little bit of good old Gryffindor bravery.

Draco extended his hand to Rosier. Smirking, Rosier took it.

He then yanked roughly. Rosier stumbled foward, catching his footing only inches away from Draco's face.

"I would rather you put me down like a rabid fucking dog than ever do a single thing to assist you," he snarled out, and spat right on Rosier's pretentious, pinched face.

The change in the other man's demeanour was immediate. His face contorted into a look of rage, and he whipped his wand out, vanishing the glob of spit dripping from his nose and digging his wand into Draco's neck.

"That can be arranged."

The feeling of the Imperio washing over him was like a release, all the tension he held in his body letting go at once as the fog washed over him. In his mind, however, he begun to panic.

Maybe he should have gone the Slytherin arse-kissing route, instead.

"Get down on your knees," Rosier ordered, and his body obeyed without struggle.

"What to do with you… See, I had a plan for using you, but now you've gone and made me mad." He paced in front of Draco, walking back and forth as he thought. "And now I want to see you suffer."

He slowly looked around the room, and his eyes landed on the brewing table, cauldron still boiling away over a small flame.

Draco could tell when Rosier had an idea from the way his face contorted in to a dark smile, cold like ice and sharp as glass.

"You seem to think you're some reformed paragon, eh, Malfoy? Think you've moved past the dark mark seared onto your skin?" He scoffed. "If that's how you feel, I think it's time you have it removed." He looked down at Draco, and pointed to the open flame, vanishing the cauldron.

"Burn it off."

Draco's body jerked, out of his control, and he stood on shaking legs, struggling with the strain of his refusal, the fight in his mind.

No.

The fog of Imperius was heavy, surrounding his mind like smoke and threatening to choke him into submission. The harder he fought, the thicker the fog felt. His limbs felt like they had become lead weights, simple movement under his own control feeling impossible.

He took a step towards the table, his foot dragging on the ground as Draco struggled. One step, and then another.

By the time he reached the flame, Draco was in a complete panic, trapped inside his mind and watching as his sleeve was rolled up, the dark mark coming into view. He felt a wave of nausea wash over him, and struggled against the fog, fighting to pull his arm back. He couldn't will himself to step away, but resisted moving his arm any closer, standing deathly still as his body was locked in internal battle.

He felt the tip of a wand pressing against his neck.

"I said," Rosier breathed into his ear, "burn. It. Off."

And Draco's body was no longer his own, giving in to the curse and thrusting his forearm into the searing, white hot flame.

As his body seized in burning agony, the world around him began moving in slow motion.

He was dimly aware of a colossal bang, and the dank dungeon was bathed in a bright light.

Flashes of red appeared in his periphery, hardly registering. His vision had narrowed to pinpricks focused on his burning flesh, the faded lines of the dark mark bubbling and twisting as the skin blistered, seared, blackened.

There were thumps coming from behind him, the flashing of spells being cast. He couldn't look away.

A familiar warmth encompassed him, as everything finally went blissfully dark.

Chapter Text

The first thing Draco became aware of was the burning fluorescent lights behind his eyelids.

He groaned to himself. He absolutely hated St. Mungo's. Nobody really liked to be in the hospital, but the place made him feel like a tiger trapped in a cage.

What had even happened for him to be in the hospital in the first place? He tried to focus on what he was doing before, and felt—

His eyes flashed open, his hand jumping to his forearm as the memory of his burning flesh hit him like a train, with no Imperius to dull his senses. He looked down at his arm — from elbow to wrist, it was wrapped in a thick layer of gauze and bandages. It was healing, he could tell, but it still felt hot, too hot. His breath caught in his throat as panic tried to take him over.

He closed his eyes and took a steady, calming breath, rubbing his hand slowly over the wraps. He was safe. It was over.

It was then that he realised he was not alone.

He could feel eyes on him, and a presence in the room. He turned, and was met with green eyes, emanating a warmth that made his heart stutter.

He had come back to London. He was here, in Mungo's. In public.

"You came." Draco's voice was quiet, hoarse, like he'd screamed until there was no voice left. Maybe he had.

"Of course I did." Harry leaned forward in his uncomfortable chair, one Draco suspected he had not left since they arrived, judging by his dishevelled appearance. A small soft smile burgeoned across his face, just for him. "I came for you."

Draco felt his chest tighten, emotion overtaking him. He opened his mouth, but was distracted from responding by his room's door being flung open. A young, peppy nurse walked in, clipboard in hand, smiling at the both of them.

"Mr. Malfoy, glad to see you're awake," she said, beaming optimism. "We've healed your broken bones, and your hand itself is fine and should have no issues." Draco flexed the hand he'd had broken, and found his fingers were all intact and perfectly functional. He gave her a short, silent nod. He knew immediately that his burn going unmentioned meant the prognosis was worse. He steeled himself, neutral expression hiding the fear burning in his chest as the nurse glanced down at her page.

"Your other injury was far more extensive, and far harder to seamlessly heal." Her smile persisted, but her eyes looked a little sad. He recognised the look of pity, and couldn't meet her eyes, choosing instead to stare at the wall straight ahead. "The more severe the burn, the deeper it goes, the harder it is to restore. It will heal, of course, given some more time and the careful application of the salves we send you home with."

"The visible damage, however—"

"Is not repairable with magic, I take it," Draco finished flatly, refusing to let any feelings bubble up, lest he lose control.

"Unfortunately not." She pulled out her wand, flicking it and summoning a collection of potions and salves. "Luckily for you, the damage is localised enough that we don't need to keep you overnight, now that you're awake. We will keep you until evening for observation, and barring any sudden complications, you will be free to leave."

Draco nodded dully. The voice of the nurse sounded distant in his ears as she walked him through his medication requirements. Take one a day, apply morning and night, drink this one with food. He hardly noticed when she left, only feeling the silence in the room and Harry's stare that he couldn't bring himself to meet.

Feeling like the walls were closing in, Draco eventually got so cagey that he forced himself out of bed, insisting on finding the canteen and getting the two of them some mediocre hospital food. Harry offered to go instead, arguing that Draco should rest, but Draco refused to be talked down. He told Harry to shove it, and walked out of the stuffy room. He tried not to think about Harry being willing to brave the public spaces he'd spent a decade avoiding, just to get Draco something that hardly even qualified as edible.

Tried to ignore the way it made his chest feel tight.

He deftly avoided the reporters he noted stalking the few halls that were publicly accessible, disgust bubbling up in his chest. If they were swarming the few areas they could be inside of the hospital, he didn't even want to think about how bad they would be outside the front doors. He felt a wave of relief he wasn't required to stay overnight, and considered asking if they could take a private Floo from the hospital, to avoid the media shitshow that was bound to come from the two of them being seen together. He knew the media was already hard for Harry, and he didn't want to give them a god damned shred of information.

In the cafeteria, he collected two trays of an indistinguishable meat and limp cheese in between two deflated slices of bread, some veggies and an apple sauce. He grimaced, but supposed it would have to do for now.

On his way back towards the doors, he spotted an abandoned Prophet lying on one of the tables. Drawn like a moth to a flame, he walked over to it, setting down his trays and picking the paper up. He checked the date. June 24th — he had been stuck in that basement for five days.

His eyes were drawn to the picture plastered across the front page — an actual photo of Harry, the first taken in nearly a decade, dragging something in his arms from the door of a house. The house he was trapped in. And seeing a flash of his own trademark blonde, he realised it was him Harry had been holding. His heart stuttered in his chest at the photo, at the expression on Harry's face as he carried Draco in his arms, brandishing his wand at someone off camera. He skimmed the article.

The elusive Harry Potter has been credibly spotted, back in Wizarding Britain, for the first time in eight years. He was taking part in a Ministry raid on an illegal potions operation, spearheaded by the DMLE. No comment has been given on his involvement, and he had been quite hostile to any who approached him with questions. Fans hope this sighting will signal his return to Wizarding life, and attempts to find him after the raid have increased substantially.

Draco grimaced as he read, and tossed the paper into the canteen's rubbish as he walked out.

And he walked out the door directly into the waiting camera of Rita Skeeter. The camera flashed in his face, temporarily blinding him, and he recoiled from the flash, glaring at the woman behind it.

"Draco, darling, it has been far too long. I see you've been taking your work very seriously since the little project you did for me. Your work was instrumental on my book, for the record. If you didn't see it — I did dedicate a footnote to the anonymous researcher who made it all possible." Her venomous grin made his skin crawl, and his upper lip raised in a disgusted sneer.

"Get out of my face, Skeeter."

"Not without a comment, love. Somehow you were photographed in the arms of the Boy Saviour, and it is my job to get all the dirty details. It should only take a few minutes, and I'll be out of your hair." She gestured to her quill, poised and ready to quote him as poorly as possible.

"Let me spell this out for you, you daft wench." Draco's blood boiled in his veins as he snapped at her. "Even if I could comment on an ongoing DMLE investigation, I would rather have let them finish me off than give you a single word. Go fuck yourself."

With that, he elbowed her out of the way, rushing through the patient only doors before she could catch up. By the time he had made it back to his room, he was out of breath and furious, bursting through the door with his two lunch trays in tow, violence written across his face.

Harry had been pacing, and looked up immediately when the door opened, relief washing over his face. He rushed up to Draco, grabbing the trays from him.

"I was starting to get worried," he said softly, and Draco felt all of the rage he had just been feeling evaporate instantly. He was suddenly glad that he had insisted so strongly on going instead of Harry, his gut wrenching when he imagined Harry coming face to face with Skeeter's camera.

"Strangest thing," Draco said with a sneer, "as I walked from the cafeteria I noticed this godawful, heavily perfumed green beetle just lurking about. It flew away before I could stomp it into the ground, unfortunately."

By the way Potter's face tightened, he knew exactly what Draco meant.

"I reckon it's a good thing that beetle hasn't made itself known to me, or it would likely find itself fed to Lucy." Draco remembered the haughty bird and her sharp beak, shuddering, and figured such a fate would be no less than what Skeeter deserved.

"Unfortunately, the cafeteria seems to only serve the most pathetic sandwiches known to man. I hope you enjoy ambiguous meat on untoasted white." Hopping up on to his bed, he took a reluctant bite, his hunger overriding his urge to throw the whole thing into the bin.

After choking down the miserable meal — and stealing Harry's apple sauce — they entertained themselves with a riveting game of exploding snap, until the nurse came in at the sounds of mini explosions and politely and kindly explained they very much could not play that in the hospital, thank you, and handed Draco his discharge papers to sign off. He signed them hastily, and she bid them a hasty good bye and walked back through the door.

Draco had just finished packing all of his assorted potions when he remembered. "Ah, bollocks," he muttered to himself, glancing out the door to see if he could still see the nurse.

"What's wrong?" Harry was by his side instantly, and his neverending warmth made Draco's nerves tingle in a delightful way.

"I meant to ask the nurse about using the Floo." Harry raised his eyebrows, and he continued. "I saw the state of the waiting room earlier. We don't want to go out that way."

Harry ducked back and peeked through the window, grimacing at the crowd of reporters that stood congregated outside the front doors. "Bloody vultures," he muttered, and reached into his own knapsack, digging around to the bottom of the bag. Draco thought he saw a glimmer, and Harry whipped out the fabled invisibility cloak that he remembered from his youth.

He sucked in a breath at the sight. He had known about it since fifth year, but had never in his wildest dreams imagined being in a position to share it together. He almost felt giddy with the thought. Smoothing his face into a careful mask, he chose to just look at Harry with a single raised eyebrow. Harry glanced back sheepishly.

"I— er, well, was expecting this, to be honest. And, I don't have Floo anyway. We can sneak out the front past them and apparate away."

"Brave to assume I wanted to go back to yours, Potter," Draco said with his raised eyebrow growing ever higher. Harry's face blanched. He looked away, staring at the wall.

"Oh, er, right. Well, I can drop you off and—"

"I couldn't dare go back to yours without a glass to replace the one I shattered," Draco continued, casually, steeling himself for what he wanted to ask next. It was now or never. "That would just be poor manners."

"Naturally." Harry watched him carefully, brimming with what looked to be nervousness from his stiff posture and fiddling fingers.

"Besides, I was going to suggest you come to my flat instead, since you're already in the city."

His offer hung in the air, silence thick between the two of them at the invitation and the unspoken implications. They needed to talk, absolutely, but… Since that night, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about Harry and the way he had come undone with his cock in Draco's mouth. He felt his own prick twitching in his trousers just thinking about it.

"I'd like that," Harry said slowly, a warm grin spreading across his face. His shoulders slowly relaxed, and he pulled the invisibility cloak around their shoulders. Draco marvelled in the way the cloak hid them better than any he had ever seen, better than any disillusionment charm he had ever cast.

As they snuck through the halls, crouching under the cloak to keep their ankles hidden, he was amazed that not a single person stopped to look or notice. No wonder Potter always got into trouble in school — if Draco had one of these, he would have been an absolute menace.

He felt the way Harry stiffened next to him as they entered the waiting room, seeing the insanity of the crowd of reporters, sitting in chairs and peeking through the small windows for a possible glimpse of the Boy Who Lived.

Skeeter sat on a chair in the waiting room, huffing as she picked at the buttons on a gaudy vomit-coloured mobile. As they passed, he felt Harry pull out his wand, and cast a silent Stinging Jinx into her leg, eliciting an undignified squeal from her. He snickered, and Draco pulled him out the front doors, out onto the street, weaving through the crowd until they ducked into an empty back alley.

Harry doubled over laughing, imitating the pathetic squawk Skeeter had made. Draco joined in, guffawing at his unrestrained amusement and they leaned against each other, trying to catch their breath.

When Draco could breath again, he wiped the tears from his eyes, linked his arm with Harry's, picturing his flat, and apparated away with a crack.

✶ ✶ ✶

They landed comfortably in Draco's sitting room. It had been almost a week since Draco had been here last, and he was hit hard by how… sterile it felt. It was tidy, impeccably so, to the point it felt devoid of life. No cups on the counter, no books on the table. Not a speck of dust on his bookshelves or mantle. It felt unlived in, lacking personality.

He realized with a pang in his chest that while he was thinking about home, thinking about escape, he had not been picturing a return to his flat, with its plain walls and stiff grey furniture. He had been picturing Harry's cottage, with its mismatched dishware, his favourite purple mug, the soft couch in a strange shade of chartreuse, covered in Fred's dastardly orange fur, the comfortable little round table he had spent so long sitting at.

That house felt more like home than his flat ever had. Draco's heart beat with longing for the cottage, and he regretted his choice to come back to his flat instead. He felt like he had to do this here, though, if he had the chance; to give Harry a glance into his life, allow him a peek at Draco's vulnerability.

"Tea?" Draco asked, the corner of his lip turning up. Harry glanced to him, and nodded with a grin. The brief flash of familiarity felt safe, when everything between them had changed.

He walked over to the kitchen, pulling out two of his perfect, identical teacups that felt so wrong to him now. He set the kettle on, busied himself with preparations. He made Harry's tea exactly how he liked it — so much milk and sugar it hardly even counted as tea. Somehow, the knowledge seemed so intimate, and he felt himself flush with the thought.

When he walked back to the living room, levitating the two cups, he saw Harry standing by his mantle, looking at the scant few photos he had delicately displayed in matching silver frames.

One of his mother and father, waltzing at a Manor gala, one of him and his Hogwarts friends, at the Yule ball in their fourth year, before everything went to shit. And one that had been taken at a Gryffindor versus Slytherin Quidditch match, of Harry and Draco racing towards the ground in a deep dive, chasing the snitch, diving until the last second and evading the ground by mere inches.

He walked up beside Harry, watching the loop of them on the Quidditch pitch, and handed him the cup of tea. He took a slow sip of the comforting drink before speaking, letting it help ease the words from his throat.

"It was always you, you know."

Harry turned to him, expression indescribable, and sighed. Nodded slowly.

"It always was, wasn't it?"

Draco took a seat on his couch. Harry slid down beside him, fiddling with his cup. He looked like he had words on the tip of his tongue, and Draco let him speak first. He wanted to do this right, wanted to be very intentional about what he said.

"You were right," Harry said, softly, wringing his hands. "About everything. After… The next day, I reached out to them. Ron and Hermione. They didn't care how long it had been. Invited me over as soon as I was ready." His voice cracked, and he swallowed, glancing out the window into the London skyline. "I had been so lonely before… for years. But felt I didn't have a right to come back to them after being gone for so long. Hermione told me I was being stupid, as always."

A soft grin broke out across Harry's face. "I met their newest baby. Absolute little monster, Hugo is."

Draco nodded, slowly. Now that Harry had rekindled his connection with the other Gryffindors, he wouldn't need Draco around anymore. Probably wouldn't want him around the Weasley-Granger's children, either. Wouldn't want to have to explain why he was spending time with Draco. "That's grand, Potter." Deep breath. "Harry."

As though he could read Draco's mind, Harry blurted out, "I was with them when I got your Patronus. They both looked at me like I had grown a second head when it appeared, in your voice. Ron was definitely not happy to learn I had spent more time with you in the last year than with them in five." He chuckled softly, and looked into Draco's eyes. "But you were the only one to force yourself into my space, whether I wanted you there or not. And, eventually, I did."

Draco could read between the lines. Harry's friends knew. They knew, and supported him in whatever he wanted, even if that was Draco. His head rushed with the thought. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the fluttering of his heart.

"I regret leaving," Draco said softly, staring down in to his cup of tea. "I — I felt that I had ruined everything. After…" His face burned with the memory of his melodramatic throwing the glass, their drunken kissing, falling asleep spent on Potter's couch. "That we had a perfectly functional and professional working relationship, and I ruined it by putting your cock in my mouth."

Potter snorted, and shook his head, looking up at Draco fondly. "It takes two to tango, you know," he said with a cheeky little grin that made Draco's heart flutter. He was going to give Draco a heart condition, at this rate.

He shrugged. "Well, it took me over a week of hiding from everybody I knew and throwing myself into my stupid job before Pansy told me I was being an absolute bloody fool about it all."

He glanced into Harry's eyes, and watched his face flush. Watched the way he shifted a little closer to Draco on the couch. Their shoulders bumped together as he adjusted.

"I didn't realize how much I had begun to enjoy sitting in your house and taking the piss out of you, before I tried to stop myself from wanting it." The words tumbled out of his mouth, and now that the confession had started, he couldn't hold it back. "It was the only thing I had to look forward to. Sitting under the willow with you and Fred and getting bitten by your stupid chickens and eating cherries off your tree. The first time in forever I found myself looking forward to anything, and it was to seeing your bloody face."

By the time he had run out of words to say, his chest felt raw, too vulnerable. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the face of the man he loved, too scared to see what would be written there.

Draco felt the couch shift beside him, and then Potter was on top of him, grinning and pressing their lips together. All at once, all of the tension Draco had been holding in his body was released, and he could have laughed if his lips weren't otherwise preoccupied.

Instead, he melted into Harry's touch, opening his mouth and deepening the kiss. He hadn't realized how much he had missed the taste of Harry until he went without, and he never wanted to go without this ever again.

Draco sat up, pulling away from Harry. His black hair sufficiently tousled, he looked up at Draco with a look of confusion.

"What…?"

"Can we go back to the cottage?" Draco asked with a small grin.

Harry snorted, shaking his head fondly. "What about my glass?" He asked teasingly, but he was already standing, pulling Draco up with him.

"You'll get your glass replaced when you replace the shirt you ripped, you bloody tosser," Draco said into Harry's mouth as he was pulled into another kiss.

Harry laughed, cheeky grin wide on his face as he took Draco's hand.

"Come on. Let's go home."

Chapter Text

July 31st, 2009

The roar of the Floo had Draco jumping up in a panic, scrambling for his pants to spare Weasley and Granger their modesty. Mostly Weasley, who may never recover from the sight of Draco's bare arse.

He had woken up early, slipping out to the hen house and collecting some fresh eggs and fruit for breakfast. Walking in to their bedroom with breakfast in bed, Draco was immediately distracted by the morning wood on display from the sleeping birthday boy.

Devious as ever, he set breakfast aside under a stasis charm, and crawled back into bed, mouth watering for a different kind of banger than the kind steaming on their plates.

Sliding the hard cock into his mouth, he felt Harry stir underneath him, and knew he was properly awake by the way his hands fisted in Draco's hair, groaning in surprise appreciation of his efforts. He grabbed on for dear life as Draco worked his length expertly, flicking his tongue along the slit and circling the glans with every bob up, and lapping at the base every time Harry's cock bottomed out in his throat. Running his tongue along the thick vein on the underside that drove Harry wild, just to hear the other man keening above him, whimpering his name.

It was moments after Harry's intense orgasm that he heard the Floo roaring from the living room, while Draco was still savouring the taste of his spend and pressing soft kisses into his thigh.

He rushed out in his pants and one of Harry's oversized muggle t-shirts, a wild look to his eyes as he saw the Weasley-Grangers walking in to the living room. He was relieved to note they had left their two children behind with the Weasley Matriarch, who would be coming by later along with everybody else.

"You know, coming by a 'little early' doesn't mean showing up here at the crack of dawn," Draco huffed irritably, crossing his arms. Granger and Weasley exchange a brief look.

"Err… it's half past ten, mate." Weasley coughed, glancing away from Granger to look at Draco. When his eyes landed on Draco's face, they bugged out, and his face reddened to resemble a perfectly sun-ripened tomato. He let out an undignified wheeze and turned on his heel, stalking into the kitchen and fiddling with the kettle. Granger watched him, her face a matching beet red.

She wordlessly pointed to her cheek, and he touched his own, mirroring her, finding a sticky glob of Harry's come that had escaped his mouth. Draco smirked, wiping it from his face and licking his finger clean. He heard an undignified gag from the kitchen, and he grinned to himself.

"I'm going to get changed. Be ready when I return," he said, turning on his heel and stalking back to their bedroom, barely able to keep his laughter in until he made it through the door. Harry, halfway through his full English, glanced up in surprise at his burst of mirth.

"What's so funny?" Harry asked as Draco attempted to collect himself.

"There is no greater joy in life than making Weasley blush like a schoolgirl." He grinned, pulling on the outfit he had set out for himself last night. He had picked out an emerald green velvet waistcoat, with his favourite white button down — the one Harry had so kindly repaired for him after destroying it that first night — and tight trousers that he knew made his arse look fantastic. They were Harry's favourite.

"Come out when you're done, birthday boy." He gave said fantastic looking arse a little shake as he walked back out to Harry's two best friends, this time presentable and ready to get down to business.

And they had a lot of business to attend to.

Him and Weasley spent some painstaking time transfiguring tree branches and logs into a large table and chairs, enough to fit Harry's invite list, while Granger got to work on decorations, spelling fairy lights to float over the table, perpetually blooming Lillies on the table tops, and banners to hang in the air, spelling out Happy Birthday! Her charmwork was impeccable as always, and she set up bug repellent charms and temperature control charms, to keep the seating area at a reasonable temperature in the scorching July heat.

He was hit with a wave of respect for Granger, something he had been finding himself feeling a lot more as of late, and an appreciation of their friendships with Harry. That they had not only been willing, but even volunteered their help when Draco floated the idea of a birthday party. That they were all together in supporting him and his slow comeback into the Wizarding world, and rejoining of his old friend groups.

That they all loved his stupid self-sacrificial prat as much as he did, supported him in all the ways he needed meant a lot to him. Not that he would ever tell them that, of course, but he felt the appreciative all the same.

Weasley got to work making a punch, mixing juices and fruits and alcohols in a great bowl with the fervour of Snape brewing Veritaserum over a cauldron. Mrs. Weasley was taking care of the cake, and most of the food, but he was preparing some hors d'oeuvres and snacks for the party.

As Draco was assembling little baguette bites, with fresh goat cheese and blistered tomatoes courtesy of Tammy and their garden, he heard their bedroom door click. He felt the arms wrap around his waist, and smiled softly to himself as Harry nuzzled into his neck.

"Glad to see you survived the morning," Weasley said, grimacing, and at Harry's confused look, he wrinkled his nose. Draco couldn't help but laugh at the theatrics. Harry's arms stayed wrapped around Draco, holding him in place while he tried to work, and he huffed in irritation as Harry, as usual, got in his way.

"Stop being a pest, and go pick some blueberries," he ordered, handing Harry a bowl and pointing outside.

"Yes, my lord," came the dutiful reply, dripping with sarcasm, and Draco heard the door closing behind him.

He waited until the others were suitably distracted, bickering over Weasley's ratio of his punch (Ronald, there are going to be children present, there cannot be that much alcohol!) before he slipped out the back door after Harry.

He found Harry out by the willow, not picking blueberries at all, and instead petting a very happy Fred. His leg was bouncing a mile a minute, and he stared out over the pond. Draco didn't need to ask, he could feel the anxiety wafting off of him as he took a seat next to his lover.

"Whatever you're worrying about, you ought to stop. You're going to give yourself wrinkles," he said, leaning his shoulder against Harry's.

Harry snorted. "Thanks for the reminder, I had almost forgotten I'm getting old." He shook his head and lapsed into a moment of silence, focusing on Fred's deep rumbling.

"Everyone is coming because they care about you, you know. This isn't a Potter Pity Party. These are people who want to be in your life again." He watched Harry carefully, and saw the way his shoulders sagged when he heard it, deflating a little, tension leaking from him like a balloon leaked helium.

"I worry that they're coming because they have an idea, an expectation in their mind of who I am and how they expect me to be. And that they will resent me when I don't meet that expectation."

He could hear the anxiety in Harry's voice, the same driving force that had pushed him into years of isolation. That fear of letting his friends down. That small voice that told Harry for years and years that his friends would all be better off if he just stayed away. Draco frowned at him.

"If that's the kind of person they are, then who bloody cares what they think? Better that you find out now if your friends are all shit people." Harry laughed, the rest of his tension releasing, and he leaned his head onto Draco's shoulder.

"Thanks," Harry whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw.

"Don't thank me yet, we have to get you ready. You have a half an hour before Molly arrives and you had best be ready by then. I don't want on her bad side, she still scares the piss out of me."

Harry laughed.

✶ ✶ ✶

Molly arrived first, massive cake cradled delicately in her arms as she stepped through the Floo. Then Arthur, with a plate of treacle tart in one hand, Rose Weasley-Granger in the other. Next came Ginny, clutching a plate of roasted sprouts and Hugo. Then George, with a great grin and a plate with two roasted chickens. Then came Charlie, Bill and Fleur and their two children, toddling behind, each Weasley holding a plate of their Mother's cooking.

The small cottage was immediately packed, and Draco opened the back door, allowing people to spill out to the comfort of the outdoor patio they had set up.

Draco stepped aside and watched quietly as Molly gave Harry a great embrace, pulling him in and whispering to him as she patted him on the back. The smile she gave him was warm and loving, and Draco felt a pang of envy at how much care Harry had from the people he loved — who loved him no matter what, even though he hadn't spoken to most of the Weasley clan in over a half a decade.

If Harry felt a little overwhelmed, Draco felt like he was in the middle of enemy territory. He had never spoken to any of the Weasley family, and had left the task of inviting the clan to the Weasley-Granger duo. Though they had all been warned by Granger and Weasley— Ron, that is, about him and Harry, the eyes landing on him were wary, untrusting. He took a deep breath, pretending not to notice and schooling his face into one of perfect neutrality.

Until Molly Weasley marched straight up to him, giant cake in her hands. He reached out, taking it from her and placing it down on the kitchen counter with the utmost care. He turned back, and she was still standing there, sizing him up with downturned lips and a hand on her hips. Nervously, he extended his hand.

"Mrs. Weasley," he said, head bowed. When she didn't take his hand, he felt a sting of rejection, and swallowed hard. He hadn't expected the Weasleys to warm up to him quickly, and wasn't surprised that she wouldn't take his hand, not after everything.

So when she instead pulled him into a fierce bear hug, the kind only a mother could do, he let out a surprised, undignified yelp.

"Nonsense, you will call me Molly. It is good to meet you properly, Draco. Without anything else in the way." She smiled knowingly, and he knew instantly what she meant. Without the cloud of his Father's ideals, the prejudices he had been raised into. "I've heard what you've done for Harry. I'm glad he has you," she whispered, stepping back and turning to direct the flow of Weasleys and their carried foodstuffs to the tables outside.

Well, that went better than expected, he thought with the ghost of a smile on his lips. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

He moved into the kitchen, out of the way, watching one by one as each of the Weasley family had their turn greeting Harry, watched the way his shoulders slowly relaxed, his tight nervousness releasing as he remembered that he was with his family, and that they loved him, supported him, missed him. Were glad to have him back.

It took a lot of time for Harry to get this far, a lot of anxious one-on-one meetings with friends he hadn't seen in years. Years of isolation took their toll on his social skills, and he had to build himself up to handle being in a room of people again. Draco had been with him the entire way, supporting him as he re-established connections with the people he cared about. His heart was warm as he watched it all pay off in Harry's smile.

There were suddenly hands on him, and Draco found himself being whipped around, pulled by the arms to face none other than the She-Weasel herself. Ginerva. Draco had promised he would be tolerable, and part of supporting Harry was giving his chosen family the respect of using their names.

After everything, he owed them all that, he supposed.

"Ginerva," He said smoothly, his face stony and neutral, not betraying his distaste. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Her eyes narrowed, burning into him, and she looked him up and down. "Call me Ginerva again, and you'll be owing me only pain, Malfoy." She huffed, crossing her arms. "It's Ginny."

"All right, Ginny," he tried the name out. It felt less poisonous in his mouth than he thought it would. Maybe this would be easier than he had thought. "What can I do for you?"

Her hands reached up, fisting in the collar of his expensive silk button down and pulling him down to her level. Her eyes were bright, full of the fire he remembered from their youth. He could see why Harry liked her. She was feisty.

"I just want to make myself perfectly clear; If you ever, ever do anything to hurt Harry, I will personally be hunting you down myself and making you pay for it." She glared, releasing his shirt and pushing him back. He stood, taking a quick step to safety, seeking distance from her wild outburst.

"And, I wanted to say…" She looked almost pained to be saying it to Draco, which pleased him, just a little bit. "Thank you. For bringing him back to us. He looks well. Better than he did when we broke up. He looks happy. And if it's you that does it for him…" She glanced over at Harry, watching as he grinned at some cheesy joke George threw his way, and pulled Bill in for a hug. "Then, I suppose you're alright, then."

He was shocked, and the expression on his face must have said so, because she laughed and clapped him on the shoulder as she walked away. He had gotten a similar talk from both Ron and Hermione, a couple of months after his rescue from the basement, but he had expected that from Harry's best friends. But from his ex-wife, it surprised him. He hadn't expected her to still care for him so much.

But, he supposed, walking over to his dopily grinning boyfriend, such is the nature of Gryffindors. He looped his arm around Harry's waist, pulling him in to a chaste kiss, satisfied at the awkward expressions on half the Weasleys' faces as they watched; as though they had thought Ron had been lying about their relationship, and couldn't believe it to be true. Let them gawk, Draco thought as he went in for another kiss.

Then, the Floo roared to life again, and the rest of Harry's friends began pouring through.

First came Neville, then Dean and Seamus, arm in arm and grinning at his and Harry's close proximity.

After a few moments, in a stunning set of robes reminiscent of a peacock's plumage, came Luna, serene smile as calming as ever.

Last, as Harry was greeting and hugging Neville and Luna, his Aunt Andromeda walked through, pulling Teddy along behind her. Draco's eyes dropped to the ground, suddenly nervous. He had not spent much time with Andromeda, before nor after the war. His guilt about his part in the war kept him from reaching out. He knew she lost her daughter, his cousin, and Teddy lost both his parents in the Battle of Hogwarts. He knew he should have apologized, years ago, but now it felt too late to broach the topic.

Her eyes swept the room, seeing Harry first, and smiling. When she saw him, her eyes widened, and she gave him a small nod and cautious smile. He supposed if he were to try and extend an olive branch, to repair that severed side of his family tree, this would be the day. He resolved to attempt to reconnect with her.

Teddy blew past him, not even noticing Draco's presence before tackling Harry in a bear hug. When he turned back, his hair had gone jet black. Harry grinned, and ruffled his hands through Teddy's hair.

Draco stepped aside, giving Harry a moment to chat and catch up with all the newest arrivals. He began slowly herding people outdoors, pointing them to the tables, the appetizers and definitely-too-strong punch outside. He saw Molly struggling, and rushed in to help her levitate all of her food out to the tables, thankful for the charmwork Hermione had set up earlier. The temperature outside was perfect, and not a fruit fly or mosquito in sight. He smiled to himself as he surveyed the scene outdoors.

Most of the Weasleys had migrated outside, and were talking amongst themselves. The children and George crowded around Fred, who greatly appreciated all of the attention, rolling on the grass and offering his belly to the children's gentle pets.

As he watched the scene, he felt a presence slide up beside him, and glanced down to see Luna, smiling up at him dreamily.

"Hello, Draco," she greeted him with a content sigh. "I am just thrilled to have been invited. This is lovely."

"It was important to Harry that you were here, you know." She smiled as he said it, and her earnest grin brought out his own reserved smile. "He values your friendship dearly. I'm glad you could make it."

She turned to him, face suddenly the picture of seriousness. "I was truly worried Harry would never recover from the Wrackspurt infestation he had developed. It was rather severe, you know. Almost the worst I've ever seen."

Draco smiled at her, a small, genuine smile.

He had had a soft spot for Lovegood for years, since the days she had been locked in his basement at the Manor, her shining optimism had given him a small but palpable hope for the future that he had not been able to shake since. He would sneak down and talk to her, sometimes, slip her extra rations or little trinkets, anything he could get away with. She was one of the few people he had been brave enough to apologize to, after the war. Her beaming smile was one of the most rewarding Draco had ever earned.

"Of course," he murmured to her. "He is much better now, though. And we are both truly glad you came."

She beamed up at him, and wandered away, meandering to the table to take a hors d'oeuvre from the table and strike up a conversation with Arthur.

Once everyone had made their way out, they all took up their spots at the table. All eyes were on the marvellous feast Molly had slaved away on, serving themselves up as much as they could eat, and he began piling his plate high, before jumping at the sound of a knife ringing against glass.

He looked up to see Harry, standing at the front of the table. Nervous energy radiated from him, fidgeting with his shirt collar awkwardly now that near twenty sets of eyes were set on him.

Harry's eyes found his, and Draco's breath caught at the sight. Full of emotion and bright with life, Draco's stars in the sky. He gave Harry a small, fond smile, and nodded. Harry cleared his throat.

"Hi everyone," He started, lopsided grin on his face. He looked out over the crowd of people. "I wanted to thank you all for coming, I know it has been a long time since I've seen some of you. and, well, I missed you all. Even if I struggle to say it."

He stopped to take a breath, closing his eyes and steadying himself.

"The war was a difficult time for us all. We all struggled in the aftermath, in different ways. When I came back, after I died, I didn't know how to cope with the life I was left with. I spent a lot of time wishing I had decided not to come back, after all."

The silence was so absolute, you could hear a pin drop. Everyone had eyes on Harry. Watching the emotion passing over his face as he wrestled with his feelings. Everybody who had come cared so deeply about him, and wanted him in their lives. The outpour of love had Draco choking up, and he swallowed over the lump in his throat.

When Harry was able, he continued. "Dealing with survivor's guilt, grief and loss is hard. I didn't realize how hard it would be to do it all, not to mention doing it publicly. The media and the entire Wizarding world watched me crash and burn. I hope you all can understand the urge to get away from it all, to escape from the prison of publicity. It just felt safer to run and hide." He paused, catching his breath.

"All of this to say, it has been a hard journey to get here, to this point. It took a lot of perseverance, and the insistence of a certain blond prat who showed up at my front door and refused to take no for an answer. Who reminded me that I had people who cared about me, and deserved to be in their lives."

He looked straight at Draco, and smiled, a soft, warm smile meant just for him. He felt other pairs of eyes on him, and he felt himself flushing, but he couldn't look away from Harry's gaze. His glowing mossy eyes were shining softly, the ghost of tears implying the emotions he couldn't speak. His breath caught, and he returned Harry's smile with one of his own.

"And, er, that's it I guess. Thank you Molly for cooking, and thank you everybody for coming." Molly nodded, dabbing her eyes with her napkin and smiling at Harry.

"Let's eat!" Ron exclaimed, already digging in to a chicken drumstick. Hermione whacked him on the shoulder, but Harry laughed, and sat, and the feast began.

✶ ✶ ✶

After they had all stuffed themselves full of Molly's delightful cooking, nearly in a food coma, Harry was overwhelmed with gifts from his family and friends. (I have ten years of gifts I owe you, dear! Molly insisted). After opening the extensive pile, he struck up a conversation with an overly enthusiastic Neville, who demanded to see Harry's garden, and they plodded off for a tour.

Draco took the opportunity to step away from the table, seeking a moment of solitude away from the overwhelming bustle of the party. He strolled over to the chicken coop, tossing the girls some leftover vegetables from their lunch and watching the way the birds fought over the delicacies.

Now that he was out of the circle of the temperature control charms, he felt the heat of the summer sun, and he slid his sleeves up, hands ghosting over the gnarled mess of his left forearm.

The nurse at St. Mungo's had been right. It didn't, and probably would never, heal to match the smooth unblemished flesh of his unburned arm. Even with magic and extensive treatment, the burns left his skin scarred, cratered and twisted. It hadn't completely done away with his dark mark, either, the lines of faded ink still visible against his disfigured forearm. But it had become unrecognisable, changed so drastically it felt like the evil that was embodied had been burned off with his flesh. It no longer ached when he thought about it, or his past, or the things he had done.

He liked it better this way. It felt like turning a new page.

He heard soft footsteps approaching in the grass, pulling him from his thoughts. He chose not to turn, figuring whoever it was would make their presence known. He was not expecting Hermione's voice to float over to him.

"I never properly thanked you, you know," and when he glanced over, she was leaning against the fence, watching the chickens and avoiding looking at him, "for what you did for Harry."

"Well, I didn't do it for you, so I don't think you've owed me thanks." It didn't carry his normal haughty tone, and Granger must have heard it as well, as she snorted at his deflection.

"Well, obviously. I just think I owe it to you to acknowledge. I thought we were doing the right thing, respecting his space. He had asked for it, and I figured we should let him come back on his own terms." She frowned to herself, and then turned to look at him properly. "But we know Harry, and know what he needed was someone who cared to force their way in, even when he fought it. Someone to remind him we care."

"Someone to tell him he was being an idiot," he added in helpfully, and she laughed.

"Yeah. That too. I suppose it could have only have been you who could save him from himself. You were always so good at getting under his skin." She smiled at him, before glancing back over her shoulder, just in time to see Rose toddling off into the bushes. She jumped up at lightning speed, yelling that You were supposed to be watching them, Ronald! And she was gone before he had a chance to say anything back.

He blew out a long exhale, staring at the chickens again. He had had quite enough of Gryffindor appreciation, he thought. Not that it didn't do something marvellous for his ego, but he decided he'd had as much earnest honesty as he could handle in one day.

As he turned back towards the party, however, he felt an arm grab him, and a familiar warmth press up against his back, breath hot against his ear.

"How long do you reckon we would be able to sneak away for a quickie?" Harry whispered against him, pulling his invisibility cloak off, and Draco laughed.

"Ten minutes, if we're lucky. Fifteen if we Obliviate the first person to find us."

Harry sighed, sounding devastated at his assessment.

A grin crossed Draco's face. "I have something for you." He waved his wand, summoning a small box immaculately wrapped in a fine golden paper. He handed it to Harry with a smug look on his face.

A child-like wonder on his face, Harry ripped into the shiny box, sending shreds of shimmering paper falling to the grass. Ripping the box open, he let out a sharp laugh.

He held in his hand one of the gaudiest glasses Draco could find, tinted green with a beaded texture wrapping around the entire glass, reflecting the sunlight in a blinding manner. Draco was rather proud of his find, confidence dripping from the grin he wore.

"I believe I still owed you a glass to replace the one I shattered — this one felt like it would match your other dishware perfectly."

Harry was smiling wide, and he shook his head fondly. "It's perfect."

Draco reached out and took his hand. "Now I believe we only have about five good uninterrupted minutes, so if you're serious about that quickie, we had better get at it." Harry laughed.

They stood then, together, and walked back towards the party. Back towards their friends, their family, everyone who had shown up to show Harry how loved he really was.

Back towards home.